Born Beneath an Unlucky Star (6)

Another time, I found companions for a quest northward. There was talk of treasure, old ruins, and a beast in the hills. The sort of thing that should have suited me perfectly. I had all the instincts of a great hero. I could speak nobly by firelight. I could stare into the middle distance as though the moon were an enemy I had once loved. I could say things like, “Some wounds are older than memory,” and make everyone very quiet.

Naturally, they expected me to do more than this.

A sword had to be cleaned. I was tired.
A horse needed brushing. My shoulder pained me.
A watch had to be kept. I had not slept.
Rations were short. I required more because stress had weakened me.
When the path steepened, I lagged nobly behind, wrestling invisible sorrows.

Do you know what ingratitude is? It is three companions sharing their last dried pears with you and still looking annoyed that you are not cheerful.

At last, we came to the hill where the beast was said to dwell. The evening sky was red as a butcher’s apron. Thorn trees clawed at the wind. The mouth of the hill gaped open before us like the entrance to hell in an illustrated Bible.

I knew, then, that this was the hinge upon which my life would turn.

I also knew I did not wish to go first.

This has been painted as cowardice by my enemies. It was not cowardice. It was leadership. Great commanders do not fling themselves stupidly into danger. They direct. They preserve themselves for the tale.

So I said, very reasonably, that one of the others might scout ahead.
The woman with the scar looked at me as though she had finally solved a long, unpleasant riddle.
The broad-shouldered one laughed once through his nose.
The youngest, who had adored me only days earlier, actually rolled his eyes.

Rolled them.

There it was again. The old wheel of contempt. The first dragon. The pebble in the boot. The mill lane. The kitchen light. My mother’s voice.

In that instant, all my wounds rose at once like ghosts around me in a storm of black roses and broken glass.

“You mean to abandon me,” I said.

No one had said this. But I felt it.
Feeling is the truest form of knowing.