Untitled
By Darknyss
He sits outside. It's cold really and the night, even dotted with campfires, feels oppressive. He doesn't wish for the warmth of the tent, or the comfort of his companions. There's too much confusion there he doesn't want to face tonight.
People think he's an idiot, he knows that. He's bad with words, it's as if they stick to his tongue and palate and refuse to be spoken in an intelligible order. It infuriates him, the frustration making him seem like a madman sputtering in people's faces. They think he is a violent lunatic, he knows that.
People don't like him in general. Partly because of his inability to express himself, partly because they think his interests are purely oriented towards food, thus very base. It makes him seem like a low simpleton, he knows that. But a man such as he is, unloved, must focus his attentions on something and – as his mind is not readily disposed towards the lofty – he has chosen that which can give him instant pleasure, food, the other instant pleasure being too much of a drain on his purse. So he seems shallow, he knows that.
There
is no one willing to look beyond all of this. He doubts even Roland
or Will care, although he wishes it were different. He is not that
much of a fool. He only knows of one person who would be able, would
be allowed to discover more, but he also knows it can never be.
Chaucer is not meant for him.
He knows that.