.
Keene sat up in his bed, sweat clinging to his naked body as his breathing came heavy and hot. His hands shook, and while the initial panic had passed, his body's residual response to it continued, wresting most of his control away from him and into the throes of a post-night terror. The day prior had been charged with both loss and discovery, though neither were things Keene considered to be positive additions to the growing mess of knots that had become his life. Drawing in a shaky breath, Keene ran his hands through his hair, the sweat mingling with the straight hairs to hold them in place as he let his hands fall back onto the bed to better support him as he leaned back to gaze at the dark ceiling above him. There was no light in the cave, but he had spent enough time within the confines of his own room to have a good feel for it despite a lack of vision. Instead, he saw Boswell's face floating above him, blood dripping from the cracks in his skin as his imploring gaze begged him to end it. Keene shut his eyes, removing the support of his arms to let him fall onto his back, and letting out a weary sigh. He refused to forget. He refused to stop thinking about it. It had been his failure, his weakness, that had kept him from doing the single thing that Boswell had asked of him. It both sickened him and, as he lay in the inky blackness of the silent mountain, strengthened his resolve.
After a few ticks of remaining inert, heart slowly falling back to an almost normal beat in spite of the soft whispers that played about his ears, memories of the night before, Keene pushed himself up and out of bed, his feet meeting the smooth, warm stone beneath him with a muted slap. Still drenched in the sweat from his dreams, Keene turned towards the tunnel that led to the main cavern, running his hands along the wall as he slowly made his way outside. The morning was still young. If Atziri had spent the night in her own chambers, she had already left or had yet to awaken, as there was no sign of her at the table nor as he made his way out of the mouth of the main cave. When he neared the exit, he paused, his silhouette firmly placed against the soft grey of the sky as he peered out into the expanse. The world was massive, and he was but a single speck within it. Too big for your britches? Keene shook his head, clenching his fists for a moment but immediately releasing the pressure as his cuts from the night before where he'd dug his nails into his palms reminded him that such actions of frustration were going to cost more than the initial injury for the time being.
As he stepped out into the foggy morning, he felt a chill run down his spine. It was cold. The island had not been cold since he had been there, but as he stood, beginning to shiver in his smallclothes, Keene felt the chill of winter for the first time in what seemed like forever. The chill of the halls in the citadel were one thing, but to feel the bite of the air against his skin, the heavy quiet of the frozen morning, Keene felt a wash of nostalgia wash over him. The winters in Zeltiva had be much, much colder, but his memories were running rampant enough that the world seemed to have become a physical representation of his thoughts. He shook the thought away, folding his arms in front of him to partially stave off some of the chill. His grey eyes slowly surveyed the murky landscape, details hidden by the shadows that seemed to swim in the near dark of the early morning. No sounds were heard, however, though a few of the spectral avian beasts that littered the island glowed in the far distance as they floated in the stillness of the sky. It was peaceful on its surface, but Keene was no longer such a fool as to believe that peace had any truth behind it. It was a hollow peace, a false serenity. He had been warned that the island was dangerous, told of its treacherous nature, but he had hardly believed it until it had taken from him one of the things he found he had valued only once it was lost.
A gentle breeze tousled his hair, the sweat having dried enough for it air to pass through it and leave it a small trail of fluff in its wake. Keene shivered, the cold suggesting he depart but his own stubbornness require he stay. The mark on his back met the chill of the morning with the same strange airy sensation, a lukewarm feeling that seemed immune to the cold, but so marginal it hardly mattered. The mark. Keene turned to follow were the breeze had disappeared, his eyes searching out the invisible entity as his thoughts shifted from the world to the gods. Zulrav. The name had not been one he had familarized himself with, but it had been in plenty of books regarding storms and other more anomalous weather patterns. He was the god of storms, or so Keene assumed him to be. He was great and terrible, and even in all his power he had been unable to save Boswell. Keene's gaze hardened, his jaw clenching in remembrance of his conversation with the alchemist Master Rayage. He was certain Zulrav had had the wisdom of one timeless, but he had not possessed the power, the strength, to change Boswell's fate. If even a god had such limitations, Keene reasoned - however unreasonable - that he would have to rise above even them to gain the power to protect and destroy that which he saw fit.
The thought was wild, ridiculous, and though he recognized it as such, a part of him understood that it was the only thing he could do if he wanted to never again be put in the situation of loss. To lose was to be weak, to allow himself the pain of it was to allow himself weakness; whether it could truly be avoided or not, there was no way to know, yet doing nothing was far worse than pursuing the wrong path. If nothing else, he would destroy everything he could before it destroyed him. The vindictive thought was quickly pushed aside as the first hints of light began to peak over the horizon. No. He was hardly a vengeful fool to rage against the confines of his own destiny. His mind still reeled from the events past, but he was not so inept as to loose all ability to reason. Revenge would get him nowhere. Destruction would only lead to more destruction. He had to learn and grow, to become strong enough to forge his own path, whether it be a path he chose or a path he created. As the trees in the distance gave a soft, creaking rustle as the wind passed through them, Keene frowned at the distance. He had already been set upon a path. His options were now merely whether he would take a step forward or a step back.
.
