Pursuit of the Sun 1.2

Food and drink gave his soul rest, but it was only a brief, artificial effect, like all beliefs and convictions. As the relaxing vapors, driven out by alcohol, dissipated from his circulatory, nervous, and respiratory systems, Hargon’s consciousness once again regained its usual, hopelessly dark state, like a dark blanket of stone the color of a starless sky, enveloping the gloomy, abandoned Tower. Broken from above by the wrath of nature, misfortune of genetic origin, and the neglectful attitude of its former owner, this structure perfectly reflected his own soul: maimed, devastated, abandoned, and forgotten.

Hargon wakes up in the Castle chambers late in the morning. It is cold here. No hearth is capable of warming the stone mass of its walls, but fortunately, fur blankets for the warrior were found.
—Sir Hargon, — the valet knocks on the door. —Forgive me for disturbing you, but it is now lunchtime. And after that, Sir Geoffrey and Sir Raymond wanted to talk with you.

Opening his eyes, he felt neither the former pleasant relaxation from a long rest, nor a drop of fatigue or drowsiness. Emptiness was once again his only true companion. Sitting up on the bed, he threw off the rich furs, shivering from the piercing cold. This was what remained of life within him: a smoldering, musty hearth. Dressing in his modest clothes, he replies to the valet in his usual even voice:
—Thank you. I will be down to the table shortly. It is impolite to make esteemed gentlemen languish in anticipation.