Then, he woke; the sun, bright as ever, beating down on the beach they had washed up on. Each movement felt as if it closely resembled the sun itself: his muscles burned and ached. Wide-eyed, he threw himself over onto his stomach, coughing and heaving the water from his lungs as Tarin stood just a bit away, beside a moderately-sized fire.

“Careful, Alistair,” the already-recovered, clothed Tarin spoke as he stared into the fire.

His apprentice had dressed himself in a few, fairly ill-fitting, articles of clothing that had washed up beside them on the beach they sat upon. His brown pants clashed with his purple shirt, as had his red cloth shoes; these all were items they kept in a few of the trunks they were to deliver to the less fortunate in one week’s time.

Puddle after puddle had evacuated his lungs in much the same manner they had been shuffled inward. After several uninterrupted minutes of his gagging and hacking and vomiting, his capacity to hold oxygen was once again allocated to him — each inhalation having adopted a natural wheeze, for the time being.

As he crawled across the beach, to the fire his friend had started sometime prior, he found his arms to have taken on a jelly-like quality. Once he had reached that warm beside, though, Tarin helped him undress: to remove his clothes so that they could dry, just as he had done for his own.

They spent that entire night by the fire, it burning just bright enough to fight back the bitterest of chills; the next morning, his clothes had dried enough and they were on their way. After Tarin had helped him stand, both men dressed themselves in their original outfits before setting off, to sloth along on their path toward the prophesied entrance to their ultimate destination. The bits of water still remnant in their lungs added a certain, unkind weight to their every movement: it felt as if they carried pounds more than they were accustomed to.

In spite of the impediment, they soldiered on: all focuses save that of their destination fell to the wayside. Three days, it took them... three days from the beach to the end of their journey. Each was filled with the recuperation of their strength; each consisted of defending themselves against the myriad of attacks from this island’s wildlife, as well shifts of slumber. Their resolve had been tested more than it ever had… it was a dire time, but it was one that showed them their purpose as clear as day.

As they neared the end of their journey, the dirt and rock beneath their boots — still too damp for comfort, albeit only slightly — began to feel less and less stable: progressively less and less solid. Soon thereafter, they had come to the edge of the mountaintop… where there was a consistent feeling of brittle thinness resting ‘neath their feet; a simple suspension bridge sat before them, one that must have been there, untouched, for a millennium.

Its wooden mass was as soundly crafted as the mountain they stood upon: unweathered, despite the unimaginably countless years of torrid heats and torrential rainfalls, irrespective of those countless possible snowfalls and snap freezes. The same could not be said for the ropes responsible for said suspension, unfortunately.

“You first,” Alistair told his apprentice, as he gestured ahead with his right hand.

He scoffed with his whole being, “I’m not crossing that dreadful thing, Captains first.”

“Rock, paper, scissors… deal? Whomever loses, they cross first.”

“Better than nothing, I suppose,” he sighed.

Alistair took a seat, exactly where his feet were planted. His apprentice looked at him in bewilderment, before realizing it was probably for the best that he, too, sit while they played their little game.

Once situated, they began to shake their fists: up, down, up, down, up, down, each time striking their open palm with their fist. Up, once more, and down again, as they finally made their desired shape… the same shape: scissors. Both sighed in relief, even with the anxiety of their situation beating at the door.

With hopefulness abound in both men’s chests, they began again. Up, down, up, down, up, down; another casting of the shapes. This time, Alistair was at a loss, with him having drawn a rock and his friendly opponent having drawn a sheet of paper.

“Damn it…” he uttered, “if this bloody thing collapses ‘neath me, I’m coming after you.”

“You’ll be fine,” he told him as they both stood and walked to the bridge.

For an instant, he hesitated as he listened to it sway in the wind: its creaks and its groans, the ropes’ lingering disapproval of such gusts. In precariousness, he stepped forward, even with the thought of its possible failing prevalent in his mind; these thoughts, he found — quite easily, in fact —, had become emboldened with every step forward.

In absentmindedness, he had come upon the bridge’s end… finally, so very long, he was allowed to lay his eyes upon that object he had endlessly coveted. It was but a second before his cheeks began to shimmer with his tears, that he found his heart aflutter in the realizations of his hopes. Even in his wildest dreams, this moment was but a distant hope.

The world around him became one of deafness as all of his other senses lost favoritism to his sight; no longer was he able to hear the sounds of the sea below, nor the birds above… nor the bearing of a heavy weight by the bridge behind. Tarin had come to join him, unknowingly, in being encapsulated by the object before them.

From the day after Alistair’s fortieth birthday, when Tarin was but a simple young lad — bright-eyed, and a victim of poverty, running from the punishment of the “crime” he had committed — they both dreamt of the reality of its existence. It meant more to them than most could reasonably understand. In his thirty years in this strange, familiar world, he stopped at nothing to make his finding it a reality: it was the only thing that kept him going. He was now sixty-seven, Tarin was thirty-nine: a now-imprinted-upon soul.

Far and wide, the world had been subjected to the marching of their feet as they searched for this “object of myth”: the very one that many had doubtfully whispered of… a fountain of immense magical properties. And, it was everything they wished it to be — even more, in fact.

Its clear blue water shimmered ceaselessly; the triple-tiered marble that held that liquid — each level having been suspended by nothing but air — was as pristinely white as possible, even as a scene of dirt and flora lay in clear abundance. Any who happened upon this scene would believe they had come across an ancient bathhouse: one that had long been dilapidated.

As such, its beauty marvelled them without much care — thick, dark green vines wrapped themselves tightly around the five differently colored pillars that had been situated around it; each stood tall and proud, unashamedly-so: a symbol of the four guardians once thought important to this area… all just as beautiful as their surroundings; even more beautiful than the purples and pinks and yellows and bright blues of the flowers all around… such colors placed by the immortal caretaker of this facility.

The leftmost pillar, a purple one — adorned with two lines, both curled at opposite ends — signified the element of wind; to its right, a pillar of red: decorated with a flame, for fire. In the absolute center of them all sat one of golden white, that of the Goddess of Creation — whose pillar was far from unique to this area; the second-most right pillar was a gentle, baby blue, one shining like the sea: one appropriately adorned with water droplets, as well as a symbol of the sea.  Lastly, to the farthest right sat that bright, earthy green pillar, into which a single mountainous symbol had been chiseled: to signify the earth.

“Captain?” Tarin spoke as he tore his gaze from it, both in reluctance.

“...Yes, Tarin?” returned he, still woefully hypnotized by the beautiful sight ‘fore them.

“We should… get on with it…”

A new tear graced his cheek as he turned, “You are, perhaps, correct in that.”

His young friend placed his hand on his shoulder, to let him know everything was going to be alright; “It’s what’s best…”

He could not find the words to return with: his mind was too fogged with notions of sadness — a depression he’s long held close; thus, he simply smiled while lifting his finger to the tear wildly rolling down his cheek. Tarin walked ahead, to examine the water in that basin as that tear caught itself upon the bed of his nail the instant before it had made its way down more than half his cheek.

In that single tear drop, he saw all of his hopes and aspirations: thoughts of Sarah, of Amber, and James, and… he had to think of his third child. The name, Theodore, was there, ready for his mind to speak… but, the picture to accompany it wasn’t. There was once a time that would have scared him…

“I think,” his apprentice began, “I think it’s time. Alistair, if you’re ready.”

With a brand new conviction, he approached the young man bent over the edge of that magical landmark, his briefcase firmly within his grasp. In sternness, he patted the uppermost bit of his arm with that leather item — it having released sounds of creasing and cracking as his fingers pressed firmly into its softened, though sound, mass. He took care to not graze any portion of the water with his stare.

Without any additional remarks, Tarin somberly took the package and looked at it for a brief few seconds. It felt warm in his hands… soft to the touch, despite its hardened exterior. But, no matter how good it felt to have within his possession — that amount of power — he waved his hand over it and tossed it into the depths below.

After a moment, once the pool of water returned to its previous mirror-like stillness, it sunk like a lightly-weighted rock, and before long, it disappeared from his sight. Alsitair, meanwhile, refrained from sparing a look… no matter how desperately he wanted to; the idea that he could possibly see even a strayed, sparse string of light from the sun of his world made him beyond ecstatic: relieved, after so long. But, he dared not.

Once again, the pool of water had settled into its reflective state: stilled and calmed. But a second passed before Tarin stood and nodded. It was then that he felt it right to take a look — a simple glance: he felt that might be allowed. He was wrong. The moment his eyes met the surface of that endless pond, it snapped shut. It felt all too merciless and cold: calculatingly evil. He shot his right arm forward, so that his hand may touch upon its floor; there was no mindful reasoning behind such an action: it was, chiefly, a gut reaction of disbelief at such a happening.

A silence joined the sound of splashing… it was weird, and unnatural. After it had stagnated amongst the gusts of wind, a mysterious, yet familiar voice sounded out from far behind them. “I assume you both know why it is that I’m here,” the man’s voice cut through the fog of soundlessness his presence had created.

“To make our lives hell, of course,” Tarin shot back as he turned to the man who’s followed them for such a distance. His sarcastic voice was one of frustration and vexation.

As Alistair continued moving his arm about in the pool of water — the splashing from which was faintly able to be heard by the man — he started, “Still haven’t figured it out, hm?”

In a sorrow of regrettable sorrow, the elder-most among them removed his arm from the water, to place his hand against the lip of the fountain’s base. Without looking to Aeris, he softly spoke, “I… I know I’ve been here for far too long; the idea of my home no longer exists for me. And, though I may have forgotten such… beauty, Tarin can see it bright as day.”

He began his approach, “You’ve been conditioning him since childhood, haven’t you? Ever since that first day he washed upon your path… a puppet to your cause.” He was unsurprised.

Begrudgingly, he nodded.

“Far from an unwitting puppet, I’m sure,” Aeris smirkingly said, somewhat jovially.

“Aren’t we all?” Tarin responded.

A few seconds passed before a new gust of wind brushed against them. “Back to the matter at hand, I suppose.”

“Could you not just turn back? Forget this all has happened?”

His eyes took on a more depressive statement as his left hand slowly dipped into the nothingness beside him: an encompassing darkness that slowly took to his hand, coming to a rest as it grabbed at his wrist. After a single moment, his hand lurched farther into that portal, in an almost struggling manner. “I’m to retrieve those pages… regardless of wishfulness.”

After but an instant, something transpired that finally surprised him: something snapped in Tarin; the once cool-headed, completely sound-of-mind man leapt toward Aeris. Perhaps it was the frustration of the situation at hand that triggered him? It might have even been the grating, negated sound of the void his master’s old friend was currently, in sightlessness, perusing. Nevertheless, he landed immediately before the man as he thrust his arm downward, against the joint of the arm currently trapped in the nothingness.

