From The Ashes

Chapter Twenty - Hall Of Memories

Arvayn Bryvaris

Arvayn awoke in a tangle of sheets, and with a sharp gasp of sudden pain. His left hand had instinctively grasped his right wrist, that had been the thing to awaken him by aching fiercely. He hissed as he pressed down on the sore joint, slowly feeling the pain abate and be replaced by a numbed, burning sensation, that snaked it's way down into his thumb, index and middle fingers. Arvayn was no stranger to wrist pain, he experienced it frequently ever since the day of his tangle with the carnival guards that had broken his arm, evidently beyond full repair. He supposed it was the cold that was responsible for flaring up his damaged wrist, and he also supposed that the healing cut Candleiene had etched into his arm didn't help matters either.

He lifted his arm so that the cut was brought into light of the candle on his bedside table, and began picking at the crusty pinkish scab running down his arm. The thing was driving him mad, itching all night and day, causing him to, almost subconsciously, pick and scratch at it constantly. The day the whole thing was ready to peel off his arm and be rid of it entirely would be a great day indeed, along with the memories it instilled within him.

He stopped his fidgeting and sighed, lowering his arm with a sigh. Her long dark red hair had been as thick and lush as he had remembered it. He remembered it's silkiness, the way it had easily slipped and flowed out between and from his fingers. He could remember its smell, of her jasmine perfume, that permeated every inch of whatever room she occupied. The gleam of her golden eyes, soulful almonds, so bright and warm that he would break out in a sweat anytime he looked into them for a prolonged bout of time. The red of her lips always matched the shade of the blood he'd seen countless times wetting her blades. The fullness these memories filled him with made him feel empty, like he was missing something in his life he could not replace, nor would he ever have the desire to.

He rolled over, warm eyed and his breath almost hitching in his throat on unwanted sobs, to face the blank wall behind him. It had been years ago that they had cut their affections with one another, though in all fairness, it hadn't been on his terms. Had it been his fault that she had decided to leave him? It was him that had first gotten angry at her frequent visits to the local brothels, but hadn't he the right at that point to feel hurt? To feel his pride damaged beyond repair? To feel inadequate in himself and doubt that he could bring her whatever form of joy she sought? Was it his fault that he couldn't bring himself to look at her the same way he used to after that?

Only, last night, he had looked at her the way he used to. He was certain he hadn't forgiven her for what she had done, yet did some part of him wish he could, think it was even possible? Was it possible that, some deep, dark part of him was still infatuated with her? Was he, to some degree, still in love with her? She'd tried to kill him not too soon after that, and yet here he was, unable to convince himself that she was anything but beautiful. That she was still his Candleiene. The Candleiene he'd ran through the streets of Kriggan with. The Candleiene with whom he'd searched for worms in the wet dirt outside Malarin's manor. The same Candleiene whom he'd asked out on his first ever date. The same Candleiene he'd kissed and spent many a night wrapped up in. The same Candleiene he'd fallen in love with, and now, couldn't fall out of love with, despite both their wrongs done to one another.

And she had done him wrong. She had taken her jealousy, her hurt in the face of replacement and demotion, that step too far. He'd stained his hands for her, in a red never meant to be seen or plastered to his hands forevermore. But it was there now. The horror of what he'd done on her lies haunted him without cease, without the possibility of reversal. It may have been fair in her eyes, but to him...to him it was just so wrong.

He rolled all the way over onto his other side, facing now the row of nine beds beside his own. Each bed was separated by a gap of seven or so inches, and at the head of each gap, nestled in the head space between two beds, were a series of small bedside tables, large enough to hold a lit candle, a pitcher of water and a cup into which to pour the drink. Only three of the beds ought to be occupied, his own, Locke's and Blythe's. It seemed Nellrinir and his servant Melie slept elsewhere. However, as he looked over the shadowy forms of the other beds, something within him stirred. Something uneasy.