He's tired. So very, very tired, and it reflects in the way he walks across the field; his hooves drag slightly on the grounds while his head hangs low. The way Mannon carries himself one could easily pinpoint the constant emptiness that lives inside his body. The man's head is empty as each step pushes him closer to his goal: Finding Ithilien. His brother, the last ties he has to a true home, the last of his family. He trudges through the snow in such a way that it easily announces his presence, the sound of his body pushing through it like a plow with crunching fills the air.
He knows she's not actually there, he knows that she's gone. Wholly, utterly, completely gone from the mortal realm and that Roheryn will never come back. He knows it, his heart knows it, his soul, and every inch of him is terribly aware of this. And yet he can't let go of her; Mannon clings to the memories of his late wife like a child clings to the shirt of their parent. The painted man knows that nursing his heartbreak is anything but healthy for him, oh God he's been reminded of that one too many times in his life, but she was his everything. No. No she is his everything, even now when so many years have passed by. Yet Mannon has never forgotten the softness of her voice, the caring lavender of her eyes, the ever gentle face that had tended to his wounds while she scolded him, and the soul that captured him like one would capture a firefly in the summer nights.
His mind was devoid of thought when he had first entered the fields but in this moment she fills every groove in his brain. He can hear her, smell her pushing him forward with the gentle touch of a breeze. Roheryn's memory tells Mannon that he can find Ithilien, he can make it another day, he can still find a life worth living. With a heavy sigh he pauses in his steps to look up at the night sky, to stare into the cold gleam of the moon as a pain strikes his chest. "Ten' lle Amin caela auta no' melamin." The words are whispered softly into the wind, his pale eyes close with a deep intake of the cold winter air.
"Talk."
NATIVE LANGUAGE, HOVER OVER ME
Thoughts
Amarië
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