NALIA, 2012 PM
Fifty-two steps. No one can be sure, of course, but that's about how far his room is from the inn's hall. One must, of course, consider that steps are measured differently when you're in the state the red-haired man was usually in, but who's counting around here anyway? There's not much to count in this town, beyond the ships in the harbor coming in non-stop. The people, the houses, the stories, the songs—all pass by too quickly in such a lifeless place by the sea. The waves have said all they had to say, their stories finished. Now, they're back to their old jobs, throwing themselves onto the rocks without purpose or fatigue, perpetually.
That's how he felt, another evening counting his steps home. It was the hardest work of the day, as inside he was consumed with the anxiety that the steps would come out differently this time. Then something would have changed. The delicate balance between the blurry and the black would have been broken, and who knows where that would leave him. However, he didn't make it to fifty-two tonight. Halfway there, his cracked mind was jarred awake by a woman's scream. It was a distant call from an alley behind the inn, dozens of paces away. He felt his blood rush to his head, a vein throbbing in his tired forehead, weighing down just above his nose. He put two fingers to the corners of his eyes and pressed hard. He resisted the urge to scratch the gap in one eye that was bothering him—it never gave him any relief anyway. He began to march toward the scream.
As he trudged through the mud, he heard the woman's cries. There were other sounds too, a man's voice—probably the source of the trouble—and other, less distinct noises. He had learned to ignore those over the years; they were familiar, almost comforting in their predictability. He silenced them long enough to focus, and right now, he needed to focus.
He saw them before him: two blurred figures moving in the darkness, producing the sounds of the night. In his mind, he imagined the man choking her, and the woman struggling to save herself. He couldn't see much—only shapes and shadows under the dim light of a lantern tilted sideways on barrels of salted meat and rum. Two colors in the clothes: dark for the man, light for the woman. He slipped the iron fist into a slick grip that lacked fingers and tightened it firmly. His hands were strong, his legs not so much.
"What are you doing here?" a voice called out, and he froze, fist hanging in mid-air. His steps faltered, and he stumbled, falling face-first into the mud. Shouts erupted, and he could hear the man shaking off his muddy vest.
"What are you doing? Wasn't enough that you tried to hit me—you got me dirty!"
"Laron…" came the woman's muffled voice.
"Silence, you."
The man opened his palms, feeling the metal press against his skin. The pain shot through his bones. He looked up and saw the man's face, smiling wolfishly down at him.
"You're an ugly bastard. And you stink too!"
The man's face was less blurry now. A fall and a bit of rain had a way of sharpening things. He could see the young man's features more clearly: the grooves in his cheeks, the skin peeking out from behind his shirt, two good eyes filled with the ignorance of youth and the arrogance of strength. The narrow forehead over his brows, the chain around his neck—everything about him irritated him, from the shape of his face to the color of his eyes. The sun itself would make him angry if it ever appeared in these parts.
"Look at him Lucy—his eye is shining!"
"Laron, leave him alone, please. He made a mistake, don't you see? He doesn't even know where he is."
"I see him. I've seen him before. He walks around here like a ghost, scaring the good citizens. Isn't that right, punk?"
Laron kicked him in the gut. The man rolled onto his back and vomited into a small pit beside him. With his one good eye, he stared at his creation for a moment.
"Laron, let him go, please! Let's go inside and listen to the songs. Don't bother anymore."
"I said silence. Life isn't all about songs, Lucy. Sometimes you have to teach people how to treat their superiors."
The man laughed. He wasn't listening to the young man's words, of course. They had already taken the long way past his ears. He couldn't afford to pay attention to such matters anyway. He had the shape of his face in mind and was trying to decide what bothered him the most. The man had a small forehead, which was naturally infuriating. But what bothered him most were the horse-like teeth, which he had once seen on someone else. He was confused. Before, he had been more scared, but now he was just angry and couldn't decide what irritated him more.
Music drifted in from the distance. A lute, a drum, and a flute. They had already started to play, and people were gathering like flies to food. His ears were functioning perfectly, apart from an ever-increasing buzzing that worsened after drinking. He could make out the introduction of the flute, the gentle melody as a call to the room, then the accompaniment of the lute. The subtle dissonance lingered in the air. But the drum signaled the true start of the evening. The first hit on the leather made his eye blink. He saw a foot pass over him as if it were a barrier, just like a horse passing by. He was annoyed at the sight and tried to turn on his side and get up. The young man was amused at his effort.
"Whatever you do, you're a nuisance."
He couldn't believe his ears. He jumped abruptly to his feet, his iron fist lost in the mud, his hands bare. The woman gasped, and the young man stepped back, unable to contain his laughter.
"Easy, man! I'll—"
He grabbed the man by the shoulders and, with all his weight, slammed his head into the young man's nose. The awful noise was so loud that for a moment he stopped hearing the music. His legs buckled, his knees gave out, and he found himself hunched over the pool of vomit, which was now tinged with crimson drops.
