Chương 42: Chapter 39 ~ Mister Postman (Part 1)

14/11/1111 EotTS 10: 05 It was a gloomy, overcast morning in Thoranyn; the cloud covering hung low enough that it became one with the usual fog, allowing only the most diffused slivers of sun through the slats of Gysel's window, causing her to stir and wake up an hour late, throwing the day off schedule: here she was, sat at the desk, still in her night-clothes, trying to go about her morning routine as quickly as possible.

"This is fine, is it not, Kawvel?" Gysel asked the one-eyed bear as he stared at her from the other side of the desk.

"Yes, of course it is, only reading time was lost, and that is all right, the break starts tomorrow, and the hour can be read then... Oh, good thinking, I should go down to the post office, see if Mother and Father have responded... yes they should have by now... I should read for a bit before going, maybe it will get a bit brighter out, the fog should thin a little by noon, so we can go an hour and a half after... Yes, we do need breakfast, we shall leave after I ask my question...

Yes, we can bring back cheese scones... No, we can butter them here, I do not like them toasted, you should know this by now." Gysel swung her feet as they dangled above the hardwood floor; occasionally, one of her toes would swing too low, and brush the cold planks, sending a shiver: winter was coming, but not just yet.

"Good Morning, Divination Deck. I am late today with my questions, but I hope this will not be an issue. Will I encounter anyone on my trip to the post office?" Gysel asked. Reaching for the top card, she stopped herself.

"Does it really need to be the top card, Kawvel, or could it be any card? Yes, I agree, any should be fine. Florna did say that she draws from the center... who is Florna? she is the Ritual Magick teacher, she is very pretty, and dresses very well. Anyways, please stop distracting me." She split the deck, and drew a card from the middle: the Hierophant of Daggers.

The illustration was far darker than the others: it was a hooded figure standing in center frame with her hands out before her; a dagger was balancing on the crossguard in her upright palms. Her eyes were covered by skeletal hands, and a skull was leaning over her shoulder.

"I do not think that this worked, Kawvel." Gysel shuffled the card back into the deck: this answer seemed far too grim for the question. Then she asked again: "Will I encounter anyone on my trip to the post office?" and drew from the top: it was once again, the Hierophant of Daggers.

"If you do not want to be correct, that is enough of you for today. Goodbye, Divination Deck, I shall see you tomorrow." She shuffled the card back into the deck and returned it to its oaken box.

"What do I think it means? I am not sure. I doubt I will encounter 'Death' or anything even remotely as grim as this card implies on my trip to the post office. So, I do not think it means anything; I think it is simply a bad draw. Florna said the way I perceive the cards is a reflection of subconscious thoughts, and I am perceiving the card as wrong. I have no thoughts about death, I am quite content... Yes, because of yesterday...

You know we have things to-do, we have a lot of reading to-do, there is no point in having kind, probably-friends, at one's Academic institution if one fails and gets kicked out... Yes: probably." Leaving her desk, Gysel put the deck back under her pillow, dressed (in the usual baggy sweater and long skirt), took Kawvel from the desk, and left to fetch breakfast, enjoying the warmth of the wool-lined loafers as she walked.

14/11/1111 EotTS 14: 35 After multiple hours, reading has grown boring; which tended to happen when one was inundated with information that did not quite make sense, and (most importantly) run out of pumpkin tea and cheese scones; thus, it was time for a walk in the fresh, foggy, cool air down to the post-office, so marking her page with a metal ruler, she put on her shoes, removed her green wool shawl from the wardrobe (it was rather chilly that morning, and had likely warmed up little), then left, hurrying through the dorms, down the ramps, and to the entrance hall.

Hurrying past the guard, Gysel stared at the floor until she got to the board, then looked up and around; the hall was nearly empty save for a few stragglers talking at the tables or loitering in inconsiderate places, and Thyres, with his glorious mustache, waxed and curled, standing proudly against his growing stubble. He wore brown twill pants that stopped just above the ankles of a pair of black, creased boots, a vest that matched the pants was buttoned atop a heavy heather shirt with black elbow patches.

