The old-one had trepidations about what the sorceress said, “You have been broken for so long and you are used to it, and for you it works. Why change it?” He pondered this question; the old ways, the broken ways, those ways brought him to this despair in his life. The old ways have brought him to this prison.
He knew he had truly fallen into the abyss of melancholy. He thought there was nothing else he could do, there was no other way to turn, no other direction for him to follow except “up,” up from the bowels of his hell. If she wouldn’t or couldn’t help him, he would have to do it by himself
He began his climb. His memories were faint, and some were dim, while others stood out like stars in the night sky. He crawled, from memory to memory, a never-ending climb, then from thought to thought, and from remembrance to remembrance. He pulled himself up.
The old-one climbed and slipped, and then climbed some more. He traversed the slippery walls in the murky darkness of his melancholy. He could not see if he was making progress. He had no way of knowing where he was, he was blind. All he could do was hope he was climbing in the right direction.
He clung to the rocky walls for his life, and inched his way up the wall, his mind bloodied from the hurtful memories. He had torn the cover off the memories laid them bare. The old-one endured the pain, and continued to climb out of his melancholy.
He sat alone thinking, wondering, what his world would look like once he had emerged from the darkness, once he had bared his soul, and his heart to the light. He knew learning about this new budding light of emotions would be extremely hard for him to get a grip on.
He had been alone all his life, even when surrounded by people who loved him,he was alone so what if anything was new?
Darkness had appeared in his soul, and hardened his heart. The man within him died a little more as he had done a thousand times before, and as the light in him began to grow, the betrayed man slowly began to fade.
He felt alone, more alone than he had ever felt. He cried; cried in his heart, cried in his soul, and in his being. He cried out for forgiveness, and for him to forgive. Moreover, the old-one again cried in his solitude.
He lay tossing and turning, enduring the never-ending pain in his mind. The pain roared; cutting, slicing, and mincing his thoughts, it tore open old wounds, exposing other wounds, laying them bare. It opened his soul, and gave it room to search, to probe the debris, and gave it permission to excise, the hate, the fears, and the anguish, out of his contorted mind. He wept silently, alone, and forgotten, in his cell, forgotten too, to the world and all that was in it.
His only hope was one day, he would reenter the world, and there would be a place for him among with the many.