1st of Ymiden, 721
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So how does a man get out of a rut, of a bad spot? Firstly, of course, Peake had to climb his way out of his death bed. As best he could, he managed to flop onto his belly and push himself off the floor. His coughing fit persisted still, crippling him more than any Sesserfiend had done by chewing his leg away. The cigar, once planted between a powerfully yellow grin had rolled away. That was his first target once the coughing had ceased. He extinguished it on one of the many ashtrays he had improvised. What a mess of an office, he thought. He wasn’t wrong. He needed to sort it.
The first thing he did was open the window. Then, the storm shutters, which let in a wave of light that felt blinding. Indeed, his eyes hurt as the hazy day filtered into his cave. With this light, Peake saw, for the first time, just how much smoke floated around the room. With the windows ajar, it must’ve seemed as if a fire was breaking out of the house, a mist of cancer floating its way out up to torment some poor asthmatic passerby and to wither the beautiful Melrathi woods. Peake looked outside, into a world he had somewhat forgotten, a world that beckoned for him and yet repelled him at the same time, an internal conflict he couldn’t quite settle yet.
Eyes back within the room, the amount of ash and dusk gathered over every surface was downright disgusting – if not disturbing. He’d need a while. Gathering the pieces of the chair, he carried them down the stairs and set them by the fireplace, unsure if he’d bother with repairing or just toss them into the flames one of these nights. In the kitchen, he freed some potatoes from a sack and took it upstairs, wherein he dumped all stubs and all the ash that came with them. The sack was half-full now, a testament to his unhealthy addiction. He then set the sack by the door, vowing to burn it out in the courtyard sometime later. Peake moved then to close the books and stack them neatly within a drawer. The quill and ink was stored as well, as were the blown-out candles. Whatever he could discard, he did, being quite liberal in his selection. The more the could discard, the less cleaning he’d need to get done.
Everything for the fire went into the sack, and the collection of empty glasses of milk was placed besides it. Soon enough, the room was no longer clattered even if mighty filthy. Sack in hand, and glasses carried quite professionally downstairs, he returned up with a bucket of water, a brush, and a couple of rags. The pattern was simple; dip the brush, scrub away, then dry and polish with the rag. Rinse and repeat. It was quite the menial labor, but one Peake had leaned to enjoy long ago. The Iron Hand was big on scrubbing. Even the eldest son of Benji Andaris had scrubbed miles and miles on his first arc of squire ship. Those were fond memories. One trial he and a fellow squire cleaned and polished no less than two hundred horse armor pieces. Over three miles of the south-eastern walls were scrubbed in half a fortnight, and yet, the most banal of tasks was scrubbing the battlements while it down poured harshly in Vahlar.
Peake recalled his time in the military, in Andaris, and a sense of nostalgia came over him as he scrubbed. A big part of him still dwelled in Andaris, prancing around Andaris Manor, snapping his fingers at commoners and torturing squires with humiliating tasks for no reason at all. Part of him still loathed going to University, then dealing with the tutors after a long trial of military life. Part of him still chased after girls, and ended up drunk in some alley whilst knowing he’d need to deal with the hangover the following early morning. Part of him still longed to see Leeson and play with the fool, or chase after Quincy to pull his pants down, or drink Celeste’s disgusting tea in make-belief high class tea parties. Part of him missed his mother’s loving eyes, and even his father’s discipline and stubbornness.
Those parts of him, despite his attempts, had followed him across the sea and across the land, and stayed with him. Those parts of him, no matter how much he wanted to hate, he still held onto. For all his mistakes, for all his different lives and different masks, they all bore his signature, and they had all made him who he was. He vowed then to make amends, and to pay his respects once his current task was complete.
Getting out of a rut wasn’t hard work. It just took some sorting. Whenever the mind’s out of shape, first came cleanliness. The space one occupied needed to be managed, the filth gathering in the hidden crevices swept, the rugs under which disaster hid repaired, and in the closet wherein skeletons rested needed to be emptied. The mind cannot function in filth. Just like peace was easily found in the wilderness, so could purpose and meaning be found in a well-organized environment.
It took him a couple of breaks to finish the office, and the result was quite spectacular. Everything was clean, neat, and quite virginal after Peake’s touch – for once. He had been thorough, having moved every piece of furniture, scrubbed between each gap, and even having gone the extra step to clean the windows and the shutters as if a speck of dust would ruin everything. It would.
The second part of getting out of the rut was organizing the body. Peake required exercise, a bath, and a proper meal. He began with the bath. In the courtyard he filled the bathtub with cold water, stripped and dipped down. The hazy day was growing late, and the heat was moist and overpowering. Lighting struck somewhere far in the horizon, and a storm threatened to arrive sometime deep into the night. The cold waters were like a shock to the system at first, but the more Peake let go of trying to resist it, the calmer he grew in the discomfort. Soon enough, he was cold, but he was calmly in control. Some of his woman’s bath salts were enough to form way too much foam for his taste. Barely able to squeeze his massive frame into the small bathtub by default, the foam made it seem more comical and pathetic. No matter. He cleaned himself well.
After his bath, and a fresh change of clothes, he went inside and had some dinner with his woman and his daughters. He was exhausted, his head still ached, and his throat was still quite damaged from the overindulgence in tobacco, and so he was mostly quiet. The meal was plentiful; boiled eggs and fried quail, a thick potato stew with carrots and some left-over hog, and oil bread filled with homemade butter along with some moist and flavorful tomatoes, brined cheese and some olives. For dessert, his woman had made strawberry marmalade pie, which he chowed down with the help of a couple of glasses of milk. He ate like a nobleman. As usual, it was him who ate most, reason why he had managed to remained so rarely fat. Nevertheless, it felt good, even if slightly overpowering. He was still ill, yes, and this was medicine.
With the bath and a good meal taken care of, he needed only some exercise and a good night’s sleep. Even if it took him the last of his strength, he took the time to tuck his daughters into bed and recall some story for their bedtime. When they were fast asleep, he carried his woman into bed, spread her and churned her insides for a while until the exercise section of his get-out-of-rut plan was taken care of. She’d sleep easy tonight, as would he.
The whole house was asleep – maybe the whole Fensalir – when the downpour began. Thunder banged outside, and lighting crackled though puffy dark grey clouds as the Dragon laid awake, staring up at the ceiling. He thought of nothing, merely letting the moments slip away while he simple was. Simply existing. Life had changed so much, and at times he felt like an old man when he recalled just how much he had lived. And yet he was still young, still strong, still ambitious and still willing to make a print in a world he had always been taught belonged to him.
He knew, before he was back in motion, before he was once again getting out there into danger, he needed to pay his respect. Tomorrow, he promised, would be the trial he’d settle his debt. Tonight, however, Peake closed his eyes, and fell into a blissful sleep.
His conscience was clear, for once.