"We know what we are, but know not what we may be."
-William Shakespeare, Hamlet (Act IV, Scene V)
He slept heavily, something which he did not expect his very first night back in the single strangest place he had ever been. When Everett awoke the next morning, it took him a few moments to remember where he was. This modest bed had been his for a time when he first found himself in the land beyond the pale. This modest room was once home to an aspiring writer and a very demanding housecat.
Everett wondered if he could still live a life of aspirations. He lay in bed, dreaming of his life as a playwright and he tried to ignore the throbbing in his left leg. It often seemed the sorest in the mornings. Everett could only assume it was all the work his body did at night, trying to heal from the damage done by the bullet. It may have ruined his leg and permanently altered his walk, but the bullet may also have saved Everett's life.
This bullet, fired from the gun of a loyal Spanish soldier, had found its way into his leg, and being thusly stricken, Everett had found his way back out of the English infantry in the Netherlands. He had served his noble purpose as a human target, and he had managed to avoid bleeding to death, escaped infection, and come through the conflict without having a barber surgeon take his leg. The poet knew full well that he was luckier than most.
The feeling of his own hot blood coursing from the wound and over his leg was a pain he had never imagined. He sweat and he shivered and he cried out. He felt horrible, and yet, Everett felt more alive at that moment than he had since leaving Rhydin to deal with her. Anne. Liar. He had tried to be angry, but he could never get too far before Lady Compassion edged away anger, smoothing its sharp edges and corners with her gentler touch.
There were a few days that caused his brothers to fear the worst. Everett was always the gentlest of the Ogden men, and though he had no business on a battlefield, he could not find it within him to run from a war that his brothers would fight. He was English, through and through, and he would be loyal to his queen. When he came through the haze of pain and the delirium of shock, Everett started to feel a clarity that had been lost somewhere between the farmlands and the lowlands.
It was a month before he tried to walk again. Even with the help of his simple cane, he could not go far before he was too tired or in too much pain. Still, Everett pressed on, and everyday he went a little bit further. He would run small errands on the farm, gathering fruit or herbs for his Gram, who was getting so old after all these years. The errands pushed him further and further from the house, and though he was slow, he was able. The day he was able to deliver food to the center of town was when he knew he was ready to leave home, once again, to go to the only place that had ever made any real sense to him.
His family mourned his leaving, but this time, they did not question it. He held them tight before he turned away, especially his Gram. Though she was a venerable old woman, he did not entirely expect to ever see her again. She had lived such a long, long life. How wonderful that she still had her legs, her mind, and her smile, still warm and still sharp. How wonderful that he would think of her this way, perhaps for all the days of his life.
The journey was long, but this time, the destination was not a mistake, and it was not a surprise. As Everett saw the coastline of Rhydin, he felt a hum in his bones that he could only attribute to hopeful recognition. To his core, he knew that this was a better place for him to be. It was a long, slow walk from port to the Red Dragon Inn, and a difficult ascent to room two-oh, the closest thing to a home of his own that Everett had ever, ever known.
And then, the morning came, and Everett lay there, his leg throbbing, and he decided he could no longer live a life of aspirations. The Englishman had looked his betrayer in the eye and held fast to a truth, even when none believed him. He had faced the panic and horror of a war that he could not entirely understand. He had picked up the shattered pieces of a glass heart and reforged it with steel. The gentlest man most had ever met had survived war, betrayal, and heartache in the place that was supposed to be his home. He was made of stronger, better stuff than even he had known, and though he would always be an Englishman, he fervently believed that he could make a new home here.
The time had come for Everett Ogden to retire aspiration in favor of action. He knew all that he was. What remained to be seen was what all of his actions might lead him to be.
That morning, he wrote two scenes of the first act.
-William Shakespeare, Hamlet (Act IV, Scene V)
He slept heavily, something which he did not expect his very first night back in the single strangest place he had ever been. When Everett awoke the next morning, it took him a few moments to remember where he was. This modest bed had been his for a time when he first found himself in the land beyond the pale. This modest room was once home to an aspiring writer and a very demanding housecat.
Everett wondered if he could still live a life of aspirations. He lay in bed, dreaming of his life as a playwright and he tried to ignore the throbbing in his left leg. It often seemed the sorest in the mornings. Everett could only assume it was all the work his body did at night, trying to heal from the damage done by the bullet. It may have ruined his leg and permanently altered his walk, but the bullet may also have saved Everett's life.
This bullet, fired from the gun of a loyal Spanish soldier, had found its way into his leg, and being thusly stricken, Everett had found his way back out of the English infantry in the Netherlands. He had served his noble purpose as a human target, and he had managed to avoid bleeding to death, escaped infection, and come through the conflict without having a barber surgeon take his leg. The poet knew full well that he was luckier than most.
The feeling of his own hot blood coursing from the wound and over his leg was a pain he had never imagined. He sweat and he shivered and he cried out. He felt horrible, and yet, Everett felt more alive at that moment than he had since leaving Rhydin to deal with her. Anne. Liar. He had tried to be angry, but he could never get too far before Lady Compassion edged away anger, smoothing its sharp edges and corners with her gentler touch.
There were a few days that caused his brothers to fear the worst. Everett was always the gentlest of the Ogden men, and though he had no business on a battlefield, he could not find it within him to run from a war that his brothers would fight. He was English, through and through, and he would be loyal to his queen. When he came through the haze of pain and the delirium of shock, Everett started to feel a clarity that had been lost somewhere between the farmlands and the lowlands.
It was a month before he tried to walk again. Even with the help of his simple cane, he could not go far before he was too tired or in too much pain. Still, Everett pressed on, and everyday he went a little bit further. He would run small errands on the farm, gathering fruit or herbs for his Gram, who was getting so old after all these years. The errands pushed him further and further from the house, and though he was slow, he was able. The day he was able to deliver food to the center of town was when he knew he was ready to leave home, once again, to go to the only place that had ever made any real sense to him.
His family mourned his leaving, but this time, they did not question it. He held them tight before he turned away, especially his Gram. Though she was a venerable old woman, he did not entirely expect to ever see her again. She had lived such a long, long life. How wonderful that she still had her legs, her mind, and her smile, still warm and still sharp. How wonderful that he would think of her this way, perhaps for all the days of his life.
The journey was long, but this time, the destination was not a mistake, and it was not a surprise. As Everett saw the coastline of Rhydin, he felt a hum in his bones that he could only attribute to hopeful recognition. To his core, he knew that this was a better place for him to be. It was a long, slow walk from port to the Red Dragon Inn, and a difficult ascent to room two-oh, the closest thing to a home of his own that Everett had ever, ever known.
And then, the morning came, and Everett lay there, his leg throbbing, and he decided he could no longer live a life of aspirations. The Englishman had looked his betrayer in the eye and held fast to a truth, even when none believed him. He had faced the panic and horror of a war that he could not entirely understand. He had picked up the shattered pieces of a glass heart and reforged it with steel. The gentlest man most had ever met had survived war, betrayal, and heartache in the place that was supposed to be his home. He was made of stronger, better stuff than even he had known, and though he would always be an Englishman, he fervently believed that he could make a new home here.
The time had come for Everett Ogden to retire aspiration in favor of action. He knew all that he was. What remained to be seen was what all of his actions might lead him to be.
That morning, he wrote two scenes of the first act.