The young man I met today is a curious fellow. He's been chatting idly ever since I picked him up, and whenever his current topic runs dry, he'll start on impromptu poetry about our surroundings. Already I've heard enough of his awkward rhymes and stories about the "buried treasure sleeping in the sand" to last me one week, let alone one day. Had I had a book of words, I'm sure that I could open it to any page and find something that he's already spoken of! Better yet, he's comparable to a book of fairy tales. I stopped believing in the everlasting myrrh tree when I was but five, yet he rambles on about it with the same enthusiasm.
He's walking alongside the caravan now, gesticulating as he talks. Reflections on memories and the past are his primary subjects, and he always finds a way to steer our one-sided conversation back to them. Just to sate him with a reply and not appear rude, I voice my agreement that they are important and offer a comment every now and then. Stories and memories, much like my journal, are valuable, but gathering myrrh is my priority now. Lingering on the past will do me no good if it takes my sight away from the present. Other than that, I focus my attention on lazily gripping the reins.
Overhead, I note that the sun is setting. Purple lurks at the edges of the darkening sky, and soon it will be night. Gurdy escaped into the shade of the storage section some time ago to take a nap, but I suspect that the heat back there will have lulled him to sleep until the next morning. I push aside the curtain and peek back at him. He looks surprisingly peaceful. When he's not laughing, telling tales, or being charming about something or other, I find that his face looks oddly somber. I replace the blinds and wonder, not for the first time, just who is this fellow?
Rubbing my eyes and shaking my head to stay awake, I decide that regardless of who he is, he seems to have the right idea. This long day of sitting and being jarred by every bump in the road has left me struggling to prop my eyes open, and he's sleeping like a lamb. I want, no, need, to make good time, though, because getting Gurdy to his destination (which I haven't decided yet) as soon as possible will let me go back to hunting for Myrrh. If I keep on through the night, I can get to a town sooner. All I need is to stay… awake…
My shoulder colliding with the unyielding ground is the next thing I feel. I'm on my feet in a flash, eyes wide, and the steely weight of my racket in my hand. There is no sunlight in the air. Night has fallen, and the sky is a dark hue of blue that's almost black due to the absence of the moon. I take this in in a flash, and for an instant I wonder: am I back in the Mine of Cathurgies again? I can almost feel the stifling darkness, the heat from the lanterns pressing against my cheek before I come back to myself.
The remnants of a bad dream are all that linger now. I washed away the soot of that place many days ago. This thought steadies the handle the weapon I hold in my hand, having drawn it without realizing. I giggle a little, though the sound comes out sounding thin and high-pitched. I feel myself inhale a little when I catch sight of the chalice, tossed from the cart and overturned in the mud. Miniature droplets of myrrh collect into a pool at the bottom after I set it back, forming a silvery disk that's almost a perfect mirror. I'm taken aback by how wild I look; I could have just as easily come out of a fight with a goblin than a nightmare. A whiffle from our papaopamus takes my sight away from the reflection.
Sensing something was wrong, he had had stopped just short of the crystal's protective barrier, and now stands pawing at the ground, snuffling. In turn, the jerk from the sudden stop woke Gurdy. He's poked his head out from the blinds of the storage section, and I off-handedly notice that he looks a lot smaller without his hat. Drowsiness has apparently not taken a toll on his mind, however. His eyes flick from my drawn racket and jittery grip to my winded expression.
"Monsters?" he's quick to ask me. I have to reassure him that all is well and when his worried look disappears, I'm glad of it. To be rescued from abandonment by one caravan only to wind up with another one lead by a recklessly stupid Selkie probably wouldn't be comforting for him to know. But soon I'll have dropped him off at the next town, and I won't have to worry, for his sake or mine.
Clambering out from the inside of the caravan, Gurdy steps into the cool of the night before reaching back to get his hat. He's straightens out his rumpled clothes and runs a hand over his curled hair before looking over at me.
"Let's make camp here," I say quietly. It's probably midnight, though my guess is based only on the sky and not the moon. It's far to late to make camp, really, but I can't see myself settling down any time soon, and a little dinner never hurt anyone. The plan I had earlier, to keep driving in favor of camping, is abandoned. Any more bleary-eyed steering with me at the wheel could be disastrous.
