‹ Prequel: Lead and Gold
Vernacular
Reappearance
This place feels unfamiliar to me.
I have not long been away from the safety of the Coven, but the sight of its walls gives me the sense that I am again the Rogue stranger intruding upon the territory of these residents. I am told time and again that this place is my home, that once I join this Family, I may forever remain a part of it. My chambers shall forever be mine, my solitude shall always be honored, and the library shall always welcome me with its dusty arms. These are the promises made to me, the hospitality and comfort my companions bestow upon me to soothe my restless heart.
Ever since my return, however, I believe these things less and less.
One would think that it would be difficult to depart from the only place that accepts you. There should be tears, resentment, second thoughts; any indication of regret at turning your back on those who care about you. That night that I faced my friends, saw the worry, pain, and confusion in their eyes, I felt...nothing. The scene was common deja vu. I had resided in many a place, and each time, once I had had my fill of the new sights, I would leave. No voice cried out for me to rethink my decisions, no hand reached to me, seeking a final embrace. In other words, I was never missed.
The only one who had ever missed me had left me to miss her in her stead.
That night, though, I knew that they would miss me. I knew that they would rather me stay and let them guide me through whatever pain I was enduring. They did not want to lose a dear member of their family.
And I did not care.
Understand, it was not a conscious thought of I shall not miss you, no, it was more that I was incapable of warmth at the moment of my departure. I was broken in indescribable ways, and the last thing I was able to do was mourn alongside them all. My thoughts rarely strayed to their faces, to the moments that we had all shared. I was where I was, and they were where they chose to be; that was the end of it.
Looking back at my actions, I question whether coming back here was the right thing to do.
I know that I promised I would return, and I am a man of my honor: I hold true to my words. Still, even upon the long walk back to the Grounds, I considered turning back for the last time more than once. After all, I would be doing them a kindness, wouldn't I? Time would pass, and they would more than likely believe that I was caught unawares in the rays of the sun, or that some fearless hunter had finally tracked me down within my slumber. They would grieve, pay reverence to my passing, but, soon enough, they would forget me. The curse that was my presence would be forever lifted from the sanctity of their home, and my curse would finally be forced to trail only me. As a Rogue, an existence of wandering was not unknown to me, and at times, it was completely welcome. I would ensure they would never hear wind of my travels, and that, one day, I would just be a name scrawled upon a shelf in their Library.
I would be but a legend, as I was meant to be.
However, these things are not so, and I write these pages from the confines of my chambers. I am home once again, though I do not find the same solace that thought used to bring me when first I arrived here. Even now, I traverse the grounds only when others may not see me, lest the gnawing uncertainty tear at me again. I listen to them ever night at their festivities, listen to their thoughts that flow like water through the currents of my mind: Oliver's lust, Ava's uncertainty, Mekare's loneliness, and Maharet's longing. My thoughts have been stopped with my will, so my consciousness does not entangle itself within the complexities of their minds. I hear everything that goes on in this place, and it only furthers my beliefs that I do not belong here. I am not one to weave webs of intrigue like the others here. I am not one to fall victim to wanton passions. I am not one to lose myself in the reveries of drink and drudgery. I am not like them, and I suppose I never will be. My home lies dormant somewhere, hundreds of years from here. My home still wears its cloaks of finery and chivalry, courtesy and codes.
This place shall never be my true home.
And yet, here I am, writing within its walls again, even now convincing myself I shall never leave them again. Home or no, I am safe here, and I do not wish to lose the feeling of protection I can clutch to me.
Even if the walls are made of sand.
I have not long been away from the safety of the Coven, but the sight of its walls gives me the sense that I am again the Rogue stranger intruding upon the territory of these residents. I am told time and again that this place is my home, that once I join this Family, I may forever remain a part of it. My chambers shall forever be mine, my solitude shall always be honored, and the library shall always welcome me with its dusty arms. These are the promises made to me, the hospitality and comfort my companions bestow upon me to soothe my restless heart.
Ever since my return, however, I believe these things less and less.
One would think that it would be difficult to depart from the only place that accepts you. There should be tears, resentment, second thoughts; any indication of regret at turning your back on those who care about you. That night that I faced my friends, saw the worry, pain, and confusion in their eyes, I felt...nothing. The scene was common deja vu. I had resided in many a place, and each time, once I had had my fill of the new sights, I would leave. No voice cried out for me to rethink my decisions, no hand reached to me, seeking a final embrace. In other words, I was never missed.
The only one who had ever missed me had left me to miss her in her stead.
That night, though, I knew that they would miss me. I knew that they would rather me stay and let them guide me through whatever pain I was enduring. They did not want to lose a dear member of their family.
And I did not care.
Understand, it was not a conscious thought of I shall not miss you, no, it was more that I was incapable of warmth at the moment of my departure. I was broken in indescribable ways, and the last thing I was able to do was mourn alongside them all. My thoughts rarely strayed to their faces, to the moments that we had all shared. I was where I was, and they were where they chose to be; that was the end of it.
Looking back at my actions, I question whether coming back here was the right thing to do.
I know that I promised I would return, and I am a man of my honor: I hold true to my words. Still, even upon the long walk back to the Grounds, I considered turning back for the last time more than once. After all, I would be doing them a kindness, wouldn't I? Time would pass, and they would more than likely believe that I was caught unawares in the rays of the sun, or that some fearless hunter had finally tracked me down within my slumber. They would grieve, pay reverence to my passing, but, soon enough, they would forget me. The curse that was my presence would be forever lifted from the sanctity of their home, and my curse would finally be forced to trail only me. As a Rogue, an existence of wandering was not unknown to me, and at times, it was completely welcome. I would ensure they would never hear wind of my travels, and that, one day, I would just be a name scrawled upon a shelf in their Library.
I would be but a legend, as I was meant to be.
However, these things are not so, and I write these pages from the confines of my chambers. I am home once again, though I do not find the same solace that thought used to bring me when first I arrived here. Even now, I traverse the grounds only when others may not see me, lest the gnawing uncertainty tear at me again. I listen to them ever night at their festivities, listen to their thoughts that flow like water through the currents of my mind: Oliver's lust, Ava's uncertainty, Mekare's loneliness, and Maharet's longing. My thoughts have been stopped with my will, so my consciousness does not entangle itself within the complexities of their minds. I hear everything that goes on in this place, and it only furthers my beliefs that I do not belong here. I am not one to weave webs of intrigue like the others here. I am not one to fall victim to wanton passions. I am not one to lose myself in the reveries of drink and drudgery. I am not like them, and I suppose I never will be. My home lies dormant somewhere, hundreds of years from here. My home still wears its cloaks of finery and chivalry, courtesy and codes.
This place shall never be my true home.
And yet, here I am, writing within its walls again, even now convincing myself I shall never leave them again. Home or no, I am safe here, and I do not wish to lose the feeling of protection I can clutch to me.
Even if the walls are made of sand.