Somewhere, at an inn on the long road west, he alone lies awake in the deep heart of the night. He is uncomfortably ensconced in a bedroll on the floor, but he does not mind. He has played his part in the expected arguments and bickering, but it is mostly for show. The truth is that he actually prefers these times, when they share space, and the trinity of his life meshes into one comforting whole. It is dark in the room on this new moon night, but he knows their scents intimately, and he does not need to see them.
There beside him lays a primal force wrapped in a cloud of alcohol and cheap tobacco, thin whiff of earnest sweat and, improbably, melon. It works hard, plays hard, and tries hard to make it all look easy. It obtains simple things through complex means, purely for the show of the thing. Aesthetics are a primary value in all things it does, and it has taught him that life is a grand thing, meant to be experienced to its fullest.
Down from above, there drifts the scent of clean soil after summer rain. It is deeply rooted in both itself, and its surroundings. It is the smell of the color green, fresh and alive with the promise of growth. Constantly striving, reaching for the light of the sun, it expends its energies in improvement, expansion and the infinite redefinition of understanding. It constantly instructs, moving all it knows through the filter of its consciousness, passing it all on in forms often as simple as silence. It rewards his understanding with soft smiles and gentle words full of quiet pride.
Overriding and underscoring these others, is the heady combination of leather and silk, gunpowder, smoke and incense. It is a molten heart wrapped in a will of cold stone. An enigma to others, it seems profoundly simple to him in its contradictions. Reaching enlightenment through exquisitely painful means, it will suffer none to bar it way as it seeks to live its life just as it is. Wickedly perverse and sinfully soft, it has welcomed him for no reason greater than that he asked. It is now, as it has ever been, his shelter, his disciplinarian, the star around which he revolves, the higher meaning in his uncomplicated existence.
Each is an essence unto itself, each intense and independent, but when they are close like this, it is the blending that he most loves. It calls to his mind the way individual ingredients will combine to create one dish, one aroma, though the parts are still distinguishable from the whole. Labor and knowledge, death and rebirth, joy and pain commingle in this tiny space to cradle him in the scent that means home.
He breathes deeply of this essence, and realizes that he has grown sleepy once again. He rolls onto his side and curls into a warm ball, confident that here, amongst them, he is in his proper place.
They are Body, Mind and Spirit, the trinity of his life.