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[Arahim]

---

He walked alone in empty places.

Above him, Night spilled softly across the waning blue. Poured slowly from that celestial, silver saucer. So bright, it was as if you could reach out and touch it. A spilt ink flowing between the sing-song stars, languidly lazing towards the horizon.

Tho' clad in black from head to soles, Arahim carried a torch. A mere pinprick of fiery life below the cacaphonous heavens, as though daring the vast unknown to recognize him, see him for what he was, and where he was going.

Walking the coastline of Cove, he headed out to the narrow peninsula where, as a child, he felt as though he was at the very precipice of the world.

The tides slid upon itself, lapping across the stoney soil creating a solid rhythm that settled right into Arahim's breathing.

And for long moments, there was no time.

Sitting crosslegged on the ground, Arahim quietly scribbled notes upon thin paper. When done, he touched the paper to the torch and held the burning remnants aloft.

Wind took the burning embers away leaving a trail of dying fireflies into the unknown night.

Questions unasked. New ideas. Things that had happened to him in the passing years since her death. Arahim burned the words for his mother, gone four years now. The embers would ride the winds, and find her wherever she was, and she would know what had passed with her only son.

Gone four years this very night. The night Arahim had seen another year of his life pass by. At seventeen years, she had given him his final birthday gift.

"You are no longer bound by me. See the world."

The torch stuck into the ground played puppet to the chilly Cove air, throwing shadows haphazardly in every direction. A riotous play where it's players ran and cavorted uncontrollably.

Sighing heavily, Arahim quickly scribbled what had passed in this last week of his life.

The shadows, shaking wildly, seemed to grow a bit more dense as the flame took his words across the sea.

[Arahim]

---

Long hours passed unchecked.

The moon slid across the black blanket above, trailing white, vaporous clouds to mark its passing, and settled passively at Arahim's right.

With his torch now a faintly glowing husk, and the night dwindling away, he stared out into the great nothing, still as stone.

There was a deep hollow carved into him, fresh and raw at the edges. It touched his spine and pushed painfully into his chest. It turned his stomach into a writhing nest.

He tried to fill the space with a hate. He built to it several times, convincing himself of its truth, convincing himself that he needed to feel this. And failing each time.

The hate was viscous, and he found himself unable, or unwilling to maintain the self deception.

His thoughts spiralled backwards.

A sluggish, flowing current of doubt ran through each memory he held of her. Every quiet moment, every happy second was marred by it. He saw lies, real or imagined, and personal slights. He saw himself cast as the fool, and childishly naive.

In the dark, alone and quiet, Arahim wrecked his mind trying, desperately, to cut these tiny pieces of her out. Anything that had touched him. Anything that had left a mark.

All that came was resentment and confusion.

Grutle Kjellson wrote,
"They're gone forever when you let them go. Purity and Hate."

Arahim would have to let one of the two go, if he were to move on.

And not for the first time, he wished he had never heard the name, Joanna Weaver.

[Joanna Weaver]

---

She had been a fool, of course.

Arahim had been perfect, and she had ruined it.

Only no matter how many times she told herself that she regretted what she'd done, she never truly felt it.

The inner musings of her mind toyed with the possibility that perhaps she was self-destructive. In a way, that was certainly true. Fate had hinted on more than a few occasions that anyone she loved would be taken from her, and violently, at that.

But therein lay the problem. She had fallen for her own con.

Fallen for a paladin who was supposed to be no more than decoration. He was to have been just for show, to keep people from spreading poisonous rumors about herself and Lord Isk. He had been the perfect candidate for the task, until she had actually started to let him in.

If he had ever noticed her insincerity, he had never voiced his suspicion. She hadn't counted it as unfaithfulness at first, as she had only recently allowed herself to admit the truth of her emotions. After all, how could they have been a so-called couple when they'd only been two close friends? At least, that is what she had viewed them as until the last couple of weeks. It had made it easier to handle.

Keeping things at a distance allowed one to get a better perspective. When he had left her home after she had bared him the truth, she had decided that perhaps it was actually better that way. He deserved better, and she thought he would not find that in her. Her love would only get him killed.

Besides, she had a city to rebuild and a debt to repay.

And always there were demons.
_________________
"Art and architecture must combine to create something larger than either." ~ Robert Campbell