I did it. Perhaps I shouldn't, but I would still do the same. For once, I felt my choices were mine. That I didn't need to obey them. And god knew how much I wanted to get out of this cursed land. I heard tales from the travelers, strangers from faraway lands. Stories about distant places, of buildings floating in the sky, and creatures the size of a house.
At first, I didn't believe them. Of course I wouldn't. There, in my country, aside from cows, horses, or elephants, there weren't these kinds of creatures. It's a fable, a myth, or the things we listen to the drunkards telling in the taverns. But tonight was either true or false.
From an early age, I was told they were a lie. I was told about the dangers of it. Ars, the name. Here, it's unspoken, dangerous, and cursed. Do you want to see the horror in a grown man's face? Speak it. Ars. He will sweat, tremble, swear at you, and then call the soldiers.
They would drag you to the prison. You would be interrogated. Where did you learn about it? Who told you to speak? For them, it could only be a third source, not me or my will to speak. Then, you would be sent to the church. Day by day, without a single moment of rest, you would hear about it.
It's evil. Don't speak about it. Don't touch it. Don't write about it. How do I know? I was there. Not once, but twice. Something inside me, a burning desire to explore, to travel, gave me that insatiable hunger for the unknown. And then, one day, when I was walking back home, I saw him. A Riddler.
Even in my homeland, we know of them. At least as legends. Riddlers were mystical travelers that, once in a while, would stop by a road and wait for the first person to walk by. They would ask you **a** question, and as promised, if your answer satisfies them, a reward is given.
I remember that day. It was rainy. I was working as a soldier. I must say it here: if you were sent more than once for the church, your only options to make a living were either to be a soldier or a priest. In the leader's mind, a priest would be under the surveillance of the church, and a soldier, if caught talking about Ars, would be sent to death without hesitation.
Ending my turn that day, I was walking while murmuring about the rain. I don't like it. It destroyed my clothes and made it harder for me to fix. I'm a poor bastard, you see, and nothing besides gold makes me happy. Lost in my mind, an old man stopped me.
I was surprised and almost attacked on instinct. But something in his eyes, those gray glowing orbs, made me stop. He was like any other elder, with a long beard, wrinkles, and more lines in his forehead than I could count. He smiled and asked me, "Ah, young man, I see you're an ambitious one. I know you and your dream. Do you want it or not? That freedom. The choice to be out of here."
Needless to say, I almost panicked. If someone heard it, I would be dead. No question, no judgment. But he was relentless, as if he couldn't see my distress or hear me pleading for him to stop.
"Don't worry, young man, no one will hear you or me," he said, with a smirk crossing his face. "Do you want it or not?"
That moment I felt it. It was like the rain stopped for once, as if the wind didn't exist or the sound became less noisy. It was me and him on that road at night. I was in a trance. Behind him I could watch scenes of me in that damned church, those priests speaking in my head. I could watch my so-called friends laughing at me. Ridiculous! And even my own blood, denying with their head as if I were worse than a rat.
I replied to him. Of course I agreed. Dreaming or not, facing death or not, I couldn't do it anymore. Every day I spent there, in that city, knowing they're behind talking about me. Watching their disgusting expressions when I greeted them. And at night, in my house, distant from everyone, watching the moon high in the sky, watching the stars shining. It was that chance the old man asked me, or to spend the rest of my life doing the same.
The old man then asked me, "Tell me, young man. What belongs to you alone but is used more often by others?"
It sounded simple. And thinking back now, it was really easy. But you had to understand that, from an early age, people called me a kid, dumbass, crazy, and lunatic. All of this and more, and less of my name, Charles. So, when he asked me that, I froze.
It felt like an idle distraction, perhaps a cruel joke, and everything I was seeing was a play. An amusement of the people of my city, watching me make a fool of myself, before digging my grave and shoving me inside. What belonged to me? Nothing else, just my ideas and dreams. Could I realize my ideas? No, without getting killed. Could I achieve my dreams? Here, it was more likely nightmarish than what dreams were supposed to be.
And what else belonged to me? The house wasn't mine. The sword and clothes were less. The gold I won was regulated and highly taxed upon. Hell, it's not even my hairstyle and beard. I like it long, and more than that, I enjoyed my beard. But it was demanded as an act of being clean for me to shave it down to nothing.
