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[Arahim]

---

To his liking, there were far too many instances of lonely wanderings in the small hours of the night. Instances where his mind would not settle, and his thoughts echoed painfully around his head demanding he take notice, screaming out that sleep would not remedy anything. When the world and it's indecipherables pulled upon him like eddys of some distant sea sweeping sands away, only to replace what was lost with more of the same.

Arahim's dark eyes were completely lost in the perfect dark of the room. Focused on the ceiling.

He lay motionless. Only the slight rise and fall of Sylvan's sleeping form, her deep rhythmic breath, marred the still of the room. Her light sighs ornamenting the empty air above them, and threatening to lull him back into dreamless slumber.

Only hours ago, four Sanctan retainers had packed much of their shared lives up, (clothes, odd pieces of furniture, and other things) and delivered them to a small villa in Cove owned by a cousin of his. Come morning, they too would join their belongings, and await the arrival of their unborn child far away from the world's most recent strife.

But that was come morning. For now, Arahim knew his inner turmoil would not end until he set certain things aright, and that it could not wait.

Whether he spoke aloud, or thought it, Sylvan's eyes flicker open immediately, conscious and alert.

"Wake up. Come with me."

[Arahim]

---

Just past Ilshenar's moongate at the Shrine of Compassion, was a small gypsy camp nestled snugly in a large cleft in the mountains.

Beneath the thousands of watchful eyes set high in the nightsky, Arahim led Sylvan. her hand in his, to the clearing where even from a great distance, you could see the gaily painted wagons lit by dancing torch light.

Even at this late hour, the camp was alive with activity. A large circle of men and women sat about the roaring campfire swapping stories, and anecdotes. There were boasts, and laughter, as well as the occasionaly sagely nodding.

The flames painted flickering orange masks on the gypsys' smiling faces. Here and there the fire danced in reflective cadence, caught in the curves and facets, the silvers and golds of their jewelry, as though it were a living thing.

The profusion of glitters and glams reminded Arahim of the musical tinkling of tiny bells. A magical parade of silver chimes without origin, or practical purpose, that no one person hears exactly the same.

Beside him, he saw that Sylvan felt it too. Her face was bathed in the warm, orange glow. Her green eyes became just two more jewels caught in the fitful, fiery dance. Lost in a childlike smile.

Pulling her gently forward, Arahim spoke out a greeting which was, in turn, met with a cheerful invitation into the gypsys' circle.

[Arahim]

---

A chorus of introductions.

Cryptic, heartfelt greetings, one after another. Building upon the last.

Arahim was beset upon by several young men, all claiming kinship by this or that marriage. Names that were brand new to him. Relatives he had never set eyes upon.

He took it all in good-natured stride, smiling and clasping whatever outstretched hand was thrust towards him.

Without looking to her, Arahim felt Sylvan's eyes never leave him for more than a passing moment. There was a scrutiny that held a dozen unanswered questions without judgment, and with it came a dull throb at the base of his skull.

If possible, Sylvan was, by far, more the center of attention than himself.

The women of the camp, from the very young to the very old, flocked to her in a crowd that could only be described as pointedly excited.

With a familiarity that was offputting to her, Sylvan suffered countless kisses placed upon both cheeks, and an uncountable amount of caresses and slight proddings upon her belly, ripe with child. Strangers offered inexplicable advice on child rearing. Blessings for the child's well-being were recited whether asked for or no. Baubles, and jewelry freely given to her. This one for luck, this other for continued fertility.

Smiling, Arahim could almost see her head lost, and swimming in a hurricane of well-wishing, and by extension, the welcoming into a wide ranging but closely knit family.

Catching her gaze, he flicked his eyes away from the camp, away from the welcoming fire, and smiling faces, towards a darkened corner of the world, lit by a lonely, solitary candle.

He spoke a quiet word to a man much his elder, who nodded solemnly in return and embraced him quickly, and excused himself.

With a last meaningful look to Sylvan, Arahim walked slowly away into the night just beyond the warmth of the camp.

[Sylvan Sherwood]

---

It seemed so very surreal, to be taken from slumber to this apparent festival in the night.

Why, she wondered, why are we at this encampment in these small, dark hours? What is this occasion, that so many gaily dressed people talked, and played music, and danced and sang? Why are they swarming me this way? I do not know them!

It was overwhelming . . . overwhelming to the point of turning inward to herself the way she so often did. It seemed through a fog that she heard the tiny bells jingling on the clothing and jewelry of the women.

Sylvan did her best to be polite as small gifts and trinkets were pressed into her hands, she tried stoically to not fear the magic that might be borne by these people. Mutely, she nodded, as the women offered their wisdom on topics ranging from birth to dealing with the struggles of raising teenagers.

The colors were too bright, even by firelight. The voices were too many, possibly even too happy given there was no apparent occasion for these festivities. When Arahim caught her eye and nodded to a place invisible to her, she wanted to stand and scream, Do not leave me here alone! But silent she remained as he strode away, leaving her here with this joyous band of revelers.

Suddenly the campfire nearest her erupted in a crackling display of colors, as if a tiny eruption of fireworks had discharged within the confines of the stones that enclosed the fire. Sylvan choked back a startled cry, but quickly she realized that something was happening. An ancient seeming woman had dropped a handful of something (What was that!? her mind demanded to know), into the fire to cause the crackling sparkles, and whatever it was somehow indicated that people should gather near.