In his hands was clutched a single envelope, sealed shut with the smallest amount of brown wax one could use to ensure the letter stayed closed. Gysel hurried over—it will be nice to not go into town alone, and it is rare to get one-on-one time with Thyres, everyone else is usually around.

"Are you going to the post office?" she asked. In response, Thyres shook the envelope, producing a soft, rippling crinkling sound.

"I am. Are you?"

"Yes. Why do you not post them from the Academy bookstore?"

"They only bring the mail to the post office twice a quarter. I like having my letters sent and delivered promptly." He started for the doors.

"Come on, they usually send the mail out around the sixteenth hour, so I want to make sure I'm there in time." Gysel followed; with luck, or an efficient use of government resources, enough time had passed for the letter to be delivered, and enough time for the response to arrive.

"Are you expecting a letter?" Thyres pulled the door open and ushered Gysel through first. Walking forward until she got to the end of the portico, Gysel stopped before the fog could envelop her—the stories say that Aeska lurks in the fog, especially in the thick fog of Thoranyn and its forests, waiting for young girls to wander in alone, only to snatch them up, take them back to her nearest temple, keeping them trapped as her priestesses—.

Reaching out, Gysel waved her hand in the thick fog; condensation gathered upon her skin as Aeska's mark. Shaking the water off, and down onto the already damp bricks, Gysel turned back to Thyres.

"Thank you. Yes. From my parents." This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"Wihrakolm is pretty far. When did you mail it?" Thyres, being a man, did not seem concerned about the fog, and just walked right on into it; Gysel followed after, never letting him out of sight.

"On the First," Gysel answered—how does one do this again? ask them the questions they ask?

"Who are you writing to?"

"My mother, she wants one letter every day. This is yesterday's."

"That is a lot of work."

"Sometimes," Thyres answered, crossing under the ivy, and turned around to hold it up, allowing Gysel to walk beneath it without hitting it, even if she was a few centimeters too short for it to touch her either way, but it was very kind of him to keep such a close eye on his post office-bound companion.

"I usually just rewrite what I put in my journal."

"All of it?"

Gysel asked—journals are private, taking a day out of them and sending it to one's mother, of all people, a terrible idea, Mother would certainly never be mailed a piece of her daughter's journal, even if one was kept, which it is not, many, many years ago, twelve, when a journal was kept, written in, hidden away, beneath Kawvel, beneath the pillows, beneath the mattress, and beneath the bed, Mother went searching for it, found it, proofed, critiqued the way it was written, the spelling, the grammar, whether the sentence structure correctly emphasized the subject, nothing is more recent than those blotches of red ink, the little pink notebook is there, still there, against the wall under the bed frame, there is no use for it, anything private intangible must be undocumented, either kept in the mind, stowed away, forgotten, or dictated to Kawvel instead, his mouth is sewn shut, he can never talk, he can never betray.

"Gods no," Thyres laughed.

"I don't even want to imagine that." He shivered, but it seemed exaggerated; it was not that cold.

"Are you that terrible of a son?" His fellow post-office goer was certainly a terrible, disappointing daughter. His face pinched before he answered.

"Uh, maybe... I guess that depends on what makes a terrible son."

"Are you doing what they think you should be doing?"

"No, I can't say I'm doing what they want me to do. Being here and all."

"What do they want you to be doing?" Gysel kicked a loose stone; it skittered, and then fell onto the street.

"They want me to be a cobbler like my father, and his father, and his father's father, and his... you get the point. My two brothers are cobblers, and I don't want to be a cobbler; shoes don't interest me." Gysel nodded; similar stories, different professions. She looked up to Thyres and smiled.

"You are like me."

"I am, am I?" He patted Gysel on the back with a gentle touch; Gysel flinched, but did not step away.

