Morning Meditations (Thris' OTHER Journal)

(OOC Disclaimer: This is not a journal in the traditional sense. It will not read like one nor can it be found since it's all just in his head.)

Thris found himself atop a stone tower, the brazier behind him simmering as he sat cross-legged in the morning air. The sun had not yet come over the hills, casting Free's estate in a dim, grey morning light. His eyes landed on the distant fog as he settled down, tucking his legs underneath him in a traditional cross shape.

Briefly he lifted his bare hand to touch the fresh cut on his forehead, it was healing and the swelling was diminished but it was an old injury reopened and it was uncomfortable. It would be a hard morning to sort his thoughts.

As he focused his eyes on the rolling mist moving through the valley, he flexed his fingers to shake the tension and began to breathe rhythmically.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. He persisted to the count of ten before his eyelids shielded his blue eyes from the morning gray, and his breathing became monotonous and shallow. His heart rate plummeting to surprising levels.

"You are such an idiot, n'wah. You cannot do anything right." Her voice sounded in his head, that lyrical Vvardenfell lilt always made him sigh. Yet he sometimes loathed it, and it took effort to focus himself. "You wish to help me? Yet you cannot even sort books." There she was again, admonishing him as always.

"Ne, Muthsera. Os ean viyad." He knew he would not, he could not. The vague memory of the argument faded. She was a distant pain, but today for some reason the memory was at the forefront of his mind. His mind ached, and it was hard for him to focus.

"Os Ea viyad." I will do better. I must do better. For Frie. For everyone.

A soft drizzle greeted him when he opened his eyes. The cool rain warming against his scarred body. He knew he had too much on his mind for such a short session but he also knew that there was still a small risk associated with it, he couldn't let himself sleep either. So he took himself back inside and prepared to return to Vulkwasten.

"Os ea viyad."

It was a beautiful sight, the sparkling dust and the glow of magic. Like a handful of glitter tossed into the air. Except this was magic and it was blown off of a pale hand with the excitement of a child playing with colorful shiny paper. His eyes had to close quickly to avoid it in his eyes, and he inhaled the substance deeply despite knowing what it would do. It didn't quite sting, being that it had a paralyzing agent, he had no real time to think about what it felt like before the tension in his body subsided and he was unconscious, unable to move.

Only dream.

Of late, he recalled seeing Malabal Tor so often in his dreams. The vast trunks of Valenwood trees, with their sprawling roots and long branches. Endless green that went on forever. Though Thris could not think of the specific place as his dreamself felt long fingers wrap around his mouth and the heaviness of someone's body wrapping around him from behind.

He knew who it was instantly and sighed contently against the soft, cool skin. He was silenced, but his eyes took in all that surrounded them. Everything had an ethereal light to it. The trees, the grass the persistent lilacs that seemed to grow wild.

He couldn't see him, but he could feel his other hand in his hair. The one on his mouth lowering to his shoulder as his craned his neck to the side. Sharp pains followed - good pains, unbearably good pains.

He wanted to shudder but the dream changed, and he soon found himself lying in blood soaked sheets and laughing. It almost felt like a distant memory that had been twisted with a recent one. As he lied back and considered the different mouths on his body. There was only one he cared about, and he was kissing that one. Those soft lips tasted like blood, and he craved it. No he /needed/ it. He could see the others, the tops of their heads anyway but they seemed inconsequential by comparison.

It was his dream though, -his- dream. A dream for him, from him. They fell away like dominos on a bar table, leaving only them, in that field with lilacs. He was terrified as he worshipped that pale body, afraid of losing him into the field of lilacs.

But for now, it was just a sweet dream and no one was lost.

Thris slowed, he could keep himself far enough away from them for them not to notice. But it was a risk that at any time he could be smelled and they could change their mind and turn around to finish what they started. So he veered off course, finding a quiet ravine with little around him. It wasn't a coincidence that his emotions caught up again, having shoved them down into a deep dark place when he threw her off the tower. It was the only solace he had, that he had punished someone for what was done.

Only he had been punishing himself all along. He knew that but it had been thrust into the back of his mind. Far away from the plaguing thoughts that nagged him as he walked. So when it finally bubbled to the surface again he staggered into the ravine and threw up. He wasn't sure he was going to stop when he rolled down a hill into a small craggy river. Hopefully they didn't care, or better yet, didn't hear the ruckus he made.