The forty-ninth day of winter, 514 AV
Keene sat up in his bed, sweat clinging to his naked body as his breathing came heavy and hot. His hands shook, and while the initial panic had passed, his body's residual response to it continued, wresting most of his control away from him and into the throes of a post-night terror. The day prior had been charged with both loss and discovery, though neither were things Keene considered to be positive additions to the growing mess of knots that had become his life. Drawing in a shaky breath, Keene ran his hands through his hair, the sweat mingling with the straight hairs to hold them in place as he let his hands fall back onto the bed to better support him as he leaned back to gaze at the dark ceiling above him. There was no light in the cave, but he had spent enough time within the confines of his own room to have a good feel for it despite a lack of vision. Instead, he saw Boswell's face floating above him, blood dripping from the cracks in his skin as his imploring gaze begged him to end it. Keene shut his eyes, removing the support of his arms to let him fall onto his back, and letting out a weary sigh. He refused to forget. He refused to stop thinking about it. It had been his failure, his weakness, that had kept him from doing the single thing that Boswell had asked of him. It both sickened him and, as he lay in the inky blackness of the silent mountain, strengthened his resolve.
After a few ticks of remaining inert, heart slowly falling back to an almost normal beat in spite of the soft whispers that played about his ears, memories of the night before, Keene pushed himself up and out of bed, his feet meeting the smooth, warm stone beneath him with a muted slap. Still drenched in the sweat from his dreams, Keene turned towards the tunnel that led to the main cavern, running his hands along the wall as he slowly made his way outside. The morning was still young. If Atziri had spent the night in her own chambers, she had already left or had yet to awaken, as there was no sign of her at the table nor as he made his way out of the mouth of the main cave. When he neared the exit, he paused, his silhouette firmly placed against the soft grey of the sky as he peered out into the expanse. The world was massive, and he was but a single speck within it. Too big for your britches? Keene shook his head, clenching his fists for a moment but immediately releasing the pressure as his cuts from the night before where he'd dug his nails into his palms reminded him that such actions of frustration were going to cost more than the initial injury for the time being.
As he stepped out into the foggy morning, he felt a chill run down his spine. It was cold. The island had not been cold since he had been there, but as he stood, beginning to shiver in his smallclothes, Keene felt the chill of winter for the first time in what seemed like forever. The chill of the halls in the citadel were one thing, but to feel the bite of the air against his skin, the heavy quiet of the frozen morning, Keene felt a wash of nostalgia wash over him. The winters in Zeltiva had be much, much colder, but his memories were running rampant enough that the world seemed to have become a physical representation of his thoughts. He shook the thought away, folding his arms in front of him to partially stave off some of the chill. His grey eyes slowly surveyed the murky landscape, details hidden by the shadows that seemed to swim in the near dark of the early morning. No sounds were heard, however, though a few of the spectral avian beasts that littered the island glowed in the far distance as they floated in the stillness of the sky. It was peaceful on its surface, but Keene was no longer such a fool as to believe that peace had any truth behind it. It was a hollow peace, a false serenity. He had been warned that the island was dangerous, told of its treacherous nature, but he had hardly believed it until it had taken from him one of the things he found he had valued only once it was lost.
A gentle breeze tousled his hair, the sweat having dried enough for it air to pass through it and leave it a small trail of fluff in its wake. Keene shivered, the cold suggesting he depart but his own stubbornness require he stay. The mark on his back met the chill of the morning with the same strange airy sensation, a lukewarm feeling that seemed immune to the cold, but so marginal it hardly mattered. The mark. Keene turned to follow were the breeze had disappeared, his eyes searching out the invisible entity as his thoughts shifted from the world to the gods. Zulrav. The name had not been one he had familarized himself with, but it had been in plenty of books regarding storms and other more anomalous weather patterns. He was the god of storms, or so Keene assumed him to be. He was great and terrible, and even in all his power he had been unable to save Boswell. Keene's gaze hardened, his jaw clenching in remembrance of his conversation with the alchemist Master Rayage. He was certain Zulrav had had the wisdom of one timeless, but he had not possessed the power, the strength, to change Boswell's fate. If even a god had such limitations, Keene reasoned - however unreasonable - that he would have to rise above even them to gain the power to protect and destroy that which he saw fit.
The thought was wild, ridiculous, and though he recognized it as such, a part of him understood that it was the only thing he could do if he wanted to never again be put in the situation of loss. To lose was to be weak, to allow himself the pain of it was to allow himself weakness; whether it could truly be avoided or not, there was no way to know, yet doing nothing was far worse than pursuing the wrong path. If nothing else, he would destroy everything he could before it destroyed him. The vindictive thought was quickly pushed aside as the first hints of light began to peak over the horizon. No. He was hardly a vengeful fool to rage against the confines of his own destiny. His mind still reeled from the events past, but he was not so inept as to loose all ability to reason. Revenge would get him nowhere. Destruction would only lead to more destruction. He had to learn and grow, to become strong enough to forge his own path, whether it be a path he chose or a path he created. As the trees in the distance gave a soft, creaking rustle as the wind passed through them, Keene frowned at the distance. He had already been set upon a path. His options were now merely whether he would take a step forward or a step back.
.
