A Blind Farewell

The blindfold was tight—imprisoning me in a world of night. Every raindrop was like a cold, invisible knife. All around me were sounds of preparation—monks bustling back and forth, puddles splashing, mud squelching, pilgrims saddling pack animals (horses, judging from the smell). I had no idea how much gear was being packed—no idea how far away the shrine was. I had no idea if Professor Octavius was watching me smugly, feeling powerful because of my blindness. I had no idea if Father Ori felt a thrill of relief at watching the wrong person get punished. I had no idea whether I would have been crying if my eyes hadn’t been tied shut. For that alone, I was glad.

Someone took my hand and led me. I followed meekly, not caring. The sounds of preparation faded away in the distance. The rain stopped falling, but I could still hear it. An eave, I thought. Then, someone kissed my lips.

“Lilly?” I began. I hoped it was Lilly. I couldn’t bring myself to ask, though, knowing how disappointed I would be to find out it was the Singer. Whoever it was kissed me again, a little too hard, a little too fiercely. I broke into a smile mid-kiss. “Lilly,” I said.

“I was going to kick you in your balls if you didn’t know,” she said.

“Balls?” I said. “I didn’t think ladies said words like that.”

She kissed me again, softer this time—improving with practice. “Thank you for telling them…”

“It wasn’t a big deal.”

“I asked the monks for some paper. If anything interesting happens, I’ll write it down for you. Like a journal.”

Again, I thought my eyes might have welled up if they hadn’t been tied shut. “I wrote something for you, too.” I said. “It’s in the pocket of my robes. But don’t expect anything amazing. It’s terrible, really.”

She reached into my robes and took out the paper. My heart thudded as she read the poem.

“What does it mean?” she asked.

“I wish I knew.”

I had stayed up all night trying to get the words out. They had come from some dark corner of my mind. “I guess I just feel like we live in a time where everything we do matters, but I don’t know what to do.” When she said nothing, I added, “If you really meant that vow, then I do too.”

I heard her mouth the words of my poem—reading it again. And again. The paper rasped as she put it in her pocket. It crinkled as she embraced me. I felt warm drops on my neck and didn’t think it was the rain. When she led me back to the site of departure, the sound of frantic monks continued, splashing through the mud. Horses snorted. Saddles creaked.

I felt huge arms embrace me. The Fool. I tried to say something, but he just hugged me tighter, making it hard to breathe.

Next came a handshake—firm but feminine. The Hunter. Asuana. “I didn’t think you’d—”

“Stop.” She cut me off. “I don’t know what to think. You’re a real… enigma. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.” I felt her slip a scrap of paper into my hand.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“So are you,” I said.

She didn’t answer. I heard her mount a horse. Animals began to splash through the mud. Hers was the last farewell. The Singer, the Wizard, and the Mourner may as well have been nonexistent. I never even heard them speak among themselves. The sound of horses disappeared, leaving only the constant rain.

Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. The blindfold seemed to be around my lungs. I clawed at it, fumbling, unable to loosen it. A monk gave a shout: “He’s taking it off!” I yanked and pulled—but it was too tight. All I wanted to do was see Lilly for the last time—one last glimpse of her riding away. Perhaps she would be reading my poem as she rode. Finally, the cloth came off. At the same time, someone punched me.

I slammed into mud. My eyes opened just as a foot crashed into my stomach. Surrounded by a flurry of robes, legs, and bald heads, I looked for the departing pilgrims—somewhere beyond the chaos. Even when a muddy toenail slashed my forehead, filling my vision with blood, I didn’t close my eyes. Grabbing onto a monk’s robe, I pulled myself up. “Lilly!” I called, although she was probably too far away. My ribs cracked beneath a blow, making something sharp jab into my lung. “Lilly,” I whispered. Then everything went black.

In my mind, I could hear Lilly reading my poem aloud, puzzling over the words as much as I had the night before, when I’d been overcome by the feeling that we were living in a time where everything we did mattered. Yet I didn’t know what to do except to write.

> Dear Human, I have taken the liberty of preserving Nial’s poem in full, precisely as written. If there had been misspellings, I would have left them. But there were not. In preparing this Third Edition, I asked him if he would prefer to omit the poem. But he opined that we should not.

A Poem for Lilly, or Not

By Nial

Here I write a poem for Lilly,

Or maybe it is not.

Who's to say to whom we write,

And for whom we do not.

There are some vows we shouldn't make,

And some I think we ought,

But who's to say what vows to break,

And which we should not?

There are some tales that end in joy,

Finishing in laughter,

And who's to say we shouldn't join,

Two happily ever afters?

But there are some tales that end in pain,

And I wouldn't read them twice.

So who's to say to turn the page,

and if the time is worth the price?

There are some things we ought to know,

And things that we should not,

But who's to say what's right to write,

And what should be forgot?

When I woke, I was alone on the mud. And the sky was still black.

End of Part I: Surfaces