Rest had not come kindly to the consternated Erik de Noir, whereas his eyes found themselves tired of the living realm's luminescence. He had tried, perhaps not well enough, to keep them shut to remedy the burning aridness of his tearless gaze. Yet, for all his efforts, he could not afford to keep them idly closed, for in the darkness that inhabits his sight, he alone sees the faces of the dead and, with it, the closing gait of unfortunateness coming his way. Neither women nor ale had brought him comfort, and it seemed that the more he tried to vanquish these chimaeras, the more they ravaged and razed his reveries; and so all that was good from the past could only come to his interpretation forcefully, as things come deceased—as if it all had existed once, and now all but nothing. It was then daytime, he realised, as he saw an older sun, wiser not nonetheless, perhaps even stupider, hiding behind the horizon of distant lands that were too close to be witnessed but too far to meditate upon the happenings beyond.
As the brothel of this village had been so inexpensively made—for no aristocrat, noblesse, king or queen, imperator or imperatrix of the right and reasonable psyche shall be here for vacation or lodgings, except for the local vassals of whoever imposed themselves to own the land, deific-sculpted—there were no blinds to shade the sun's pervasive sight. This perverse, ogling star, in all its glory, witnessed Erik half-naked, removed of his upper clothing, while seated on a rickety chair, smoking then drinking and smoking again, along with the rousing lady on the cold bed, devoid of his warmth, for he had no appetite or drive, amid the thought, to relieve himself of his mortal urges.
Simply, he had not slept, and the harlot he had hired had much of one; and, mayhaps, she had had the most peaceful, invigorating rest she had for so long a time, for although Erik knew less and less of things the more he lived, he understood well the mistreatment of these working women, and their sires would nudge them awake or, crueller most, push them out of their bedding once they'd relieved themselves carnally. Only did he manage to weave and slip past his ghosts when he heard the groan of the lady of the brothel—though it did not mean that it did not linger behind, for, like the past, the imagined black dogs are the shadows of a man. Yet it did ground him to a soother, kinder field than his musings, and it did wonders to him, for any more second of wandering in the realm of thought, he would've defenestrated himself out of the window facing his ragged seat.
"I never have been paid to simply sleep before," the lady intoned with a yawn. The following words were much clearer after the morning stretch. "A curious thing to have rented me for nothing, sire; but it is appreciated, though no gentleman visits a brothel. Perhaps a caller would, but a gentleman, sire? Far from it. And though you've done me a great deed, I would assume, from your stature and mien the night prior, that you are far from a gentleman."
"Your assertion would be correct: I am not of the kind," replied Erik de Noir with a smoky breath. "There is nothing to be said other than that; and think nothing of my stillness—my appetite seems somewhat dissonant with the common sensibilities of man. I am grateful, nonetheless, that you've slept well. Do you care for a drink? Perhaps the night had parched you."
And so, without further spoken agreement to the lady's wishes, Erik stood from his chair. It groaned more than he did, and that much would tell you about the state of things in this room; it is not beyond reason that other lodgings would be alike. Then he walked in stupor, taking a small swig to pour the rest into a glass on the bedside table for the lady to imbibe. She sipped the liquor as if it were coffee and hummed, much after the warmth proliferated around her bosom where it found its resting place inside her stomach.
"I am afeared, sire, that you are so far beyond convention that you seem entirely alien to the world you inhabit, and you walk a world of your own. How fare the pleasures of thought, I ask? Do you conjure a realm full of merry bands, where a colourful parade in paradise never ceases? If so, how do you stride in such a place where everyone 'round carries themselves in a different manner? I do think it a daring and dangerous habit," said the lady.
The lady fared to be more introspective than she seemed, and Erik was led to the conclusion that he was a poor judge of common character; but it mattered not, he thought, if he is one, for it changes nothing if he imposes simple impressions on people, for he never truly stays in a place more than once. If there be nomads in the history of this world, he must've been their kin and the reincarnation of one of those people. If not, he merely had taken to their wish of habitation, like animals that never idle, and he is the descendant of one of them. After all, he added to himself, his birth was a convoluted mystery, which his mentor had only called fortunate, because he was there when their band of thieves had come upon a venerated tree where he was left as an offering to the gods by a troglodytic tribe, where his parents found kinship. To him, though, it was a ridiculous action for one to commit—to carry a child on the stomach only to offer him back to the gods—and dumber still is the fact that, more or less, if we were made by them, we have surrendered our choice to being. Only when the lady nudged him back to their shared world did he shake his head subtly and say:
"Be not afraid, love," began Erik de Noir, "for everyone walks at their own speed, and it is the nature of the self to be in that space; and even if it may seem a foreign practice to you, it isn't to me. I've heard a tale once, from the deep South, in some kingdom ruled by a king I do not care to know. It was a tale told by a local idiot that I am acquainted with—he I cared to know. Of his current status, I do not care. For everything passes, and the more I speak now, one passes or more, and they witness what is beyond the veil. In any case, the story went as such: 'There was once a wise king, and in his governance kindly subjects, and in this land all the people drink from the same well, except for the wise king. One day, this well was poisoned, and the subjects—well, they drank from it oblivious to the humours that the well water gives. Illness some took their mind, and they became riddled with insanity, except the wise king, who, day by day, had been announced by the people around him as mad. They seized the mad king, as pronounced by the mad people, and then his body was rid of his head as a punishment.' That is how the tale ended. And so the local idiot then came, in light, to me, wiser than those who monickered him Local Idiot, for he lives in vast difference from the people around him. Therefore, dear, I do not find myself a troubling existence, for everything—even perception—could be as vapid and as rigid as the one who conjures it, which is himself or herself. It is our only gift amid every punishment that has rained. This creation."
"Indeed, sire? Then everything right turns wrong in your world, and it makes for a world without truth, for it is a relative thing. If nothing matters, why not die?" retorted the lady. But Erik did not take offence toward this comment. Only he smiled, for the first time since many days, and the frown that rid on his face seemed momentary, as much as everything.
"The absurdity of it all, madame, is an unreasonable thing, is it not?" Erik imposed rhetorically. "It makes for a life without meaning, but I did not imply that the only choice is death. It is a choice for one to make, and it is reasonable to do so, but it is erratic and stupid, though we are all idiots through our very nature. If you simply choose death, then you must be too devoid of even a scant of pleasures, and pleasures give one a reason to live. Perhaps not of the body or of the mind or of the spirit—it all depends on what pleasure may be, for that too is relative. You've to think that it is an easy choice, death, but a sour one. Though I do not say, in objection to other miserable lives that I care not to know, that they can endure suffering. But I? I often ponder that death must be the last resort. And you are indeed correct that I am of the rougher sort, because in the face of great opposition, I could only laugh and rebel. I am a mutineer; I take the hands of Fate the Weaver and introduce her fist to her face with enjoyment, and I laugh even if I am meant to be defiled by sorrows."
"Yet, since I met you, you've not laughed once." The lady chuckled after the retort, and only when he saw himself in the mirrors of her glinting eyes did Erik laugh his sorrows away.