Draven Hawke

BOOK III CHAPTER ONE

So long, this is goodbye
May we meet again in another life
Like strangers passing by
May we see it clearly in a different light

~10 Years- So Long Goodbye~

DRAVEN HAWKE PART III

NOBLE NIGHT

STEPHENIE WEBER

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage,rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good Men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage,rage against the dying of the light.

~DYLAN THOMAS~

CHAPTER ONE

DRAVEN

Draven sat on the old bench, he and Clara used to visit, in her garden back at their house in England. It was no longer the grand surroundings that once were. The mansion was visible in the distance, run down and vacant. Fir trees swayed in the wind, whistling a melancholic melody. Running his hand along the engraved H on the center of the bench, his mind flashed back to the colorful times. The vibrant lives that once inhabited, what could now, only be seen in black and white.

The mansion seemed a lonely place now, and Draven wondered again, if he had made the right decision bringing Clara back. Looking around one last time, he remembered Emily running around the garden, picking flowers for her mother.

"Look, Mommy. I got you flowers. They're beautiful like you," Emily said.

It did not matter that she had been told, many times before, that those flowers were not to be picked. She could never contain herself.

"Emily Rose, did you pick my flowers again? What am I going to do with you?" Clara placed her hands on her hips and scowled with mock contempt.

"I'm sorry, Mommy." Emily looked down at her feet and Clara looked to Johem and winked, with one of the sweetest smiles that could grace a woman's face.

"Come now, Em. Let me see what we have. I'll teach you the names..."

This scenario happened more times than Draven could count. He could see the smile on Emily's face when she would look up and skip towards her mother, happy to be forgiven. However, this was only a memory, and the memory flooded off in a torrent of misery and pain.

His own pain did not matter, though. Those memories were a part of who Clara Hawke was. What she stood for. What she believed in. Those memories were a tribute to the wife and mother she wanted to be. This was the only place he could leave her.

Standing up, he walked over to the shovel he had placed against the tree, and he began to dig. He dug for hours, not stopping when the rain started to fall from the angry sky. Each mound of dirt he lifted from the earth, was a another knot squeezing his chest and cutting off his air.

He had killed her. He had killed his wife. There was nobody to hunt this time. There was nowhere to channel his emotions. All he could do was hold the pain inward, and each second the pain sat within him, it festered, undoing what Autumn's presence had given him back. His humanity. He was not driven to kill, as he once was, but he wanted to kill. He wanted to forget.