I clutched my life and wished it kept,
my dearest love, I’m not done yet
my dearest love, I’m not done yet
A single candle sat lit in front of his hooves, white in color but small and unassuming. Nothing else was around it, an altar without offering. Vikander’s eyes of frigid, ice blue were locked upon the twisting, twirling flame, watching the wick burn in a numb, unfeeling daze.
The cold, piercing wind of autumn swept over him but he didn’t move from his silent sentry, fearful that the breeze would put out the flame on this lonely candle situated away from everyone else, away from the laughter and celebrating, the cider and mead. He hadn’t moved an inch in what could possibly be hours, the muscles of his legs and shoulders stiff and rigid, toeing the line of painful. Once again, he had forgotten his cloak. Lieve’tel would berate him rather fiercely once he returned to the Scarab, but until then, the Friesian remained still with his head lowered and eyes downcast to watch the pitiful flame.
Elisbet…
They said that the spirits of the dead were closer to the veil that separated them from the realm of the living this late in the season. They said that the spirits of the dead could be seen, figures and apparitions drifting through the streets and alleyways to visit loved ones they had left behind. Vikander wanted nothing more than to find whoever ‘they’ were and choke the life out of them yet he lacked the desire, the energy, and the heart to move.
He could feel the very spirits that danced around the streets of the Market. Attuned to the dead as he was, a master manipulator of their very souls, he could feel each one as it passed by him, intent on seeking out the ones it had left behind. As though knowing of his ability to snare lost souls, the spirits gave him a wide berth, venturing around him, avoiding him like the plague. Perhaps that was for the best.
One spirit, however, lingered closer than the others. It stood stationary near his back as though watching him, but Vikander did not have the heart to believe that it could be her. Disappointment had been a constant for months, since the fluke of bringing his daughter back to life. For so many weeks after that incident, Vikander had slaved over trying to find a way to return his beloved Elisbet to him, but had failed every single time. Every ingredient that he had obtained to bring Lieve’tel back had been used up upon completion of the ceremony, and he had been left to start over from scratch… But how could he obtain such rare and valuable items?
The nights of sleeplessness had turned into weeks, then months, and finally… How long? A year? Had it been a year? Vikander no longer remembered. Time was losing meaning once again. All he knew was that the smile of his daughter, the laughter of her sing-song voice, the happy glitter to her eyes, awaited him back home… And yet he still could not move.
Letting his eyes fall closed, the soul weaver stood in the cold autumn wind, the evening light gradually giving way to rich darkness. Night fell, the hours passed, and the temperature dropped close to freezing, and still the Friesian did not move. Eventually the small white candle burned out, the wick gone, nothing but a flat stain of wax remaining. The souls drifted on, leaving him to his silent, lonely vigil, and the one that he could feel watching him from behind finally turned to leave as well.
Still, he remained. Silent. Quiet. And defeated.
@Caelum <3