In a fit of desperation he threw off his leathers and waded into the coursing water. The blood from his torso washed away and the potion had barely knit it together. Was he delirious on top of it all? He shook as he braced against the currents, they could carry him, if he wanted to. If he let them. But mostly it was just the abuse he was after, and finally when he crawled back out, he looked down and realized the wound had reopened.

There would be no meditation for awhile. What had trying to be calm, rational, and caring got him anyway? Emotions just made him susceptible to being played like a fool. He threw up again and stared down at his wound. Was he throwing up the cure? Would he die from some stupid knife wound and wake up anyway? Maybe he should have died trying, dying would have been preferable. He looked at the river again, imagining the bends down the way, the waterfall at the end. Surely, he wouldn't survive it. He hoped not and tried his calming breath routine to make all the thoughts and vomiting stop. They didn't.

Was it the blood? The loss of? No, daring to think his name made it more real. Making it real meant it happened. Back down the hole the emotions went. No one cares, not even you.

They're better when they're gone. You're better when they're gone. No love, no feelings, no getting bent out of shape when you give and they take. Finally, he stopped and he remembered that some river algae staunched bleeding. It would have to do. At least until he could decide on someone to tell a convenient lie to. Was that the best idea though?

No feelings, no more of those. Lies, truth, it didn't really matter as long as someone patched it up and didn't care themselves. Coin would buy that. So he stuffed his wound with the green plant and wrapped his waist with cloth from his bag, and started walking. Surely they were out of range by now.

The steps through the woods felt familiar even if the sensation of loneliness and loss clouded his mind. He twirled his shackles around on his finger as an idle toy to fidget with. Thris was headed to a familiar meadow, though it felt disturbed when he arrived. The sensation of someone watching him was overbearing but he patrolled and set up a few noise traps just to be sure. Rhuen may patrol, but he knew that not even a wolf could see everything.

It had been days since his last meditation. It took him time to feel at ease, seated within the clearing with his tunic off and his scarred chest bare, bruised and cut into. He pressed his hands into his sides to feel them all before resting his wrists on his knees. Feeling the sensation of air on his skin always helped him to stay calm, but so did the pain. In and out. The breaths began as they always did.

Where do I go from here? His thoughts were muddy, clouded and constantly filled with questions. He had no concept of that and so when the Marshal had asked. There wasn't a reason for him to say no.

It is something to do. Even if Wren is there. Even if I have to wear a fetching uniform. At least it will match my eyes. That thought made him drift from concentration. His eyes. He never saw them much himself, aside from in his reflection. But sometimes he saw a pair that weren't his in his mind, yet they held that same bright sky blue in them with unfamiliar speckss of green. Like someone had splattered paint off the end of a brush and freckled them. He knew they were not his own but yet, they were unmistakably familiar. Even if he thought the shape differed. Even if the skin around them did.. well, he was not sure of that.

He drew another deep breath. Do I want to know who you are? Startled, a passing thought nagged at him. Do I already know?

Thris shuddered and tried to concentrate on the eyes again. Eyes of blue, skin not of gold. Or was it? Gold? Ash? Tan? Altmer, Dunmer, Bosmer. Who are you? The color shifted, turning green and then yellow, a piercing yellow framed by pale skin. A haunting beauty to them until they smiled and his chest ached, as his heart clenched in response.

He tried to push the pain away and vainly tried to think of something else, only for painful images to flash into his mind's eye, a handsome countenance in the throes of pleasure and then agony with the sound of a deafening thunderclap ringing in his ears. He would never forget that.

"Ohun adur-reymo." A voice said. It was not his, nor did it belong to the mer with yellow eyes. But it was a reminder that some things simply do not change and he resented it as strongly as he resented them, even if his heart betrayed him. His love for them had been enough to keep them alive.

How the mind could play tricks, when he asked for calm. He tried to concentrate but was paralyzed by his own grief. It had become a constant companion. Shuddering and screaming to himself, yet no sound came out. Why did you have to die?

