Across a Crowded Room

Ten years passed with Jon living rough with Zithia at his side: an unlikely pair: Jon approaching his thirty-fifth year, and Zithia, her eighteenth.

They had looked after one another as brother and sister do; and although Zithia was almost a woman, Jon did not see her as such, he simply cared for her protectively, as she also cared for him.

Where romance was entertained, Jon still pined for his spirit-love Fatima - who was long gone pursuing the cosmic circuit - carefree, and far from the Mortal world of woe.

He really had no sense of her presence anymore, just the fantastical recollection of their short time together in youthful love.

The day was prosperous as Jonathon had just completed a consignment of two dozen tankards for the Blood and Bone Sheffield Tavern. The establishment itself welcomed the community and travellers alike. It was the town’s best meeting place - it being the one common ground where nobles could intermix with the lower classes freely with true and genuine friendships. Business also was transacted in the Blood and Bone with its low lamps lit, pelts on the whitewash walls and trophies hanging from beams. There was an atmosphere of abundance, with platters of cooked meats (mainly rabbit) and complementary breads well shared.

Zithia followed closely behind Jon carrying a tray of the newly forged tankards. She was always mistaken to be his servant, and this brought a certain prestige to Jon - even though it was not true.

This young woman had all the grace and presence of an Egyptian princess. Her long hair was jet black, her teal green eyes were framed with a natural mascara of luxurious eyelashes, and her complexion was of warm mahogany. Zithia had not grown very much in height, being barely five foot tall, and she was often mistaken to be just a young girl.

She would sing unusual songs that were unknown to Jon … the melody was so intoxicating they sometimes collected income for them, from her street recitals when resources were poorly.

However, of late there had been no need to put the cap out, as Jonathon’s foundry was prospering - so much so, that he now owned a thatched cottage that was situated only two miles from the town, that had rooms enough for them both, and a fireside workshop as well to work his metal.

Theirs was as a harmonious relationship as one could wish for. She anticipated his needs from morning to night, supplementing his day with all kinds of nourishment, whilst he looked after the world and its worries, housing the two of them safely, with clothing and warmth, protection, and the food that they needed.

The tavern was half-lit preparing for the night and already filled with a haze of smoke that carried across its enormous hall within. There was just the one open space inside, and three huge fire grates running along its north wall. The farmers had begun drifting in, and Jon had to push through a small crowd just to empty his cart and go find the patron.

A sharp tap on his shoulder from behind startled him and Jon dropped his tray of eight cups sending them clashing onto the stone floor beneath, rolling under many feet. Zithia had gone ahead. She did not see the giant who proceeded to pick Jon up under his arms and swing him around like a rag doll.

“Tindle? Oh Lord! Tindle!” exclaimed a very surprised and happy Jon, picking himself up from the ground he had been dropped upon. The crowd had moved into a small circle, pressing in, to see what was going down. Zithia tried to see also, but could not squeeze through the men watching.

Meanwhile, Jon decided to play to his home crowd, and rushed at Nathan as hard and fast as he could, head first, grabbing at his knees, and pushing him backwards into the group that then took the weight of his bulk, and were considerably displeased by the bruising that came of it. Jon then took a half empty tank from a tray and tipped the liquid onto Tindle’s head; and to finish off, hurled a bread scone at his chest in jest, followed by another and another, until the joke soured completely.

For what appeared outwardly to be prank had also an undertow of child-like pain for Jon resented his one and only friend (before Zithia) leaving him as he did. Tindle had walked away from him without a thought or care, and this was the first he had seen him in ten whole years. This stung.

Tindle was keenly aware now of the underlying angst when Jon started stuffing lamb’s brains down his smock top. The small gathering had been largely amused, for by all appearances their Jon Jon was attacking a newcomer who dwarfed him by two feet or more.

Tindle did not take the pelting unkindly - he was so pleased to see Jon alive … he surveyed the room, realising that a set of dark eyes was upon him, and he quickly mistook her intent to be more than curiosity. Tindle had never seen such a girl before. The seaside port conveyed exotics frequently, but he had seen no one like this ‘siren’ who was now watching him. Zithia glowed in the candlelamp light, her woollen cowl of pale apricot had fallen back exposing her dark shoulders, and her silken hair, as black as a raven’s coat, curtained her face, cascading down her slender back. All of this he saw amidst the chaos.

She was only half his size - he liked this also. The ale-soaked room fell away and his mind went to his purpose that had taken him on this journey inland … namely to find a wife.

I have found her! he said decidedly to himself. He then picked Jon up, and threw him over his shoulder, he then carried him outside to the adjacent stables into the bite of the cold night air.

Tindle persuaded Jon to let him stay at his cottage, and Jon readily agreed being so joyous that this could occur.

That night the two drank until they slept - having shared stories, past midnight. Ordinarily their paths were so oblique in common life, the one would have not have had anything to do with the other - there was so little shared experience to be had concerning the decade behind them.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, Finding Self - Second Guesses- Azlander Series