The Bar at the End of the Universe

The sound of hoofbeats behind Milliways is no very great surprise, not to anyone who has come here long. But this is a place of riders. One doesn't often hear more than one set of hoofbeats at a time, or the rattle of wheels and harness as a chariot comes to a halt.

The horses are not so big as most in the stables here, but they are of fine blood and breeding nonetheless. Anyone with an eye for horseflesh could see it at a glance, even as they toss their heads and stamp uneasily in the snow, which is deeper and colder than any they've yet encountered in their homeland. As for their driver, Hektor sighs in frustration and steps down to have a word with both animals; he'd not meant to come here, but one doesn't deny the goddess.

The door, when last he tried it from the Bar's side, opened for Hektor without hesitation or trouble. This he took as a sign that the goddess of the place was done with him for the moment, and so he returned to the Citadel and continued about his business.

Two days have passed since then. He has been out working with a new chariot team, getting the feel for both horses, for the better part of six hours now. He'd not expected the Bar when he opened the stable door, but one doesn't deny the Lady.

Especially not when a wax tablet appears in front of you, marked with Her writing (which would do any tutor credit).

"Very well," he says, and moves to the other side of the Bar. "I've served in gods' sanctuaries before. This should be simple enough."

The thought of putting a sign up to signify what's on offer doesn't occur to him. One would think that the sight of a man in a belted blue tunic (even if he does rather smell of horse and his own sweat just now) behind the Lady's altar would be sign enough that he's ready to serve.

To a man of Hektor's time, one electric future is as strange as any other; the Bar's decor means little to him. He finds where the Bar herself is, and bows as he always does upon his entrance. "Lady," he says, "today I have hopes of which I will not yet speak aloud. I have brought the customary offering. Should you disapprove of my plan I ask only a little sign, and I will turn aside; but the offering is yours, regardless."

He places two sloshing wineskins upon the Bar's surface, and watches as both are taken away by cunningly hidden lifts.

"You have my thanks, Lady," says Hektor. "I will begin the search soon. If I might have some small breakfast in the meantime, you won't find me ungrateful."

[tinytag: rider (fate/stay night)]

The wound the boar gave him is healed enough that Hektor may claim it was no more than a graze and be believed. Time, then, to return to the hunt when this day is done. No one is likely to disturb him in his tent when he returns, so the matter of his clothes no longer being bloody and soiled will not arise; if they ask, he will say only, "I put on my other suit" and be believed. It is enough.

But for now it is morning, and last night's supper only a quiet memory. He'll eat first, and see if there are those in this place he remembers but hasn't spoken to; then, once he has given the Goddess her offering, he'll be free to go.

Time in Milliways can be a tricky thing, as any who have come for any length of time will know. Hektor pays little heed to calendars and the like; they have little enough to do with the ways he knows of measuring time at home, after all. It was only a few days gone, so far as he can think, that he came here from the boar-hunt; if more time than that passed he does not know it. More important has been the healing of the wound the boar gave him.

Another day or so, and he will return to the hunt and say to his cousin that the blood was not his own, or that he was but grazed by the tusks. For today, he gives the Lady Bar the salutation as it is taught in princely houses, and receives for his pains the sort of quilted gear the Scythians wear when the snows are not yet up to their horses' bellies. He half expects it to smell like the barbarians in their lands beyond Euxine, but it's clean enough. It will do, for as long as his sojourn outside takes. Better he walk the healing wound now and risk it bleeding a little than that he return to Dardania with a stiffened, too-tight scar along his thigh.

For all that the wound he took yesterday means he has no wish to try the Door, Hektor has never been a man for lying about and simply waiting for things to happen. He rested as best he could today, for as long as he could, and that was the end of that. Wincing and limping a little, he makes his way from the stairs to one of the couches by the fire. He really must find out who came into his room and laundered his clothes while he slept; they did an excellent job, and deserve praise for it.

