The library was silent, even more so than usual, and lacking the warm din of rustling pages and footsteps echoing against the marble floors. The domed cathedral ceilings and ornate walls offered no shelter to what came from within. The lone inhabitant, a weary Aranea Serket, sat with the company of her books between two of the tall mahogany shelves. Her fingers slid over the smooth leather of her journal, a cerulean sigil accenting the textured cover and a small, sturdy brass lock over the pages to hold it all closed.
Keep it all in.
Shut it all away.
She shuddered upon setting the cool surface atop her lap, sitting with her back against a carefully organised shelf and her legs crossed. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she drew a little antique key from the breast pocket of her dress. With a deafening click through the muted world of the library, she slid the little lock out if place and opened the journal. Prim and proper hand writing in the elegant scratch of a quill filled the pages as she flipped, in the same slow movements, to two slightly torn pages somewhere about three quarters through the book, the only pages not adorned with the cerulean letters of Aranea's own hand.
Beautiful jade letters looped in neat little lines across the two pages open to Aranea's lonely gaze. Her heart, her head, her world, were so heavy. So heavy, it seemed at that moment, that Aranea would break. Shatter under the weight of the single tear rolling over her solemn cheek and dissolve in to those painfully familiar jade letters that she had read more often than her own favorite novel. Had she wanted to, she could close her eyes and follow each sloping line and hear the words echoing through her mind, in reality silent as the library.
It was her fault. It was her own fault and it was that fault that filled the tear leaving a cerulean trail along her cheek. Her fault. Her guilt that threatened to crush her and bring her world to a slow, passive end. At this point, reading over and over again the neatly written 'I lo+ve yo+u, darling' etched forever on the page of her journal and on her heart, she wouldn't have minded the crushing. Wouldn't have minded if it meant not supporting the weight for another day.
Another week.
Another perigee, sweep, lifetime in their infinite time left in the dream bubbles. Each time she read them over again, those same four words screaming and whispering all at once in her mind, her chest squeezed. Another pain for each crack in her heart of finest china under an anvil of burden that she alone was responsible for.
A sigh of regret, shaking with that weight, left her lungs in a slow rush. The library knew her secrets, her sadness, and each sigh found its place alongside the abundance of books on her shelves. The little brass lock was left to fail yet again at its sole job from its place on her thigh, could only sit solemnly as everything she and it worked so hard every day to contain came pouring out yet again in a torrent of love, loss, and hurt.
Too many days she sat alone in the library with her secrets and regret, her tears and her pain, her little brass lock occupying the space on her thigh, and the words of the pade leaping in to her heart though it sat far down in the pit of her stomach. They fit their jade loops in to her body, engulfing her in warmth and fire, cold and loneliness. Never has such beautiful writings been such horrible torment for her.
Fo+rever yo+urs, Po+rrim Maryam
They said. Forever hers. Forever had been cut short by the hasty knife of Aranea's own doubt and insecurity. Her sweet angel fell, fell down and down in to her own silently screaming library and room of shelved secrets. Down to her knees. Down to the bed of another that did not love her as Aranea had.
As Aranea did.
So often she saw Porrim on the arm of another after that day that she had seen Porrim kiss a friend under the mistletoe and stormed away. A friendly peck at the corner of the lips, and age old tradition. She had left Porrim there and simply gone home whilst the rest of the guests refilled their cups and toasted to love, laughter, and happiness. Porrim came to Aranea's home a while later, confused and inquiring as to where she had gone. She was devastated as Aranea informed her, fighting tears and in a voice as cold as her shaking fingers on the pages of the journal, that they were no longer together. Porrim was sent away, back to her own lonely home, in tears, the last words they had spoken to eachother since then spiteful or pleading. Aranea's own insecurities made her send away the woman she loved, who loved her unconditionally, and had been Forever Hers.
She returned to the library after reliving that moment for what felt like the millionth time. Eight sweeps since Aranea Serket, the smartest troll any of her friends had ever known, had made her mistake. Common sense dictates that each living being will make countless mistakes in their lifetime, though Aranea made few and very seldom forgave herself for those she did.
She silently vowed to herself and the library around her that, after so many sweeps of regret, hurt, and watching Porrim put her beautiful mind and body to shame sleeping with whomever she could, she would make amends. If Porrim would not have her back as a matesprit, then so be it, but she had to rid herself of the terrible weight. She didn't know how much more she could take.