11-18-2007, 03:25 AM
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indent She had been gone too long. That much he knew, knew in his secret heart. She was sick in the mind, sick in the soul. Even in her sleep, she spoke to people who weren’t there. Even awake, she spoke to people who weren’t there. For a rational being, this would be signs of madness. Misery was mad; Misery was hysterical. Ahren had known that for years. It changed nothing. He was bound to her and she to him. This was why he had been trailing her for over an hour, walking circles as she ran haphazardly in the midnight hour.
indent No trail in this part of the wood was strange to him. Each footstep he took was certain, cat-like in the dark. A long time ago, he had run these forests as a child. That little boy had died a long time ago. Ahren didn’t remember him; he barely remembered the man he had once been. One of the fundamental problems of being an addict lies in the blackouts. Enough sunspots clouded his memory so he was left with gaping holes that meant nothing and left so much up to question.
indent He had questioned. He had also let go. It was all that could be done after everything that had happened. Three women who had loved him and left, each with children at their heels. Orphaned, exiled, uncompromising. Ahren de le Poer was a monster of a philosopher, one who manipulated life to suit his means. He did not believe in changing for others, and he had not.
indent A clear spoken, familiar voice pulled him. Catching snowflakes in his mass of dreadlocked hair, he trailed the noise until he found her. Huddled over, pulling her hair, praying. He knew the words. It had been the first language he had learned. “Get up,” he said coldly, unable (though not unwilling) to allow her to freeze to death.
indent She had been gone too long. That much he knew, knew in his secret heart. She was sick in the mind, sick in the soul. Even in her sleep, she spoke to people who weren’t there. Even awake, she spoke to people who weren’t there. For a rational being, this would be signs of madness. Misery was mad; Misery was hysterical. Ahren had known that for years. It changed nothing. He was bound to her and she to him. This was why he had been trailing her for over an hour, walking circles as she ran haphazardly in the midnight hour.
indent No trail in this part of the wood was strange to him. Each footstep he took was certain, cat-like in the dark. A long time ago, he had run these forests as a child. That little boy had died a long time ago. Ahren didn’t remember him; he barely remembered the man he had once been. One of the fundamental problems of being an addict lies in the blackouts. Enough sunspots clouded his memory so he was left with gaping holes that meant nothing and left so much up to question.
indent He had questioned. He had also let go. It was all that could be done after everything that had happened. Three women who had loved him and left, each with children at their heels. Orphaned, exiled, uncompromising. Ahren de le Poer was a monster of a philosopher, one who manipulated life to suit his means. He did not believe in changing for others, and he had not.
indent A clear spoken, familiar voice pulled him. Catching snowflakes in his mass of dreadlocked hair, he trailed the noise until he found her. Huddled over, pulling her hair, praying. He knew the words. It had been the first language he had learned. “Get up,” he said coldly, unable (though not unwilling) to allow her to freeze to death.