It was amid a screeching of torture from within that swirling darkness that his arm had shaken gently — that it had been forcefully freed from its confines within that portal. The glimmer of his newly equipped weapon nearly blinded Alistair while the heel of Tarin’s naked palm pounded once against Aeris’ naked chest. Naturally, he soared twenty-something feet, and crashed to the floor after a punctuative silence… just as Tarin’s knees buckled. Both hit the ground at nearly the exact same moment.

There was a difference between them, in their contact with the ground. While Tarin had landed almost entirely silent — with just a hollow thud sounding off — Aeris’ landing was all too different; his was more bombastic: his blade clattered and clanged as it skittered across the ground a few feet more. In shortness of breath — topped off with a sharpness in his chest — Aeris began his movements again.

“You… expect to stop me, Tarin?” he asked as his blade moved toward him.

“If I have to, yes,” he answered in much the same manner, as he signalled out a variance of motions with his right hand, before flicking his wrist in a seemingly random motion.

A joyless chuckle escaped Aeris’ throat as Tarin was enshrouded in a bright green coating for just a moment: it was powdery, and almost neon-like. Instantly, his breath returned to normal, and his exhaustion had disappeared, almost entirely. “Perhaps you can very well achieve so…”

“Don’t do this, Aeris… this doesn’t have to happen,” he shouted to his opponent as they both returned to their footing.

Before Aeris could move toward either of them, Tarin took a bow, his hand held out afore him: as if he were asking someone to dance. It was there he waited, while his opponent looked at him in confusion, unknowing of his intentions; the decision to wait such a thing out was one that came about from a certain anticipatory anxiety. Sure enough, after a few seconds, a roiling, deeply grey smoke engulfed his hand, disappearing almost as quickly as it had come: a battle-tested saber now in his grasp.

“I assume you’ve both paid a visit to one of the Witches, then?”

He expected a response — perhaps another sarcastic statement from his battle partner — but, this time, he was met with silence. A few calm gusts of wind later, Aeris acted. He leapt forward, with an eerily calm abandon: determined, focused… silent.

Those once serene winds had now turned violent: each breath of nature whipped about toward both men, in a much-too-frenzied manner. Not only did they serve to distract and throw Tarin off his guard, as well as Alistair, they also acted as the vehicle with which Aeris had been carried forth. His katana’s reach was a full thirty-six inches ahead of his own, yet, it rarely fell victim to bowing or bending.

Despite every factor of intimidation present — Aeris’ violent, hopeful ends, the blade the man carried, even those still-impressive winds — Tarin moved not; he stood his ground as that sharp edged blade made its way toward him. It was only at the very last moment — wherein the most opportunity lay — that he raised that saber, to allow it to greet his opponent’s weapon.

The clashing of their blades was a spectacle to be shared in by all those present: the instant they clashed with the other, The instant the blades clashed, right down to the very last fraction of a nanosecond, The instant the blades clashed, right down to the very last fraction of a nanosecond, something unexpected occurred: lightning shot forth from the blade, striking the ground beside Tarin; it had taken but a half-second to complete its journey, its arc having travelled along the same path his blade would have.

“And you’ve paid a visit to the Blacksmith G’njuro,” he remarked as Aeris forced his blade forward… a thrust punctuated with a sarcastic smirk.

Tarin did his best to push back against his endeavors: his arms shook as both blades moved to his chest; then, just before the back of his blade — and the tip of his opponent’s — could come to a rest against his chest, Tarin lifted his right foot and kicked it at his opponent’s thoracic diaphragm.

Aeris, of course, was sent stumbling backward — albeit quite quickly — as Tarin took to preparing himself. Three steps was all it took. With both hands, he gripped the leathery hilt of his blade as he rushed his opponent. As he raised it, clear above his head, the dying light of the sun caught its edge… an effect that found itself erased once he powerfully lowered his weapon.

In masterfulness, he raised his katana to parry his opponent’s strike — with just one hand, Aeris had halted its progression. Though this was surprising to Tarin, Alistair stood unfazed: silently praying for his apprentice’s success. The two rivals struggled to move their own blade toward the other, as evidenced by the violent shaking both weapons had been subjected to.

Before Tarin could act, Aeris gently — and just as calm as his other actions —, placed the palm of his right hand against the back of his blade. The instant before his opponent’s muscles tensed, so that he may remove the blade from his own, Aeris rocked his blade to the right: catching its side along the guard of his hilt.

Without much effort, he dispossessed Tarin of his blade, throwing it aside as he cast his foot upward; the front of his boot met the side of his head, and sent him to the ground with a terrible crash. Blood began to trickle from his head as he lay there, unconscious: unguarded.

Without intent of mercy nor caution, he strode to his side… without a word, nor a huff or a puff he turned his blade downward above the man’s skull. He began, in a gritted grunt, to thrust its metal toward its target… but, was stopped just short of the point of contact — by a large, bare hand; blood dripped down its edge as it shook in struggle of continuance.

The skin on Alistair’s left hand had turned a gentle grey, a point of interest Aeris noticed just before his blade shattered at the point of contact. Its tip had fallen upon his apprentice’s cheek, knicking it softly, while the rest had become like dust beneath his fingers… a powdery silver: glinting and glittering about the minimal light as it fluttered about the air.

“Alistair… what promise granted you your powers?”

Befallen his face, a look had… one that found its refuge in his eyes as it settled into them; it was something invisible to his old friend: hollowed and dulled, indicative of his shame and regret. “They took that which they desired,” the sudden, devastating realization of each of the not-so-recent enlightenments had subtly interwoven itself into each of his words.

With no additional remarks, Aeris witnessed a smoke similar to that of Tarin’s: and, in his right grasp now lay a cutlass; its visage shown a weapon weathered by the many facets of life — the good and the terrible. With but a second having passed, he struck with fury.

This was a strike that was quite easily dodged by Aeris, who had simply turned away in a spinning fashion, maneuvering himself around the blade’s sweep. In such a maneuver, the katana swapped between his hands just once. The instant he was absolutely positive it had found security in its new grasp, his evasion halted; his left arm, though, carried on until the palm had brushed against his opponent’s blade. Once he felt that metal, both hot and cold, against his skin, he clamped it shut with more force than one would think possible.

Without a sense of insecurity — without hesitation — he held the blade in such a position that it would most assuredly pierce the spongiest portion of his old friend’s neck. Thankfully, he wasn’t the only one to think quick on his feet. To brace for the impact, he pounded his left arm once against the opposite shoulder: his hand balled into a fist. Regret sustained his vision as he moved in wait.

He came to a stop with his chest, and blade, against Alistair’s forearm… a few drops of blood escaping his fresh, lengthy wound. With a single grunt, he unfolded his arm in a mighty fashion, to force his foe away… but, only enough to give himself space. Just before Aeris could lose his footing, Alistair gripped his cutlass’ hilt with both hands as he swung it horizontally.

With a nominal amount of strength behind his swing, Aeris was helpless to do anything but follow along with his wishes. In a circular fashion, he dragged his opponent so that his feet never left the ground; dirt plumed behind him along that path of involuntary desire, over and over again. Thrice he circled his opponent, with his speed having increased each pass.

The first two times, Alistair had remained alike a statue: resolute, determined, unwavering. But, on that third, his strength began to falter: his blade began to shake, began to wobble, up and down. With that, Aeris mentally prepared himself for whatever may come next.

With a exertive bellow — a thunderous, lionous roar — Alistair bent his knees in slightness as he swung the man in a direction away from his apprentice. With momentum, and his weight, he was forced from the blade; yet, he moved no more than five feet, at most. His plan had failed.

Immediately, just after he had come to a stop, he bolted toward Alistair: unaffected by his opponent’s attempts at disorientation. A few steps was all it took before he had returned to a battle distance. His first strike was a punch, which Alistair dodged by a minimalistic movement of his head to his right; the second, to follow it up, was an immediate thrust downward. It disarmed him, but hadn’t harmed him in the way he wished it would.

He stepped backward as Aeris’ laid his palm upon the ground, to allow himself to kick at his opponent with both of his legs. Due to the quickness of his opponent’s reflexes, Alistair could do naught but brace for the impact. After a single second of hesitation, he threw his right arm and caught the attack just in time: it nearly shattered his forearm.

Promptly, he hooked his arm around Aeris’ shin, pinning it as he took the offensive; with his left hand, open palmed, he began to strike repeatedly at his knee. In an attempt to break free, Aeris thought to swipe at him with his blade… but, the fear of his katana being shattered any further dissuaded him from pursuing such a venue. Thus, he tossed it aside and began to strike at him with his right fist.

He was allowed to land a few attacks against his elderly opponent — namely against the various portions of the left side of his face —, but, he had always been returned such violence. Three strikes in, and Aeris had sufficiently bloodied his opponent’s face; a bloodied lip, a broken eye socket and cheekbone, and three separately large bruises half-masked his face.

Finally, on what must have been his opponent’s twelfth strike upon his face, Alistair raised his left hand, to catch his adversary’s fist. Having now been rendered helpless, Aeris was brought closer… to meet his opponent’s head with his own. It was his chin that first met his old friend’s forehead, with his nose being the second; the ear-splitting noises alone would have wrenched any witness’ stomach: thick skulls cracking against one another.

This was perhaps the first time in his existence — at least, the first since that fated night, when he met the man before him — that Aeris felt frightened, that he felt a battle too hectic… and with good reason. While Alistair had moved with the strength and force, the madness, of an angered beast, he brought with him — in each movement, no matter how miniscule — the swiftness of a man far more suited for a life of a professional messenger. Over and over and over again, his skull collided with the younger man’s… and he left them both bloody: his own forehead, and his old friend’s nose and lips.

He ventured for a eighth strike, in the hopes to inflict even more damage, but it seemed Aeris had had enough. With a single scream of angered desperation, he threw himself away from his opponent by use of his aerial powers; he cared not for the power or force of such a gust, all that concerned him was the removal of himself from that disturbing predicament.

While Aeris had sent himself about twenty feet away — with three of those having been travelled, lowly, through the air — Alistair had been sent into the dilapidated wall of stone behind him; it cracked with the anger of a thousand forces, and he fell to the ground immediately beneath him: his back still upon the stone that remained. And, he sat there, motionless as Aeris completed the last of his impromptu journey rolling, quite violently, across the ground.

That upon him which took the brunt of each of the impacts were his arms and ribs — both of which, while thankfully not broken, were left battered and bruised; Alistair, meanwhile, had been left with a severe back injury, one that left him in utter pain with each movement taken: large and small. Yet, even this didn’t stop them… it hadn’t impeded them, even in the slightest as they picked themselves up quite quickly — inhumanly so, given their injuries.

Given the circumstance, it was unsurprising that Aeris was the first to take action. He charged his opponent with his hand held outward, to his side. For a few quick steps, nothing happened… but, ten feet away from his target, his blade began to gently shake. Five feet away, as Alistair raised his fists, his katana began its spin through the air — its hilt finding security in his palm as he jumped high into the air.

