Ep. 78- The Weary Pursuit Continues

Don’t you know that people write songs about girls like you?

About girls like you?

About girls like you.

There are no ageless friends.

At some point it’ll hit you, too. You’ll look around and realize everyone around you is tired. That guy you used to get drinks with every Tuesday. That girl you danced close to at a club a distant Saturday ago. That coworker you shared a training class with. Those distant voices you share a daily group chat with.

You’ll hear the fatigue but at first you won’t quite place it. And then one day it’ll hit you like a caffeine crash- they’re all so tired. How did they get so tired?

And you’ll wonder if they’ll ever stop being so tired.

The reality, of course, is that they will not. Rest comes too infrequently, too briefly, too sparsely. The restorative moments, like the dancing waves in a desert, often illusion. And when the moment of real opportunity arises, they can only unload their weights like some weary titan granted a moment’s reprieve by the gods.

And that will make you tired too.

And you will feel unnatural, like a child ordered to sleep before their weariness has truly set in. The days will be fitful, lonely. Shouldn’t you be in bed by now?

My parents have gone to bed at the stroke of 10 PM every night I could remember since I was born. My parents have been tired every night I could remember since I was born.

I’ve spent a lifetime resisting that. I think the day I go to bed at 10 PM will be the day my life ends.

But so many friends already do.

Everyone sure is tired these days.

ext. hovel night

All the cards, all their insights, and all their rage focused in the single stormy tip of a knight’s sword. Every dismissal, every ignored counsel, every betrayal, every bad dream manifesting within the firestorm tempest directed at the Hermit’s head.

Looking on, the Coin Knight smiles.

The Knight of Swords has not smiled since the day she was born. No chemical, no substance, no no compound could induce it. There are many serious people who rarely smile- but most make some time- a small appointment, maybe, to do it at least once a decade. It is a question of time and effort and attention. For the Knight, however, no calendar infinite would grant such a respite- her spirit is malady, her disposition stone. As the poet once wrote- some things are dark, but in comparison to the Knight, all things are light enough to see.

The sword of fire arcs downward toward the neck of the hapless Hermit. But the Major Arcana are not without their tricks and the Hermit is no exception. A flash of copper-brown light, an after-image of the Hermit- no, not after- in progress- the Hermit spins, spins, spins at an impossible speed. The blade is repelled. The Hermit grows smaller- wait, that’s not quite right, he is sinking- burrowing into the ground itself like some clawed mammal. It’s an ugly, unseemly sight- a mess of limbs snapping and whipping and flailing at the earth itself, dirt and clay and rock kicking up into the faces of the stricken knights. When they recover they find only a gaping black hole in the ground where the Hermit once stood.

The Knight of Swords extinguishes her already waning blade. The Knight of Pentacles flicks some dirt off his pristine ebony armor.

KNIGHT OF SWORDS
I suppose that was expected

KNIGHT OF PENTACLES
I was hoping he might let something useful slip. Still, a hasty retreat is telling.

KNIGHT OF SWORDS
He isn’t dense. He knows mere Face Cards could never do lasting harm to a Major Arcana.

KNIGHT OF PENTACLES
I think they’re afraid.

The Knight of Pentacles circles the hole in the ground, taking the posture of a great thinker with an all important audience of one- himself. The Knight of Swords, only half listening, crosses toward the burning hovel, soft puffs of smoke periodically billowing from his windows and door.

KNIGHT OF PENTACLES
They are….execeedingly poor. Not two coins to rub together between the lot of them. Poverty breeds fear…and desperation.

The Knight of Swords holds up her sword- with a whisper, the flames of the hovel leap into her blade, the glowing hilt storing the unpredictable kinetic energy for a later date. The smoldering hovel invites her investigative gaze- which falls upon an earthen jug, cracked, leaking crimson, a small emblem of a sword imprinted across the crack in its shell.

KNIGHT OF SWORDS
Fajro juice…

The Knight of Pentacles joins her in the survey. He notes with jug with a soft whistle of a hunter sighting a query.

KNIGHT OF PENTACLES
As scent leads a dog to a rotting corpse, so the habits of the weak lead back to them. Your Queen?

The Knight of Swords thrusts her sword forward and strikes the jug, shattering it in a collapse of cracked pieces and crimson.

KNIGHT OF SWORDS
The False Queen. I serve the Sun.

The Knight of Swords exits the smokey hovel without another word. The Knight of Pentacles withdraws a small coin from his pouch. He rolls it between his fingers, a meditative habit.

KNIGHT OF PENTACLES
One wonders…you might have been queen. Your former guardian- the rightful heir to the House at your mercy- our Lord, the Sun’s consent for you to take the throne- and her life. The prior Queen yet bleeding out on the court floor. Yet you spared your guardian’s life, opting to seal her power in the Tower and cast her out. And instead of power, you opt for servitude- for your entire house. I mull it over often and I must say- it was not a profitable path.

KNIGHT OF SWORDS
Survival outweighs profit. The strong rule the weak. Capitulation was the only way.

The Knight of Pentacles flips the coin upwards and palms it, returning it to his purse. He moves through the wreckage back toward his own horse.

KNIGHT OF PENTACLES
Hmph. You sound like Justice, now. I never trust anyone who isn’t motivated by profit…Regardless, we know the Alice now travels with the -former- Queen of Swords and Death’s Pale Horse. That’s…significant.

They both mount their horses.

KNIGHT OF SWORDS
There’s no reason to linger further. We would have caught them had they doubled back- the only way is forward, deeper into the Seawood Forest. There is only one destination, from there, that makes sense.

KNIGHT OF PENTACLES
Waite. An ugly, impoverished little blight. If true, Judgment and Temperance will find them- if they have not already.

KNIGHT OF SWORDS
(solemnly)
Our Lord’s will be done.

KNIGHT OF PENTACLES
(A wolfish smile)
Of course.

The pair break their horses down the trail and into the gaping darkness of the Seawood Forest.