As the gypsies gathered close, in a way that was typically too invasive of her personal comfort, Sylvan found herself relaxing. She did not flinch at the touch of a stranger's hand smoothing the back of her hair. Protectively, she wrapped her arms around the scruffy little child who had come close, doing her best to pull the boy onto her lap.

It seemed a story was about to commence.

[Xana]

---

From a place near the wagons, concealed in near-darkness, Xana watched the family--close and extended--celebrate the homecoming of the son of Kallianos. She noted his reluctance, and the demeanor of the girl at his side. The pair seemed lost, ill at ease in the group; she wondered if the young man had realized how very much he resembled a certain branch of the large family.

The musician was completely sober this night. The pain of losing a brother she barely knew yet loved immensely was settling in, and no potion would quell the pain. Physically, the pain was a minimum--the deep summer heat treated that grinding ache kindly this year.

How sad, she thought, that the young paladin didn't even know the truth behind his life-long hardships and hurt. Wistfully she remembered him as a baby, playing songs for him on the lute, his mother singing to him in her lovely true soprano voice. How he had laughed that day; would he ever know that joy again? Did he ever understand the truth behind Maleisha's seeming mental illness?

Many questions continued to creep across Xana's thoughts; she wondered if the truth would set things to right, or make things worse. She wondered if the two young ones would embrace or deny the heritage of the baby within the quiet and dark haired girl. She wondered if the child would favor the strange girl from away. So many questions. Too many.

Xana's reverie was broken as maman Sabine stepped out of the wagon, holding the small pouch that she would throw into the fire to signal the group to come together, to be quiet. To be reverent.

With an intense respect shown to very few, Xana approached the old, stooped woman who so many referred to fondly as 'queen' (though of course, there was no such thing as royalty among their kind) and spoke quietly with her for a few moments. The elder woman nodded, and murmured a directive to Xana.

The instruction given and taken, Xana sought her twin, who seemed to be avoiding contact with Arahim. Xana passed along the maman's instructions to her sister. Solemnly, Merrique accepted the task at hand.

The mysteries had to end. For the boy, for the child coming into the world, for the clan.

It was time.
_________________
An artist is a creature driven by demons ~Faulkner

[Arahim]

---

Laughter, and voices give way to a respectful, awed silence at Arahim's back.

Light, and the raucous shadows it enlivens, dwindles. The camp's existence forgotten in the dark quiet which pulls him in, and embraces him like a long forgotten lover, cautious, but mad with the memory of his secret touch.

In his mind, no painting, no threnody, had ever captured the stark melancholy that this lonely grave, coddled in the dim night at the foot of some unnamed mountain, instilled in him at this moment.

The final resting place of a father he has no memory of.

A single white candle, nestled into the grave soil, holds vigil. Caught in the tumults and tides of the night breeze, it's tiny flame sputters and dances, but steadfastly refuses to die out. At it's base, a simple array of colored seashells, completely alien to the lands of Ilshenar, laid upon the earth with obvious care.

An axe, it's handle well worn, thrusts defiantly up from the dark dirt, holding aloft a plaque proclaiming, not the interred's name but the curious statement,

"I was. I am. I will be."

Though he has no tears for this man he had never known, and in truth could never put a face to until only recently, Arahim cannot help but feel a tiny, niggling notion that this one death has taken some intangible away from him. That this grave, so far removed from the world of petty lords, and border conflicts, somehow signals the ending of a chapter that he has had nothing to do with, but perhaps should have.

Silhouetted against the dying fires of the camp, only now settling in for the night. Sylvan watches Arahim curiously, before making her way slowly to some lone tree overlooking this somber scene, and sits herself beneath it with ponderous care. The wind of early morning lost in the dark of her long hair.

He motions her over to him, as he touches small folded scraps of paper to the candle's pale flame, before letting the ashes fly free.

Smoothing her skirt, she shakes her head and smiles. The emerald of her eyes, taking him in completely. In perfect, contented recognition.

The length of Arahim's shadow touches her bare feet to her knees, then encompassing her own shadow, stretches on back towards the world.

The leaves and grass sigh.

Hanging his head, closing his eyes, Arahim feels, for the first time, the curse of loss and reverence.

[Sylvan Sherwood]

---

No, I won't come to you. This is yours to own, she thought as he beckoned her, though it made her curious to know what Arahim burned in the solitary candle's flame. No matter. He would tell her what that was about if he chose to share; she would not pry.

It broke her heart to see him stand so still, with his head bowed low. How boy-like he looked, how broken and shattered inside. So many things could have been going through his mind, Sylvan dared not take a guess as to what lived there.

The events of the last twelve hours or so left her feeling alien and grieving in her own way. What must it be like to have such a huge family, people who obviously cared, people who were warm and gentle? Those were things she did not have in her own young life--her own family was fragmented, dysfunctional, so many negative things that she was forced to accept or overcome. Of course it was nice that things had settled down, some peace of mind achieved. But she knew, that around any corner she might turn waited the inherent evil of her own bloodline.

Sylvan's thoughts wandered to Zach. The New Family as she had come to think of them. She missed Zach immensely--more than her own mother, truth be told--but was afraid to seek him out. He'd been acting so odd--walking around with a black blindfold across his eyes yet seeming to see perfectly well. Strange rumblings seemed to be coming from the dark city she'd left behind. How long before the truth of her breeding came calling for her? Worse yet, would it call for their baby who would be making his appearance in the world any day, any moment?

One thought turned into another, and before she knew it she sat trembling, frozen of a cold borne within herself. On shaky feet, she got up and went to the man who only moments before she had denied.

The silent approach was given away only by the clammy, shaking hand that she slipped into his own.