Rachias hadn't cried since then, the night that she and her father had spent dancing together and spending time. It had been the last time she had cried, the last time that she had seen him before he died. The cabin had been burnt to the ground when she had gone to visit, leaving only rubble and the bones of a man who had never wanted to be a father in the first place. She had come to accept the fact that he was gone though, something that hurt more than anything else in her life. Sure, Arkham had been thought to be dead for the longest time, but she had always had some small hope that he might be alive. Now though, she was certain that her father was gone. Perhaps she didn't cry for him because she knew that it was what he wanted, that maybe he was off somewhere and finally happy.
Rachias kept that thought in her head every day, that maybe he was finally happy, and because of that and Arkham, she was managing quite well. In the quiet of the morning she had left the small apartment that she shared with her brother, making her way across the lands and to one of the rockiest places that she had ever seen. It was there, beneath the soft light of the morning, within the falling snow, that she examined the sides of the rocky cliffs. She was looking for the perfect rock, something thin but sturdy, fairly flat and yet nicely shaped. She wanted to make a marker to the little cottage, something that her father could be remembered by, even if it was only by the very few who knew him.
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