The sunlight streamed through the window, a window free of the thick, oak shutters, the long expensive drapes, glass newly cleaned and gleaming from the vinegar that had took the grime from its panes. She stood, naked and before a mirror, her long hair like gold in the bright light, her skin as if a slight halo about it given the tiny fair hairs upon it, yet on her bed and neatly laid out, the worn leather and linen of her traveling clothes, her boots nearby. Held to her breast and reaching her ankles, a new dress of black and white, one hand swishing the garment about her lithe form as she looked at herself, rather the dress, in a critical manner. The mirror was an indulgence, a very costly one. Silver backed and of the clearest, thinnest glass, it's frame of carved rosewood, and showed her entire body when she stood before it. The mirror did not lie, it was, as all her dresses, too expensive, yet looked perfect. She, like the mirror, reflected upon things as she stood there. Her thoughts committed to her journal ran through her mind, disturbing the simple pleasure of admiring her new dress.
A line in the sand, it is always so. Either you like someone, or you do not. Is that not the way? No. I have had friends, acquaintances, who I have despised for things they have done or said, yet, I can also relish in their company, laugh at their wit, feel comfort in their presence. There are some though, who do not deserve such. Some who should simply vanish, sunk into a marsh, their heads held beneath the murky surface till life escapes their pathetic bodies. So why, I ask myself, do people tolerate them? For all their ill deeds, for every bitter, disgusting act they commit? I have thought much on this. All I can assume is, pride and foolishness. When a man holds a knife in his hand, dripping in blood and you have witnessed a hate filled, callous murder, no one in their right mind would defend him, yet, I see such things every day. Defending the indefensible. I have never asked anyone to defend my actions. Some admire them, other abhor them, but I have taken full responsibility for them. Others? I do not think so. It is known that some smaller creatures try to befriend larger, more aggressive ones, for fear they shall become the next meal. Yet the larger ones have no loyalty, when their stomachs grumble, they devour. A sensible creature stays away from such beings. I have those loyal to me, some who have done unspeakable things, and they know I am capable of turning on them should they displease me. I have little time for the sprats of the town, the ones who quite openly declare loyalty yet shelter among those who would devour them. If they are consumed, tis of their own doing.
Loyalty though is not friendship, and I am very sparse of friends and for good reason, for it is a term used all to often. A conversation or two does not make a friend. Yet, one arrived on my doorstep, bloody, beaten. He was fed, his wounds tended to, he used my bed, my bath, stayed on my hospitality for several days and now he is gone. Is he a friend? or am I simply one of use to him? I am undecided now.
I will depart soon, very soon. Gerlof fears for me, for my return. No reassurance seems to satisfy him, he truly is a friend. He sees beyond a dress, a pretty face. He knows what I am capable of, of where I am going, he will not stop me, but will wait for my return. Loyalty.
