La strada

Intro

A road vanishes into the haze near the horizon.

From the horizon, the Gypsy is coming. They were new gypsies, young men and women who knew only their own language, handsome specimens with oily skins and intelligent hands, whose dances and music sowed a panic of uproarious joy through the streets, with apparatus to make a person forget his bad memories, and the poultice to lose time, and a thousand more inventions so ingenious and unusual. They lived by the road, died on it, and was buried in it.

A man came to the gypsies. A nameless man.

The nameless man never frets about the past, memory fade away as mist in the morning. He wandered in different crowds, never looking back the road he walked.

Coins jingled in his pocket, reminding him of themselves excess. He made his way through the churning, pressing crowds watching circus clowns and freak shows, entered a witch tent. Untied his torn cotton-field sock, two coppers dropped on the top of the cards that were lying haphazardly on the earth. The fat old witch took up them and settled herself down on the little wooden chair opposite.

Her dirty fingernail tapped her crystal ball, her eyes red, starting to repeat her lies over again.

Far and wide, the position of the stars change, but the road would not change.

Road... Your journey is not over yet.

Road. In every dream he had, there was a long road, a young man’s face soaked in fog at the end of the road. Dark hair covered the man's eyes, and they looked at each other in silence.

Once, and only once, he witnessed, like an old cat watching a bird, the young man’s death. At the end of the lane, the young man lay bleeding from his wounds a few paces from the drain in the darkness. The city before dawn was drenched in the smell of blood and smoke, oblivious to the first birdsong in the morning.

He dragged the body across the stone bridge over the moat to the cemetery outside the city, humming some obscure folk tune. I'm sowing. He thought. Will people sprout if they are buried in the soil? Perhaps when he has forgotten it, a new him will crawl out of the dirt. When will he see him again?

01

A ghost dressed in black wandered the empty corridors of the palace. He deliberately avoided the guards, moving in the shadow of the marble sculptures.

Music wafted through the window.

Beauty, tell me your name, so I may call you when we may meet again.

Of all the ladies performing song and dance, I'm the most beautiful one. Of all the swans flapping their wings, I have the whitest feather. Of all the ladies in pearls, I'm the most shining one !

He walked through the night. Until a young voice rang out.

What's your name?

The prince, in the voice of an unworldly child, asked.

He could almost hear the echoes of something heavy in his heart a thousand times, deafening and pressing against his eardrums as if it wanted blood to flow from his ears. He stared at him again, with the same eyes.

He imitated the court Jester with an exaggerated curtsy, almost succeeding in making the child laugh.

I am your jester.

He answered briskly as if a dedicated actor repeating a script.

Since then the ornate metal door become a path, no longer a boundary. Every day at three minutes past midnight, chamber of the king's youngest son opened on time. He played the role of the prince's dear friend and loyal servant, freeing the young boy from his noble statue and the intricate rituals of the court.

To tell the truth, he likes to be a jester, some harmless little jokes. He can dress up in gaudy clothes and make fun of others without fear of their tongues pulled out one day.

Rumors began to circulate among the waitress and gardener. A monster with a black goat's horn haunts the palaces, sometimes killing an innocent craftsman at random, and sometimes making a loyal servant laugh wildly. People said he was the messenger of the devil, to punish every sinner.

He declined to comment. Mortals are always vulnerable. Talkative, jealous, jealous, self-pitying, as obsessed with his reflection as he was with Nazeus. Those fools who think they can fly always end up breaking their necks.

Can you tell a story? A fairy tale.

Fairy tale?

My pleasure, your highness. I had traveled with a group of vagrants across this continent, and I saw many strange things. If you are interested.

I want a fairy tale.

All right. Fairy tales. He took a book from a shelf in his room, opened a page, and cleared his throat decently.

Once upon a time there was a little prince, a prince as noble and charming as you. The little prince was born in happiness, dressed in the finest clothes, and had everything he wanted.

Then one day, the little prince and his parents were out visiting the palace. When the little prince saw another group of poor children, they are rummaging through bins. He asked his mother,

Mom, why don't they have warm clothes to wear? Mom, why don't they have foods to eat? 'The Queen said,' Because, my child, your father is king. And they are parents are farmers and tramps.

But the little prince did not agree with his mother's explanation. The prince interrupted.

One day when his sword was sharp enough he left the palace.

And then what?

Then he rescues the princess and defeats the dragon and becomes a hero.

Then his wallet was stolen by a beggar, and he died in a farmer's haystack, cold and hungry. The jester added silently in the heart.

I want to be a hero too.

Heroes don't stay up at midnight. That's your fairy tale, my prince. I'm going to leave now .

"Where are you going?

"Far away"

"Farther than the fairy tale?"

"Farther than the fairy tale."

The child looks a little depressed. "Will you come back?"

He stopped. "I'll."

Every word in the world have their destinies. Some perish in a instant, some are inscribed in stone. And some vows are like curses, once uttered carelessly as promises eternity to the devil.

He entered that palace in the year of war. Over the years, his hands knew no other shape than fists curled tightly around a sword, swinging eternally, finding its mark through skin and bone.

They all tried to run, of course. They built walls and cowered in corners, but he always found them. Sometimes, they begged. Sometimes, they chose to jump from cliffs rather than face his reckoning. And sometimes, they stared back at him with eyes as empty as his own and welcomed death with open arms. Those were the ones he envied the most.

Technoblade never dies. They whispered around campfires and funeral pyres.

He prayed that that wasn’t true.

The old king's trembling entreaty interrupted his memories, he looked under to that twisted purple face, wrinkled up his nose in distaste.

Wearing the bloody crown, he strolls in the ruined Summer Palace. He decided to be a man of his word for once.

The corridors were empty, footsteps echoed lonely in the high domes. The dropped breathing came from the old bell tower, the hands on the dial pointing precisely three minutes past twelve,. He stepped over the footman's body on the stairs, and caught a glimpse of the kitten hiding in the great bell. In the gap between flowers and squares, a pair of blue eyes like the moon looked at him quietly.

SHH. He raised a finger to his lips and smiled slyly. "Let's play hide and seek."

To be continued.