In this very momentary window he had been given, Alistair took to his preparations; his cutlass disappeared into that grey smoke it previously appeared from, and had found comfort, once more, in the palm of his right hand, just as his fingers began to tighten: doing so around its grip. Then, he waited for the distance between them to shrink. His sight never broke from his foe, and he moved nary a muscle before he felt it expedient to.

The moment had finally come, to lift his blade — to strike at his opponent —… but, something odd transpired, something that had come between the two adversaries. Tarin had finally regained consciousness. In a swiftness he rarely exerted, he sprinted to tackle Alistair: throwing him across the way, to the fountain. Then, without a look, he spun himself around and caught the Aeris’ boot with his left hand. 

The sole of the leather landed against his palm in an almost negated fashion: a faint noise and little physical kickback; it was, quite simply, an action that just happened to have happened. And, before the airborne man could come to terms with what transpired, Tarin was able to swiftly force his right hand’ neath his calf; higher into the air, he raised him… and like a rug, he slammed him against the ground with every ounce of strength his body could muster. It cracked the ground monstrously, and drew bloody coughs from his mouth, not to mention it ripped his blade from his hand once more. 

For a few moments, he was without the determination to move — to power through that unimaginable pain. Once he was able to move himself, though — as sloth-like as possible —, he, rather simply, turned himself over. His bloodied back became exposed: his skin just as disturbed as the crater he was, currently, removing himself from.

Alistair’s roll had come to an end — a halting assisted by the base of the fountain —, as he groaned and placed his hand upon the porcelain beside him: he found it neither cracked or splintered by his unwilling violence. He stood as quick as possible, as he heard incessant chatterings of a voice ramble on in his head; this voice was just loud enough to prevent him from ridding himself of it, but wasn’t so loud that he would want to take such an action against it.

The words within his mind consisted chiefly of the tales and memories he had forgotten throughout his years; they entered his mind, and quickly left: over and over again, just as they entered. This was his apprentice’s attempt to instill, back into him, the sense of home he had forgotten: an idea Tarin had desperately wished would work — so that he could leave this awful world behind and once more come to know happiness. And, it began to.

The memories were too weak to remain: their existence too fragile to thrive past more than a few seconds. With a focus upon these comings and goings of remembrances pained him terribly-so; he was able to see — in fullness — his wife and children as he last remembered them… but, with each slip of thought, those memories distanced themselves once more from him. He sat in total helplessness as the wheel of recollections continued its endless turning… then, just as the pain had become its deepest, he began to feel it.

After what must have been the thousandth retelling — within three seconds — those memories began to remain longer. The water contained within that basin started to beckon him forth… through the gateway that had, now, made itself known to him; it ebbed and flowed in synchronization with the memories as they came and went.

A terrible redness flooded Aeris’ face as he withheld the desire to scream in his agony; despite his pain, he persisted in his quest to stop those two desperate men. He knew his opponent stood beside him, but was all too oblivious to the actions of the other… and, with but a glance, he could see Alistair looking into the water. He could feel something had turned for the worse.

“That was quite clever of you, Tarin,” he strained in his speech.

“Aeris… stay down.” His words dripped with his cocky confidence.

A few dense chuckles left his throat as he calmly placed both of his palms onto the ground; as he laid there, motionless, Alistair dipped his hand into the pool before him: his arm sinking inchingly downward, through the resistance the fountain provided. Before the water could reach even his elbow, a ferocious series of winds began to pulsate from Aeris’ body. The first of the series stumbled Tarin backward an inch or two and arose a sense of caution within him; the second, however — the one that came immediately before he could warn Alistair to dive deep —, threw him back a good five feet and held him there alike chains attached to the floor.

From his windy prison, Tarin was forced to watch his opponent ascend into the sky until no part of him touched the dirt below; a foot above the ground, he hovered: his sights glued to Alistair, whose presence had finally been accepted by the gateway. Misfortune upon him, as his shoulder had finally become soaked, Aeris shot his hand forward and dragged him, by the waist, away from the realization of his life’s hopes: his deepest dreams, once well-known to him. He did so with a tear in his eye.

As he was torn from that which he desired most, he screamed in defiance. “No, no, no, no, no!” that was all he could spout as he made his attempts to grab ahold of something: almost as if the processes of his mind had halted. Three feet was all it took before his movements had become wild: rapid and aimless; he even made attempts to walk against the current. After ten feet, he threw his right hand above his head and thrust them into the ground, into the between of the stones. And with a violent jerk, he stopped.

The rage of the wind heightened as his opponent noticed this, but it was in regardlessness as Alistair began to use all of the strength available to pull himself along. With each passage of ten seconds, he was able to further his progress a single stone… about five inches. Behind him, he left a trail of blood and stoney dust, and though it was torture to dig again and again, he continued to do so… with those cyclical memories gifted to him giving him the strength necessary. It had taken him a full three minutes before he was, once more, returned to the fountain’s grace.

“No,” Aeris spoke, almost demonically, as his eyes began to glow a bright white, and the power of the flurries peaked.

Everything around them — even nature itself — began to buckle under the weight of such a force; the walls began to crumble, nearly to dust, both men’s bodies were pressed so dreadfully into the ground that it began to crack and bow to accommodate their increasing weight… even the fountain had become affected: its waters splashed about. A single momentary look allowed Alistair to see its foundation begin its deterioration.

In all his might, Tarin forced his body to as much of a standing position as he could be allowed. “Please,” he began in his efforts to reason with the man, “Aeris, let him be!”

“It can’t be allowed…” His voice was gritted, distant, exhausted… and, yet, divine.

“I beg of you!” Alistair shouted as he began to see cracks begin their marathon within the porcelain.

“You know full well why it’s unallowed, Al—”

“She’ll understand…” he softly, despairingly, yelled to the younger man. “Please,” he said even gentler.

The wind relented slightly, both could feel it — almost as if the caster was too distracted by his conflicting emotions. Yet, just as the wind’s power had decreased, so, too, did that of his memories… they fell to the wayside, to allow his natural-born recollections a chance to shine through the fractures. But, they were not what he had hoped: they were incomplete.

Only the outlines remained after the finer details had been washed away. These sparse fractions were the general details, those that provided little in the way of permanence or sentimentality; these so-called “details” were the echoes of their laughters, the faintest impressions of their joyful excitements. These were all that were left to him of his memories of home… the abandoned bits from years ago.

Despite their limitations, each brought a brighter and more meaningful smile to his face; each had brought a warmth to him that was far more comforting than he could remember ever having experienced. None of this would do him any good, unfortunately… as the mystical waters of that hopeful landmark began to spill forth from its new weaknesses. And, as the damage deepened, he could feel that beckoning desire begin to fade.

Before it had disappeared entirely — that feeling now oh so dear to him — the wind ceased… something was wrong. It had been far too sudden a stop for such to have been the wishes of the caster. The void left behind as the calls faded into obscurity had been flooded with the singular sound of a crash some thirty-odd feet behind him: it was a disgustful, awful sound… one that made his stomach churn.

In disregard of the fountain’s welfare, he swiveled himself around. He saw Tarin as he stood over Aeris — and the tip of his sword through his chest; it was quite very clear this was the end for his dear old friend — whose pained words were capitalized with his unwillful showing of blood.

As he looked at the man afore him, through his hazy and increasingly-blurry vision, he choked out, “A-Al…”

“No…” he said under the guise of his breath, as he sat in shock, unable to move, “n-not this.” His words were as pained as the wound in his friend’s chest… an utterance even more stricken than that he had ever cast before: one of regret and apologeticness. Deep nausea befell him as he desperately began to wish he could dial back the clock: return it to long before everything that had transpired.

Aeris, meanwhile, continued to make attempts to speak, even as he realized words were no longer allotted to him: all that life left to him were the gurgled grunts that were indicative of just how little time remained; with every breath he took, a tad more of his life escaped. It took a few short, sharp breaths for his eyes to glaze over. And with his time nearing its end, he tried to think of something — anything at all — to let his old friend know of his forgiveness. He distressingly searched within himself for such a signal, with the world around him all quite unaware.

Within seconds, his life would be at its end; its coming was an inevitability: one that was much too quick for his liking. As more of his life drained from him, through that funnel Tarin had created, the one thing he concerned himself with was ensuring Alistair was left not blaming himself. And, as he looked to the man who had raised him — through the fog of his coming death — he finally understood how to achieve his fleeful dream.

He groaned in immense pain as he took the last, lingering opportunity to… nod. He hoped, with this gesture, his true intentions and feelings would shine through: that there exist no ill will within him, for anything he had ever done.

Each of the bobs came slower than the one preceding it; at first, a single second separated them. Then two. A few more thereafter, and his nodding had come to its expectedly sudden stop. His head hung low, his neck limp and almost free in movement… and the instant before he passed, a smile crept across his face: he had been happy, just to see the face of an old acquaintance… one last time.

For a few moments, nothing moved: neither Tarin, nor Alistair, nor nature herself. The first to move was the latter — a single gust brushed sorrowfully against their skin; it was slow, and somewhat drifting, and it had lingered longer than it should have. But, once it had left, to travel elsewhere, both men could feel its residual presence: the sadness it had carted along.

Once that remnant emotion had disappeared, Alistair was able to find the mental footing necessary to, finally, react. Swiftly, his feet carried him as he scurried alike a mouse; by the time Tarin had fallen to his knees, in full realization of what he’d done, Alistair had reached them both… yet, he seemed to care only about the one who lay on the ground.

As he looked down at the young man — his face lifeless, his eyes empty — his mind went blank, as he began attempts to rationalize this event. As both men sat in agonizing silence — in wait of Death’s appearance — Tarin’s grip on the hilt of his saber loosened gradually, until gravity had taken it from him.

Once Tarin had best come to terms with what had happened, his sight shifted to his bloodied hands. Expressionlessly, he stared at them, almost as if he wasn’t really there, mentally. Soon after — nothing longer than a mere moment — he began to physically react. He clamped shut his eyes as he softly placed the back of his left wrist against his lidded eye, and rocked it back and forth. Then, he froze: almost petrifically.

For a full minute, he sat entirely still — sixty seconds, with each fraction having been carried out in a crawling procession… then, his arms went limp. It was just after his left hand had returned to his side that his eyes opened; he was greeted by the sight of the blood that caked his hands. Shocked and frightened, he frantically scrubbed the palms of his hands against the sides of his pants in the hopes to wipe them clean. After he transferred the crimson to his pants — and permanently stained the fibers in the process — he looked to his palms again, only to find them and his fingers appropriately stained.

Meanwhile — whilst Tarin carried on in his commotion — Alistair regained his cognitive functions: he regained the ability to process information. For a moment, he refused to accept Aeris’ death… but, once that initiality had passed, he solemnly slid two of his fingers over his eyes, to shut them: to ensure him a peaceful eternal rest. His rage seethed below the surface as he laid his body down, gently, and walked to the emotionally frenzied man.

