Requiem For The Lost
Chapter 1: Long Lost
The ale leaves a bitter taste in his mouth as he swallows it, his fingers all the while caressing the now empty bottle. Its surface feels smooth and cold to his touch and he runs his thumb up all the way to its rim and then down again. The world is fuzzy and bleary and his head is swimming. He likes it that way. Sip by sip he slips out of his body, that confining cage of thoughts, and escapes the "I". It is not perfect, but it is better than the alternative. Better than remembered dreams that once seemed so close and not a whole world away. Definitely better than memories of a man long dead.
He takes another sip, another step towards flight and he knows that soon he will need to stop, because otherwise he will get sick and throw up and then the feeling is gone and he has to start anew. The line between not enough and too much is thin, very thin. In the beginning he often overstepped it, but now he recognizes it. Mostly he manages to stop just in time, balancing on the edge. Sometimes he doesn't.
Suddenly the urge to laugh grows overwhelming and he leans back in his seat, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes. The waitress swishes by and he grabs her arm, holding her back just long enough for her to stop, then he drops it. "'nother", he says, now chuckling, and she raises and eyebrow at him.
"I think you've had about enough, lad", she tells him with a scowl and he just laughs louder.
"'m the prince of F..Ferelden", he confides in her and the chuckles shake his body, "'n I want 'nother."
"Sure you are, honey", she says and raises her other eyebrow, looking him over, "If his Majesty wants another one, he'll get one. If he can pay." The title is like a bucket of cold water emptied over his head and suddenly it doesn't seem all that funny anymore. He blindly grabs for his pouch and slips it out of a pocket, pulling out some copper coins he drops in her palm. He will have to look for work again. Ten copper for delivering a message. A hundred if it is outside of Kirkwall. Ten silver for protection. A hundred to fight. The waitress leaves then and he leans his back against the wall.
"'s true", he murmurs and grabs his mug, emptying its content with one big gulp. "'m the prince." He closes his eyes, just for a moment. The world is spinning, but he needs more ale. The thoughts return and rush back to him and he just needs more ale. "'m also the traitor", he adds then quietly to himself and sets the mug down almost gently, fingers still firmly around it. "'n the coward. S' many pretty titles…"
The bottle of ale appears on his table almost magically and he grabs for it, pouring himself another glass. One more glass and he can pretend he didn't sit down with his back to the wall because his warrior's instinct is rearing its head. Another one and he can almost forget how good he is at fighting and killing. A third one might stop the low humming of the taint in his blood. It never felt this bad back then. But he was another man then. A stronger one. Now he is nothing.
The door opens and bangs shut for the hundredth time and a gust of wind sweeps through the tavern, stirring up the scent of stale beer, piss and vomit. Such a lovely place. Such a fitting place. For a brief moment he is almost disgusted. With what he doesn't know. Another sip makes it alright again, another sip and he doesn't care so much anymore. He's a prince in his kingdom of vomit and piss and disgust. A good place for the disgraced traitor.
So sorry, Duncan.
There is the sounds of breaking wood and bones and the flicker of light on a knife and his hands twitch. His blood rushes through his veins and he closes his fingers around the mug. It keeps them from shaking quite so hard. That is good. His blood sings and his fingers itch, but he doesn't move. Screams and panic erupt like a volcano in the midst of the tavern. He hates this, this brings back memories.
Remember that warrior that one day defeated his first ogre? Jumped up and plunged his blade deep, deep into its chest and then its gaping maw. Remember that warrior?
Long dead, long lost.
Slowly, carefully he lifts his mug and empties it, bringing it back to the table. His hands still shake when he grabs for the bottle. People are fleeing, rushing away from the brawl. They are standing pressed against the wall or pushing their way through the crowd to flee outside. Some watch with a fascination that makes him sick. They watch laughing, betting on the winner and money changes hands. The noise grows louder. He can smell the blood already, feels the goose bumps that crawl along his spine until they reach his neck. He almost shivers, but resists.
Remember that bastard prince that once slew a High Dragon? How he threw himself at the creature, flames licking at his skin, his ears deaf to the screams around him? How he plunged his blade deep into its neck, again and again. How he was thrown through the air and with one final blow ended it all? Remember the moment of absolute perfection when everything was as it should be, when that bastard prince was for once the hero he wanted to be?
I don't.
He looks up, slowly, and is thankful that everything is still bleary. There is movement, blades and cries. Fast, too fast. A man is sent stumbling, crashing into a table. The wood cracks and breaks. The man doesn't move any more. Another one goes down, a dagger embedded in his neck. Red runs down his back, seeps into the fine tunic, stains the floor. The fight doesn't last very long. Soon the shuffling ends and all that is left is a tall guy with a hungry grin.
There is movement at his side and his hand grabs for a sword that is not there. He flexes his hand. Once. Twice. The body remembers. It still doesn't know that he doesn't. The man next to him sprints forward, pushing away from the table and knocking over the bottle of ale. His hand shoots out and he almost catches the bottle, but not quite. It clatters to the ground, but does not break. When he picks it up, there are only some sips left in it. He frowns.
The fight continues with new partners in a never-ending dance as they circle each other. He knows this kind of dance. The blood rushes through his veins and reality creeps back with unsettling force and he grits his teeth against the onslaught of memories. It is then that he flees, leaving table and bottle and mug behind. He pushes through the people until they finally relent and make way, melting back into the indistinguishable mass of bodies behind him. He staggers a bit, but steadies himself again. Breathing becomes easier as he opens the door and steps outside into the nearly empty streets and he pauses for a moment and lets the rain fall down on him. The quiet pitter-patter of droplets is hypnotizing and he relents and looks up into the grey sky. The water runs over his skin and it feels almost like a caress as it flows over his jaw and down his neck.
The moment is gone almost as fast as it seized him and when he lowers his gaze again, reality washes right over him. The streets are growing muddy and the rusty red stains slowly fade into the all devouring brown of the earth. His head is swimming and he takes a deep breath before he starts the way back to Darktown. The heavy weight of the dagger pressing against his leg is strangely comforting.