Perilous Jaunt Chapter 17
Chapter 17
Dante
I didn't turn to watch Peter as he left me in my desolation. At first, a piece of me felt guilty for snapping at him so callously. But that wasn't my main concern. I couldn't allow him to see me crying like a child in the middle of the woods. Every time he would look at me afterword, he would probably recall how pathetic I appeared with tears gushing down my cheeks. Even worse, he would probably ask me again at some point why I was crying. The thought made me clasp my fingers more tightly around my face while I sobbed once more. I didn't want to talk about it, much less even think about it. I just wanted to fade into nihility, where nobody could ask me why I was so distraught. Yet, I couldn't. Instead, I was only capable of weeping harder and drowning my grief with more tears.
When my eyes had finally dried and I ran out of tears, I was unsure of how much time had passed since Peter had left me. Had it been a minute or two? An hour? I wasn't certain until I stood up and glimpsed through the blanket of green leaves above me to see the sun. The globe of light hadn't moved since I last glanced at it, which had been moments before we arrived at the church, so it hadn't been very long. I assumed that I had only been crying for a few minutes and stepped back onto the road. I then headed towards the church, where Esme and Peter awaited me.
When I returned to the derelict building, Peter was sitting on the ground, tracing various shapes in the dirt with the end of the rope that I usually held. Esme, on the other hand, leaned against the doors of the church with her arms crossed and a look of boredom sculpted on her face. The priest's corpse was nowhere to be seen.
"Hey," I greeted the pair, casually, hoping neither of them would mention me running off.
"Hey," Esme said, returning the nonchalant gesture, as she pushed herself from the church doors and walked towards me. "Could I borrow your knife, Dante?"
"Sure," I said, happy that she was not asking why I had hurriedly ran away after putting three bullets in the priest's skull. "What happened to yours?"
Esme shrugged. "Gave it to the girl. Figured she needed protection,"
"Good idea," I complimented her, as I unstrapped my knife scabbard from my belt and handed it to Esme. "Does she know how to fight?"
The kangaroo sighed as she began to strap my knife and its scabbard to her belt. "Probably not,"
Hoping to change the subject, I assured her, "You can keep it, if you like. I mostly use my sword or my gun, anyways,"
"Oh, no. It's fine," Esme told me. "I was hoping we could make a stop at the next town down the road, so I can buy a new one. I'll give this back to you then,"
"All right," I said, somewhat glad that I wouldn't lose my knife.
"Speaking of which," Esme said, as she pulled my gun out from behind her, "here's your gun back,"
"Oh..." I gasped. "I almost forgot about it,"
The kangaroo dangled the weapon out in front of me. "Good thing you have me around then, huh?"
I reached out for the handle of the gun, but stopped once my fingers were only a hair's length away. "Wait. Where were you keeping it, exactly?"
"Don't worry," the kangaroo cackled. "I didn't shove it up my ass or anything,"
"Well," I chuckled, taking the weapon from her and putting it in its holster, "I would hope not. The metal can be really cold,"
"Cold, huh?" Esme said as she smirked and scratched her chin. "Now that I think about it, I don't think I've ever had anything cold stuck up there. Hot, sure. But not cold. I'll have to try it some time,"
"Well," I said, "whenever you do try it, please stay away from my gun,"
"Ready to go?" Peter asked, after standing up from the dirt, probably desperate to try and keep Esme from elaborating on the subject.
"Yeah. Let's get out of here," I answered, taking the end of his rope in my hands before setting of down the road again.
Our pace was unusually slow the rest of the day and we only made it six miles from the church before we set up camp for the night. We were all tired, especially after seeing that poor girl be whipped nearly to death back at the church.
Esme, after I lit a fire, went hunting, leaving Peter and I alone together, much like the previous night that persisted to hurt me with its terrible ramifications.
"You know," Peter began to speak, as he looked at me smugly while leaning against a tree.
I could already hear him asking me why I had run off into woods to cry. Here we go.
"You never told me what you named your sword," Peter said.
I leaned back, using my arms to balance the upper half of my body above the ground. "What?"
"The name of your sword," Peter said. "You know, that thing you stab people with? The pointy piece of metal?"
I smiled, relieved that Peter didn't mention how I was crying earlier. "No. I recall what a sword is. I just don't have a name for mine,"
Peter narrowed his eyes, perplexed as to why I never cared to name my sword. "You don't?"
"Nope,"
"How come?" he demanded.
I shrugged. "A sword doesn't have any sense of morality or personality. It's not a person,"
"People name their pets," Peter pointed out, pompously, as if he had vanquished my logic. "They aren't people, but they still have names,"
I thought for a moment, considering my next words carefully, and then answered him. "True, but swords, unlike pets, aren't living. They're just tools. A man doesn't name his hammer, boots or gloves, yet he uses them and puts them away when he's done, just like a sword. So why bother naming it?"
The young otter shrugged. "Knights do it,"
I smiled at the thought of me dressed in armor, patrolling the streets of a City and standing outside some king's bedroom as he snored louder than the sound of gunfire. I'd look pretty good in armor. All the whores would probably give me a discount if I showed up in it too, I bet. As much as I enjoyed my little fantasy of knighthood and half-priced debauchery, I had to abandon it and comment on Peter's point.