As he approached, Tarin had already begun to rock back and forth… almost broken-like. “Why?” his elderly friend asked, with a hint of his anger frogged in his throat. But, he received no answer… no response apart from mindless babbles that were almost obviously a coping mechanism for the young man. He asked the question again as he grabbed at his wrists: this time, both more sternly.

“I… I thought,” he began as they both heard a cracking sound from just a bit away, “I thought he would stop me…”

“S-stop you?” he asked as their eyes met… and he could see distraughtness and horror lay behind them.

“That… that he would focus on me. I just wanted to give you the chance to leave, to get back to your family.”

His grip loosened just a bit, “It… those were your memories, weren’t they?”

With a shaky nod, he replied, “I… I’m so sorry…”

The grip with which he held his friend’s wrists loosened almost entirely as he nodded, just as his late friend had: to show him he understood. The moment his head had become stilled, once again, he brought Tarin close, to hug him: to tell him it was going to be alright. He knew it was the most important thing he could do for him at the moment: to console him. Deep down, he wished he could react the way his body desperately wished to, the very way every synapse of his brain needed him to: through avenues of barbarism.

His mind envisioned him screaming in ferocity… it saw him incessantly punching the bricks beneath their feet in his fit of rage: bloodying his hands even further. But, he knew that would bring about nothing. So, he sat there with his friend in need, and let him deal with everything. That’s when he began to cry into his shoulder; his cries rang all too hollow in these decrepit halls… no one but them able to bear witness to such vulnerability… until She descended, that is.

Her presence, as has always been depicted, was blinding and white-robed; even so, they were saddeningly unaware. In quietness — a serenity like none other — she descended, amidst the beams of the violet moon — and her tears of gold fell to her child’s corpse all the same. With the most ginger of touches, she pulled at her child’s corpse; it had given no resistance to her loving grasp as it willingly accepted her desire as its own. 

Her tranquility and care echoed through her touches as she guided his soul into the heavens above; together, they left behind the coldening sadness that was his body: its blood having stopped its flow, now. At the start of her reascension — with her son’s spirit within her arms — Tarin finally opened his eyes… to be inadvertently greeted by her beauty: those golden-laced tears still escaping through the lids she had forced shut, in her attempts to hold them back.

“A-Alistair…” he whispered in awe: fixated by her visage.

Naturally confused, he swiveled to look at that which he had been guided to; unfortunately, he was only allowed to catch the very last second of her presence: that one, drawn out moment just before a flash of lightning ripped through the sky. Once the lightning had faded — the void of thunder, too — they were left in the silence of their own ponderance.

Once they had both come to their senses, they found themselves witnesses of the morosely winsome sight of the decomposition of Aeris’ body. The ground swallowed his carcass whole as flowers bloomed in its place: a warm signal of his welcome home; where there was once death, now existed life: a purple bed of florae began to sprout, and before long, they had blossomed into their utmost maturity. Within minutes, the creatures of the night — fireflies and the like — began their congregation.

As Tarin wiped his eyes of the tears, one last droplet breached both their eyes — a smile appeared upon their faces. For the next hour, they sat their as they were as they thought back on it all; Alistair’s thoughts were, chiefly, those of the years he and Aeris had spent together — from when he was but a child, about the same age as Tarin had been when they first met to their indescribably painful departure so many years ago.

It was that last memory — that ill-fated battle that had left his friend so badly wounded — that received the most attention from him. Each playback pained him further, made him regret everything he’d done from that day forth — particularly in every encounter they’ve had since; yet, he gritted his teeth and endured the agony… all in his pursuit for the truth. He needed to know where it had all gone wrong.

While their minds searched through their memories, the scene before them changed — quite drastically, in fact. Their eyes caught on. Gradually, they came to, and felt something amiss, but even with a good amount of searching, they still found themselves at a loss as to what it was. It wasn’t until a large amount of the fireflies present — almost as if by order — travelled away from the flower patch that they finally realized what had fallen out of sorts — the purple pillar: the wind signifier.

From a purple that erred on the lighter side of the spectrum, it had devolved to a blackness rarely seen, and had nearly crumbled to nothingness: it, like Aeris, had become deceased. But, the avatar of the Air Spirit had been just one of the many fallen — victims who lay behind him in Alistair’s quest to return home.

For the next few hours, they stood almost entirely still atop that mountain. The sounds of nature accompanied them as they waited for the day’s presence to return for the hours the night needed to rest.

— Chapter Three: Lasting Effects —

Theodore had grown to be quite the handsome young man, who had — after a bit of searching — found the love of his life… his wonderful wife, Claire: a woman from the United States, with olive skin, light brown hair, and blue eyes; she had come to his home country in hopes of helping those afflicted with their permanent reminders of war. Theodore, meanwhile was a man who looked very much like his father: red, curled hair, wide jaw, and two strikingly blue eyes. Freckles lined his skin, a covering that, while tanned, was still quite noticeably pale.

On this particularly pleasant springtime day — in the midst of March — they were able to spend time together; it had been too long a time since they had been able. They sat down at their table, in their comfortable, white kitchen, after having made a large breakfast: the specifics of which were lost on him, oddly enough. She was dressed in a pink robe, with a white shirt beneath, while he had been dressed in white pajama pants with a grey shirt.

While they ate their breakfast, their conversation consisted of whatever it is that had come to their minds; it was only natural that, from there, they found themselves having transitioned to talking of their plans for the coming Summer. It was something they had been planning for a while, but their lives hadn’t allowed for it until now.

She expressed her desire for him to travel to the States with her, to visit her family and help them move somewhere closer; there was an issue he held with this, though, and he couldn’t explain why. He wanted to say yes, but something held him back. Naturally, she began attempts to convince him to change his mind — about how it’s something love requires of him (she knew to appeal to the romantic in him). It would have worked, too, had it not been for his mind busying itself elsewhere.

She was able to collect his thoughts, so as to consider her above all else at the moment — something she was quite adept it, with his thoughtlessness being more of a trait than a happenstance, nowadays. It wasn’t long thereafter, though, that his mind returned to that state once again. Again and again, his attention with the subject at hand wore thin, until she had grown tired of being such a gatherer; so, it was there she waited, with a loving smile, drowned in absolute silence.

For a little while, he was lost in thought: random little sparks of the imagination, ones that sparked the daydreams that fueled his career. But, once he began to notice something was amiss, he returned to the real world. Her face remained the same — patient, with a facade of love — but her identity had begun to slip through the cracks.

Once she noticed he was once again attentive — the erratic movements of his eyes, followed by a sudden stillness upon her; the movements of his finger: movements that indicated liveliness — she continued on from where she had left off. And, as she did so, he focused upon her face… unfamiliar, yet oh so lovely.

Her name was absent from his mind, and remained so as she droned on with her hopes that he would come to an agreement with her. For minutes, he tried to remember her name, but continued to be evasive… and, as soon as he had begun to remember it, her words ceased — or, at least, they fell on his deafened ears.

For a few seconds, he sat in wait for her beauteous sound to return: in the hopes that it was a momentary slip-up. Right before his very eyes, she vanished… though her words had returned.

“C… Claire?” he called out to her. Happily, he received an answer.

“Is everything alright, Theo?”

“W-where are you?”

She giggled nervously, “I’m right here, silly… can’t you see me?”

Before he could answer her, the soft echo of her voice dropped away entirely… as the world around him quite literally melted away: like that of wax. He was left all alone, on that wooden chair, in a bubble of utmost darkness; dismay descended upon him as he frantically scurried his vision about his surroundings. The next to leave him was his chair.

He landed hard against the floor within that blackness, and in a fit of fear, he turned himself over, to his hands and knees. In rapid succession, he continued to turn his head in obligation of his erratic vision’s wants. That crushing darkness became too much for him to handle, and in a desperation he’s never shown previously, he began his clamber amidst the aimlessness: his hands unable to grasp onto any sort of holdings before him, his feet unallowed to find traction.

In disorientation, he stood as well he could and walked cluelessly in as straight a line as possible. For what felt like hours, he slogged onward, yet found he was no nearer to an exit from this confounding place than when he first began. His feet stopped as he turned himself around, hoping to find any sort of sign that could have pointed him in the right direction.

Without success, he paused his rotations, and took a few deep breaths… before he took off running: sprinting as tiredly as he could. Nothing could stop him, he felt: not even the weight of the nothingness that tugged at his heels; both appendages had started to grow sluggish — more and more so, the harder he pushed himself. With every ounce more placed behind said force, he exerted himself even more.

This hadn’t impeded his progress, though — he simply placed more effort and strength behind each step. Slower and slower, he became, until he found his movements had slowed to a stop — just as he collapsed to his knees, in fact. His breath was nonexistent, and he was exhausted… with naught to do, he wanted to scream. Yet, it was even in this that he found a sick misfortune… one of only silence: a state perpetuated by the sense of a waterless drowning that had quietly settled in, in discomfort.

He strained to move his arms, to carry himself forward, but his arms failed to do so. Between his fingers sat a pool of, what felt like, quicksand: a collection of particles that assisted his downfall. The more he struggled to free himself from this nightmare, the faster his descent into that unknown became. Thus, he ceased the movements of even his smallest muscles.

The pit ‘neath him continued to swallow him whole as he allowed it: breathless… still conscious. It felt like hours before the jaws of the “sand” had reached his own — and he soberly accepted his fate. With its prey now tolerant to the fact of its existence, the pit quickened the pace at which it swallowed him; he closed his eyes and waited for the end.

In a disgusting, huffing, cold-sweated mess, he sat up in his bed. Distress thrashed about within the core of his being he looked to his side and found himself alone, in relative darkness. The frightness that had afflicted him — those damaging thoughts of her abandonment — slowly began to slither into the back of his mind as he placed his hand down, into the emptiness vacant of her essence. It was unsettlingly cold: removed of her scent.

His heart continued its racing as his mind marathoned through the plethora of thoughts of the reasons that could have fueled her desire to leave him. With a careful grasp, he held the sheet: his fingers as cold and wet as the rest of his skin; those thoughts continued their run as his grip tightened and his eyes closed — as he sat on the verge of tears. Then, he heard a soft commotion from below. A moan had escaped her lips — one slightly more sensual than usual — as she stretched her arms above her head.

Quickly, he bound out of bed, still dressed in his pajama bottoms — a blue, silk-like fabric that conformed loosely upon his legs — and sprinted down the stairs: almost carelessly so. With his feet touching the bottom of the staircase, he came to a halt, so as to hear her actions much more clearly. She had been reading the tuesday newspaper while she sipped from her cup of freshly made black tea; he could hear the paper’s turn and the clinking of the cup against the plate underneath it.

Slowly, now, he walked into the kitchen — very tiptoe-like — and peered around the corner of the wall. He caught a glimpse of her in the midst of a sip — from her cup, still steaming — whilst dressed much more conservatively than he: in a full set of pajamas. The very sight of her made him smile, thankful that she was still around. Still, he stood, to watch her continue on in her activities: her lengthy brown hair sat careless of its place upon her back, and the very thin strings of light that shone through the cracks of the curtains of the window afar from her lightly graced her skin.