With all the suddenness of that thunderclap, he rose and staggered to the treeline. His supper mixing with the foliage as soon as his hand touched bark. "Ohun adur-reymo." He whispered to himself as he spat into the shrubbery. Knowing that even his most desperate attempts at controlling himself had failed. He had never had any, it always belonged to someone else. Perhaps now, it would belong to something outside himself. Something better. Yet even that hope was as small as he felt.

(OOC: Pre-dated. Took place Frostfall 4 (10/4)

The warmth of the Clinic's hearth fire was predictable enough that he could tell when it was quiet, when only he and the other patients were left to sleep. It had seemed sleep was all he could really do, except talk with visitors. But, his sketchbook had been brought and he tried to sit up to draw, not having a subject that wasn't asleep didn't really urge him on, much. Yet he found himself tucking the letter she had written him inside, hesitating over the fold of the paper.

He had not yet read past the first paragraph and the letter wasn't short by any means. Sighing, he pressed a finger between the fold and opened it only to close and open it several more times before reading.

By the time he reached the end, he felt a tightness in his chest. Crying could have happened, if he had let it. But not in public and not over his sketches. He folded it carefully and tucked it behind the piece he had started drawing of her, so many nights ago now. His fingers traced over the corner of her jaw and his own tightened. Still hurting you little fox. Does that make me better than him? Or worse?

He cleared his throat a few times and reached for the water Estre had given him, food had been brought up how long ago but all he could bring himself to do is nibble. Something about being in the clinic made him feel sick, when physically he was doing quite well. Mentally.. He didn't want to go there.

Thris' grasp of the dunmeris language was excellent, if he was speaking it. However the written word was challenging, far more than most other languages. Still, he knew it better than common, at least he didn't muck up his spelling and he could make it look pretty.

It just took hours. Maybe he needed it to. He also had a nice pile of crumpled papers, from how often he chose to re-write it, not liking what he said, or how it read, or just deciding to leave parts out completely.

By the time he actually wrote it, others had come in and he had to pass it off to Amaethaera. At least he knew she wouldn't read it, but it was far from what he really wanted to say. Though he had finished a letter he wanted her to read, he couldn't bring himself to send it. Instead he wrote the one he sent quickly, and tucked the long one away in his sketchbook. He would have to take it out later.

(Letter is in the other journal)

(Dated 10/7)

The walk to Seriduril's old house, or the Clinic as they had taken to calling it wasn't really that far. It was a lot closer when one was wearing boots, that was for certain. But he had a purpose and that made him walk all the faster. He didn't really expect to find them still there, in fact he had waited that long intentionally but somehow his heart still sank when he pushed open the gate and found no one inside.

Vivec, even when he couldn't find anyone he always felt like someone was there and it was still as a grave. Though he felt the urge to look around, to rifle through things. To find something, anything of hers that he could hold. He just moved from the kitchen to the 'rooms' and then left. Not touching or tainting the scene at all.

After all, he knew what went on and he didn't want it on his name.

Walking back he took the long route, off the road and into the woods more deeply. He needed it, he couldn't let it out there. But he needed the time to compose himself. Lest he return to the clinic and hurt someone. He found the meadow and paced to a familiar spot in it, his hands running over the grass as he thought. What a first kiss, hmm? It was silly, to feel like she was dead when she was just gone.

But the way the house had been and the way his gut felt. Yes, they all felt dead.

Distracted by his own thoughts, he had no idea that he wasn't alone. The familiar sound of paws running across the ground wasn't really surprising, he assumed it was Rhuen coming to tackle him in play. He didn't even raise his head when the unfamiliar wolf landed on his back. With both of them rolling and his instinct to grapple and some miracle, he did not get bit.

That miracle was an arrow through the head, perfectly clean shot. Through and through to the temple with a perfectly parallel shaft. Even he couldn't shoot like that. Whomever had fired it, didn't seem to be the sort to take chances. A second arrow struck through the deep barrel chest of the beast, and another joined the first shattering its' skull with an explosive shot. Blood poured over him and the weight of the wolf crushed his body before he finally rolled it off and stood.

Despite looking around and calling out, he never saw the archer. Only that arrow, he even went around looking and tried to track them but there was nothing. They were there and gone, just as quickly as they came. By the time he came back, the body was gone and the only sign that anything had happened, was the blood that was drying in his hair and on his skin.

He would need a new shirt from the clinic.