Chapter Text
“What is this?”
Paul holds the unfurled map in front of the merchant’s face, pointing at the text scrawled on the paper.
“You told me this would be in formal script; I can’t read this.”
The lettering was in a language Paul didn’t recognize, and the handwriting was bad enough to prevent him from piecing together what it might’ve meant otherwise. He was at a complete and total loss. Unless he could pinpoint his exact location on the map (directions and all), it would be useless.
The merchant, already having pocketed Paul’s gold, shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head. “There’s nothin’ I can do about that. It’s all I got, and ya paid for it. Thank ya very much.”
It takes everything in Paul not to punch the man square in the face, but being that he was in an unfamiliar part of the realm, there were chances he didn’t want to take. Being imprisoned in a foreign land happened to be one of them.
With a twitch of his eye, Paul knew this was a loss he had to accept. “Might you point me in the way of some more competent merchants?”
The bark in his voice would not be accompanied by any bite if the man showed any further signs of being a threat.
The man laughed heartily in response, shaking his head as he dabbed a tear from the corner of his eye. “Ya see, here? Yer shit out of luck. They all just want yer gold; that’s it. And I suggest ya hurry through, lest ya draw anymore attention to yerself.”
Paul was suddenly uncomfortably aware of how he looked to those around him — a young, defenseless man with a guitar on his back, clean clothing, and enough gold to spend on a stupid, useless map. He couldn’t look more like a foreigner. The knife concealed under his cloak surely wouldn’t be enough to defend himself if worst came to worst.
Grimacing, Paul nodded in acknowledgment of the statement, finding himself appreciative of the fact that the merchant had warned him of the danger this place might bring rather than throwing him to the wolves.
It was too late in the day now for him to continue his journey without making camp in the forest, so this place would have to do.
Unfortunately.
Paul considered asking the merchant for a room. It was a joke at first, but the idea admittedly sounded more appealing as Paul felt strangers eyes rake over his presence.
At least the merchant was honest with his intentions. There was certainly no telling what the others might want with him.
Confident that his gold was securely enclosed in his leather satchel, Paul pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and retreated to the streets. Paul was good at ignoring people. He had been ignored most of his life, so he could, in turn, do the same amazingly well. An outcast in Spokana, and an outcast here — Paul felt right at home.
The cobbled road crackled under the weight of his steps, the pathway clearly deteriorating after however many years of neglect. The problem with venturing through unfamiliar parts of the realm was that it was completely impossible to predict what a village might be like until one stepped foot inside their walls.
Spokana was a beautiful place. Much better than here, at least. Magic was intertwined with everyday life. They could use spells to take care of menial tasks or potions to cure ailments. The people were wealthy, too; the land was fertile enough to ensure their crops would last through even the harshest of winters, providing that trade was an ever-growing and fixed source of income.
It was strange leaving home, as much as Paul wanted to hate the place. It was an almost perfect utopia — a place where there were no beggars on the streets, no robbery, no hunger, and no living in fear. But all of that was because of the magic that flowed through the place.
Paul didn’t have any magic.
The D’Amour clan was well known throughout the valley for their involvement in the rich history of Spokana and for being one of the founding families when the village was established. Way back when, when the population was small, no more than a few families gathering in one place.
Every person in Paul’s lineage, dating back to his oldest recorded ancestors, had magic.
Paul didn’t.
The ever-looming curse, the reminder that he wasn’t good enough, haunted him, followed him, and isolated him from the ones he loved and everyone around him.
Even now, it pounded through his brain that he had to do this. Because he was a mistake, because he was the biggest fluke in the D’Amour bloodline.
Pulling his cloak tighter around his body, Paul raised his eyebrow at the sight of a sign reading “Inn” — just what he needed before night fell, and he was left alone in this strange place without any defenses.
And thank the gods that the sign was in formal script and legible.
An obnoxiously loud creaking noise alerted the owner that someone had entered his inn. The poor man was startled awake from a peaceful nap. His rounded glasses slipped down his nose and onto the floor. Paul couldn’t stop himself from kneeling down to assist in finding them.
“You didn’t have to do that,” the man says, his voice softer than Paul had anticipated, but he accepts the gesture anyway. He looked happy enough to have the specs placed back in his hand.
Tipping his head, the man smiles a crooked grin, though no malicious intent seemed to hide behind it. “Thank you very much. I would have been scrambling around for a few minutes had you left that all up to me…”
Paul shrugged, hoping the act of kindness hadn’t alerted the man that he would be an easy victim.
The next surprise came when the man extended his hand, clearly expecting a handshake. Paul didn’t want to offend, so he obliged, albeit a little hesitantly.
“‘m name is Lestrodamus. What might you be looking for? You’re not from here, that’s for sure…”
Was it that apparent? Sticking out like a sore thumb was far from what Paul wanted. Even with his cloak obscuring most of his face, the man had been able to read him like a book. Though, for whatever reason, Paul felt that this man wasn’t a threat.
Surely this would be Paul’s demise. He struggled to remain guarded when he was alone and had to rely on others for necessities like this.
“Just one room,” Paul says, blatantly ignoring the other comments. “One night, too. Just passing through.” Retrieving three golden coins from his satchel, Paul places them on the counter between them. Just making sure he knows, knows I’m not here for trouble, he thinks.
Lestrodamus grabs one of the coins, inspecting it — his eye comically magnified by the glasses he wore. Paul had to stifle a chuckle.
“One room, I’ll show you there,” he finally says, scooping all of the gold into his hands, looking satisfied enough with the payment.
Paul tried to be stingy with his coin, but safety during his slumber was something he didn’t want to short himself on.
“Last room,” Lestrodamus mumbles as they pass through the dimly lit hallways. “Many people ‘just pass through’ here, like yourself.”
If that was supposed to make this experience more comforting, Paul would question what the innkeeper thought comforting was. He was appreciative to have a bed to sleep on regardless. It would aid him in his journey, and he would be set off before sunrise tomorrow.
The room wasn’t spacious; there was a bed positioned in the middle of the room and a small table beside it. There was a chair in the corner, though it appeared to be made of flimsy wood.
Good enough.
Tucking the few possessions he had under the bed, Paul began to undress for the night.
It was hard not to be homesick. Paul couldn’t ignore the rumbling in his stomach or the way he longed for his own room and his own belongings. The evening was the perfect time of day to sit along the river and strum his guitar as he watched fish swim downstream and bugs fly lazily above the water.
Gods, when Paul got home — if he ever did, that nagging voice in the back of his head telling him he would fail this, just like he failed everything else — he didn’t think he would ever leave again.
When he began to yawn every time he opened his mouth, Paul knew that sleep would come easily tonight. Tomorrow’s problems could wait a few hours.