His heart refused to calm itself, as had his mind, the entire time he watched her; half a minute passed, and it had only just begun to return to normal. For some reason he was unaware of, she stopped her reading to look over to him. Like he, the very sight of him made her smile: albeit, partially due to his bed head.

“Hi,” she said, her voice still full of sleep.

His reply consisted only of a smile similar to hers: one full of love and joy; his had also contained an air of relief that she picked up on without difficulty.

“Come sit down, honey,” she began as she gently tapped the table in front of the open seat to her right with the whole of her hand, “I made enough for us both.” He nodded, as was natural for him, as he started toward the cupboards to his left. Yet, he made it only a few steps before she stopped him, “No, no, mister, you take your seat. I’ll get the cup, you relax: you need it.”

With a chuckle, he responded, “I just woke up, Claire.” His voice was wavering: a shaky mess still full of uncertainty.

She led him to the chair and sat him down as she thought aloud, “A night full of quiverings and nightmares… that doesn’t sound very relaxing to me.” Then, she left his side with a kiss to his forehead.

They had inherited their home from his parents, when his mother was forced to live further into the countryside — where the air was cleaner, where it had that crackle of crispness that filled your lungs with each breath. The wooden floor beneath their feet had aged, so much so that with every step they took, they would be greeted by a creaking. But, those fibrous planks were not unique in their reaction to time… which was the exact reasoning behind Theodore’s wish for carpeting. Claire, on the other hand, longed for a constant remembrance of her childhood home: thus, they came to a compromise.

Once through the front door, one — perhaps a visitor of some sorts — would find themselves in a darkened hall; just three steps forward, and they would find the stairway to the upper level to their left. A few steps more, to the right, sat the kitchen’s entryway: an almost spotless room that would bring thoughts of sterility to mind; everything was just so… white. Above him now sat a pale, gritted white ceiling — the same that stretched all throughout their home; around him sat those white cupboards, and beside him, a simple maplewood table, with those four similarly materialed chairs.

In attempts to calm himself further, he closed his eyes… to no avail: his nightmare reared its ugly head against the black of his lids. He nearly threw open his eyes as his heart quickened its pace once more: his mind pained him, nearly to tears. But, just as his lids began to shake, the sound of teas plashing against the bottom of the cup upon the counter echoed in his mind much like a ripple atop the surface of a lake, with each drop falling against all others before it. It was in this moment that he felt serene, that the whole world could have left him behind and it wouldn’t have bothered him a bit… she was there, and that was all that mattered.

She flooded his mind — images of her, at least — and illuminated his mind. Bit by bit, she continued her conquest to drive away the horror trapped in him, and he remained sightless until she had succeeded: until she was all his mind had concerned itself with. It was no easy feat — it was even one that she was unaware of — but, once it had been done, he opened his eyes to find that cup set upon the tabletop. 

As he stared at the cup in front of him, she took a position behind him: her steps as soft as her heavenly voice. His eyes found themselves entranced by the steam rising from the tea — green, his favorite — as he felt the lightness of her hands as they grazed his cheeks. Before he could take a sip from it, she tilted his head back.

Her lips touched the center of his forehead, and cemented her position in his mind for the foreseeable future; it was a soft kiss, one full of grace and love. The saltiness of the residue of his sweat was of no concern to her as her lips lingered there: her kiss unbroken. After four seconds, she slowly broke her lips’ contact with his skin as she softly spoke, “Enjoy your tea, sweetie.”

For the next few tens of minutes, they sat and conversed quite like they had in his nightmare, yet it was more pleasant and pleasurable for him now; it was something they hadn’t been able to do in too long. She brought up the events of her days at work while he brought up his ideas for the multitude of stories he’d thought up; this was just one more resentment he had inherited from his father: a natural affinity for the elegant crafting of prose.

They both felt relaxed and stress free, having been able to sit down and chat with one another without the interference her work life usually brought with it. But, what would have  been half way through one of his portions of the conversations, something caught his eye. It had been lying upon the table, on the corner farthest to his right… a package — a leather briefcase. “What’s that?” he asked immediately before he sipped his tea.

“What’s… what?” She was genuinely curious as to what he meant, as she had forgotten about the package they’d received just an hour before he woke. Without breaking his oral seal, he pointed with his unoccupied hand. “Oh,” she sighed, “that came early on this morning. I’m actually surprised you were able to stay asleep… the delivery man woke me up with his awful ruckus.”

As he stood, his chair slid backward — the wood jutted across the tile; “Who forgot your birthday this year?” he asked as he walked to the package and grabbed it up.

She laughed, as he hoped she would, but was quick to correct him. “It isn’t for me… it’s actually for you.”

“Strange…”

“I thought so, too. Particularly about the man who delivered it: his voice was a bit… ghostly, almost as if it was there but… distant.”

“Oh?” asked he as he turned the leather case around in his hands, looking, now, at its front. It looked a normal, rather admittedly boring, briefcase to him — with absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. But, this perception of his started to shift once his thumb grazed the few indentations upon the buckle of the clasp: and it showed.

With his hesitation, after realizing what it was that he had just touched, she quickly spoke further. “I… I took a look inside — I know I shouldn’t’ve, seeing how it’s your package and all — but I was just so curious about who sent it. I just couldn’t help myself…”

“Claire…”

“I know, I know…” She seemed a bit down: like a child who knew what she’d done was wrong.

“You really shouldn’t tell people you’ve gone through their postage… at least keep your felonious deeds a secret,” he said in softness, with a smirk.

She returned such a contortion of the lips as she continued. “Well, at least I know who sent it, now.”

“My father…” His voice was full of the resentful contempt he’d long held in regards to such a man: the disgusting feelings of abandonment resurfaced, even. “Long ago — I must have been, about, twelve — I spent all the night before his birthday carving away at the buckle of the briefcase we’d bought him,” he paused to tighten his grip upon their sides. “Right into the buckle of the base, right here… they’re faint as all hell, but they’re most assuredly still there: D. A. D. I wanted him to treasure this even more than he may have otherwise… all the good it did,” he scoffed.

The regret in his voice — the sense of unwantedness — was all too present in his voice. “Maybe… maybe this is a good thing?”

“I don’t know, Claire… this just seems like yet another thing he abandoned, discarded… thought less than nothing of.”

“D-do you know, for sure, that this belonged to him?”

“Absolutely positive,” he returned as he slumped back into the chair he rose from previously. For the next few seconds, he sat there, unmoved, as thoughts from he thought back on the memories of his childhood.

Chief amongst them — those that played again and again — were those of the morning, wherein they learned his leave. Strangely enough, these memories lacked the pain they usually carried with them: this time, they seemed to have been events that never actually happened (almost as if they were, simply, something he had read about).

With him obviously distracted by the innerworkings of his mind, Claire moved as close to him as possible, while retaining her seat upon the chair — and laid her hand over his. “If you want to chuck the case, I’d understand.”

“What are you on about?” He was confused by her assertion.

“We could… just forget it ever even came — just throw it away, tell your father (at least, in some sense) that he hold no regard in your life: that he can never dictate your life ever again.”

With a smile, he looked, again, to the case; thoughts of how to next proceed found themselves placed before him. Ultimately, he decided against his best interests, “We should at the very least see what’s in it.”

Mystery and anxiety plumed around him as his fingers shakingly moved that thin flap up and around the back of the bulk of the case; within, he found an immediate blackness — one of infinite possibility. As Claire sunk her teeth nervously into her bottom lip, he reached inside the compartment wherein his true gift lay.

With his eyes having fallen upon the papers — their edges foxed and just barely jagged — he could feel his heart stop beating for a split moment. It wasn’t just him, though: she could feel the atmosphere thicken in biting discomfort; even the sounds around them seemed to have been drowned in the anticipation.

“...his manuscript,” he mumbled as he looked over the first page, his eyes having glazed over the first mention of one of the characters his father had created.

“So, he was a writer?” she asked, even though she had seen the pages for herself.

“Yeah,” he said, softly. “Nearly drove him mad…”

Her hand rubbed the length of his left arm, as far as she could reach, as she looked to the leather in his palms. “What do you think he wants you to do with it?”

With a sigh — deep and reserved — he placed the case atop the table; with his face in his hands, he uttered these next words: each full of the frustration he felt, “I honestly haven’t the faintest idea…”

Both sat in the silence neither preferred as she looked on at him. He looked so put down, it physically ailed her: her heart beats continued their drummings in wailing sorrow. But, before she could tear up, she stood from her seat and wiped the beginnings of her tears away. “Well,” his love began, “you shouldn’t have to worry yourself with this. Go get showered, take your mind off this, I’ll clean up, okay?”

With another sigh, and a surprising smile, he nodded and started his hands towards the handle of the briefcase. But, before the skin of the tips of his fingers could touch that wrinkled leather, she quickly grabbed it up with somewhat of a bubbly attitude. “We-well, give it to me so I can put it away…”

“Ah, ah, ah,” she cooed, “if you get this back, you’ll just read through it.”

He held his right hand up as he gently shook his head, “Honestly.”

She chuckled just a bit, “No… and that’s final, alright, mister? Now, get upstairs… there’s no time for playing around today.”

With a sigh, he relented, and took his first step toward the entrance of the kitchen. Back through the darkened hall, and up the stairs, his footsteps softened until they had become almost silent to her. She sort of meandered about in the kitchen, sluggish in the duties she had taken upon herself, until she heard the shower’s water first rush against the bathtub’s floor.

With a smile, and a quick thought, she brought the briefcase upstairs, in the closeted archives opposite their bedroom. Behind that door — rarely opened — sat a narrow path, ‘tween two shelves, each with many compartments: much like the “cubbies” one would find in an academy of education suited best for young children.

This special room lay behind just one of five doors. In order, from left to right, sat: the door for the bathroom (which contained a hexagonal-tiled floor, a clawfoot bathtub, and a pricey porcelain toilet); the archival room; Claire’s study (a cozy room Theodore had built for his wife, she who loved books of all kinds), and the two bedrooms — the rightmost one (that which sat just beside the staircase) being the master bedroom: the last, to its left, was the spare, for the guests.

With her entrance through the door she’d chosen — where vital documents were stored — came a grand compulsion that washed over her. More and more, rather than wanting to place it away — to keep it in the safest of places for him to come back to it — she felt a need to peruse those many, many pages.

This compulsion paused her, only two steps into that room of isolation… and it forced her into the study the room over. Inside sat a fireplace that had been sandwiched between two large library-style bookcases — each shelf lined to its fullest with the differing colors of the spines of those many different books.

