Faithful Pebble

Part One Hundred and Seven

"I know the dragon isn't evil," he explained, "or at least the culprit of that particular scheme because if he was, we should have seen at least one body in our venture through the mines yester eve. There were too many deaths not to, but we didn't see any. Not even a skull."

Once more, the wanderer's bag was slung across broad sturdy shoulders. It swayed gently with his steps, left, right, then left again. It was the last thing the boy saw slip silently into the forest.

That was hours ago. Hours ago, the sun had long since risen. The forest's creatures were active and awake. They hustled through the fading morning dew searching for breakfast and entertainment, but the wanderer, he didn't share in their gaiety. Though the sun was up, the forest was dark. Though the birds twittered and the squirrels chattered, the forest's murky atmosphere smoldered and simmered and sulked. It smothered his ecstasy, the forest. It muted it, distilled it until whatever enjoyment he had sank lonely, scattered and forlorn, like the ashen violets racing steadily beneath his feet.

With compass in hand, the wanderer headed south. He tried, in his solitude, to focus on the placement of his feet, on his awaiting destination and required chore. It was a belabored task. The caging of his mind was performed solely out of necessity and distraction, for other thoughts vied for dominance, he scowled, for his attention and consideration. The loneliness and silence of his journey made those voices loud and insistent. Even as he raced, he couldn't shut them out. His mind wouldn't stop replaying them.

"Who are you," she had asked.

It was a simple question. One he didn't know how to answer. So…

So, the wanderer ignored it. He simply picked her up and then swung her around in a small circle, a lazy circle, a lonely circle. For a moment, they basked in their knot, in the cluster of objects tangling themselves about their feet. For a moment, she didn't let go.

She had not expected the move, Pebble, Iris; the wanderer smiled slightly at the memory. She had stiffly gripped his shoulders. He could still feel the pinch of her nails, those clawed, dirty, precious little creations, while her cloth veiled face tucked shyly into the curve of his neck. Her breath was light. It tickled, he remembered, he reminisced, he regretted.

His smile would have widened then, could have, but it didn't. Instead, it fell. It sank lonely, scattered and forlorn as in his mind her hands let go, as in his mind her fingers purposely pushed him away.

Where he was breathing hard, she just stared. Even with her hood, he could feel her eyes bore into his own.

For a moment, she looked as if she was about to speak. But then she didn't. But then she knelt beginning to pick up the scattered mess about her. There, she decided wordlessly to leave the question alone, empty and dissatisfied, but not forever. Her tone promised it. Her voice, her words short and firm guaranteed it. "You're right," she stated.

The wanderer stepped over a branch, avoided crushing the violets racing quietly beneath his feet. "I have not seen any bodies, well felt them anyway. There were some near the dragon's cave, but those were no where near the numbers indicated in the story." At this, she paused. Pebble picked up an armful of utensils she barely remembered and then dropped them into his empty sac. Forlorn, she watched them stay put. She waited for them to disappear like they did before. They didn't move, at least not yet.

The wanderer watched her wearily.

"I may have took it for granted, " she confirmed, "but the villagers did die. Father and mother used to talk about it. They would often reflect on a friend or an acquaintance they'd lost, or reminisce on how the town had changed post the disaster. Ten thousand people don't just vanish."

- Calla