iv.
It was a bottle of truth and lies and stories. It hung by his hip. Four Xs marked the spot.
They knew what was in that bottle. But they never guessed the truth. (It tore at them.) They never spotted the lie. (He betrayed them.) The tales of others gone before were lost to them. (It protected them.) This man, with his unbeating heart and his talk of stories, did not want them to be crumpled like him.
His story was over. But it wasn't over. This was just the epilogue, he told himself, a swig of lies burning down his throat. But, in the end, it was more of his story than before he died at the hands of someone who was supposed to be beautiful and clean. Maybe, at times, life was just the prologue.
With a bottle and four Xs, he hitched a ride on the back of his own friend to go rescue his own friend's son, and he knew that someday, his time would come. Until then, he would sit. And he would wait. And he would smile, a bit. Because he knew what was coming. He knew about the city made out of dreams.
His red cloak was heavy on his shoulders, truths and lies and fairytales tugging on his side. This man just wanted it to end. More than once, his eye flicked to the summoner. He did not tell them where the other had gone. (Send me. Send me.) He needed to finish this. His story wasn't over yet.
But he was so tired, summoner, so tired.
(Finish it.)
His truth-lie-story-bottle fell away when the story ended. When dreams faded and destiny were fulfilled. But it wasn't over yet.
Don't misunderstand, that poor old man finally got some sleep.
But for one reason or another, he dreamt about the days when he couldn't.