She read all the greatest authors you would hear most talk of, but her favorite was one who received relatively little recognition in the world of literature: Theodore Clairemont. Most of her friends called her biased, or accused her of favoritism due to the fact that he was her lover, but she genuinely loved the way he crafted his stories — the fabric of his structure. It was actually one of the things she loved about him most.

In the almost exact center of the room — a good deal away from the fireplace — sat a fluffy white carpet, surrounded by the darkness of the maple wood flooring; perched atop that rug was a coffee table, with a white armchair about a foot before it. And it was in this piece of furniture — comfortable and secure — that she often lost hours: intrigued by the myriad of worlds before her, preserved forever in black ink and fibrous white.

The cushion of the chair sank as she sat herself down in it, and the table found itself beneath the briefcase, its flap still unhinged. In a quickness she often showed her newer books — and Theodore’s clothes — she tore out the pages; instantly, her eyes began to torture the pages for the spillage of their secrets. Before her, she found an entrancing world, full of wonders and magic and horrid romance. As she became lost in those pages, she felt at home with those the stories had followed.

As the sound of her turning the tenth page faded, she heard a sound from the doorway, “M-hmm.” With a quick turn of her head, she found her love, Theodore, with his left shoulder against the door mold, dressed in just his towel. “And, I’m the one who needed to be kept away from it, eh?” he chuckled.

“S-shouldn’t you be getting ready?” she asked, hoping he would leave her to the story before her, even if for just half a page more.

“Oh, I’m done with my shower… have been for… five minutes, now? It’s your turn, love… that won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.”

With a whimper and a pout, she slumped along the room as he couldn’t help but smirk. Just before she closed the door to the bathroom, she thought to say something, “Oh, but I need a towel!” In her mind, she thought this was the most clever of ways to give herself more time to read another sentence or two.

But, her hopes were dashed as he turned to her in smugness, “You can use my towel when you’re ready. In you go.”

In full resignation, she closed the door in a sort of restricted anger. Once he heard that click, he took to the same manner of activities she had, until the water began rushing forth. With his one hand gripping the top of the towel still around his waist, he moved to the briefcase and grabbed it with his free hand: he wished to place it elsewhere, to keep her free of distractions until much later in the day. Thus, he brought it to their room: its door having sat at the bottom left corner of the room.

His footsteps, once audibly relieved of any constraints, found themselves quite muffled by the thick brown carpet of their bedroom: this was the one room he had had a greater deal more say over.  Against the wall to his left — the relative top of the room — was their queen sized mattress, sided eitherly by two oaky end tables, one of which sat beneath a very basic lamp. To his right, just before the closet immediately beside the large faced windows (those that in the wall furthest from the door) sat the desk his parents once owned.

He had come to a halt in front of the desk, and it was upon this wooden furniture that he laid it. He was comfortable with leaving it exactly as is — crooked and overturned — but, as the leather squeaked across the smooth surface of the desk, that very same compulsion his wife had felt overtook him. His eyes became drawn to the case, transfixed by its otherworldly property… it seemed to have called to him. Before he could do anything, though, she called out to him in a drawn out fashion, “Honey.”

“O-one moment,” he returned without removing his eyes from that artifact of his past. For a second or two, he continued to stare as his mind became clouded by its speech; with a close of his eyes, and a shake of his head, he broke free from the trance that had come over him… it helped that she had, again, called out to him.

Quickly, he put on his underwear and gave her the towel, with just a hint of her naked body given to him before she could cover herself with the towel. “Go on,” she said to him with a shooing of her hand, “go get dressed: they’ll be here any minute.”

Without an additional word, they both walked to their bedroom to dress themselves. They dressed quite similarly, both in black: a knee length dress and gloves for Claire, and a dress outfit for Theodore, with a pure white shirt beneath. She, naturally, had finished before he had — as she had less to put on than he — and left him with a kiss, before she descended those darkened stairs.

After a few more minutes — he had found difficulty with his tie — he joined her in the living room, with a quick stop at the bottom of the stairs to slip on his black leather shoes. She hadn’t noticed his entrance into the room and remained busy with whatever it was, as he made himself useful to ensure the room was as clean as can be for the guests: polishing the wood and dusting the glass.

In the middle of it all, though, she moved a step to her right — in her shiny black flats —, and his eye caught the portrait she had procured and propped up in the most open area of the room. Awestruck, he walked to it, nearly in tears. Past the two couches — both tailored with tanned cloth —, and unaffected by the bright rays of the sun shining through the three windows, he strode: his sight unbroken.

Beside his doting wife, there he stood, unable to keep himself from looking to the woman’s smile. It was a picture of his mother… an in memoriam. She had — still unbelievably — passed on a few days prior… and left him with a wound all too familiar. Although, unlike with his father, he knew her leaving was not of her own design.

Amidst the silence of his own mind, he was understandably lost in sadness; he could feel himself in the thick of his plunge into a lake of sorrow, a pool of such emotion he would have succumbed to were it not for the hand of the woman to his right. With her touch, he was brought back from the brink, to the world that actually surrounded him.

“You must still miss her…” she said as she, too, looked to the woman encased in paint. In quietness, they stood there, as she waited for him to respond; this was foolish of her, she ultimately thought to herself, considering his personality, and all of the time they’ve spent together. Thus, once she had found no such thing, she continued, “I’m sure she’s in a happier place… no pain, no illness: a place only dreams could create.”

He placed his arm around her back and hugged her close, “I know… thank you for this, Claire.”

A few minutes passed them by before the guests arrived: Theodore’s brother James (a blue eyed man who had been gifted — at least, in his own eyes — with a fat nose and mud-like hair), his current girlfriend Tara — a cute blonde with fair skin, and a… fondness for the color pink —, as well as a few elderly people whom had known their mother quite well. They were all dressed like their hosts: in relative blackness.

As the rest of the day dragged on, they all talked amongst themselves, they consoled each other, and the two hosts offered their shoulders for the perch of the tears of others. Midway through the afternoon, after one of the elderly women had left due to emotional exhaustion, Claire took to preparing a meal for them all: one of the only times such a duty had fallen upon her, rather than Theodore.

Once they had sat down, the mood of the gathering had shifted to a more somber tone. Whereas earlier it was a tad more upbeat, even with a sorrowful atmosphere, this felt like a dinner at a softly-lit restaurant: comfortable and laid back. Everything seemed to have been going well… until misfortune struck. One of the other guests had sneezed and spilled her plate all over… including over james.

“Shit,” he grunted as he moved for a napkin faster than his pudgy build should have allowed. “And I hadn’t brought a change of clothes!” He was obviously irate as he hoped the napkin would prevent the setting of a stain.

“There should be a spare outfit you could borrow, up in the closet in my bedroom,” said Theodore, as he quickly moved to the kitchen for a towel to dampen, so as to prevent a stain in their carpet.

With the two brothers going their separate ways, Claire and Tara took to comforting the woman who spilled her plate — his bout of anger had upset her. “I’m so sorry,” she said in her strained, saddened voice.

“No, no… shhh, it isn’t your fault,” Tara cooed as she rubbed her back.

“Not at all… I’m sure he was just… frustrated, is all,” Claire followed as Theodore returned, wettened towel in hand.

As James was guided through the home by the memories he still retained from his childhood, he couldn’t help but fall victim to nostalgia. The same creaky stairs, the same fresh smell of linens plagued the top of the stairs, and the bathroom looked quite like it did way back then. And, as his fingers found themselves lain upon the knob of his brother’s room, a certain memory came to him of his father disciplining him for entering their room without permission.

He barged through that door and quickly moved to the closet as he undid his tie; he did his best to contain himself as frustration and anger overcame him.

Thankfully, Theodore believed truly; the spare he spoke of was, regrettably, a little lengthier, and a tad tighter, than he was accustomed to, but he figured that was of little concern, with all considering. It was a more expensive three piece suit, schemed with colors just a tad brighter than the current occasion warranted… that being said, it was all too perfect for his upcoming shift at work.

He disrobed completely, right down to his underwear — which, thankfully, remained clean — and right as he placed one leg through his brother’s pants, he began to feel an odd sensation. It was one he never thought he would experience again: it clouded around the back of his mind and refused to leave until he acknowledged it. And he unwittingly did just that: his eye caught the shine of the sun off the metal of the clasp of the briefcase. 

It brought a sickly taste to the back of his throat as he felt his stomach drop. “It can’t be his,” he thought aloud to himself as he felt himself unable to move. Once the compulsion set in, though, he found himself moving to it without a will of his own to do so.

The old woman had finally calmed as Theodore finished cleaning up as much of the food as he could. “See? It’ll be fine — just a bit of a stain is all,” he told her. “Nothing a bit of seltzer water and a wire brush can’t fix!” Having seen him so jovial made her feel a lot less awful about her mishap.

“Theo…” James said, as he walked through the door mold, briefcase in hand.

As he responded, “Yes?” he turned to him… that’s when he saw the leather case. It was dread that painted his face, now: any sense of ease he may have held drained away in an instant.

“What’s this?” He expected an immediate answer, but received only silence. His brother had tensed up, frozen in search of an appropriate lie he could tell. “Theo?” he was quite evidently upset.

“It’s—”

“My brother can speak for himself, Claire.”

She gulped as she looked to her still petrified husband. After a moment, she uttered, “Just tell him.”

“You know what it is, James.”

Everyone heard a single scoff from across the room, one that neared in its duration. “This is some joke,” he tersely returned as he tossed it upon the table with carelessness. To follow such a brazen act, he snatched up the nearest wine glass — and downed it with a single gulp. The mere mention of their father warranted so much drinking that one would clearly be diagnosed with alcoholism… that was James’ belief.

“I’m only telling you what you wanted to hear, James.”

“Yeah, yeah…” he started, as he poured more wine into his glass, “don’t shoot the messenger and all that, is that right?”

“James, just calm down,” Tara commanded.

He chuckled in disbelief as he chugged the glass of wine, again. Groggily, he poured another, and spoke to his brother in the same sense,  “It’s kinda a coincidence, don’t ya think? Mom dies — from some unknown, uncurable disease — and… poof, his briefcase magically winds up at your door? Some sick humor you have, dad!” As he shouted the last sentence, a bit of the wine spilled onto the carpet.

“Honey.”

“What?”

“You’re really making an ass out of yourself right now.”

He shrugged obnoxiously, and shouted “So be it!” as the rest of the wine in the glass spilled to the floor. With a grunt, he placed the glass back onto the table and repossessed the leathery item. “You should’ve tossed it the moment you saw it… that’s exactly what I would have done."

Worried he would do something idiotic — as he often did around alcohol — Theodore proceeded to do something he typically avoided when around his brother… he stood up for himself. Without hesitation, he spouted, “I suppose that’s why dad sent it to me, yeah?”

“...what was that?” His vision had shifted from the item in his hand to his brother.

Silence was the most prevalent object in that room with them — it lingered about, loiteringly so, until the air had become stale in it. “Why don’t you go put it upstairs, sweetie?” Claire asked him, so as to break the tenseness of such a situation. Then, with a softness only whispers knew of, she added, “Don’t dawdle, honey: your sister should be here soon.”

