He was a free man, Aramis, but he never felt free. The earth he walked on and the sun above, it was signs only shown to a free man. But he never felt free. Why could that be, that the man never felt free? As walking down the main street, with an apple in his left hand and the world in the other, he felt nothing but bound to everything. The necklace with the cross was a reminder of his purpous with life. An abbé looking for nothing but forgiveness and revenge. And where would one find that?
Had it always been like this? He couldn't remember a day when he hadn't felt bound to his boundaries. Maybe he needed to get away. A crusade to Italy, to wash away his sins and free his mind from the pain within. It was ten thirty in the morning, and he were thinking about way to deep stuff. Aramis needed a drink.
On a park bench nearby Aramis sat down and just watched all the people walking by. Rich men with their women, poor people begging for a penny. The middleclass filling out the rest, making the street full of people. He pulled out a book and sketched what he saw, from the bakery in the east, to the bar in the west. Drew the people walking in a blur. It amazed him, the whole world. And he was thankful for his life, he thanked god and thought about his family.
He should be happy, should he not? He had money in his pocket, a roof over his head and clothes warming his body. In his leather belt his sword sat firmly, eagerly waiting to sting someone. Aramis carried it with him everywhere as proof of his sins. It was a sin to kill, to use violence, but he loved it. The fencing, the tension in the air right before the battle and the arousing feeling when in battle. Maybe that was what he needed, adventures.
17/6/2015, 1:57 am by 
Subject: A free, unfree man. || Open 
