A wish.
Wishing, wanting waiting, that is all she does. Too much weight, too much worry, too much. It's all too much.
I want to help her, heal her, hear her, but I don't know how.
She loves, she loves too much. Love, loss, lonely, she's so alone. How do I fix that? Fixing, feeling, forgetting, following, fear, she has so much fear. I fear too, but I fear for her.
Unspoken. She has unspoken rules. She doesn't talk about herself, and the others don't ask. Asking, answering, always alone, How can I ease her pain? She doesn't want to forget.
Soft. That is how she looks at me. She feels soft, serene, sincere, sweet, she loves, she loves me, in the purest sense. It makes me happy.
When she thinks no one is looking, she writes. Words, so many beautiful words, describing, defining, defying, defending, it's her private rebellion against her fate.
Her stories are sad.
Fleeting glances, forgiveness in a look, fighting death, fighting, furious, ferocious, fearful, fantastic, fanatic, she always looks over her shoulder, even when she is alone in her quarters. She writes about herself, but she uses a different name every time. Her own mind, memories, musings, they haunt her, I want to help. I want to help, but she wants to hurt. Why? Hurting, hearing, helpless, she hangs on, clinging, crying, calling, her voice howls silently.
Silence. She keeps her fear silent, she keeps her fury silent. Silent, soundless, still, she doesn't want anyone to know, she doesn't want anyone to understand, she doesn't want anyone to care, but I care.
I care.
She sees the sword, the rotting, dead hand, flashing towards them, she steps in the way, she pushes it away, but she wishes she could take it. She wants to die, she knows she cant. The fangs of the hound, massive, trying to tear her apart, she holds together, she takes the hit, for them. She loves, but she doesn't know what love is. She protects, but if she could, she would defend. Defending, desperate, dire, she wants a way to release, return to peace, was she ever at peace? No.
Peace, protection, prosperity, that's all she wants for them, for me, but I do not want it, for without desperation, without hurt, what use am I? Selfish. We are both so selfish.
Compassion. When she is upset, she calls me this. When she can no longer hide. Hiding, hurting, she silently begs for aid, but aid will not come. I cannot help her, but she says I can.
She comes to me, I do love when she visits, she finds me and stands next to me. "Why don't we go somewhere fun?" Fun? Where could she want to go? Fun, fleeting, famished, I desire to be near her, so I go. Val Royaeux, there are so many hurts here. She sits in the cafe, watching me, I help. I ease their fears, I strengthen their resolve, I tell them what they need to hear. Petty hurts, but they still hurt. They know not the pains of others, so it is bad for them.
Pity. She pities me, pities them, pities the world, but not herself. I sit next to her, the hurts have been healed. Not hers. She aches. She tells me I've done well, she's pleased, she likes me, what I do, me. She hides her ache, but I know it's there, she cannot hide from me.
Tangled knots in a disarray of darkness, dimness, discontent. There is so much she needs, but she will not accept help. Guiltless, guileless, genuine, she thinks of me, she wants to protect me, but I... I don't. I don't like it. I want to help, but she wont let me.
We leave Val Royaeux. The forest, green, giant, growing, alive, she likes it here. It is very nice. She stops to watch a caterpillar on an elfroot plant, and I cannot help but to stare. Beautiful. Beautiful, brilliant, bright, she radiates with kindness. Kind, caring, cautious, she would not hurt anyone who did not deserve it. She lifts the caterpillar to a tree and watches it climb up, up, so far up until it was no longer visible, but she continues to watch. Watching, waiting, wondering, where did it go? It went up. The answers are not so simple.
Her hands look soft. I want to hold them, so I do. I hold her hand, and she looks at me. Sorrow. She is sorry? I cannot tell why. Scared. She is scared, of me? No, of herself. She doesn't want to hurt me. "You can never hurt me," I hope to calm her. She lifts her hand from mine, then rests it on my cheek. Cole. She says it out loud. "Cole." I like it, when she says my name. Gentle. She is so gentle, but she is so afraid of herself.
She moves closer. I wonder, what is she doing? Closer, caring, careful, concerned, cautious, she lays her head on my shoulder and she hugs me. This is new, but I like it. I have never been hugged before. I gently put my arms around her. Is this how I help? It helps her, heals her, I can hear her now. Her heart beats loud, is she sick? She wants, wishes, wistful, what does she need?
"Inquisitor." She does not like it when I call her this. What else do I call her? Please, say my name. I hear it so loudly. She aches for it, begs for it, can such a simple thing help? Yes. She wants to feel like she is a person again, instead of a tool, a beacon, an object of worship. So I say it. I say her name. It feels foreign to my lips, but pleasant. Pleasant, yes, she is happy, and I am happy. Happy, hoping, how else can I help?
She does not want to be forgotten. So I promise not to forget. She does not want to be alone, so I promise never to leave.
I will never leave.