Hermes's Den

In my many years of running over the hills and through the valleys, of sweating on the moors and vomiting into the ponds, I’ve always found morning, when the sunlight’s still deciding its quality for the day and the bread is still fresh and warm is the best time to promote myself. I get gentle “thanks, Lysander”s instead of “I already know you’re a knight, Lysander”s; “I told my cousin about you”s and not “did my cousin get back to you about that lost pup?”s; “you’re looking fit” in place of “I thought real knights ride horses.”

People are just far more receptive to hearing about my skills when their lips are still ringing with the crumbs of their favorite pastries. I think it’s because they know this will likely be the highlight of their day and they want to soak it up. That’s not narcissism, that’s simply a fact of life. Most citizens have all the ambition of an empty turtle shell, but I don’t blame them; not everyone can be born with the halo of greatness on the brow. Besides, if everyone were their own hero, there’d be no purpose for me and hell, that’s just unthinkable.

Today’s big steps are finally pulling me towards something more and even though it’ll only be a week tops, I can’t wait to get out there and really test my mettle against the world. A real quest. Stars, I can already see it now—the views as we hike, the stories we’ll tell around the fire, and most importantly, the glory when we’re successful. It’s all enough for me to lose sleep over and still rise with energy.  It felt right, too. While lying in bed and embracing the last few moments of my dream, I couldn’t help but notice how languidly taunt my body felt.  Something in the way that I rocked and buoyed told me that there finally was harmony in the way I was to get what I deserve.

I believe it’s an aftereffect of me having fasted from sunset. My body is now sacredly prepared to meet my undertaking and my struggling to stay connected to reality was a reflection of this moment. It was with deep breaths that I managed to summon something close to a meditative stupor that allowed me to shave without cutting my throat. It would be absolutely eviscerating if I put in all this effort to getting a spot in the group only to bleed out chasing a hairless face. I don’t even really like shaving; the word knight just happens to be all but tied to clean-shaven in my head. It feeds the image of being a hero—not that I really need to feed the image, but every bit helps, I suppose.

The sun is just beginning to kiss the city walls and give golden form to trees and monsters alike as I set out. The sting of cold oxygen in my chest is sharp, real, and almost enough to make me forget about the protests from my calves and hamstrings. I don’t know why they’re still complaining. You would think that after years of training at least twice a day they’d be excited to finally take steps in a destiny chasing direction. For this reason, I declare the pain to be screams of joy rather than agony. I’m careful to stay light on my feet, nimbly leaping over divots and stones despite my bag slapping into my back in a slightly distended rhythm. I imagine it would be unseemly for a knight to trip then get up and ask if you need assistance, a guide, guardian, or friend for a fee. It’s the same reason I don’t drink more than one ale in any given sitting. My body is a temple.

            The sky is streaked with watery threads of rose as I come to a rest by the river’s edge. Sweat pooling in the small of my back calls for me to pull off my armor and tunic, but I swallow the discomfort with a mouthful of icy water and a wet hand across my forehead. Mobility is something I only barely worry about as the best armor my money can buy is well fitting, quickly filched leather and the speed preserved makes up for the protection lost. Lysander the Light-Footed sounds better than Lysander the Well Armored, anyway. Also, everyone loves hearing the story behind scars. That’s how being a knight should be done, truly, risks, scars. You are only as good as your worst story, in the end.

The rumbling from a cart disturbs the quiet, but is, to me, the call of a potential patron. Two deep breaths fill me and I sigh them out while allowing my arms to unfold and show their form. The landscape of my body ripples in silent earthquakes as I reach up and, flexing as I touch my hair, make sure the summit of my bicep outlines my eye and is front and center. I rest in the pose for a moment and sigh deeply so as to disguise as best as I could the fact that I’m posing and waiting.

  “Oh, hello Byrne,” I chirp as he eases his cart to a stop near me and blows soft for a few seconds as he clambers down and unhitches his horse, Abelard. I step back a few paces. They walk to the shore and in unison duck their heads to drink deeply. “I trust all your sheep are accounted for? Not being rude, but if they aren’t, don’t tell me, I can’t get them back today, I already have a quest lined up. Ah, I’m so excited to embrace my destiny, I’ve been losing sleep over it. Just last night I was running some drills by the oak forest when I heard the most peculiar sound and discovered—you’ll never believe it—-a trio of bear cubs.” I put my hands over my heart and reswoon at the mental image of the shaggy moon dusted animals. “They were the cutest things, just rambling around, having a good time. You know, I’ve been so worried about this quest and to find all those little buggers the night before…” Gently, I sigh before sharply inhaling. “Maybe I’ll make a bear my sigil. It feels like… destiny.”

            “That’s just wonderful, Lysander. Hey, do you think you could run ahead and make sure my spot in the square’s free? You know how that bat Oberon refuses to budge til you flash him that mighty sword of yours.” My bones ache at the prospect of running double time ahead of his cart under threat of Abelard’s thunderous hooves, but every day the square is a puddle of mistaken and stolen items.

Despite his age, fragility has never truly visited Byrne. Years of attending to the needs of sheep have kept him fit and to the needs of his husband have kept him steady. He’s been a shepherd since I was in diapers at least. Those decades of toiling thanklessly and namelessly have taken their pound of flesh at one end or the other, I’m sure. Now it must be all he can do to tend to and sheer the beasts, pass the wool off to his husband for washing and spinning and as mercifully as possible dispatch them before loading meat and wool alike onto a cart and trying to turn as pretty a penny as he can. It is the right thing to do to help this old man who’s been so kind to me. Besides, it never hurts to get to get some action shots in, that’s how you really get your name out there. But today of all days… “You’d really be saving me some trouble—“

            “Oh, well of course! I’m always willing to help someone in need.” Just then, my stomach clears its throat and I realize how vacuous it is. I run down the list of things in my pack and I remember the essential last piece. “Could I, um… could I get some mutton though? I’m heading off on a real quest today and I could use some…” I trail off when he waves his hand twice.

He looks at me begrudgingly then wanders off to his cart. “All the meat’s packed up, but make sure my spot’s clear and I’ll get you some.” He hands me a bundle of remarkably soft wool the color of oatmeal. Personally, I would’ve preferred actual oatmeal but before I can make as much known, he pats my shoulder and says in a stern voice sweetened into benevolent authority “Beggars and choosers, lad. It’ll look good on you, anyway.”

Fires spark around my ears and with all the deference I can muster, I nod, smirk, and set off running. “And remember, if anyone asks—”

“Lysander the Light Footed is helping me. Oh, I know that boy’s going to do great things, I just know it!”