"I wish I was just like you and had that scholarship, but it is nice not being the only person in that group who isn't wealthy and has actually had to deal with some problems. On a positive note, you're a reader. Have you seen Ardhy's library?"

"No," Gysel answered—has Thyres seen Wyohla's library, no, probably not, and Wyohla probably does not want him knowing either.

"I have only been to Ardhy's once. I left after dinner."

"Massive, massive. The whole west wing. Two floors filled. Just everything. It's insanity." Pausing, Thyres threw his arms in the air in front of him before continuing.

"I don't know how his uncle affords it. He has the text-blocks from the first printing of Ulygewyian from five-hundred years ago. And hand-written editions, drafts, of Herneuer, from multiple different poets: Rhenryn ove'Meshkametla, and Mahlourynn—which are as old if not older. Can you imagine how expensive those would be to a collector?"

"A lot," said Gysel—is this what the bird tangents sounded like to others?

"Yes, more than a lot. I could live on that for the rest of my life. Live really comfortably, with a wife and six kids, and my sons would never have to work, or their sons." Thyres sighed, rocked his head back and forth, then turned right.

"What I would give. It feels like the only way you can get anything in this world is to cheat and cut corners."

"I do not think Ardhy cheats," said Gysel, fidgeting with her glasses—Ardhy seems to be a very kind, chivalrous man.

"I'm not saying he does. But no one gets money like that fairly," Thyres paused and spun his ring on his finger, "well, the only people who get money like that fairly are knights."

"Do you like knights? You seem to like knights."

"I wouldn't trust any man who doesn't. They stand for something. Rynawar died for Keshka; he stood for his love, even if it was forbidden. Ulygewyian shows that you do not need a reward or notoriety to do good by insisting that Gwynoshska does not speak his name. People these days don't stand for anything, and if they do, the world breaks them until they don't. Do you?"

"I like Ulygewyian."

"Just Ulygewyian?"

"It is..." Gysel paused—think, think, think!

"It is the only one I have read. I... I saw the birds on his armor on the cover and read it because of that." She stammered out, lies slipping through teeth like small seeds through fingers: Thyres did not need to know what other tales of knight-errantry were being read—he probably does not like what is popular now, judges those who read them.

"As good a reason as any. Everyone should read them, the world would be a better place and maybe men would not be forced into un-knightly acts. What version did you read?"

"Mahlvyldt ove'Herkolm."

"Really? How did you manage to find that one? They haven't printed those in a while. Paperback or hardback?"

"I found it at a used bookstore in Wihrakolm. It is a paperback."

"I'm really jealous. I can assume the story was similar enough. What did you think?" Squinting, Gysel pursed her lips—how does it end again? this is the issue with reading all the newer versions by modern authors, especially after the relaxing of laws around what can and cannot be published, everything, including the romances, can be tumbled about and strewn hither and thither, it ends with a duel, does it not? yes!

it does, Wilitwout is accused of framing Gwynoshska, then he challenges Ulygewyian to a duel, and Ulygewyian wins, and kills him, then Gwynoshska asks Ulygewyian his name, and then she dies of shock from the answer... something like that... most of them go something like that, so that sounds about right—and said: "I would have liked a happy ending."

"I can agree with that. Personally, out of all the knights we have stories about, I think he is my favorite, his sword is certainly my favorite. I really liked the parallel between how his name cannot be spoken or asked for, and how his sword can only be drawn against a worthy opponent. It puts emphasis on how one should think before acting, and only act with appropriate force."

"I thought it was that Syruttsyn could only be drawn by someone worthy?"

"No, that's the wrong sword, and that one is only myth. Honestly, choosing a king based on if he can pull a sword from a stone seems like a terrible way to pick a ruler, he should be given it by the Letkaa of the nearest body of water. That way makes more sense. There are enough versions of Ulygewyian that I'm sure some version had him drawing the sword and being crowned king."

Thyres began to slow his pace, something which was more than welcome: everyone walked far too fast and needed to take more time to enjoy the sounds of the sparrows and doves.