We went to a place with years of tradition. Not as much to have the child blessed at the temple, but to have his fortune read by one of the wizards hanging around the ancient building. The boy was seven weeks old by then and his blue eyes looked in wonder at the colorful stalls offering potions and lucky charms, but started to shriek the moment the old wizard drew closer to get a better look. After muttering a few words in a foreign tongue, the wise man's eyes turned milky white, as if they were looking inwards. When he came out of the trance, the wizard gave his verdict with in a stern voice:
'The boy will walk into the shadows and into the lights, but won't find what he looks for neither place'.
I wasn't very happy with such vague a prophecy and prodded him with more questions, sliding a few more coins into his hand.
'Will he make a good woodcutter or is he more suited for crafting? Is he going to be healthy and strong or is he cursed to be a weakling?'
'The boy is destined for greatness, yet this depends on his choices'. With that, the old man drew his robes closer and went away in search of other customers.
We named him Lucius, as this seemed to me and Moira a good name for a great person, although in the wilderness we lived it was hard to find something the child could be great at. He wasn't all that strong, he didn't care much to learn a trade and he had little interest in the running of our little farm. Most of times, he'd hide under the shade of an ancient oak, by the river and just listen to the water lapping at the banks, watch the birds flying or wait for the sky to light up with myriads of stars. When he grew older, there will be girls watching the sky with him and he'd sing for them. The girls were enraptured by his deep voice and the words he put to his music. Sometimes sweet, sometimes angry, full of a passion he hadn't had time to feel.
We watched in despair as he grew so foreign to us and our ways, but the people loved to hear him sing. Soon, they'd ask him to come to sing at their weddings or the feasts of the saints.
And then, one day, Lucius grew tired of the small village and its simple folks and set out to see the world.
Because he never got the chance to change his modest country-boy clothes and improve his humble appearance, Lucius chose to shroud himself in mystery. He walked into towns at night, his face hidden under his cloak, so all that people knew of him was his voice. They called him the Night-Rider and that suited him fine.
He'd been on the roads for years, he'd broken many hearts, but he'd given his soul to only one woman, Laura, the one that would not have him. She was of the sun, a girl with an ever smiling face, while he dwelt in the shadows and sang of sorrow. His song grew even darker, when his sweet Laura took another man as her husband. Lucius went far far away, where no one would know him and there would not be anything to remind him of her.
His fame grew as well as his songs had women cry and men feel their guts wrenching. He sang of things most of them only dreamed of and they loved him for that. They listened to him with their eyes closed, walking the taverns with the Night-Rider, drinking and fighting and making love to beautiful women. They wept with him over the dead bodies of their loved ones and felt his anger in their bones. Then they went to their homes and the Night-Rider went on his way, alone.
There was so much talk of the amazing singer, even the rich folks were curious to see him. It was not unusual, to see a noble woman buried in rich furs, listening to the music from behind the curtains of a carriage. It was a woman's doing that the Night-Rider was called to sing at the palace where the prince celebrated his birthday. It was not easy to convince him and he only came on condition that he be allowed to arrive after night fall.
He did not show his face that night, but he captured their hearts anyway. After all, they were just as simple at heart as the country folk, they all dreamed of passion beyond words, they all craved to be alive even for only the duration of one song.
The pretty princess talked to him with lips so sweet that seemed to be dripping honey and the Night-Rider agreed to spend a few more nights at the palace. He marveled at their rich ways and the high esteem they showed to their court artists and his heart hurt for he was better than all of them.
One day, the Night-Rider ditched his black cloak and put on a colorful vest and he sang in the light of the torches and the ladies were swooning at his feet. But than they also blew kisses to some moody poet or one those powdered freaks who sang of turtle-doves and beds of roses. Lucius, for he went by that name now, wanted to do better than all of them. He, too, could sing of happiness and blue skies.
'What the hell for did they ask that clown to sing at the royal banquet?'
Lucius was furious, for he had spent months at the court, learning their ways and their polite words. His music was just as good as theirs, still they liked the most polished ones best. Like the clown with the silly curls that had been selected to grace with his songs the banquet that, rumor had it, would see the king himself at the head of the table.
His majesty was there that night and after the noble bellies had been filled and many glasses had been drained, it was time for the music. They were all surprised when the king asked about the Night-Rider, for his fame had reached even his august ears.
Lucius rose uneasily from his chair, for he had been drowning his anger in pints of beer and his slight frame had become fuller now that he no longer wandered the roads and spent his days dining with the gentry. He sang his most new and beautiful songs, but his voice had grown indistinguishable from the rest. Even his dark locks had been combed back and tied with a bow. By his third song, the king focused his interest on a young lady sitting on his right and when he was done singing no one begged for more. His friends at a lower table, by the gold-plated doors, patted him on the back and toasted to his health. They did not fear him anymore, he was one of them.
The Night-Rider left the palace that night, taking with him only the dark cloak and a bitter heart. He went back to his old haunts, but not many came to listen to him anymore. He had lost his way and did not belong in the shadow anymore.
Story written for @mariannewest's freewrite challenge, weekend three-prompt special! Check out her blog and join our freewrite community.
Thanks for reading!