I haven't said anything further, nor have I asked for him to set up the camp or even given directions, but he's already begun laying out a bed roll and arranging sticks for a fire. He's completely awake now, and has helped me set up everything in hardly a few minute's time. Watching his movements for a second, I note that he seems oddly practiced at setting up a caravan for the evening, almost as though he's done it before.
I'm cutting up a few more striped apples for myself (not my first choice, but I've heard that Clavats favor them. Unfortunately, the ones I've managed to find are rather worse for the wear.) while some fish fries when Gurdy breaks the silence that has settled over our scene.
"May I inquire as to where you're dropping me off?" I look over to find that he's stoking the fire, carefully adding the sticks and branches that he's gathered piece by piece. Putting down my paring knife, I have to wonder, where should I take him? The thought had occurred before, but I hadn't decided or gone into depth. For certain, he can't hang around here forever.
"I was thinking the Jegon River port, it's nearest. I'll pay for your voyage and you should be able to find another caravan to hitch a ride with from Fum."
"Hmm, I see. If it's not too much trouble, how about Tida? I'm from there, you know."
"…Did you say Tida?" I've dished out our two plates by then, but I stop eating at his unusual request. He, however, is pushing the food around on his plate, seemingly not bothered.
"Yes. It's smaller, but still quite busy, I think. And nearby, right?"
"Tida Village is two Miasma Streams away."
"Oh… yes, I forgot for a moment," he says, chuckling lightly and gesturing with one hand at nothing in particular. His careless tone would indicate that he finds nothing wrong with what I just said. Any indication that he's joking is completely absent. I give him a second to correct himself, but he says nothing more, and goes back to rearranging his plate.
"The crystal there failed a few years ago, when the caravan didn't return," I say, as simply as possible. Hearing what I've said, the smile on his face dies, replaced by a frown as quickly as twigs consumed by the flames are blackened. The charming grin reappears a moment later, and he looks genuinely surprised at my statement.
"It did? Oh, deary me… Haha, I guess that must've slipped my mind too!" Pausing slightly, he adds, "Thank you for the apple, by the way. I'll pay you back for it, don't worry."
I choose not to reply, but allow the change of topic in our conversation. I do find myself wondering why he's thanking me; the fish is cut up into many pieces and the striped apples have been picked at, but the food I gave him is almost entirely untouched. I'm tempted to ask him why he's not eating, wondering if perhaps there's another, more mysterious reason that he seems to lack an appetite. For a man of so many mysteries, I suppose that this is merely another puzzle piece that I have no solution to.
He's perfectly normal one moment, chattering about everything and nothing, and the next he'll have lapsed into silence upon catching sight of something trivial like a bird flying by or a patch of toadstools. He fell silent so quickly earlier today that I leaned over in my seat to check if he'd been carried off by monsters. How could he not remember Tida? That tragedy is like the miasma in the air; noone is unaware of it. It stirs worry and doubt in villagers at home, and serves to remind caravanners about the grim fate that awaits if they fail in their quest for Myrrh.
Yet he's simply smiling and adjusting the buttons of his coat, making nothing of it. He jests nervously all the while about his "faulty memory" and how "silly" it was of him to forget. I'm beginning to wonder if those Litlies were right. Maybe he is crazy. But then again, perhaps he's not the only one that's losing his grip.
From the first time I came across Gurdy in-game, I was fascinated by his character. Quirky, charming, and mysterious, I had a lot of fun puzzling out his story through the course of the game. This ficcy is just my attempt to capture that from the view of the character, who shall again remain nameless. It's meant to be set during the first year, as a sort of "missing piece".
Anyway, thanks for reading, peeps, and if you'd be so kind as to leave a review, I'd be much obliged. As always, feel free to point out any errors or offer constructive criticism. =) Also, I feel as though this story is missing something (besides a plot, that is), and I'm wondering if I should try to add another chappie, or just edit something else in. Thoughts would be welcome!
*On advice from Link18, last sentence was changed from "...one that's losing their grip" to "losing his grip". Grammar, you see.