Ethan quirked his head at the odd object the canvas portrayed. It was his fifth attempt at art and there always seemed to be something wrong with the painting in front of him. Three days he tried and failed at coming up with something remotely acceptable. Three days of fruitless effort and he was getting impatient. Matters at home did not help what with his mother going through a rough faze and his father retreating to his study altogether, and he was quickly falling into a state of depression, especially since there was no Guard work to distract him and no school for another month yet.

He had begun with something he hoped would impress his mentor enough to desist with the art lessons - he craved action. He should have known it would not have worked; who knew a tree was so complex? Ethan had even conjured up an illusion of one to guide him, but to no avail. Arkarian, sensing his pupil's frustration, had suggested he try something simple, so Ethan got as simple as he could get: he tried to portray a chair. But even that seemed to elude him.

He took another look at the picture in front of him, his brow furrowing with frustration. It was not a chair. One leg was crooked and it seemed flat; undefined. It was not a chair; it was a picture. Dull and lifeless.

Arkarian looked over Ethan's shoulder at yet another failed attempt and sighed; they were getting nowhere. Arkarian was worried for his apprentice; he felt his frustration as if it were his own, though he did not show it. Arkarian knew what it did to Ethan to idle. If he was not busy with something, Ethan tended to brood on matters best left for the past and when he brooded he got frustrated and upset, which is why Arkarian had come up with this exercise. But Ethan was not concentrating and it was beginning to grate on his nerves.

Now was not the time for that, especially with the Tribunal so uptight. There were rumors spreading; rumors of exposure. The Guard was at risk of being uncovered. From what Arkarian knew, the source was not entirely known. The origin of the roomers came from a remote facility in a deserted region some miles north of Angel Falls but not much else has been found. They knew the facility was supposedly a medical centre for the mentally disabled though it has a reputation for malpractice. Not many are aware of the hospital's existence and even fewer know it's exact location, much to the satisfaction of its staff who are free to do as they please.

The rumors themselves are unclear. Some say one of the patients there is a witch practicing black magic, others say the patient is possessed by the devil; so on and so forth. There was nothing conclusive. The Tribunal have come up with many possibilities; one is that the patient is gifted and has just come into their skills without the knowledge of the guard, but the most accepted of them is that the rumors are simply that; rumors. It not a chance the Guard is willing to take, so until the problem is solved and a proper investigation is conducted, all members have been put on high alert. Except Ethan who has yet to be informed, though the subject will be discussed later during their current meeting.

But that was not all that was playing on Arkarian's patience. There is a tugging at the back of his mind that will not desist. It pulls at him day and night and he constantly feels as if he is missing something. Arkarian does not know what it is or what it means, but it was wearing on him. He has grown into the habit of double and triple checking every single detail of his life from washing his face to watching the sphere he uses to monitor the past, but the tugging is always there. A constant nuisance he cannot seem to ignore. It was making him more than a bit apprehensive. He was beginning to wonder if he should report it, or at least mention it to Lorian and the Tribunal.

Two days, Arkarian thought, If it does not ebb by two day's time, I will report it. Though he doubted he could bring himself to do it anyway. It felt private to him; his own suffering that no one should know about. The notion was entirely ridiculous, of course, and Arkarian realized his silence could be putting himself and others around him in danger but he could not shrug the feeling off. If only he knew what was causing the insensible pull that plagued his mind, maybe then it would cease to bother him.

Arkarian sighed, halting his thoughts, and returned to the task at hand. He looked at the pitiful painting of a chair in front of him and recognised Ethan's mistake immediately. It was a common one, a mistake many of his student's had made before, but a major one nonetheless. "You are underestimating the value of a chair, Ethan," Arkarian stated, ignoring Ethan's quizzical look, "It is simple, yes; it is common, yes; but is more important than you give it credit for. It is not simply a piece of carved wood; it is much more than that. It provides you with rest, it is an artifact you can cherish, a work of art that carpenters conjure with their saws and their sweat and so much more. In order to portray it accurately, you must first capture its very essence. What is a chair to you Ethan? Think on that and then show me."

Ethan stared up at his mentor from his seated position, once again taken aback by his seemingly endless wisdom. It had always baffled him how Arkarian could take any object, no matter how worthless it may seem, and turn it into something lovely; something magical and special and worthy to be cherished. Arkarian had done the same with Ethan, so many years ago when he found him on that hill and pulled him out of his madness and grief and gave him a new meaning to life. Arkarian showed him how to mourn his sister without killing himself in the process, something Ethan had always wished he could teach his parents though it was probably too late now.

Ethan turned back to the easel in fron of him, taking up a new canvas, he began to paint, a new dedication shining in his eyes. He would not let Arkarian down.

-Isabel-

I was having dreams. Strange, incomprehensible dreams. Between the beatings and the endless questions, in the few moments of rest they allowed me, I dreamt. Not of the repetitive "how did you heal yourself?" or "What is the source of your witchcraft?" or any of the other nonsensical word they threw at me, not of the man who came in everyday to cause me pain, pain that is quickly removed by the golden being that now resides inside me and is somehow determined to do my bidding; no, I dreamt of stranger things ... different things.

One of my dreams is of a man. A man I am sure I have never seen before. I dreamt of him time and time again. It has come to a point were, if I close my eyes - which I do most of the time- I will see his clear pale face and deep eyes, shining with an expression I could not understand. He was colorful though. His hair was long and blue and his eyes a deep purple. I had allowed myself a moment of pride for remembering the names of those colors before I quickly shoved it away. Remembering was bad. Remembering only brought me pain.

There were other dreams though. Dreams of a little boy with brown hair and brown eyes. He looked very familiar, like I should know him. There was a strange tugging at my heart whenever I thought of him, almost painful, so I stopped thinking. But the dreams continued.

They were so incredibly clear; every detail shining out, taunting me. In my starved and delirious state, it took me longer than it should have to realise that they were not dreams. They were visions. The cursed sights that had put me here in the first place.

One was exceptionally disturbing. It was of the boy, the familiar one. He was seated at a large wooden thingwith his little hands he pressed on small white and black blocks that were attached to the wood. He moved his little fingers, pressing different blocks and a tune came out. Loud ringing noises mixed with deeper stronger ones. He moved his fingers again, and again a noise came out. His fingers moved faster and faster across the blocks, creating a soft happy melody that played over and over in my head. I felt something pull within me when he played. A place in my mind, locked off and forgotten was brought back to the surface, getting closer, louder until it exploded through my mind with a sense of realisation. Music. The boy was making music. And it was beyond anything I had ever heard before.

The tune had highs and lows, with tinkling, playful notes and slower, deeper, stubborn ones. It went between one and the other, playing both together and separately. It would get higher and higher only to come back down and then start again. The sound moved me, repeating in my mind until it conquered all thoughts. And in the passion of music, something single tear spilt over my cheek, followed by another and another.

The music slowed, stopped, the vision faded and the boys face blurred and in the distance I heard an echo, Matty, Someone called, It's dinner time and I was left in the blackness of my cell; alone, hungry and mourning the beauty I could never have with tears that were long overdue.