The Choices We Make

Arrival

-Garon Berigid

Mer could hear his own voice tremble, as he spoke the ancient words. He did not dwell on it, tho, because they had had the desired effect and the door of the little cabin had slid open.

He could look into the spacious hall that seemed to be twice the size of the cabin itself. The torches that were mounted on the walls were burning with all the colours of the rainbow, together creating a light that was so bright he found it hard to keep his eyes open. He would have conjured up some shades, had it been of any use. But this was the sanctuary of his aunts, and there were powerful magical wards surrounding the place, leaving anyone not part of the group powerless. That was what he feared about this place, more than anything. He hated being vulnerable, which is why, as soon as he came to age, he had sworn to never visit his childhood home again.

It was not as if the crones really would mourn his absence at any family gatherings, either. He was well aware, and often reminded of the fact that he was the black sheep of the family. As he had been destined at birth to be.

As he made his way down the hall, he studied the portraits hung between the torches. Many narrow lips and wide eyes, every colour you could think of and some you probably could not. He stopped for a while and studied his own likeness on canvas, him and El posed next to each other, his black hair against her white, his pale skin against her dark. In the background his crimson sigil and her azure, resting on balanced scales. He ached a little at seeing them both so young and care free. His portrait was smirking at him, and without even thinking about it he mirrored the expression. He was not sure he himself could ever find back to the man in the painting, not even sure he wanted to. But if El could find back to the serenity that had been frozen in time and preserved in the heavy strokes of paint, that was more than enough.

On the opposite wall, their siblings smiled down at him. Joy, in her infinite bliss. Her golden hair hung loosely to her waist, decorated with roses. The blue eyes that shone with love and could bring forth a sense of euphoria within anyone meeting her gaze. Even from within a painting, she still lifted his spirits. Beside her, with his arms placed protectively around her, stood Raim. Raim, who had never smiled or laughed throughout his whole life, despite his siblings best efforts, had certainly been the victim of the artists creative licence. The smile that had been painted onto his narrow lips looked so out of place, Mer could not help laughing, wondering what his little brother could have done to the artist to deserve this. Raims short curls, the colour of fire, had been transformed to long locks of darker red, the colour of Joys roses. His jawline was softened, and the green eyes widened. He had been made to look beautiful. Raim, the warrior. Raim, the strateger. Looked beautiful. It was a wonder the painting still existed, that it had not been ripped apart and burned.

Mer was still laughing as he continued to make his way down the tall, letting the reality of now slip for a while and instead conjuring up images of his siblings.

He could picture Raims reaction to the painting, teeth clinched hard together, eyes looking as tho he tried to set fire to the canvas with his mind. As Raim would grab the hilt of his sword, Joy would rest her hand upon his and whisper something in a language only those two knew. Raim would leave his sword at his hip, instead verbally painting an inventive picture of his own, including at least three terms referring to some sort of fornication and a very unflattering but quite befitting description of the poor sod who had given him such dainty features.

Little brother had always had a way with words, especially when fired up. Mer had always enjoyed providing the fire for such wonderful poetry, and made a mental note not to let this piece of fine art remain hidden for the public for very long once he had regained his position.