There was something about his riddle. Something that pressed upon me, half-forgotten but never faded. What makes a man? His achievements? His legacy or material possession? Or the memories and his actions? But all of that, what attaches it to that man, what makes him, him? Sometimes a title, a nickname, but mostly always his name.
Of course it was pathetic for me. I was an empty shell, worn smooth by others' use. I had carried it all my life without truly possessing it. And if one day it disappeared? If no one spoke it again? Would I vanish along with it? Would someone miss me? I don't think so. Perhaps it's those thoughts that made me answer him, "My name, Charles."
I remember. He smiled widely. I never thought someone could open their mouth like he did. His eyes glowed like torches, and he nodded, as if the answer pleased him, as if he won a mountain of gold because of that. He laughed harder and harder before replying with, "Correct. Now, this is yours."
It was that moment I knew I couldn't go back on my choices. There, I made my way down a road where either I survive and return stronger or die pathetically. From his pocket, he took a shining stone. Red, glowing like a crimson ruby. It was beautiful. I only saw something so strange yet magical when I got the chance to enter the lord's castle.
That stone drove my eyes, took my breath, and made everything slow. The old man took my hands and gave it to me. Telling me before disappearing as if he was never there, "Tonight, when you went to sleep, put it above your chest, young one."
Days went by. Same routine, same nightmare. And yet, I was hesitant to do it. I hid that stone in the best hiding place I had, where my shits fall. I couldn't let anyone see it or hear I had it. I couldn't speak, and hell, I was even afraid to think about it.
It happened today. I ended my turn as always, but this time, I went for the tavern. Even I needed to drink once in a while. A mistake. Sometimes I wonder to myself, what did I do so bad to deserve the things in this life? I couldn't put my fingers on it. That's it. I mean, was it the gods' will? Destiny? Fate? Was I made to live this kind of life?
I pressed my hands against the mirror, staring at myself. The dark bruises and lines of blood dancing dry in my head like twisted branches. The beer. I grabbed it, the verdant glass. I smashed it to the ground. The sound, the shards. All of it, the memories surging once again.
I was there, drinking alone, in the darkest corner of the balcony. When that idiot chief spotted me. Perhaps he was drunk, or perhaps that night he wished for everyone to see him as more special than others. Is it not that, no? Chiefs like to be chiefs, to be viewed as chiefs, and to be dreaded as one.
That bastard! He saw me, pointed his dirty and fat fingers at me, and started to call me names. Worse than that, he began to tell lies. Outrageous lies about me and the service I do for this cursed city. And that whole group of men and women, and even the kids, began to laugh, to make them remember me as one of the few jokes of the city.
The dumbass, the idiot who spoke about that. Who dreamed about that? And, not once enough for him, the chief approached me, with his bottle of wine dancing in his hands, talking lies and shit. I was about to exit, heads down, of course. Then, I felt it. The bottle broke against my bald head.
Do you want to know what it feels like? It made you dizzy. The pain was sharp, and the bitter liquid burned where it cut, like your head was under a pit of fire. It made me speak. I asked him to stop. To let me go. But it was as if me speaking against it only made him aware that I was there yet, that I as his coil for his fire was there, for his little crowd of bastards.
He pounced on me. Kicked me. One bottle followed the other, and when I managed to get out there, I nearly collapsed near the barn where the horses went by. I think adrenaline helped me to go home. The path was longer than I was used to, I must say. It's funny when you take the details when you're in such pain and hush to go home.
I never thought of the number of trees on that road, nor the view of the forests and fairway mountains. The moonlight shining across it almost made my pain go away. But I'm here now. Bleeding. To death? I don't think so. I wished for it, but my will to live, to dream, was bigger than it.
I stood. Tonight will be the night I do it. No need to hesitate. It couldn't get worse than this. Is my destiny in this forsaken city, no? I dirtied my hands digging at the bottom of my excrement. The smell, perhaps the strong wine, made it less, but not enough for me to hold my stomach from throwing up.
I clean it, the stone, still shining magically, as if calling me. And of course, I clean myself. I may be a poor bastard, but at least I keep myself sharp and in good shape.
"Tonight," I speak loudly.
Today my fears were gone. If everything I have learned about it was true, then it would be fast here but longer on the other side. I will awaken my powers, I will learn about the truth of this damned world, and finally, I will be out of here. I hope it's true. Because tonight, for once, in those thirty years of life, I'll let myself be myself.