Dagramir

The Lady never thought that when she woke up that morning, he would be there once more. Of course, there was the underlying hope to which she would internally criticize herself. As she grew older she knew better than to wear her emotions on her sleeves. She thought she had grown colder and perhaps she did.

The Lady rose from her bed at dawn the birds of early Spring chirping outside her window.  She groggily put her robe on to cover herself. Then peered over at the sleeping form that was keeping her warm throughout the night. Lycaon was a new face in her life and she couldn't even begin to predict what the future held for both of them. Why did she give herself to him? Could he really bear his heart and soul to her? Or was this just another dance? On the surface, he seemed kind, gentle, mild-mannered, and fun-loving.

*The following piece contains a brief description of self-harm. If this subject matter is something that would trigger you or make you feel uncomfortable, I advise you to proceed no further.*

​​​​​

It has been a long time since I had used this journal. There have been many changes in my life of late and I oddly find myself thirsting for times past. The old game, I suppose it could be called. However, in the game, others get hurt in the process. I dreamt of laughter and music last night. Music that I would happily dance to all over again. In my dreams, I saw her face, Aldway. The one my Mother wanted me to look up to. The model child and so she fell from grace with me because of love.

Blink.

Wooden beams stretched across a floral white expanse of painted framework that lay above Dagramir’s prone body. The contours of the roof hazed its way into his immediate attention as he did his best to return to his mind some form of conscious ability.

Blink.

"Who died?"

An adequate enough question when in the presence of such an unusual occurrence; for the Raven, quite suspiciously so, was smiling to herself. Stood tall upon a plinth, her resemblance to a rather ornate-looking statue was uncanny. A statue that depicted the likes of a faceless deity of fertility or something equally as feminine.

Between the gentle patter of raindrops dancing against the cloth canopy above him, and the sharpened chill to the air that flowed around him, Dagramir sat unusually attentive one bright afternoon. Winter’s chilly grip upon the land had begun to wane, its attentions diverting elsewhere. A new season was dawning, one of fresh flowers and offspring alike. And, just so, his very own child sat on the ground to his front; knees bent, and attention taken.

It was a misty, winter morning in the fair village of Towerglan. The sun shone brightly across the pale blue expanse stretching above the hills, gentle sparkles of reflection shining in turn from grass and cobble as frosted dew had begun to melt. Amidst the quiet air surrounding the settlement stood Dagramir, his dark-clothed frame sticking out sorely in the light of day as he settled outside the front door of his little cottage.

“That really all you got-?”