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Broken Roads Lead to Home
Over the sound of wind and rain was the rattling of hooves and wooden wheels over rocky path. A series of a dozen, large covered wagons shuddered and gently creaked as they drudged over a road less traveled. Four horses pulled each one along, all looking tired and in need of rest having been battered by the elements as they traveled farther north. The caravan was a group fleeing the devastation it Bhathkirk. They were a mixed matched group of refugees, travelers, warriors and farm folk, all displaced following the battle.
Great gusts blew up and the lead horses halted and huffed in protest. The caravan stuttered to a stop, and he grunted as be braced himself from the abrupt sway that brought. He looked to his left up to the front of the wagon with an angered stare. He sat close to the rear, with his back up against one of the sides and his arm rested upon a raised knee. He heard the men carrying on, urging the horses forward. After some bickering came a gentle shake, they had resumed their travel.
Erën looked ahead. His comrade at arms - the Ronin, Jirou – as stalwart a warrior the elf had ever known. Somehow, through some will beyond his own, he had found the swordsmen, armless and in rubble. Like Caliane, he brought him here. He dressed his wounds. He tended his dear friend, diligent to ensure his survival. And now there he sat, resting as well he could despite the pain he surely felt.
Erën only glanced to his right. There, behind a make shift curtain, with a generous layering of blanket below and around her lay Caliane – and Lazule as well he understood, somehow. It had been difficult to find materials robust enough to handle the heat, and whether they were enchanted or not he did not know. Over her he’d attempted to lay a lighter sheet to cover her, but to no avail. She had cooled some, he supposed, but not much. He did not truly know whether to have bundled her tightly with the hardier cloth or not, but he felt to let the cool reach her some instead. He kept a close watch in any case, and if she were to grow too cold, he would realize – and no one's eyes, not even his, peered past the veil. But here beneath the shelter of this wagon, though cold wind did creep through, it was relatively comfortable.
The wagon slammed hard on the rough road, and Erën let out a stifled, anguished groan. The injuries from the battle in Bhathkirk had gone largely untended. Though he'd dressed them, he did not have the means to heal himself, and any supplies he'd had before the battle were all long gone. Acquiring any replacements proved… difficult given the state of the city following the attack, and what provisions he did manage to procure he reserved for others. Though his wounds were many, he would heal well enough given the time.
But then, part of him… did not want to heal.
Part of him liked - no – part of him needed the pain. The loss of the Soul Forge afflicted him deeply - where once its comforting beacon shone brightly in his mind, now only a deep void remained which pulled and pried at him from within. In the Forge’s stead, the pain kept him from staring too deeply into the abyss which swirled at the center of his mind. But even for all his efforts, it would still find him in his sleep – sleep that for centuries he had long forgotten. Without the Forge, he found he now once again needed to sleep as other slept. To lose one’s self, largely unaware of their surround, lost in their dreams.
Dreams that since their return, were only dark. Dreams, that the longer he fought them the farther into his waking life they crept. They taunted him, peeking out at him from the shadows, and reaching with their wretched claws.
He still could not understand what had caused this…
But he stayed the rest as much as he could, and despite the fear and fatigue he fought to keep his friends safe. To ensure their survival. They had been joined, made as one. But he gathered that through the laws that governed the whole of Arethil, or perhaps nature of the Life Fire that was Lazule, or perhaps some other thing he did not or could not possibly understand - such a union could not be. They lay there, still weak from the terrible battle they'd waged. The miraculous victory they attained.
The countless losses they suffered…
So, for the sake of them both he pledged to seek out the Father - Lazule's Father - to split them apart and make them once more their own…
For he feared if he did not, then both of them would be lost...
“I can't lose anyone else…”
“Nearly there, elf.”
When they had first arrived, Erën simply collapsed. There was a time he was so still it was uncertain if he had passed.. but after several hours there was still warmth to him, and a weakened, shallow heartbeat. But while he was still, peaceful even – his mind was wracked with horror.
When he woke, he shared it not – but the void that darkened his eyes, they spoke of torment and grief…
Before long, it was nearly a week they’d been here – every day, the wounds grew fewer, the pain grew weaker, the strength in his limbs returned. But the Soul Forge… had forsaken him. His mind was clouded, and though his body mended, his heart did not. His dreams only descended further, and further into the dark…
…but there was yet a light he held in his palms… a warmth that yet guided him…a hope.
Lazule Jirou Caliane Ruinë
Lazule Jirou Caliane Ruinë
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