Another unsuccessful day

In the dead of night they’d meet in few, the moon as their light and fire.

Though you wouldn’t think they knew the reality that was theirs if you gave them a glance or two, for they sang songs of love and hope and danced an endless tune. Even when the nights were cold they never stopped or frowned, for it was only the old and weary who knew too well of the terrors to be found.

As the nights grow old, and all falls quiet around, when the children rest their heads upon their Mothers' lap, and all gather round. The elders would tell their tales of lives come and gone, of hardships fought and found. How the sun would shine again they swore that on the crown. They fed them lies that aged by the month now they neared fully grown, but never could they speak the truth to those who knew not of pain. Though it couldn't last. As the final verse fizzled out with a pluck of a chord they all came together, and the truth broke free.

“This isn't what it seems, you have to know, so let me tell you that, too.” The voice reeked of remorse, yet an intrigued silence grew. “The nights grew endless as the sun refused to shine a day longer. Rain as sharp as knives fell from the heavens, killing all it laid hand to. Livelihoods lost in seconds. Spectators to the destruction we clutched at any warmth we could manage. We lit fires and armed ourselves with whatever we could find. Though what had come wasn’t like anything we had ever seen. It stopped wars with a single breath, caused the tallest of mountains to crumble. Yet here we stood; iron in hand, expecting to be victorious. How foolish we were. How unlucky I was.”

If there were tears you wouldn’t have seen them, frozen before they could fall. "We were afraid.." He trailed off. "I wish we told you sooner, for all of this would be different. We'd all be far away from here, this hell-stricken land." His pause was followed by silent sobs. "Death must have something better than this."

Mother’s wept, clutching their babes to their chest, deafened by the news that the sun would never shine again. They begged up above, if only they knew, hope had died years ago.

“What did we do to deserve this?” He rested his face in his hands. “We have sat many nights here together, all of us. We may not have a fire; sunlight may not brighten our days, yet all of your kind souls have warmed me enough to keep me going, even when there seems little point.” He sobbed openly. “Our time shortens together, an undeniable truth we can no longer keep hidden. So I tell you this, hear my words and...” His mind went blank. And he was thankful for it.

It wasn’t that he feared winter and what often arrived with it, he was sure he made that quite clear. It was more the telling of poor stories. The ones you would hear in Inn’s filled with old men hit too many times over the head during their youth. Where the dim-witted lurk, drinking until they’ve built up enough courage to share the next 'Down the creek and up the stream.'

It was no surprise really that Mote couldn’t remember the end of the story, seeing as he brought it upon himself to offer advice mid-telling, and it was no wonder he woke up as sore as he did, not that he remembered how many times he was kicked over the head before being thrown out.

It wasn’t that he said anything rude in regards to the story, he firmly believed putting others down for their lack competency was wrong, rather a gentle nudge in the right direction was all he offered. At least he thought.

He had awoken atop a cliff, how he got there was beyond his level of knowing this early in the evening, so he thought nothing of it. Instead stretching his legs out over the cliffs edge so they regained some of their feeling, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

Letting out a sigh he reached for his satchel, a generous gift from a previous lover, a previous life. As long ago as it seemed, he had never quite come to grips with why he had left her, Diena. Out of all the women Mote had ever loved, hers was the only one that felt real, the type of love to be found in children's books, where they all live happily ever after. The type of love only to be found once in a life time, never again.

The smell of her still sang through the satchel like a sweet song of lavender and limes, reminding him of what he had lost through pure stupidity and greed. Never letting him forget.

Reaching in deep he pulled out a piece of scrunched up parchment and began unfolding it. Normally he would approach such a task like this with the upmost care, knowing the extent heart broken women go to, to seek revenge. Lovelost leaf would be the most common act through a letter, appearing perfectly harmless at first sight. Though if held for longer than five seconds, will cause the male recipient to feel an immeasurable feeling of guilt, shortly followed by them returning to the sender and pleading for their forgiveness, only to be turned away and left to live the rest of their life in immense sorrow.

Atleast to the untrained eye. Mote had become quite the expert on preventing such events upon himself, having had his fair share of lovers, and letters.

Fortunately this was no such letter, given the neatly printed initials down the bottom of it and that it addressed him by his full name, rather than an insult followed by a threat on his life.

'Greetings Mote,

In regards to your previous letter - the potion is working fine still. At times it appears to change colour from a deep purple to an almost ocean blue, though it's effects differ not during these rare occurrences so don't let it trouble you. Marian is battling through the flu with her head held high, bless her.

I must keep this letter short I apologise, but the price of ink is stretching my purse greater than it allow.

There's always a spot by the hearth when you need.

Safe journeys.

DL.'

Mote had always been fond of Darian. He had often been told they looked a lot alike, given their sparkly blue eyes framed by their long brown hair which was always tucked behind the left ear, and how both of them wore their underpants inside out. Mote was still unsure at how many knew this type of information, yet he dare not let his thoughts wander in that sort of territory, he knew the benefits of wearing them that way, so that was good enough for him.

Though brown hair and blue eyes are not hard to come by if you venture far enough in any direction from your front door, so it wouldn't require a large stretch of the imagination to say a lot of people looked like Mote, Darian just happened to be one of them.

As disappointed by the length of the letter as he was, Mote understood the struggle of finding ink at a fair price. As inconsequential as it may seem, letter was the only form of communication Mote had with friends from far and wide, and finding someone that sold ink at all as well as offering it reasonably was becoming a journey in itself.

One that had taken him from Yupel to Guonil, up the Snowy Mountains, through the Whispering Forest, from Inn to Inn and now upon a cliff. Though all of this wasn't in search for mere ink, of course - though he was still searching for it at a fair price, Mote had other motives that led him from place to place, town to town. Motives that had caused him more broke bones than he can count on the few fingers he had remaining, two missing teeth and a good ole' beating just the other night. Mote couldn't understand why finding the greatest story in the whole of the lands was bringing upon him so much trouble.                                                 

                                                                              _                                                  

As the sun bid it's fair well behind the mountains to the west, Mote rested his head on his satchel, allowing enough room between him and the cliffs edge to prevent rolling over into certain death during the night. He felt the warmth of Darians letter and listened to it flicker as sleep began to fall gently over him, 'another unsuccessful day.' The words a familiar story, the greatest he had found so far.

He sighed.