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Monroe has put in his paces as an adventurer. He was never the strongest or the fastest, but he's survived being chased by charging iron bulls, never ending slimes dropping on him and his party mates from the ceiling, and one particularly, persistently, furious parrot.
But for all his endurance, THIS was the truest test of his limits.
Soreness burned like acid deep in his muscles as the hoe slipped from his palms. His knees finally gave up on him as he collapsed ungracefully onto his ass, chest heaving as he stared up into the big blue sky.
He had hoped the conversion rate between a life of adventuring and a life of farming would be more favorable. Though to call what he did “adventuring” would be… somewhat inflated. Monroe sighed as old irritations and insecurities throbbed like war scars. Exhaustion did little to dull their claws.
His vision shook as he distantly registered the passing of clouds. Ephemeral, wispy things, with disappearing edges that his double vision didn't do any favors in clarifying.
His eyelids grew heavy. The burn of the midday sun on his pale skin would surely make him regret resting HERE, in the middle of his field, of all places...
But the ten foot journey to shade was just too impossible for his thoroughly fatigued body. The soreness from earlier would surely be felt, if he could feel his legs at all. Despite the screaming light of the sun, soon the world went dark as exhaustion overtook him.
Like the jump between chapters in a book, he woke propped up in the cool shade of the leeward side of his house. Damp handkerchief lain across his forehead. Monroe’s skin was hot and tight across his cheeks, his neck, his forehead, in a way that would surely burn tomorrow. It didn’t keep a look of shock from stretching across his features when one burly, brunette, and very concerned farmer and neighbor jumped into his field of vision.
"HEEEEEY NEIGHBOR! Welcome back to the land of the living!"
The boisterous boom of Hayden's voice cut sharply through the concern that wrought his features just a second earlier. Truly, was this man always so bursting with energy? At his age? Monroe wished he had half his vigor right now.
"Whhappn'd" Monroe slurred elegantly. His gloved hand plucked the damp cloth from his forehead and flipped it over to the cool side, as he pressed it to his neck, his cheeks, anywhere the coolness was sorely missed. Hayden handed him a flask of water, which he immediately tipped into his bone-dry mouth with gusto.
"Found you baking in the sun when I came by to ask if you wanted to split a bag of sugar! You were halfway to medium well before I got ya into the shade." Hayden chirped back in his characteristic jovial drawl, and punctuated with a firm clap on the shoulder that made Monroe choke mid-swig.
The two blustered as Monroe coughed water out of his windpipe and Hayden patted him on the back, apologizing for his carelessness. When Monroe’s lungs contained more air than water again and his back no longer stung from Hayden’s well intentioned, if hamfisted attempts to help, he let out a long, beleaguered sigh.
“Thanks for checking in on me. Sorry for the trouble.”
Before Hayden could reply, Monroe stood, head hung, still a bit dizzy, and tottered away from Hayden from where he squatted in the dirt.
“Hey it’s no trouble-” “You can stay if you want, I think I just need to rest a little longer.” Monroe cut him off. There was a sinking feeling in his gut, some part lingering fatigue, some part old, cruel voices and festering doubts that dug their claws into his mood. His ears rang from dehydration, and all it reminded him of was his own weakness.
The ringing in his ears and the headache from the heat called to mind a concussion he sustained during his dungeon delving days. He was the only one on his team that didn’t notice the tripwire. It had been obvious enough to them that they felt no need to warn him about it, and that “obviousness” only emboldened their chastising afterwards when the ceiling came down as punishment for his clumsiness. The collapse cost them the promised loot, and a stone striking Monroe in the head cost him four days of wages in lost time. The shame still burned in his memory when he was alone with his thoughts at night.
The soreness in his body was an even sore-er reminder of the dozens of times his role in the party was “pack mule”; not “sniper”, “tank”, “lockpick” or anything more involved than being a pair of hands to hold and feet to move. Sometimes packs were thrown at his feet with the expectation he’d pick them up, sometimes it was a “Watch the cart.” barked at him while he stood outside ruins and taverns, his only company the hired mule hitched to it. His “friends” handled the important business inside.
Monroe’s feet grew heavier with each unpleasant memory. He barely registered Hayden’s “You oka-” before he was in the door, face down on his creaky, stiff bed. When the darkness takes him again, it’s at least a cooler, quieter one.