"So?" I asked. "Just because somebody does something doesn't mean you have to do it, too. Look at how most of the Kingdoms treat gays. Gays can't get married in any of them. Only the Ulpis', Queen Santel and you father have laws that forbid discrimination against gay people. But, if we apply your logic of following others blindly, that would mean these three rulers are wrong because they, unlike the other seven, have that protect gay people,"
Peter stared down at his boots and shifted them. "Jesus, I just asked why you didn't have a name for your sword. I didn't ask for a whole philosophy book,"
My heart cracked like glass and I began to regret even discussing the subject. "Have I offended you?"
"Yeah, kind of," Peter said, bitterly. "You were being really condescending, like I was stupid or something,"
I felt may face grow warm, as if someone had taken a handful of burning coals and grinded them against my cheeks. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. I just tried to elaborate on the discussion,"
"And you're always doing it!" Peter carried on. "You always try to have the last word or say something clever to put me down. At least Esme is straight and to the point, but you're arrogant! When I talk about stuff with Esme, it never ends with me having a rope tied around my muzzle or being called a slut,"
My mind replayed all of the times I did that to him. While I had done those things to him mostly during the first days of our travels, I began to feel guilty about them. I had never wondered if those acts had hurt his feelings. But, if he was bringing them up now, I certainly must have caused him some sort of emotional pain.
"I'm sorry," I told him, sincerely. "I apologize for any discomfort I have cause you and for being insensitive. If we have any further discussions together, I'll try to be more affable,"
Peter stared at me momentarily, almost as if he did not believe that I was being frank with him. Eventually, he accepted my apology. "Okay. I forgive you, even if I don't know what 'affable' means,"
"It means friendly,"
"Okay," Peter said, appearing to be pleased by the definition. "Good. Now, just for fun, what would you name your sword?"
At first, I smiled at his persistence and was about to tell him that I wasn't even going to bother selecting one. However, because I feared hurting Peter's feelings again, I tried my best to come up with an answer. What would I name my sword? Bloodserpent? No. Too foreboding. Lightdancer? No. Over dramatic.
_ _ Without speaking a single word, I pulled my rapier from its scabbard, making it grind its metal teeth loudly as it exited its cozy home. I then raised the sword in front of me, pointing its tip up towards the sky, and watched the reflection of the fire in its metal.
"Well?" Peter demanded.
It had to be something unique. The name couldn't just be some bland title that had "war" or "strong" in it. There were already thousands of swords with names like that. At the same time, it couldn't be anything violent or some clichéd name for peace. My sword's name would have to be a reflection of myself. It would have to be...
"Solitude," I whispered.
"That's it?" Peter asked, unimpressed with my decision.
"Yeah," I answered him, as I sheathed my rapier. "That's it,"
"Well, it's a good thing you're not actually naming it, because that's a terrible name,"
Peter laughed and so did I. After all, I had only come up with the name on the spot.
"Dante?" Peter inquired after the laughter had ceased.
I stared back at Peter, who had seized me in the grasp of his sight. And, before he spoke, I already knew what he was going to ask.
"Why did you cry after you shot the priest?"
Silence was my only response.
"I mean," Peter went on, regardless of my muteness, "I've seen you kill people before, but you're usually pretty calm about it. What was so different now?"
"I'd rather not say," I said and stared at the tips of my boots, finding Peter's eyes far too intrusive for me to comfortably stare at.
"Wouldn't it feel better to just talk about-?"
"Please," I blurted out, trying not to raise my voice at the prince on account of my earlier promise to be kinder to him, "drop it,"
"All right," Peter sounding, sounding somewhat bitter. "Sorry,"
Again, his emotional pain only fueled the sadness that had been eating away at my innards. I had hurt Peter just moments after promising that I would try to be more polite. Why did I lash out at him like that? He wasn't the person I was angry with. Hell, he didn't even want to be out there in the first place, tied up in the middle of the woods. Peter probably wished he were in some tavern, drinking his troubles away, rather than having his head chewed off by me. I wanted to say something to show how sorry I was, but nothing came to my mind and my guilt burned more unbearably. Or maybe I just didn't want to say anything, dreading that he would ask more invasive questions about my past, which was something I strongly desired to avoid. I guess that makes me selfish. The thought numbed me and I was overcome with grief, which I quickly repressed deep within me, saving it for sometime later when I was alone.
"You know..." Peter spoke with a half a smirk. "You forgot to tie my hands to the tree,"
I glanced across the fire and, indeed, confirmed that the end of his rope sat uselessly in front of him on the ground. "I didn't realize..."
"You're gonna have to not be so careless, Dante," Peter teased my error, shaking his bound wrists. "I might just run away again. And we don't want that. You remember what happened last time, don't you?"
"Yes," I chuckled, feeling as though a tiny fragment of my guilt had been assuaged.
I stood up and walked around the fire to Peter. As I bent over to pick up the other end of Peter's rope, I caught a small glint in his eye. Was it pity? No. Pity had a more degrading look. It was something else, something much gentler. Something like...understanding.
My chest became lighter, as did my steps while I tied Peter's rope around the tree. Just before I went back to my spot and sat down, I realized that Peter was trying to make me feel better. He wasn't stupid. The otter certainly had his fair share of troubles and he was just trying to help ease my pain with humor.
But could he ever truly understand?
_ _ Peter smiled at me, showing that he was indeed attempting to be helpful.
I smiled back to show that the gesture had been well received.
No.
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