(English!) The Rose and The Bleeding Stag

Let Me See You

Let me See you

Harry's POV

Have you ever felt alone in the world? You feel like a tiny speck of dust in the wind, like a small drop of water in an immense expanse, like the single song of a bird in the middle of a flock. You feel irrelevant, useless, dull. Moreover, what difference can a drop make in a sea, a speck of dust in the midst of a whole expanse of sand or the single voice of a bird in the midst of a multitude? Nothing, no difference at all.

And you feel like you are carried by the wind, the current, the rest of the flock, the events. As if nothing mattes, as if nothing you do has the power to change the world, the situations, the course of events, which follow one another as they were scenes of a show of which the director has lost control.

It is as if one's presence was something extremely negligible, insignificant, something that no one could notice. And then you turn it off, you let go, you wonder what difference it can make to act or not to act, for or against something that, however, continues to take its course, with or without you. What's the point of singing, if no one listens? What's the point of writing words that no one can read? What's the point of screaming, if you're locked in a tower too far away from everything and everyone, while others go on with their party?
Yet, as ephemeris your efforts may be, you are here. You live, breathe. Blood flows into your veins just like everyone else's. And you start asking why: why do you live, if your life is irrelevant? Why do you breathe, if the warmth of your breath dissipates in the wind like every other creature's? Why does your heart keep beating, if that heartbeat does not have a melody to follow? That is the point: in order to live, breathe, sing, make your voice be heard, you have to find meaning. The absence of a harp in a melody is perfectly perceptible to the attentive ear of those who want to listen. And here's the meaning of everything: you have to find the one who actually wants to listen to your melody. And then yes, someone will notice your absence, someone will notice that you're slowly turning off, and will carefully procure the necessary firewood to allow your inner fire to keep on burning, until it is alive, feeding it until it grows in a fire out of control. And only then, will your voice explode like fire in a forest. And only then it will make a difference, because you have something to say, something to fight for, something that will light up your being, something you did not believe could exist, something that will make you feel alive.

And I had looked for him, I had imagined, dreamed of him. I had hoped that he would come and pull me out of my desire of letting myself go, from my apathy, from my stupor. I wanted him to be the flicker that would revive my warm flame, I wanted him to set me free as the wind was, I wanted him to heat up my being and my soul, feeding my most hidden and deep desires. And he had come to pull me out of my prison. My future had a voice, and two eyes, two warm hands, a constant and present breath.

But before you build, you need to destroy. Sometimes you need to be destroyed, before you can rise up again. And I would have let myself be destroyed much more easily if I had known that he was like some sort of catharsis, some kind of purification. From my ashes I would have been reborn, thanks to his spell.

But I didn't know that at the time. And my mind was too foggy for me to even think of articulating such a thought. My head was hurting, and my body was cold and sore. But I realized that only after having spent several minutes with my eyes closed, trying to understand where I was. Smells and sounds that I did not know, that I was not familiar with, struck my senses, almost slapped me to wake me up from that sleep in which I had collapsed. I was confused and lost. I tried to move, but something kept me still, stuck to something that, clearly, was not my bed. My legs seemed bound, as well as my chest. I opened my eyes slowly, and a ray of sunshine struck me in the face, making me look away from the point through which the light filtered. I let my eyes run on my body, finding myself tied to something that looked like a straw and wood bed, very rudimental and not even remotely similar to what I used to call bed. I was covered by something that looked like the skin of a gigantic bear, at least three times as big as me, and when I lifted it up, a very unpleasing smell breathed from under that blanket. I discovered, in amazement, that my robe, sewn by my personal tailor for the feast of my engagement, was torn at various points, and on my side, a gash in the robe left uncovered a wound which, I perceived, was very bad, and had been covered with a strange substance which, to what it seemed, was the cause of that nauseous smell. I turned the chief, disgusted by that stench that made me equal to who knows which wild animal in terms of smells, and I looked around, trying to figure out where I was. I inferred to be in a tent, a sort of rudimentary hut built with skins of animals and wood, whose dimensions were modest but enough to accommodate at least four or five men all together. In the corner, a large pile of weapons, shields and medicaments was amassed, alongside a series of garments and textiles that I had never seen before. Outside that hut, a series of men's voices filled the air, confusing me even more. I tried to lift myself slightly, but those tight ropes around my body prevented me from doing so, only causing me further pain because of the many wounds that were reported throughout my body.

