Lovelorn
The logs sat stacked with no fire to keep them company. The clouds hung in the sky, obstructing visibility of the stars. Added to this Pyrik was sitting cross-legged, quiet and obviously forlorn. It was going to be a bleak night, indeed.
With typical tact and subtlety, Langrid commenced the conversation.
"I will know what ails you, Pyrik."
Pyrik's eyes met Langrid's.
"What makes you think it's any of your business? What makes you think I possess the willingness to inform you of anything, Langrid?"
"I think this because we are friends, and for a good three years I have been the only one you could trust. Sometimes a burden of the heart can be lessened by speaking of it."
"These can be true words, but it's circumstantial. Suppose you're not the person whose ears, were the words to fall upon them, are to help? Did you consider that I am uncomfortable sharing, and prefer to keep it unheard?"
"I did, and I decided that you were going to tell me, one way or another. If I have to wring it out of you, I will."
Pyrik chuckled. The audacity! Evidently Langrid believed his muscles were the means to every end. He will have his way, Pyrik thought, but not before I have my fun.
"OK, Langrid, I'll tell you, but first, I require an answer from you."
"That sounds fair. An answer to what, though?"
"An answer to a question, oaf. What else?"
He so hated being called an oaf.
"The question is this," Pyrik began. "There are two friends. One smart and lean and agile, the other large and witless and overly fond of battle. They meet by chance in a tavern, have no one and nowhere, and decide that their state of affairs is something they could do without, so they set off together, in search of meaning and purpose and routine. They fancy themselves supporters of a just cause in the face of something easily labeled tyranny. Sadly and unfortunately, they are only two, and have waged their unnoticed war for several years, with no evidential measure of success. The largely witless oaf often finds himself hopeless, and his solution is to pry guidance from the uncommonly handsome comrade, who, in almost every case, feels similarly if not identically. It is emotionally and spiritually tiresome to try at a goal and not know whether you are failing or succeeeding, when your pursuit of it has been a third of the total years you've lived. Is this a wise course of action by the frighteningly scarred ogre that likes to name himself friend?"
Langrid grunted. "That is no question, that is a tale."
Grinning, Pyrik said, "It ended with a question, and you will answer it if you are to know what is bothering me."
Frowning, Langrid said, "Very well. No, it has little wisdom to it, since the friend is never stopping to consider that he is not alone in his fears and hopelessness. Wait a minute, that tale referred to us!"
Langrid's face flared red, and he clenched his fists, apparently quite ready to show Pyrik the error of his ways.
"Yes, you are correct. How clever of you to realize that. It is getting late, and each moment you waste wanting to quarrel with me, is a moment that could have been spent asleep, so let's move on to my answer, shall we?"
Pyrik didn't wait for the answer to that question.
"The truth is that I'm feeling lovelorn. Yes, I had a lover once, Langrid. Long ago and far from this place. She was beautiful in every available sense of the word. Fair to look upon, witty, clever, anything and everything I could have wanted in one person, she had. As the sun rises to shed light on the darkness of this world, created in large part thanks to the wretchedness of our fellow man, so did she bring light to my darkened heart. In me she worked wonders, improved my attitude toward people, toward life. I was a completely different person because of the love we had. And then, poof, she vanished. Without a trace. No one knew anything, and believe me, I searched long and hard for answers. In spite of her absence and my commitment to our cause, I love her still, and always shall. Some things in this lifetime, rare as they are, have true permanence, and cannot be undone when we rashly want it so, excruciating though they may be. Her memory is my strength, and if I live through this ordeal, maybe I'll find the time to come across her again."
Langrid thought of only one thing to say.
"Maybe? You will, with me at your side, as I am now."
The words were a sufficient conclusion, and sleep soon greeted them both.
With typical tact and subtlety, Langrid commenced the conversation.
"I will know what ails you, Pyrik."
Pyrik's eyes met Langrid's.
"What makes you think it's any of your business? What makes you think I possess the willingness to inform you of anything, Langrid?"
"I think this because we are friends, and for a good three years I have been the only one you could trust. Sometimes a burden of the heart can be lessened by speaking of it."
"These can be true words, but it's circumstantial. Suppose you're not the person whose ears, were the words to fall upon them, are to help? Did you consider that I am uncomfortable sharing, and prefer to keep it unheard?"
"I did, and I decided that you were going to tell me, one way or another. If I have to wring it out of you, I will."
Pyrik chuckled. The audacity! Evidently Langrid believed his muscles were the means to every end. He will have his way, Pyrik thought, but not before I have my fun.
"OK, Langrid, I'll tell you, but first, I require an answer from you."
"That sounds fair. An answer to what, though?"
"An answer to a question, oaf. What else?"
He so hated being called an oaf.
"The question is this," Pyrik began. "There are two friends. One smart and lean and agile, the other large and witless and overly fond of battle. They meet by chance in a tavern, have no one and nowhere, and decide that their state of affairs is something they could do without, so they set off together, in search of meaning and purpose and routine. They fancy themselves supporters of a just cause in the face of something easily labeled tyranny. Sadly and unfortunately, they are only two, and have waged their unnoticed war for several years, with no evidential measure of success. The largely witless oaf often finds himself hopeless, and his solution is to pry guidance from the uncommonly handsome comrade, who, in almost every case, feels similarly if not identically. It is emotionally and spiritually tiresome to try at a goal and not know whether you are failing or succeeeding, when your pursuit of it has been a third of the total years you've lived. Is this a wise course of action by the frighteningly scarred ogre that likes to name himself friend?"
Langrid grunted. "That is no question, that is a tale."
Grinning, Pyrik said, "It ended with a question, and you will answer it if you are to know what is bothering me."
Frowning, Langrid said, "Very well. No, it has little wisdom to it, since the friend is never stopping to consider that he is not alone in his fears and hopelessness. Wait a minute, that tale referred to us!"
Langrid's face flared red, and he clenched his fists, apparently quite ready to show Pyrik the error of his ways.
"Yes, you are correct. How clever of you to realize that. It is getting late, and each moment you waste wanting to quarrel with me, is a moment that could have been spent asleep, so let's move on to my answer, shall we?"
Pyrik didn't wait for the answer to that question.
"The truth is that I'm feeling lovelorn. Yes, I had a lover once, Langrid. Long ago and far from this place. She was beautiful in every available sense of the word. Fair to look upon, witty, clever, anything and everything I could have wanted in one person, she had. As the sun rises to shed light on the darkness of this world, created in large part thanks to the wretchedness of our fellow man, so did she bring light to my darkened heart. In me she worked wonders, improved my attitude toward people, toward life. I was a completely different person because of the love we had. And then, poof, she vanished. Without a trace. No one knew anything, and believe me, I searched long and hard for answers. In spite of her absence and my commitment to our cause, I love her still, and always shall. Some things in this lifetime, rare as they are, have true permanence, and cannot be undone when we rashly want it so, excruciating though they may be. Her memory is my strength, and if I live through this ordeal, maybe I'll find the time to come across her again."
Langrid thought of only one thing to say.
"Maybe? You will, with me at your side, as I am now."
The words were a sufficient conclusion, and sleep soon greeted them both.