Balin

Prologue

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There, in the Moonlight.

Balin has been locked up for four years.

He has nothing but a small notebook and books scattered across his sheets to keep him company. Four walls, one large window with a lock, one locked door. Twenty books open in different chapters, each of them fairytales or epics. The pages are worn and dull like a paintbrush that loses its bristles over time. He could recite each page in his sleep, every punctuation, every poetry, every pinnacle. With nothing to fill his time, he was forced to fill them with stories of those who conquered their bleakest moments.

Most assumed their life would be like Odysseus. The man who lost all his men and was unable to return home for twenty years. Who reunited with his wife in a happy ending. But he felt like Achilles, who lost Patroclus and in a heavy cloud of vengeance lost his own life. No happy ending. Except unlike Achilles, he never had the chance to rewrite his own destiny.

He had his own Achilles heel, and it was this festering rot of a disease that kept him incapacitated.

Balin’s body felt like it had been hollowed out, leaving only a cold, clammy shell. His eyes squeezed shut against the relentless pressure wrapping around his skull like a rubber band threatening to snap. Each breath came out shallow like a dog panting in the summer heart. The heavy blanket loosely wrapped around his waist barely warmed him, and every movement to fix it sent a dull throb through his body. His thoughts were dulled, words appearing and disappearing before he could piece them together. He felt more than smelled the soup resting on his bedside, one made by the maids that he didn’t touch.

This was nearly every day of the last week. But at least he’d suffered enough fevers to get used to it.

One eye opened, crusted, red-rimmed, aching. Sweat gathered on his forehead as he turned his head, gaze drifting to the window. The moon hung in the sky illuminating the forest beneath like a candlefire. The stars shone brightly, blanketing the night sky like the famous paintings he’s seen in his time adorning his castle hallway. The moon felt impossibly close, so close that he could reach out and grab it.

He tried. Balin’s body trembled as he slowly rose to his elbows. His body protested the movement by making his head feel two sizes too big for his body. But he managed it, clothes drenched in sweat, and held one arm out. The strength it took to hold it up for a few seconds left him winded and gasping for air, and he collapsed back into bed with a weak groan escaping. The blanket slid halfway down his legs leaving him victim to more chills. But it was no good, his useless attempt at seeking the moon instead of sleeping the days away left him somber. He could never sleep during his fevers, and he took exception to the physicians for telling him to try.Who could sleep when it felt like he couldn’t breath and his head throbbed relentlessly?

That’s when a rogue breeze passed through him. Despite his body being chilled to the bone, he savoured the feeling. It was familiar to him ever since a year prior. It drew strength into his limbs to the point of sitting up once more. He only had a moment's clarity around midnight before the fever would overtake him. He used that clarity for one reason; the figure in the moonlight. He’s acquainted himself with how it goes. When midnight struck, he either awakened in a daze or felt determined enough by the breeze to sit up. The breeze was almost magical to him, because his windows were always closed. Yet he felt it, and it caused him to shiver.

Balin moved the blanket off of him like it was dead weight, swinging his legs weakly over the bedside. He pushed himself upright, the room tilting violently as dizziness knocked him forward like a hit to the back of the head. Darkness swam in his vision before he willed it away, resting his hands on the windowsill to recover his strength.

Outside, the forest stretched for what physically felt like forever, the end being the sandy shores. He knew this because he’d set out every night trying to reach the moonlit figure. Every stone he’s sat on to recover his strength, every walking stick he’d tossed aside to rely on himself, every landmark was imprinted in his mind. Every night he’s gone further than before, but his frailty always catches up until he faints.

Tonight. He was going to make it.

Balin cracked the window open, arms shaking like a leaf in the wind. But it was locked tight. His gaze darted around the room, landing on the writing feather he’d left on his bed. He used it to journal often, believing if he wrote his dreams out they’d happen. He walked towards his bed and snatched the writing tool, shoving it into the lock until it broke apart with a satisfying click. The windows pushed open bathing the room with its warmth and silvery light. The moonlight spilled over his unkempt silver hair, casting a ghostly glow. His usual method of escaping was still set up from before; tied up table cloths allowing him to climb down.

He hoisted one leg over the windowsill, the rough stone biting into his thigh. His deep breath caught in his throat with a tickle, triggering a coughing fit that watered his eyes. His grip was somewhat tight on the table cloth as he hoisted his other leg over. With both hands wrapped, he pushed away from the windowsill and descended. Nausea churned dangerously in his gut, the world spinning in a blurry view. He had to make this quick, or else the maids will finally find out how he’s been escaping all this time.

By the time he made it to the bottom, his eyes were burning in the back of his sockets. His feet hit the ground with a soft thud and he stumbled backwards against the wall of the castle. The thick forest beckoned him with its gentle rogue breeze and the moonlight figure waiting on the other side. The moon in the sky tempted him, the one he vented to every night. But the climb down felt like he’d traveled days without stopping to eat or drink. Soreness weighed heavily on his limbs, but he pushed away from the wall and started the trek into the thicket. The set of his footprints from past attempts guiding him.

There wasn’t a frog croak or the buzz of a firefly in the dark forest, just the crunch of Balin’s boots against the damp earth. The silence was as dense as the thick forest surrounding him. Each step made his legs burn, but he pushed forward. One minute, the rock he stopped at last year was there, second minute, the tree he’d leaned against. He could see more landmarks from all of his attempts. He was getting closer, so closer he could almost taste it.

When four minutes passed, the trees were starting to thin out but his body was giving up. Balin collapsed on his hands and knees. No no no. This couldn’t be it. He was so close. Balin felt his heart thudding against his chest as if it wanted to escape his brittle body and finish the last stretch. Complete this endless race to the sandy shores.

But Balin wasn’t giving up. He would rather let the sickness feast on his energy until fainting than willingly go back to laying in bed. He had to see the figure in the moonlight.

So he crawled. Fingers dug into the dirt for stability, eyes squeezed shut against the pounding in his head. He crawled step, by step, by step until his body shook, until tears pricked his eyes and his vision grew blurrier.

Then he felt dirt give away to a new texture, and his eyes flew open. Sand. He’d made it! His chin raised and there they were. The figure in the moonlight, the person only he could see. Just where they were every midnight. They hadn’t noticed him yet, and Balin felt like introducing himself on the floor was improper. But when he tried to stand, his legs gave out and he collapsed into the sand on his arse. Balin coughed, resorting to adjusting himself into an uncomfortable sitting position.

“You...” Balin rasps finally, voice breaking the silence. “...you’re the figure in the moonlight.”