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The Stream


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THE STREAM

 

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An artist’s depiction of the Ibor Strat, circa 372 ES.

 

Spoiler

 

 


 

The sun hung low over Greyspine, a summer breeze rolled over the hills, and past the castle, snow in the outer perimeter of the Rimeveld melted gently to watery pools, where birds landed for refreshments as they continued their scavenging for food. Harren grasped the wheels of his wheelchair, and began to roll himself down the makeshift path he had created to a little hill, overlooking the Ibor Strat. 

 

It was the words of his cousin that echoed throughout his mind, that muddied his stream of consciousness, “She said she was going to Providence to practice her flirting.” Harren sighed deeply, his gaze falling to that wooden box he held in his lap. He wasn’t really surprised by what he had been told, after all, she had been acting strange lately, taking advice from that Vyronov, barely ever speaking him, she hadn’t even bothered to properly check up on him when he had broken both of his legs on a hunt that she had sent him on.

 

He opened the box, within it was a series of papers. He spent an awful lot of time in Providence, apart from her, as he was the Ambassador. It was often, when he had spare time, that he had found himself writing poems dedicated to her. He had planned to present them to her at their wedding, they were, after all, supposed to be wedded soon. He shuffled through the poems, scanning the contents of them. There was one, which he was particularly fond of, which he stuffed into his pocket.

 

In truth, he couldn’t find who to blame. Was it himself, had he been inadequate, not good enough? Was there more he should have done, could have done? Or was it her, had she simply moved past a need for him, decided that she did not want him anymore? Or maybe it was the Vyronov that was to blame, had she manipulated her to turn her against him?

 

He sat there in silence for a few moments, box in hand, before he threw it in the water. It landed with a light splash, as the papers and the box scattered in the river, making their way downstream. In that river lay his passion and his affection, ruined and obscured, sailing away from him.

 

Knowing he would never recover what he had discarded. Harren had torn the tree up root and stem, for it had rotted. With newfound confidence, he began to wheel away, for he knew that now in its place, and a new tree could grow. While he was hesitant, he knew that he wanted to try and plant the same seed again.

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Ailred 'pon seeing this profound scene, rest a hand to the shoulder of his brother. "Godan sees all, borsa."

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Maric var Ruthern shook his head upon seeing his second oldest son out by the river pulling up roots and wheeling about down by the water. The Ibor strat was certainly large, and at the bottom of the hill which the castle of Greyspine sat. "Don't expect me to wheel you back up here!"

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