Tale 18- The Last String of Life

 Out in the forest, the Traveler came across a fellow traveler, face hidden by bandages and eyes barely visible, but body holding many different items strapped to him by rope. He looked as if he, too, was alone in the world, so the two began to walk together. Both knew the forest held dangers, but what dangers they held was different for each of them. For the bandaged boy, the beast of the woods was the danger of which he was wary, whilst for the Traveler, the danger was much more human. That is, if he could even call himself human. The two traversed a muddy edge of the forest, the Traveler eventually stopping by a river to clean her shoes, which were not built for such terrain. Since the two were having a rest, the boy unstrapped his jar of water from his back and drank from it, lowering his bandages slightly and offering a little to the Traveler. She took it with slight hesitation, but it was cool and relieving, since she didn’t eat or drink much. Passing it back to the boy, she slipped her shoes back on and he skipped a stone across the river. “Since we’re resting, I heard a story recently, called ‘The Last String of Life.’ Want to hear it?” he offered, the Traveler wordlessly nodding and preparing to write it. 

‘Once, there was a musician, a young man with a dream of making a living from doing what he loved- playing the violin. Day after day he practised, playing beautiful melodies with the intent of making the entire world smile. However, as he grew older, his passion began to melt away, as he became consumed with work and practising less and less. Picking up the violin only four times a week, the young man would play in the town square, drawing crowds and admirers from everywhere to hear his music. However, as he became swamped by work, his fourth string broke, and he couldn’t be bothered to get it repaired as it would cost too much. As the amount of time he played publicly began to dwindle, he found himself lost in thoughts of business while bowing, so was unable to play as well as usual, especially with the missing string. In quick succession, the second and third strings snapped, the man eventually leaving the violin in its case while he focused on work. One day, though, he felt the urge to play, after having a particularly boring day at work. Heading out into the street, he played a simple song on one string, then another. But it wasn’t enough. His bowing was wrong, his precision was off, his technique was lost. And as the last string broke, the musician felt something crack inside of him. He collapsed onto the ground, closed his eyes, and never woke up.’

The bandaged boy finished his tale, looking at the Traveler as she transcribed it. She then looked at him, so he stood up, offering a hand to help her stand. The Traveler bowed, thanking him for both the water and tale, and the two parted ways, the boy disappearing into the forest while she followed the river. She stared down at her reflection, as weak and pale as ever, but somehow looking better. Picking up a stone, she skipped it across the river just as he had, before continuing on.