He moved to the side of the path and rubbed the layered mud off the sign. They fell with soft, dirty plop sounds as he smiled, a cruel thing that stretched far too wide for its own good. He took one second to shake his waist and he was off in the next.
The mud across the path stuck at the soles of his shoes. Some fell off his soles as he took the next step while others flew, but they all hit the ground eventually. Some were swallowed up by the gaping puddles that littered the path while others made mud-piles of their own.
To the sides of the path were rows of trees. They moved with him, their vibrant and proud colours dulling and even rotting eventually. There had been birds and critters that had sung his advent once but no longer, for how could they live alongside the barren trees that now accompanied him.
The wind was sharp but not sharp enough for his tastes. He needed to be numbed for what was coming, for a stream of emotion would not help with his coming endeavour. But to his luck, or perhaps bad luck, the wind got colder as time passed, the chill doing its part to freeze his flesh.
He was tired, and a lot more ailments, but mainly tired. However, his eyes lit up and his hands shook when he saw the building in the distance, his lethargy gone as quick as a summer’s warmth. His hands crept down towards his waist but stopped just before touching his cold winter’s blade. It was still there, and that was all he needed to know.
While the steps before had been fast but forced, now they were controlled and rhythmic. One foot moved after the other, one slithering forward like a snake trying to escape its own brother, while the other chased after with the intensity of a snake willing to eat one of its own. This was why what followed him were two snail trails that periodically stopped, but always restarted a few steps later.
He reached the front of the building and rubbed his shoes clean across the frontward stone, leaving quite the pile of dirt, before knocking, and entering.
The frail, and annoyingly creaky, wooden door revealed quite the scene inside. On one side were tables and chairs set out in 2s and 3s. By the far end were a few stacks of stools and chairs, alongside piles of broken furniture. To the other side was a solid-oak counter that had the span to allow at least eight to get drunk shoulder-to-shoulder. But there was none there, none but one who stood behind the counter wiping a glass cup clean.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
The man at the counter didn’t look up at his entrance, not even as he walked over, despite the echoing footsteps. Mid-way across, he even thought of kicking a chair over in order to get the man’s attention but decided against it, and instead walked over calmly. Mostly, anyway, there were a few signs that would have told a knowing man that he was anything but calm, but the man at the counter was anything but a knowing man.
“A drink,” he asked, “please.”
“There’s not much else men come here for,” returned the man, his eyes still set to the glass cup. The cup was clean without the slightest blemish already…
“What do you hold, then?”
“Apple, Pear and Cherry,”
“I’ll have the cherry, then,”
“A long mug or a short one?”
“A short one would be fine,” he finished, before wiping the sweat from his brow.
“A short one for one as tall as you?” asked the man, ridicule thick in his voice.
“Yes,” he returned, his voice cold and unfeeling. All the worry he had stored was now gone, replaced by a chilling anger.
“So it be,” finished the man, putting the cup on the counter before turning around. The man stepped over towards a barrel with a tap for its head, twisting the tap and cupping his other hand underneath. Red juice the colour of bloodied lips dripped out, splashing into the cupped hand before slipping through onto the stained, wooden floor.
The man turned back around and poured the remaining droplets into the clean cup. Together, the drops didn’t even reach a tenth of the small cup. The man then dove his clean hand into his apron, fidgeting around in the pockets before taking out a pill. The man placed the pill next to the mostly-empty cup, and then stood back.
****
He looked up towards the man who had just served him his drink. The man was slim with skin as pale as snow. He wore threadbare clothes with a thick, stained apron on top. Clearly not cut out to be a proper innkeeper but more than enough to satisfy the role needed here.
He then looked down towards his own hands, both scarred and one without two fingers. Two fingers well-spent, but a transaction that had still left him two-fingers less.
Next to his three-fingered hand was the pill, a bright yellow thing with grains coming off it. He picked up the pill and placed it in the cup. It fizzed and crackled, the dark velvet juice turning colourless.
He took one more look towards the innkeeper before grasping the cup with all three of his fingers. He took a deep breath in and brought the cup to his lips, taking the slightest of tastes. He then poured it down his mouth.
Vision blurred and time stopped. Time rewinded. Time cracked.