James was, surprisingly, fairly reluctant to relieve himself of the manuscript, but after a bit of a tussle, he let go of it. But, before his brother could exit the room, James made mention of their sister, “Amber won’t be coming… she isn’t feeling too well, lately. Or, did she not tell you that?”

He refused to allow his brother the satisfaction of getting under his skin; so, he shook away his vexation as he continued on to the stairs, to leave behind the chatterings of the guests they had been entertaining. Up the stairs, he walked, as he inspected the case in his hands, in wonder of its complete safety. Everyone he had left behind was able to hear each step of his until all they heard were the faintest tappings of his feet against the floor above them.

Once at the top of the stairs, his feet creaked against the slats of wood until he reached the carpeting of the floor of his room. Once again, it was tossed onto the desk and left for later. Months passed them by, seasons changed, and it had long since slipped from his mind altogether; the only use it seemed to have had was to collect dust and fingerprints, even as it was swapped between resting places: first, to the guest room, then to her study — where it found little use, even from her — and, lastly, to the archival room. If it had had the capacity to feel, it surely would have felt neglect and abandonment: its purpose unfulfilled.

One early morning, approximately a year later, he found himself the recipient of a letter in the mail… from his sister Amber’s family. He sat down at the kitchen table in the hours he still found himself accompanied by Claire and tore it open. She stood behind him, and attempted to read it along with him, despite however difficult a task it may have been. It was quite a long, somewhat messily written, letter, but he could make out enough of the scribbles to understand the issues she had encountered in the middle of tuesday night prior. In tears, they embraced each other.

Their hug lasted a minute, after which she removed her arms from around him so that she could kiss his cheek with a longing comfort. “Go spend time with her,” she commanded as he tightened his arms around her, to bring her closer. “She needs you.”

Before he could leave her — before she allowed him to release his hold on her, even — she wiped his cheeks and eyes of his tears. “Thank you… so much, Claire.” And, as naturally as ever, he listened to her advice: to aid her in these most dire of times.

It was early morning that thursday when he left — the very next day, in fact — in the middle of Claire’s habitual morning tea… it must have been six o’clock, at the very latest: a full hour before his train was to depart. “I’ll be damned if I miss this train,” he thought to himself. And, as fortune would have it, he was a full half hour early. At seven, right on the dot, the train left the station, with him being one of the few passengers aboard.

The train ride was five hours in length: the perfect length for him to collect his thoughts pertaining to his next novel — a crime thriller, wherein children are purposefully made orphans for the profits of despicable men and women during the late industrial era. He couldn’t explain what had given him such an idea… “perhaps it was a dream,” he posited to those who would ask.

Without forewarning, he entered her small, two bedroom home at a bit past one, while Amber had been spending time with her seven children, as well as her already mournful husband. It was indescribable, the feelings she became awash in; once she realized just who it was that her eyes had fallen upon, they lit up as best they could. “Theodore,” she began, weak… yet, enthusiastic, “I’m… so very happy to see you received my letter.” She was ever so slightly delirious, her voice rasped and strained; her skin had worsened since they last saw each other: she had, recently, been afflicted with a sickly pale hue.

“Of course I received it,” he began with a manner of offense as he walked to her, “the post system is quite reliable, after all.” He smirked as they hugged, and laid to rest any uncertainty behind his words.

“Let’s give mummy and uncle Theo some personal space… come with poppa, I’ll fix you something in the kitchen.” It wasn’t much of a distance between the two areas in their home — the living room, where Theodore and Amber sat, and the open kitchen — but it was the thought that counts, I suppose.

Once the children had all been cleared away, she turned to him as much as she could. “What about Claire?” she asked, whisperingly, as she held his hand dearly.

“She’ll be fine… I taught her everything she needs to know,” he joked, with a light chuckle to himself… she simply rolled her eyes — as his slighting jokes often had.

“Surely,” she began, her voice thick with the exhaustion she felt from such jokes. “Surely, she missed having you around, this morning… you know… to—” she paused to gesture something crude.

He chuckled as he rubbed his eyes, in disbelief of her vulgarity, “I can’t believe you went there!” Then, he realized his mistake.

She feigned offense, “Well, if you won’t, someone has to!”

They laughed together like they hadn’t in a long while: she did so in a harder fashion than she maybe out to have. He finished off his laughter slightly before she had, and in that time between, he was able to fully realize how much she had changed since he was last able to see her: her hair had thinned marginally, and her skin had grown wrinkled despite her ecstatic youth. Yet, this all paled in comparison to her considerable loss of weight.

One of her children, her second born son — a young rascal with much of her features, save his fiery red hair and freckles — broke free from the pack of young’uns and ran up to her side before she could talk to him of recent happenings. “Could you tell us a story, mummy?”

“A story?” she asked him with a smile.

“Please?” the rugrat drew out, “Uncle Theodore wants to hear, too! Right?”

“I’m so sorry,” she turned to him, “I guess he’s our little story lover…”

As he looked to the young boy, he found hesitation in his mind, though he knew not why. “Sure,” he smiled, knowing he couldn’t refuse, “I could do with a story.”

“Alright, alright,” she joyfully relented, “Hm… how about we pick up from where we left off? The day that Aeris the Acrobat was to finally come face-to-face with—” she paused. It seemed the weakness that plagued her wasn’t quarantined to the words she wished to speak.

“Captain Archibald! The greatest she-pirate that ever roamed the seas!”

A smile — kind and radiant, as brightly enchanting as the sun itself — gingerly crawled across her face. “Right you are.”

As she continued the tale she had begun however long ago, the name Aeris stuck in his mind: like a clog in the drain. “Why now, were all of these coming about? The briefcase, the stories, his dreams… why?” It was all too suspect. Everything seemed to have been a parasite that he couldn’t burn away.

Her voice marched on through the story, for all of the children sitting upon the floor, and his mind gradually returned to that case… the one he realized had been forgotten so long ago. When he came to, he fully became a willing participant in the audience she wished to enthrall with the fantastical story in her mind.

The amount of specificity spewed-forth from her mouth and heart was incredible, to say the least; the fact that she still recalled every detail of the story from their father’s tales was stunning, especially when one considered the length of time that separated them from that night they last sat beneath their covers to be regaled with that fiction. Unfortunately, partway through her retelling, her mind began to falter.

It was an obvious struggle for her to continue, as if it was a frustration she had felt compelled to overcome: one she may have experienced too often; she became visibly upset with herself when she failed that, too. To soothe her anxiously-addled mind, her brother spoke up, “How about we take a break for today? Let mum get some rest.”

In unison, each of the seven children joined to let loose a knowledgeable disappointment, “Aww.”

Thankfully, without insistence, they all scattered about the shoebox-sized home as Theodore and Phillip — her husband — took to the kitchen, to wash the dishes that had accumulated over the course of that day. The kitchen sat to the right of the living room and was no larger than a small bedroom.

He was a homely-type of man: balding black hair, beer belly… but had a kind soul, and the heart of a romantic. Like the kind and gentle soul she, herself, was, she loved him for his personality, rather than his looks. His outfit, at the time of that meeting, was a patchy t-shirt and pajama pants.

“So,” Theodore began, as he handed him a washed plate, their kitchen the size of a very small bedroom, “how’s she been lately?”

“I won’t sugarcoat it… this is one of her worst days,” he replied, matter-of-factly, as he took the flatware from him, “and her worst days are becoming all too common.”

As he took up one of the smaller cups of theirs, and began to wash it, he asked, “What does a good day look like?”

“Substantially better, in most regards, I’d say.”

“Well, at least there’s that,” he responded, lowly.

For four seconds, they stood there in an awkward silence; the only noises that sat around them were those that were required by their cleaning: the running of the water, the scrubbing of the dishes, the clanking of the dishes against one another. “Some story, huh?” Phillip finally broke.

He nodded, “Does she tell it often?”

“Since the day she found out about her sickness, yes. And, let me tell you, when the chance comes up, to tell it to the seven, she takes it. She always does. It’s practically the one thing she wholly loves doing… her eyes light up like you wouldn’t believe; she seems to get better, even… like that,” he finished with an emphatic gesture.

“I noticed,” he smiled as he turned fully ‘round, his waist placed in gentleness against the counter, as he crossed one arm and one leg over the respective other. For a moment, he stood there in contemplative silence as he listened to the atmosphere around him… then, an idea formed in his mind. “Do you mind if I get on my way? There’s something I need to do…”

He shrugged and shook his head — both almost too minimally —, “Not at all, go do what you have to. Just, keep quiet, yeah?”

He shook his hand, to show his gratitude, and left her without a parting hug, nor a kiss: he wished to avoid any risk of stirring her from her much needed sleep. As swift as he was allowed by the machinations of life, he returned home; it was minutes before sundown when he barged through the door, to greet his wife. Before he went about his task, he embraced her with a kiss and a warm hug.

It took him well over seven hours to find that briefcase: nearly the entire night. It had been buried in the archive room, beneath months and months of old newspaper and receipts: files and whatnot they decided to keep. Once it was in his hands, he was finally able to breathe a sigh of relief. It wasn’t in the best condition, unfortunately… not at the moment, at least; it was so caked in dust that, with every movement — no matter how miniscule —, the lighter, more powdery portions plumed into the air; the heavier bits plummeted to whatever happened to have been beneath it. Despite its state, he held it to his chest with a soured glee.

He quickly made toward his room, to open it up upon the desk: once again being greeted by the manuscript within. After perusing several pages, he realized it was exactly the story they had been told when they were much younger, the one she now tells her children; a few words varied here and there, but that would matter little in the grander scheme of things.

After the first page, he continued on to the second; after the second, the third. And so on and so on, until he was so lost in the story, time had become a figment of fantasy to him. The thought to put it away never even crossed his mind; his eyes jumped, slowly, from sentence to sentence, and he could not stop. Yet, even amidst the fog of interest that had engulfed him one hundred pages prior, he was still able to notice the wavering quality of the writing.

It was a gentle skew, at first — almost as calm as the waters his father had come to know; but, it gradually became a direct interference in the story’s being. It jarred him a little, but refused to deter him: his mind remained engulfed by such a wonderful work… as the stars twinkled on and off.

Once the morning’s light had graced the earth’s skin — when the sun had bullied the moon’s smile away — he found the strength necessary to place the collection of pages down, to finally turn to sleep. And, he slept the whole day away: much to Claire’s delight; it was the first time in a while that he had a quite pleasant dream.

The next morning, he woke more refreshed than ever, despite the heaving bags beneath his eyes. Beside him, to return his gaze, lay Claire, who cherished the sight of his newly awoken eyes and smile. For a half hour, they laid there, just to look into each other’s eyes. The calm of the morning exuded from more than the nature outside their dwelling… it came from their hearts, as well. Before they knew it, they had both become nude: ready to start making love. And they did exactly that. It was passionate, full of love, and ended with her collapsed atop him.

