The Veil of Danu

One with the Shadows (16)

The days bled together, each one a blur of monotony. The world outside felt distant, unimportant. Time had lost its meaning in the aftermath of Davin's death, and every morning I woke up to the same hollow emptiness. I could feel the weight of my own thoughts, suffocating me. The sadness was a constant pressure, like a storm in my chest, but I didn't know how to let it out. I couldn't bring myself to care.

I threw myself into my work at the inn, letting it consume me. It was a distraction—one I welcomed. Cleaning rooms, scrubbing dishes, taking inventory, anything that kept my hands busy and my mind blank. The innkeeper didn't ask questions. He didn't need to. He could see the hollow look in my eyes, the way I kept to myself, but he didn't push. None of them did. And that suited me just fine. I didn't want anyone to see me. I didn't want anyone to care.

I kept my head down, my cloak always wrapped tightly around me, hiding my face from the world. I didn't want to be seen, didn't want anyone to look too closely. The last time I had let someone in, I had lost them. I wasn't going to make that mistake again.

My hair was always tied back, hidden from view. It was easier that way. I dressed like a man—loose trousers, a plain tunic, sturdy boots—and always kept a knife at my belt and a sword on my back. The weight of them was comforting, as if I could still protect myself, even though deep down I knew nothing could protect me from the ache in my chest.

I didn't speak much. I didn't want to. The quieter I was, the less I had to explain. I became a shadow in the corners of the tavern, my face obscured by the hood of my cloak, my words few and measured. I didn't want to draw attention to myself, didn't want to invite anyone into my life. I had seen how quickly things could be taken away.

I became a fixture in the background of the inn, unnoticed by most. People came and went, their lives moving around me like a slow, steady tide, but none of them saw me. They saw the quiet shadow who cleaned the rooms, the one who sat in the back corner of the tavern nursing their drink. They didn't ask questions, and I didn't give them answers. I was a ghost, blending into the walls, fading into the wood and stone.

But I watched. I listened. The quiet gave me time to observe, to pick up on the small details that others missed—the way the innkeeper's wife looked at him when she thought no one was watching, the way the drunkard in the corner always ordered a third drink just before sunset, the subtle tension in the air when a group of merchants argued over payment. I took it all in, like a silent observer, but I never got involved.

Every so often, a street thief would slip past the guards and attempt to snatch a purse or cut a pocket. And every so often, I would stop them—swift, silent, and without hesitation. A quick hand on the wrist, a gentle twist, a little pressure, and they would drop their stolen goods like they had never meant to take them in the first place. I didn't say anything, didn't make a scene. I just watched them scurry off, tails between their legs, never looking back.

At night, after the inn had quieted down and the fires flickered low in the hearth, I would retreat to the back of the tavern, nursing a tankard of ale or whatever the barkeep saw fit to pour me. The alcohol burned, but it was the only thing that seemed to numb the constant ache. I didn't drink to forget; I drank because it was the only way to make the silence bearable.

Sometimes, I would catch glimpses of people living their lives—laughing, talking, sharing stories—but it all felt so far away, so foreign. I wasn't a part of that world anymore. I couldn't be.

The innkeeper's daughter would come by occasionally, offering a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, her gaze lingering on me as if she was waiting for me to say something, anything. But I never did. I didn't want her sympathy. I didn't want anyone's pity.