You Can Stay . . . .


Morning broke through the wisps of clouds that floated over the hills surrounding the Bree-land homesteads. As the sun rose so did mists from the small lake below. Eruviel took no notice of the veil that shrouded the small valley till it had completely enveloped her.

What am I doing here?

Hours before she had left Anya to the mercy of the newly returned Eirikr. She had been tempted to stay and be a moral support for the young woman but, from the stern look Eirikr had given her, she knew it would be best to let them hash things out on their own. Then she had wandered. The streets of Durrow were surprisingly empty but, unlike the Glaston neighborhood, light shone from most of the windows and it was not uncommon to hear laughter drifting from them.

What am I doing here?

Rays of sunshine warmed her rain-washed hair as Eruviel sat atop the stone wall. She could not recall exactly when she had arrived at her destination, or what had brought her there in the first place. The forgotten kin-house of the Dreadward Tribunal looked back at her, its dark, stained windows matching her tired yet thoughtful gaze.

Hoping down from her perch she slowly made her way up the well worn path. The grass needed cut; the trees and bushes trimmed. The spare key, hidden in a hollowed out stone in the wall, bore only a touch of rust. The lock did not complain as it was turned, but the creak of the hinges echoed through the dark house as she pushed open the heavy door.

Dust glittered in the golden rays of sun that streamed through the window panes. Dust was everywhere, carpeting the floor and coating the sheets that draped over neglected furniture. Standing on the aged red rug in the center of the hall Eruviel felt a pang of guilt in her gut at having forgotten the place.

Where have you been?


For so long?

They are all gone. She walked across the length of the room, the resonating thud of her footsteps only adding the the feeling of emptiness.

You’re not.

I know . . . .

Dust flew up in small puffs as she strode to a window. Struggling with the latch, she swung the panes open. A morning wind rushed through the portal, forcing her to turn her head away, the house sucking in the deep breath of fresh air.

You can use me.

But the Dreadward is gone. Others deal judgement in their stead.

You’re not gone. And you are not alone . . . .

What am I doing here?

Use me.


Rhuniki’s forge . . . .

Bellethiell and Risalra . . . . Eruviel threw open a second window, then another.

Myrthrost’s library . . . .

Eruviel chuckled, pulling a sheet off a Gondorian styled chair.  Arylieth would be beside herself.

Milloth’s paintings . . . .

I could hire Anyatka to restore them . . . .

Adrovorn’s empty weapon case . . . .

Arath — Eruviel stopped, and sighed, and shook her head. I’m sure Threz and Eirikr could use the storage space.

Use me.

I could . . . .

You can stay . . . .

I suppose I can . . . . I have a few hours.

That’s all I ask.

You look terrible.

The crisp summer breeze began to sweep dust out the windows, adding light to the hall. Welcome back.

(I was wanting to try something different, so I took a Cwen approach to this blog. )


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