For a minute, their breaths were synchronized: the movements of her chest matched those of his stomach. Then, with a kiss — equally as passionate as their morning just before — they parted. She headed off, to shower the sweat away, as he watched her walk away; she knew he was prone to do such a thing, and it only made her smirk. With her having disappeared entirely from his sight — the moment he lost sight of the last bit of her skin behind the doorway — he hopped to his work — that he was desperate to finish.

The first thing he did, once he was comfortable, was simply stare at that briefcase upon his desk: not even the papers themselves. He sat there in wonder: wonder of whether he should get started on such a massive undertaking; there were more pressing matters to tend to, he knew that… but, even if he had wanted to do other things first, he felt a tug at his wrist that made that impossible: it pinned him to the seat, like a chain.

As he came upon the courage to finally start his toil, Claire emerged from her steamy shower, wearing naught but a towel. As his fingers began their fumble, across the many thin edges of those pages, she sauntered over to him without his sight and grabbed his hand. “Your turn,” she whispered in his right ear as she pulled him up from his seat. With very little resistance, she led him to the bathroom and waited just beyond the mold of the door as she returned the favor he had bestowed upon her.

Her friends found it weird, but she always thought of him — in his entirety — as a sight to behold: one she could never get enough of. The way each of his masculine curves met the others, the way he moved, the way it made her feel to see such a thing. If there was ever a scene that could make a woman primed for… reproductive purposes, “this was it,” she thought. Then, once he had stepped into that confined space, she let him be

His shower lasted a few minutes more than was usual: he had become distracted in those running waters. Once he exited it, though, he found a pair of freshly pressed pajamas upon the kitchen sink, a clean towel, and a note that instructed him to go to the kitchen immediately after he had finished. After he dressed, he did as his lovely wife commanded… and he had been greeted by a wonderful spread of breakfast.

Eggs and toast, a few pieces of bacon, even a small pot of porridge — with marmalade for their toast. The yolk was slightly overdone, as it ran poorly once broken; thankfully, though, the marmalade was sweetened exactly to both their liking. Claire was particularly thankful for this, as she liked to mix it into her porridge, to lessen its natural bland bitterness.

After he finished — after he practically inhaled his food —, he readied himself, and left for his sister’s: briefcase in hand. He arrived slightly after two in the afternoon, and found himself unwelcomed upon his entrance to the living room. A dead quietness had settled into the home, as if it was a guest meant to be there for a good deal of time.

He found discomfort in this — a stark reminder of his childhood, of all those sad nights that followed their father’s abandonment. It was rather eerie, and seeped into his soul; his skin crawled, and the hairs on his arm raised, almost as if in defense of some unseeable predator.

Quiet, were his steps, as he crept through her home, as cautious as ever in his going about; each step forward renewed a hope that something hadn’t befallen his sister. At the top of the rickety staircase — rutted, warped, and misshapen — his hope had disappeared… to the sound of weeping. He entered the room immediately before him… and found his hope brightened and realized; he found her laying down — on her and Phillip’s bed, covered by a plaid quilt and propped up by a comfortable-enough pillow: in enough of a peace that she could have fallen asleep at any moment.

Phillip, though — dressed as he was the other day — refused to let up kissing her hand, as if he thought — wholly — that each passing moment could be her last. In happenstance, he caught her as she was in the middle of her latest attempt to recant her father’s tale to her children… and, just as with his previous visit, she was incapable of doing so for more than a few pages’ worth of information. In doing his best to not make his presence known to any of them — save his sister, who noticed him immediately, once he had stepped into the room — he stood, and waited for the most opportune of times.

Once she had come to a stop — seemingly out of purposefulness — he felt it the right time. “Who wants to hear the story of Aeris the Acrobat?” he called out in a manner similar to a cheering enabler.

Each of the children — dressed in their shabby, dirty, black and white pajamas —, all taken by surprise, turned to him, ecstatic at his perceivedly sudden appearance; they shouted, and they screamed in their uncontrollable excitement at the proposition of hearing more the story they so dearly loved. It was as if Christmas morning had dawned upon them that day; that said, her second born son was, perhaps, the most enthused.

Their mother couldn’t help but smile, one slightly stronger than previous grins; it seemed, thankfully, her condition had improved ever so softly… it was at least enough of a marked boost to her personality at the time that Phillip was able to notice it reasonably well. And that gave his mood a boost, as well.

For three days — four hours each day — he read through each individual page that had been left to him. He had taken these readings especially slowly, to allow each listener the chance to fully enjoy the experience: reading it as if he were a third grade english teacher who rather adored reading the words in various voices.

As he read through each sentence, he placed the necessary emphasis behind specific words. Within three pages, a thought occurred to him… perhaps this was the reason his hands were the ones to come to possess his father’s life’s work: to enhance and enchant the lives of those closest to him: those he left behind.

Sadly, they had come to a note at the end of the unfinished epic: that nearly thousand page long stack of pages was only half finished, as his father conservatively estimated. The note had told him as much. “I’m… sorry, everyone,” he began, “it seems to be incomplete.” His sister could hear the disappointment in his voice, she could see it in his eyes.

“Aww!” each child groaned in unison.

He took a few breaths, and put on a brave face for the children, “Don’t fret, little ones, this means I’ll just have to finish it, won’t I?”

Each child joined together to shout, “Yay!” in as cheerful a fashion as they could.

“I’ll make a deal with you all… I’ll return in, let’s say, a month: hopefully no longer. Then, we’ll finish this tale, won’t we?”

Amber watched her children jump for joy, and her condition seemed to improve even further: her spirit lightened at the sight of her children experiencing such happiness. But, as he began to leave — as he hugged each young boy and girl on his way to the bedroom door —, she wanted to warn him away from his endeavor… and with every fiber of her being, she tried.

It was a fool’s pursuit, she felt: it had driven their father depressed, caused him to abandon them without a trace; his madness hand’t been contained to his mind, though: their mother’s had felt the consequences of his delusion. Even as her own mind had begun to deteriorate, she cast endless prayers to the heavens above — to any and every god that may have been watching over her at the moment — in the hopes they would return him to her.

She called and called to her brother, each time just a bit louder. But, in her weakness, her warnings were far too gentle to be heard by anyone, let alone her intended recipient. She quickly realized all she had the power to do was watch him leave, in frightened terror that it would be the last she ever saw of him. It was a nagging suspicion that remained in her mind for the next month: that he had become fallen into the same exact trap their father had. And, that’s all she could do, each day, as her children continuously counted down the days until his promised return.

The entire way home, he was able to read over the final page many times, coming to the unsatisfactorily half-finished ending too many times for his own comfort. With each time that his eyes returned to the top of the page, his mind returned to the hard, laborious work of decoding what his father had intended from thereon.

Once at home, he grabbed up his father’s typewriter and began his work. At first, it was quite easy: everything flowed to and fro without issue. But, only a few pages later, he came upon that dreaded block every writer hits now and again. It was one that pained him just as much as it had his father. It was also quite unnatural for him.

Thankfully, it was not long before he had overcome that first impediment; the same was true for the next that followed shortly thereafter. It was the third block that, unfortunately, took substantially longer to finesse into abiding his wishes.

For weeks, his progress stumbled along poorly: worse than he had ever experienced. Claire was often there for him — to help and guide him —, but, in the moments she was unable to offer her thoughts for him, he was forced to torture his brain for more ideas. All it could do, though, was strain and strain… and produce absolutely nothing for him.

“Not now, not now…” he said aloud, to himself, in utmost frustration, as his mind returned to memories of his childhood. Images and recollections of him watching his own father wrack his brain pierced his thoughts like an arrow.

He remembered the situation much more clearly than any of his siblings had… neither of them had ever truly witnessed his journey into the depression he fell into shortly before his departure. His attempts to overcome his sorrow and creative slumps failed repeatedly, and the only thing he could think of was pure isolation.

He locked himself in the attic, and tried to drink away the writer’s block as best he could. It was a trick he had discovered a few months prior, and one that he repeated as often as needed. The alcohol, it seemed, lubricated the rusted machine of his creativity: it also heightened his anger; his irritability was permanently unhinged, as the lightest thing set him off.

Claire appeared beside him on his roughest night, hoping to help him through it all. She rubbed his shoulders to assist in his relaxation, thinking that, maybe, his issue was tension. When that failed, she offered to hear him read it through.

“I… can’t think of where to go from here,” he said in embarrassment.

“Well,” she began as she placed the back of his head against her stomach, her hands on the top of his head, “it sounds like you need some rest… writing this much, this often, can’t be beneficial for your health — mental or physical. I, of all people, should know this.”

“I know,” he said as he grabbed her right hand with his own, and brought it to his lips, “just… one more page?”

“Theodore,” she chided.

He sighed, “I suppose you’re right…”

She pulled him out of the chair and led him to their bed. Surprising only to him, sleeping beside his wife was the one thing that cleared his mind; he dreamt not of misery or blackness, but of beauty and life: pirates and the deep blue sea below them, luscious forests and the indigenous life that roamed them, even a myriad of sprawling kingdoms and the many ceremonies they would hold within their walls.

That’s when he received clarity. He shot open his eyes, carefully crept out of bed — so as to not disturb his naked wife — and went back to work: he knew what had to be done. With a long rewrite ahead of him, he consciously isolated his mind to focusing only on the task at hand. For two more days, all he did was write.

He had created a new character, to accompany his father and Aeris on their journeys. Because of the imminent nature of the task, he decided to base this new character on himself, of all people. And, it worked! With the insertion of himself into the story, he was successful in filling in those certain gaps and issues he had found while reading his father’s work over.

Swiftly, as the night and day beyond the walls of his home, his fingers danced along those keys with certainty. With each jump, Claire could hear the click, click, click, click, click, click, ding of the mechanics within the machine through the walls, each as thin as paper. She found that sound to be like music: a companion to her afternoon tea. She was dressed in a white sweater, today, with comfortably snug blue jeans, and maroon socks that stretched to the tops of her knees. He remained dressed in his pajamas: his outfit of choice when writing.

His fingers were almost like blurs: the whites of the surface of the letters of the keys continued to wear away beneath the minute ridges of his prints. Click, click, click, click, click, click, ding. Click, click, click, click, click, click, ding. Click, click, click, click, click, click, ding. Click, click, click… nothing.

The permeation of silence had not made itself known to her until a minute after it had come to exist; it was the draft of the wind from a nearby open window that opened her mind to it. It was an odd silence, and one she waited diligently to end… even despite its refusal to. For a minute more, she waited in conscious listen — but, no sounds came from their room.

Slowly, though she thought nothing of it, she walked upstairs to check in on him. Perhaps he needed food… a drink, maybe? It was also entirely plausible that he required additional help. But, when she opened the door… he was gone, the page still within its jaws, unfinished — in the midst of a sentence.

— End —