He woke to a farmer with a pitchfork. The farmer jabbed and nearly got Royce in the stomach. Royce rolled, taking the tongs in his shoulder. He screamed and scattered the sheep, which bounced off the walls. In the confusion, Royce escaped into the snow. The hour was late. It was still dark, and blood ran down his arm. He had not yet discovered the sewers and had no place to go. He returned to the barrel on the corner and climbed in, pulling as much straw over him as he could.
Royce remembered hearing “Ladies of Engenall” played on a fiddle from inside the Gnome. He listened to them all night: people singing, laughing, clinking glasses—all warm, safe, and happy while outside he shivered and cried. His shoulder screamed in pain. The rags he wore hardened as the blood froze. Then it started to snow. He felt the flakes on his face and thought he would die that night. He was so certain that he prayed, and that was the first and last time he had ever asked the gods for help. The memory was so vivid he could almost smell the straw. He recalled lying there shivering, his eyes shut tight as he had whispered aloud to Novron, asking to be saved. He pleaded, reminding the god that he was only a child—a boy—only he knew that was a lie. He was not a boy—boys were human.
Royce was not human—not entirely. He was a mir, a half-breed, a mongrel.
He knew Novron would not help him. Novron and his father, Maribor, were the gods of men. Why would they listen to the words of an elf, a hated cur whose own parents had thrown him away as trash? Still, he begged for his life anyway. Because he did not look like an elf, the young Royce reasoned that maybe Novron would not notice.
Right down there, on that corner, Royce had begged to live.
He traced a circle on the window with his finger.
He always remembered it as the worst night of his life—he had been alone, terrified, dying. And he had been so happy the next morning when he was still alive. Starved, shaking from the cold, stiff from sleeping in a ball, shoulder throbbing, but as happy as a person could be.
Here I am, warm and comfortable in The Laughing Gnome, and I’d give anything to be in that barrel again.
A board creaked and Myron entered quietly. He hesitated at the door, then slowly crossed the room toward Royce and sat down on the bed near him.
“I used to sit for hours too,” the monk said, his voice soft, just a tad above a whisper. “I used to remember things… times and places, both good and bad. I would see something that reminded me of my past and wish I could go back. I wished I could be the way I used to be, even if that meant pain. Only I could never find my way around the wall. Do you know what I mean by the wall?”
Royce refused to answer. Myron did not seem to mind.
“After the burning of the abbey, I never felt whole again. Half of me was missing—gone—more than half. What was left was lost, like I didn’t know where I was or how to get back.”
Royce stared. He was breathing faster without knowing why.
“I tried to find a way to go on. I could see familiar traces of the path that was my life, but there was always the wall behind me. Do you know what I mean? First you try and climb, pretending it never happened, but it’s too tall. Then you try to go around, thinking you can fix it, but it is too far. Then, in frustration, you beat on it with your hands, but it does nothing, so you tire and sit down and just stare at it. You stare because you can’t bring yourself to walk away. Walking away means that you’re giving up, abandoning them.
“There is no way back. There is only forward. It’s impossible to imagine there’s any reason to move ahead, but that isn’t the real reason you give up. The real fear—the terror that keeps you rooted—is that you might be wrong.”
Royce reeled. It was as if Myron were rifling through his heart, opening sealed closets and exploring locked drawers. Royce gave Myron a withering look. If he were a dog, Royce would be growling, yet Myron seemed not to notice.
The little monk went on.
“Instead of passion, you have regret. In place of effort, you are mired in memory. You sink in nothingness and your heart drowns in despair. At times—usually at night—it’s a physical pain, both sharp and dull. The anguish is unbearable.”
Royce reached out and grabbed Myron by the wrist. He wanted him to stop—needed him to stop.
“You feel you have no choices. Your love for those who have gone makes you hold tight to their memory and the pain of their loss. You feel to do anything else would be disloyal to them,” Myron went on, placing his free hand on top of Royce’s and patting it gently.
“While the idea of leaving is at first impossible to contemplate, the question you need to ask is, how would they feel knowing that you are torturing yourself because of them? Is this what they would want? Is that what you would want them to do if the situation was reversed? If you love them, you need to let go of your pain and live your life. To do otherwise is a selfish cruelty.”
Hadrian opened the door and nearly dropped the plate of lamb. He stepped in hesitantly. “Everything all right here?” he asked.
“Get him away from me, before I kill him,” Royce growled between gritted teeth, his voice unsteady, his eyes hard.