House Hawthorn

When she awoke, she was covered in blood. Not all of it her own. Her head was pounding, and the knot atop it was nearly the size of her palm. Beside her lay a man. Had he not been filthy and battered, he might have been quite handsome. Rich, chestnut brown hair. The grime and old scars accentuating his striking blue eyes and chiseled features. Pale, bright blue. Those eyes might not have been seen had he not been staring ahead at nothing at all. He never got the chance to tell her what had happened or who he was.

What happens when

A love is broken?

Does it whither in the sun

Or walk away and then break to a run?

Does it shatter like glass between hammer and anvil

Or is it a relief and help you fulfill?

Does it freeze

in the back of one's heart?

Does it melt

In the fires of one's hate?

Or does it implode on itself

Like a star at the end of its life?

Or does it remain,

teasing the heart and mind?

The part of my journal is a memory of my youth, I was Thirteen, Gallius and Annastaysia Twelve.

A few weeks ago the Heirs of Ruin attacked the estate of House Hawthorn in the village of Haynbury.

((dried out tears can be seen splattered over the page of the diary))

No longer will you have to wait,

You will warm tonight,

Yes, my blade, you shall bathe,

No more rest by the campsite.

Awash, awash in crimson blood,

The hearbeat raising,

Their limbs shall fall, into the mud,