"Damn it!" I hissed between my teeth, trying with my hands to loosen the grasp of those knots that, however, seemed to only become more intricate with every tug. I would have done very badly if a presence had not interrupted my activity: a man of average stature, with a boy's face and ash-blond hair had entered the tent, carrying an axe from which the blood of those who know what beast was leaking. I square him, and he square me, before smiling with a mocking air. He threw the axe in the corner, adding it to the disorder that already reigned in that place, and approached me, completely uncovering me and making me jump, as much as I could.

"What the heck! Who are you? And, where am I? What place is this?! "
I puked that series of questions in succession, trying to calm my doubts and dissolve the fog in my mind.

"Aaah Good morning! Do you always sleep so much, princess? " had exclaimed the lad, before bursting into a thunderous laugh which had only increased my headache.

He had used a language I would have sworn to know, although it was not mine, definitely. But I had already heard those sounds, and I was able to understand... it came back to my mind what one of my father's diplomats had taught me as a boy: that man had travelled far and wide, he knew languages and peoples, and he had tried to introduce me to the study of that language that, in that moment, I found myself perfectly able to speak and understand, although I did not remember what population it belonged to.

I widened the nostrils in nervous and tried once again to lift, to no avail. I tried to communicate and try to understand and explain myself, using that language.

"What are you saying? How much... how much did I sleep? And who are you?! "

The idea of not knowing where I was and how I found myself in that state made me more nervous and irascible, and in addition, that stranger mocked me in the face calling me princess.

"You slept for about two days, and I admit that initially we thought you were dead. I told Zygvarr that you couldn't be dead. However, if we hadn't cured your wounds, now you'd probably be a company for Odin in Walhalla. And I'm Njall."
" Odin? Wahl... What the heck are you saying? And who the heck is Zygvarr? What happened?"
"Njall! You should bring the firewood to... Oh, what do we have here? At last. "

In that moment, another man, darker-skinned and with hair as black as night had made his entrance into the tent. He was taller than the one who had called himself... Njall... and his features were more delicate, more like those of the princes from the south who had visited the court several times. His eyes were dark, like his hair, but rather attractive. I would have sworn that he was a prince, had it not been for his attire: he wore leather breeches and a red gown made of canvas and wolf-skin that reached him to his knees. All those details seemed to me to be pieces of a mosaic that I was not able to put into order, and I kept looking at all those dowels like an impatient child.

"I was going to come and call you, man. The princess has woken up, and she's pretty grumpy. I wouldn't get too close if I were you. "

The blond had continued to mock me with that nickname, and this time even the other man had joined that laugh, while my muscles had stiffened under those tight ropes around me.

"Even if he wanted to, he could not hurt me much, in this state..."

Zygvarr-or so whatever he was called-had let his eyes run through my body, exposed and covered with wounds that someone had worried about medicate, albeit with rather questionable methods. He had given me a mocking grin, before approaching my couch, observing me with arms folded, from the top down.

"... however, I must acknowledge that if he were in better condition, he would be a very good warrior, despite his lady-like appearance. Just look at the wounds he caused to Louis."

"Oh Well, he's certainly not a softy, no, no. I saw him fight that night. Louis would have been in trouble if I hadn't noticed the situation!" had bragged about Njall, cleaning up that bloody axe that he had just thrown into the ground before.

So, I wasn't the only one who was hurt--in who knows what battle, then. I had closed my eyes, carrying my hands on my temples and starting to massage them to remember and to understand. A series of images crossed my mind, at a speed that made me nauseous: Edmund, Hella, William, my father, the feast, the wine, her hand on me...the blood, the screaming. And then the darkness.
I stood with my eyes closed, keeping on massaging my temples, trying to put the pieces together, and I repeated aloud that series of information...

"wounds... fights... Louis... "
that name... I had heard it, I could have sworn I had already heard it somewhere...
"Who the hell is Louis?" I nervously stored, clenching my fists along my hips and straining the muscles of my legs and arms.

"I am Louis."

A third man had appeared on the threshold of that hut. And everything was clear to me.