=============
Kishant �
471
=============
�Mommy�?�
The words of a young girl long dead were
uttered from thin lips as their master shifted and turned on the silken sheets
of his bed, fighting the nightmare that seemed to come more and more frequently.
�Mommy where are you?!� The pain and terror within that voice of the
dream, and the eyes� those large, innocent eyes kept staring at him and he
thought it would never end� that it would never go away. With a shuddering gasp,
Vashenthiel Silvermore bolted up right in his bed, waking from the dream as the
images became to powerful and overwhelming to bear.
Soft,
silken sheets clung to the elven�s muscled form, thanks in part to the thin
layer of perspiration that coated his body. Shaking his head to fight the
lingering effects of the dream, Vash swung his legs over the edge of the bed and
allowed the sheets to glide off of his tanned form. The sounds of the festival
of Kishant drifted into his room from the streets below, but the elf paid them
no heed. There was no need to celebrate, no need for anything this night.
As he
reached the bathroom, the elf glanced at the mirror that hung on the wall. He
looked terrible, and felt even worse. Grunting softly, he bent down and lifted
the small bucket of water that was provided by the tavern for washing. Almost
immediately, the elf began to scrub at his hands, rubbing them together within
the water in rather violet manner.
For
nearly twenty minutes, the elf had worked upon his hands to rid them of the
wretched substance that covered them, yet he only managed to rub them raw. The
blood of the innocent� the blood of that girl would always cover those hands. He
could not escape his past, no matter how hard he tried. For nearly one hundred
and thirty-six years, Vashenthiel had lived with his guilt, and had imposed a
self-exile from his elven homeland as punishment.
Never
again would he walk along the streets of Asidriel, never again would he breathe
the sweet perfume of the trees that were hidden within the borders of his
people�s homeland. Even so, the elf was never quite certain that was enough.
Some might have believed that death was the final punishment, yet for
Vashenthiel his living guilt was a burden that most could not bear on a daily
basis. In time, his death would arrive, perhaps bringing sweet exultation and
the release to Zhan, the grandest of forests and the home of Chislev, the
goddess of nature. Yet even as that hope burned within his heart, Vashenthiel
knew that he was merely denying reality. The goddess would spurn him, and cast
his spirit away to dream for eternity of Zhan, yet never able to reach it. That
would be his final punishment.
But for now, he was still living and he tried to do that as best he could. The facade was often difficult to keep up, particularly around his friends. They often wondered why he was always alone or why some �lucky� girl had never snatched him up. While they guessed at such things, Vash could never confirm or deny their suspicions. Relationships that were truly special were based on trust as well as love. To have that kind of love and trust, you have to open yourself up to that special person, and show them your scars left by old lovers, your scars of fear and self-doubt, and the scars of the wrongs you have made in the past. Everyone had scars of one kind or another, but deep down inside, Vash knew one thing: his scars were the kind that you don�t show to people.