For now, though, he is content to sit and consider the room, and see who he remembers and who he does not.

The hill country in parts of Dardania is wild, and rough; there are beasts living there that one might well think had survived somehow from the age of Titans, and of the first Earth Men, who made their swords of stone. They make good hunting for a prince and his companions, as one can make a name for himself that way, and no harm done to the standing of any neighbors or allies. And the trophies of such a hunt are appreciated all the more, for the work and valor and skill that must go into taking them. Even the prizes that must be given after to this or that man who did some great deed in the process of bringing a raging boar down are seldom grudged, for the giver is talked of as often and as well as the one who won them. All around, it is seldom a losing proposition, save if someone dies inconveniently.

Or, perhaps, if someone is wounded. That happens often, as the pig is fighting for its life and the men are, after all, only men; and sometimes even a beast on the edge of death can surprise you.

Hektor is not entirely sure how much of the blood on his thigh is his own, how much the pig's, how much that of his cousin who had been at his side, but he knows the wound is a bad one. He had hoped to get it washed clean in his tent before having someone look to it properly. But there is no light beyond the dim red glow of a fire-pit in his tent, he knows that for certain; so when he looks about upon his entrance, his look is one of more surprise than pain. "This place," he murmurs to himself. "I had almost forgotten..."

Awkwardly, painfully, he bows in the direction of the Bar and makes his way over towards the fire. To the alarmed-sounding waitrat that approaches he says, "Ask the Lady for wine, please, and water, and something to wash with. I would see just what harm's been done before I go any further this evening."

When Hektor slips into the Bar this time, it is from some scene of great pomp and finery; that, or he has chosen to wear the best of the royal robes his mother's women had made for him without any reason. To judge by the look he wears, the first is far more likely than the second. Only something that called for forced splendor could be so interminably tiresome. The Bar is a welcome relief and privilege, and he bows deeply indeed to the Bar proper before undoing his arm-ring of squids and leaping dolphins to give her as an offering.

There is little given in return save a cup of wine, but that seems enough for him and then some. This day has been more than brim-full for the young man.

The book is finished; Hektor learned off the last page of Sonezu's writings on the arts and practice of war today. When he looked up from it, the door had returned. He isn't much fond of overstaying the goddess' welcome, but his things that are here are in need of some care before he returns to Troy with them; so if you look over towards the fire a little, there is a table where a youth of perhaps fifteen is sharpening a bronze spear-head, and making ready to go over the leather cuirass he had with him when he came in.

Hektor is nearly at the end of the book he has to learn, and is looking forward to trying out Sonezu's teachings upon his return to Troy. That is, of course, a thing that will not happen if he is unfit to go with the older men into battle. After all, the book speaks of war as an art, and it does not do to undertake any great work from a standing start. So he is outdoors again, with his spear and sword, both of bronze. One of the hay-bales from near the stables is doing duty as his target for practicing spear-thrusts. The sword work will come later, once he is quite sure of his spear-arm again.

"Lady," says the lad of about fourteen, dressed in his red doeskin hunting-suit and sandals, "I think I have almost had done with the task you set me. There are yet twenty pages in the book to commit to memory, but I hve fixed the rest- and what is more, I've understood them, I think. Please, forgive me when I say that I shall not read any more of Sonezu today. I won't have room for anything else in my thoughts if I do."

He bows to the Bar and receives a plate of cheese and bread and greenstuff for his pains; it seems enough to satisfy him, if only because he takes it to one of the nearby tables without complaint, and a rat brings him a cup of what smells like wine after.

Studying, Hektor has found, grows rapidly less appealing the longer one does it, even if the subject is dear to one's heart. Sonezu's book is enough to make any man's head swim; so even though he knows he must commit it to memory, he puts it aside for now. The bronze dagger he brought with him (he carries it everywhere, save into his father's presence) is in need of honing and polishing, and after that he is going to look for someone he might practice with. It would not do, to go out of practice in the time that he must stay away from Troy.