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The Arcane Order |
| Azeron sat at his desk, reading through tomes
and sorting through dusty books. He hated this — the days in and days
out of sitting around, sorting through information. He longed for a
journey to Wind, or to the Ice Plains, or to visit those liches in the
ruins to the southwest. But he didn't have much of a choice, now, did
he?
The chair creaked as he leaned back, stretching his arms above his head. He let out a strained groan as his muscles felt their first real motion in hours. Then, in one quick burst, he threw his head back and dropped his hands to his sides. As he waited for the dancing stars in his vision to clear, he wondered why he was keeping up this ruse. Glorfindle had clearly seen through it last night. Joylah had suspected it two nights ago — she had nearly said as much. And he was certain that his parents had seen through it. But he knew why he kept up the deception. Looking up from his desk, he stared across his office at the portrait of Melyanna. He knew now that what he did had been wrong. In the day that led up to his decision, he had taken smug solace in the fact that Mely would be cured at the cost of his own life — it would be her burden to bear after he was gone, her price for breaking their wedding vows. He had been angry, and felt betrayed, and his martyrdom seemed so perfect. But now, weeks later, all he felt was regret. Not that she was cured, of course, but at the thought that she might suffer, watching his slow death. Azeron still loved Melyanna with all his heart, and he was beginning to hate himself for what he had done. His hands ran through his deep brown hair, moving strands in front of his eyes, conducting his worrisome search. 1... 2... 3... The numbers escalated to ten, when he decided he did not wish to count any longer. Ten (well, most certainly more) hairs had gone gray — no, stark white — in a matter of days. There had always been a couple, he had gotten his first in his early twenties. But this sudden outbreak was no coincidence. He remembered the transformation that Owen Simeon had undergone, and knew. Azeron breathed a heavy sigh. He had spoken with the Order of the Silver Serpent in order to broaden the search for Khyrian, and thus, the possibility of a cure. But there was little hope. His friend had been missing for so long, and had been in such a poor physical state when he had disappeared. His trip to Jhelom had strengthened his resolve — the Wingates and Kendricks had offered their support to find their shared comrade. But Azeron was losing his own ability to maintain the search. He hoped others would fare better than he had. He stood up from his chair, his knees and back cracking as he did so. More and more he felt like an old man. But some deep breaths and stretches and he would be better. He made his way downstairs, and out onto the porch of the guildhouse. It was time to make his daily rounds of the glade, and issue the unceasing reply of “I’m fine...” But inside he knew he couldn’t use that excuse for much longer. |
The
Library Arcane: The Lord of the Dead