Sorrowbloom - Part 3

Sorrowbloom

*continued from previous post*

Her words bounced around aimlessly inside his ears; his mind unable to file them. He sought to speak words of light heartedness; to question her train of thought, when all at once he caught sight of himself in the reflection of the window. He saw a face: hollow of hope, dull of eye and bereft of fortune. It was almost unrecognizable to him; so much so that he found himself raising his eyebrows one at a time and contorting his features to confirm it was indeed himself and not some dismal vagabond staring at him from the other side of the glass.

Wordless and bewildered, he slowly made his way inside where the wafting scent of the fine dinner Isabelle had prepared for him tickled his nostrils. He sat himself down at the table and made an attempt to return to routine. Isabelle reciprocated, lavishing a healthy portion upon the ivory dais before him. The young man thanked her and started to eat. Yet despite the pleasing aroma that it had greeted him with, the food in his mouth was mute. It spoke no flavor to his tongue; instead guising as a banal mush, eager to escape down his throat. Furrowing his brow, he drank of the wine at his side only to find that it also yielded nothing to taste. He found this most peculiar, as it was a rather pungent vintage with a distinctive aftertaste. Yet it was as water; lacking even in texture. He rose from his chair and apologized to Isabelle: “Regrettably, I must be ill, my dear”, his words as much for his own sake as hers; “It would be best to retire early, I think.” He felt no distinct discomfort nor hint of malaise, but what else could explain such oddities? Yes; he was ill, nothing more.

He made his way to bed, uncharacteristically exhausted. He unfurled the blanket and slid beneath it, releasing his breath in long relief. Isabelle shortly joined him, holding him tenderly and resting her head upon his chest. She drummed her fingers along his ribcage as if playing a xylophone – her usual tactic used in the way of comforting him. He instinctively draped his arm behind her and held her tightly. To his surprise, she was cold. Not with presence of ice, but in the inanimate sense; she felt as a doll. He held her tighter; so tight that their bodies should merge, yet he still could not feel her. It was as though he was still somehow distant from her; his sense of touch trapped somewhere deep within his own frame. He slowly dragged his tongue between his lips: the taste was still there. However, it no longer made residency upon his tongue; but within every fibre of his being. Yet he still remained unaware of just what this taste was. It was sorrow. And it had not seeped from his tongue to his heart, but the other way around.

Over the coming days, the young man found himself slipping ever further into the grip of despair. A bleak curtain veiled the world around him, as if a dreary mist had enveloped the landscape and the very sky seemed to rest heavily upon his scalp. His eyes dulled the colours of his surroundings, refusing to take in their splendour and his ears interpreted the wondrous music of the various bards that performed about the village as nothing more than intrusive noise. Even the touch of his beloved Isabelle could no longer reach him and he stooped his presence; head hung in lassitude wherever he went.

The days turned into weeks and the weeks into months until his sorrow had all but pulled him out of the world around him. It kept all hope for the future bound within an iron maiden deep inside him. He found the distance between himself and Isabelle slowly increase; her calls and pleas devoid of resonance and her touch diluted. He no longer had the will to travel and his wares went unsold, which left them without finance. His stomach refused to be filled and his once robust physique slowly waned towards frailty. The sorrow of his heart soon infected Isabelle as their hearts were one, and having exhausted all options; she tearfully fled him. As his taxes went unpaid, the young man soon found himself packing up his belongings as he was forced from his home. He had lost everything and yet, felt he had lost nothing.

He wandered outside the village and collapsed to the ground. All at once, his heart grew fangs and gnashed at its sinewy bonds; seeking to free itself from its tortured host. He threw himself forward, clasped at the ground and wept; finally becoming aware of his situation. How could he have not seen his own sorrow? He reflected on all he had lost and wailed with each passing memory of his former life. Tears traced the lines on his face and he clenched his teeth in anger. That tree! That damnable tree! It was the reason for his sorrow! His skin grew taut and his veins swelled as the flames of vengeance swirled inside them. His mind raced as he raised himself, wolf-like from the ground. That tree had robbed him of hope; he would rob it of existence! The young man grabbed an axe that some wayward woodsman must have left behind and made haste to the hill upon which Sorrowbloom grew.

*continued in next post*