The young man's body fell backward into the mud, and the woman screamed.
"Laron! Laron! Can you hear me? Please, talk to me!"
Laron woke up, crying out in pain. He cried like someone who had never cried much in his life. He was pathetic. The man stood up. The girl's face was clear now—she was terrified, her eyes shining.
"Why did you do that?"
Suddenly, he felt guilty. The look in her eyes frightened him. It wasn't relief—it was more fear than before.
"You shouldn't be afraid of me," the man whispered.
"Of course I'm afraid of you. You almost killed him. What do you want from us? Gold? He doesn't have any on him, but I'll find some. My father—"
"Gold?" His mind froze. "I don't want gold. I'm not interested in such things."
"Then why? What do you want?"
It was clear she wanted him gone. Laron wasn't the threat—he was.
"I wanted to protect you. I just—"
"Protect me from what? He's my fiancé. Laron!"
She fell back beside the young man, who was slowly coming to his senses. Shame washed over the man standing in the rain, and he felt the anger drain away. His ears reddened. He had no words, no purpose anymore. He was back in the endless present. He wondered how many steps it was to his room from here.
"What's gotten into you, sir? Some spirit possessing you? Can't you control yourself?"
The man smiled. The smile quickly turned into a knot as the music returned to his ears. Finally, he looked at her as she tended to Laron's broken nose.
"All bad things start with a beautiful melody."
The girl looked at him in wonder. In her eyes, he was just a crazy patron who drank more rum than he should have. But there was something in that tired eye that made her stare at him for a long moment.
"Excuse me," he told her and walked away from them.
Inside the inn, Dimlight sat at a corner table. He was a regular now; the innkeeper tolerated him, the waitresses knew him, and the locals ignored him. He drank rum and let his mind wander to his painful past. Something strange was swaying his thoughts. Why was it less painful to travel to violent and ugly memories than to happy ones? Why was he more afraid to remember the few good times he had experienced than the many bad ones?
"Question for the philosophers," he said to Elya, who served him again.
"Dim, are you in trouble again? What is it?"
She touched his face gently. The man pulled away.
"It's nothing."
"Every day, the same thing," she complained. She pulled out a chair and sat down across from him. There was a certain intimacy between them.
"I preferred you when you played music. You've changed completely since then."
"I don't play much anymore," he admitted.
"My point exactly. Why? It was good for you. Being involved in something is good for you. With the violin, you were a different person. Now, you may have changed your name, but I don't like this Dimlight. I preferred the old one."
The man smiled; if he had a few teeth left in his mouth, Elya didn't see them.
"The violin is still here, Elya, you're complaining for nothing. I just keep it in my room, not with me."
"You used to always have it with you," said Elya wistfully.
The man looked at her with a teary eye. "I don't want it to break."
Elya wrapped his hand in hers. The man was suddenly ashamed of his missing fingers, but the woman looked at him with sincere kindness.
"You know I care for you, and the Ten know I'll forever owe you for that night in the alley when you saved me. But this can't continue. My father isn't comfortable. He won't say it, but he doesn't want you here anymore, Dim. As long as you were playing music, things were different. The first time we saw you with the Salt Theatre, it was something else. I'd never seen anything like it. I'd never heard music like that. It was like I was drunk. By the great Theanivar, it was like we were all drunk. You were so different then—strong, full of energy. The sadness was there, like the anger, but…"
The man pulled his hand away and interrupted her.
"It was different then."
Elya didn't continue. She was trying to understand his mind. The man traveled again into forbidden thoughts—a hand in his own, the hand he wanted. Then, the days of music. Yes, there was anger and sadness, but yes, it was all different because there was still purpose. Through music, the Salt Theatre was organizing revolutions. Drenching their melodies with magic, traveling the islands and cities, they passed the messages they wanted to the people, subtly inciting them, until the law caught up with them.
"I tried to raise an army, but the monster won again."
Elya looked at him sadly. "That's what you said the other day when I put you to bed, dear. You'd peed your pants and thrown up on your tunic, but the words were the same. I didn't understand what they meant then, and I don't understand them now. Arsik…" She deliberately used his old name, as if to show how serious she was. "You have to go, that's what I mean. Your room will be free again. That's what father decided. I'm so sorry."
Arsik looked into her eyes, then smiled. He took her hand and kissed it, and she flinched.
"Of course," he answered. "Thank you for everything."
He got up from the chair and pulled out a coin, leaving it on the table.
"Are you leaving? Right now?"
"I'll pack my things."
"Where are you going?"
"I don't know. But I'll start with a walk on the Rocks."
"The Rocks? At this hour? There's no one there. Everyone who lives in that area has a mansion, and those chubby aristocrats don't come out after sunset."
"I know," replied Arsik. "That's why I like it better. I need to think."
"I'll miss you, stranger," she said playfully.
Arsik smiled and left the tavern.