To reflect the personality of Barbelo - and how far he still is from his ideal of knowledge and perfection being an illiterate ex-soldier - there is a bit of vulgarity in what follows. Let me know if it's too much and I can amend.
A wretch continues on the long and tortuous path to perfection
(The innkeeper points at him: “Perfection? That one? You’d sooner see the snow in Cambria than him even taking a bath!”).
Or, Barbelo gets lost in memory and reaches some kind of understanding about the virtue of Compassion.
I remember sitting on the edge of a battlefield. The air was thick with the moans of the injured and the shuffling of the soldiers dragging them to the infirmary tent. The unlucky ones laid in the mud silently. I sat there too tired to move, grateful that the battle was over and I was not. I watched as a group of soldiers approached a fallen soldier, poked him with the tip of a boot. The man made a gurgling sound, his eyes fixed on the sky. One shook his head and said something. Too far gone to do anything, with the limited resources we have anyway, this one is not going to fight the next battle. Or something like that, either way the blade came down swiftly and with another gurgle the man was no more.
Memory is a pleasure I do not like to indulge in. Drinking, whoring, the sweet smoke of melloweed.. those are pleasures I’ll gladly partake in. But memory.. too many thorns wrapped around the pleasure of reminiscence, too much poison in the well of recollection. And yet today I was posed a task - understanding the virtues, starting with compassion. Where to start if not from memory? And so I go back to that battlefield, to those soldiers, to the blade that soldiers call “mercy”. Is that compassion I wonder? It is mercy for sure, but compassion feels different somehow. I for one did not feel anything besides being glad it wasn’t me. Did they feel anything? I can tell you they didn’t, they moved on without looking back, weary and tired and looking forward to campfire and ale.
*Barbelo looks around the inn, it is late, the ruckus has died down and only a few drunks are left behind”
“Oi Conway, tell me, what is compassion?”
The drunk stands up unsteadily and holds his crotch with a grin. “I’ll show you compassion”
It doesn’t even make any sense, remember not to ask a drunk about virtues.
Later that day I watched a pack of dogs lick the blood off a corpse, ready to sink their teeth in the exposed flesh. The wandering healer at the shrine of compassion told me: Only a detested life owes its pleasures to another's pain. They revel in the misfortune of others and even keep the runts away from their banquet. Is that the opposite of compassion? Are they to blame? They just do what they must do, trying to keep their mouth out of the fog of suffering long enough before it is their turn. Besides.. a right c*nt that priest was, he gave me such a look of disdain when I asked him to read the inscriptions on the shrine for me, I even caught him holding his nose. Is that compassion? I’d sooner ask a drunk about compassion than asking a priest. And at the shrine once again I felt nothing.
I went to the library all the way to Prevalia and tried to read about it. I still struggle so much, I get so tired after only a couple of lines and I don’t seem to be able to retain the meaning of the words. I stayed at the inn in the southern parts to save some coin and every morning I trekked to the other side of that giant city to sit among the books. I must have pulled out every book in the lower level, I tried to read every single one and every day I ended up frustrated and defeated. I do not understand how there can be wisdom in books. Wisdom is in the hands of the carpenter, in the soldier’s blade of mercy, in the midwife’s trade and in the hunter’s bow. These books don’t speak, they laugh at me.
And so I went to what I know best, to action. If you do compassion you might come to understand it. I carried clean bandages and I dragged back soldiers from the stony embrace of death. They were fools, given another chance they did nothing but throw themselves again against the very things that killed them. Is that compassion? They went and suffered more, cut down other creatures and men before being cut down themselves once again.
*Barbelo calls out to the same drunk*
“Oi Conway, lend me your wisdom mate. My guide Nymaeron told me that the first truth is that everything is suffering. That spoke to me. But is it a compassionate act, one that ultimately creates more suffering?”
*The drunk does not even lift his head from the table* “Your guide can suck my ****”
There was wisdom in the words of my guide but there is no wisdom in those of a drunk.
When the spring came the water overflowed the rivers and lakes. Young adventurers abandoned their families and picked up the sword. Compassion, I thought, is helping the weak. Give of thy purse to those who beg and thy deed shall not be forgotten!. I copied that down carefully from a book in the library. I gathered coin from the bank and distributed them to the young fools, overflowing with hope and lust like the spring waters. Where are they, I wonder? Hacking down each other, killing the creature that lived in this land before them, pillaging gold until wretched or simply dead. What good did I do? I created more suffering. Was that compassion?
I thought to ask Glavos the Knight, who made compassion his banner. He wasn’t there, only the corpses of the hopeful young adventurers that had come to rely on him laid at the entrance of the dungeon. What good did you do Glavos? You made them weak, you sheltered them from suffering until its reality came down on them. After summer comes autumn and after autumn comes winter. And the winter looks at the hopes of spring, at the revelries of summer and the abundance of the autumn harvest and says, emotionless and stone-faced: I will break them with a rod of iron, I will dash them to pieces like pottery.
Round and round, the burning circle goes, and the young become old and the old pass away. There is wisdom in this I think, there is wisdom in suffering. I wonder if Compassion is not in the books laying in their tombs of dust in the capital and neither in the contrived acts made to escape and avoid suffering. I wonder if compassion is found in suffering itself.
*Barbelo looks over at the drunk, he is snoring softly. The innkeeper has retired already and the fire is dying down. Barbelo smiles and whispers:* “I’ll let you sleep you poor wretch, I disturbed you enough today”
Maybe there is wisdom in the words of a drunk who would rather pass out on the bench than finding himself alone. Maybe there is wisdom in all the suffering, in the blade of mercy and in the hungry dog. I have drunk too much and too long and it’s late but maybe.. just maybe suffering is the key. Maybe instead of escaping suffering, instead of trying to fight it.. maybe I have to become a mirror and reflect all the suffering around me. *Barbelo’s head rests on his arms, crossed on the table, his mumbling lingers in the silent room*
No no Conway I don’t mean pushing it away from me.. The opposite! Welcoming it all in, like the mirror hosts all that surrounds it within itself. A soul like a polished mirror, a soul that reflects everything, that takes the pain of others and cradles it like a jewel. Suffering the pain of others.. suffering together with others.. being united in suffering.. that is compassion I think. We all float on a sea of suffering, conditioned to blindly follow our emotions and create more suffering. We rise and fall like the waves, we are like seafoam that rises and moments later sinks back in the green-blue waters. When I think like that.. .I feel something I could call compassion. We are all that sea.. we suffer together, like a chorus, and the music is so beautiful…
*Barbelo’s breath slows down and turns into snoring, a tear crosses his cheek. One hand is wrapped around his empty cup, the other one cradles his rosary. Conway has rolled on the floor and sleeps curled under the table*
Reader, this is what happens when the fools seek wisdom. Only time will tell if any was gained or if it was just the drink talking (and we all know how much it likes to talk!).
Only time will tell if the light of the One can perfect a wretched like this one.
Earlier parts:
The First Step - https://forums.uooutlands.com/index.php?threads/the-first-step.4586/
