He was nothing.

All he felt in the darkness was death...loneliness, and the feeling of being deprived of

something precious.

Yet he knew that he was not alone.

He was never going to be alone anymore.

Not where they had taken him.

They...

The ones who had taken him from what they called 'the prison'...the body.

He was without a body now.

It was so dark, his surroundings, that he did not know whither his eyes were open, or

closed. A chilling wind blew in from somewhere...making his skin--if he had any-

prickle, and his teeth chatter. Searching for that wind in this darkness was impossible. He

was numb, but he knew that he touched nothing, not even the floor of wherever he was.

Opening cracked lips, he called out, but the shadows swallowed his cry... he didn't even

hear his own voice.

Had he even spoken?

In panic, remembering all that had happened to him, his heart hammered against his

chest, trying to crawl up his aching throat, and moaned (or so he thought).

"Think of something good," he told himself, "This'll all be a dream. I'm at home, sleeping

in my bed with the Dal people all around my home."

But instead of that home he had created for himself, he saw the Vale in his mind.

Something he had never been able to forget.

Then he saw his mother, fair and enchanting with his simple-looking father. And then,

with long-lost sadness, he saw Coro, his twin. How long had he tried to forget that day?

The day that made him decide to run away.

Trying not to recall it, Durain struggled to not think of it, but it was hopeless.

It all came in flashes, little memories that had been buried for years coming up before his

eyes like a slide-show, making him see, making him remember. "No!" He wept, when he

saw the day.

Coro lay at his feet, a pool of blood around him, and there he-Durain- stood, a bat in

his hands, shaking all over as he looked up at his mother who came running out of the

cottage, alarmed by Coro's screams. He trembled like the earth that swallowed cities. In

one glance to his mother, he knew his life had finally crumbled to his feet in dust.

All the trust, love, and care fell from her steel gray eyes, and she looked in his eyes,

searching for an explanation. But found none. How could he tell her that he hadn't even

touched Coro? Could he convince her with Coro's blood on his hands?

Tears shone in his beloved mother's eyes, which flashed down to look at Coro who

moaned, weakly struggling in the bloody grass. "D-don't hurt me." Whimpered the

youngest of her sons.

Finally, her lips parted, and she screamed, "What did you do, Durain? What did you do to

your brother?!" That hadn't truly hurt him. It was something he would expect from her,

but what came next, out of those rose-red lips ripped out his heart, and made him want to

die when he bent down to turn Coro over, "Don't touch my son! Go, Durain, before I

explode!"

"Mother-"

"Don't call me that! I am not your mother! Go!"

He saw the anger.

Unconcealed disappointment.

The hate.

Then he ran.

How long he ran, he didn't remember.

But years later, he had returned to the Vale, only to see Coro with Ulthanis, his new

bride, in the room that had once been Coro's and his. His grandfather was nowhere to be

seen, nor his grandmother. But he had seen his parents.

His father held his immortal mother in his arms as she silently wept in front of the

fireplace, and he heard his father saying, "Forget about him," but she just cried more, "He

left us, didn't he? He doesn't care for us, or he would've been here a long time ago.

C'mon, think of what we have."

Finally, saddened, Durain pulled his thoughts away from his parents, his brother, his

sister-in-law, and his grandparents. What he thought of now, was nothing.

He was nothing.

What was he?

Was he alive? Dead?

Breathing?

Where was he?

A soft pair of hands touched his shoulder. That he felt. And wondered where his bodily

feelings had vanished. Turning around to that warm touch, sudden light sprayed away the

darkness like the sun, and he looked up into the murky eyes of a maiden so fair that it

took his breath away. Fairer was she then Almas who had handed him over to death so

freely.

This maiden's murky eyes held him fast, her black hair draped over her shoulders,

pouring down to her hips like silk as her moon-bright skin shone beautifully, her white

gown pouring to the stone floor that suddenly seemed to spread from her covered feet. In

her hair she wore a thin silver chain that sat upon her crest, a diamond, hanging from the

chain fell to the middle of her forehead.

Looking at his naked shoulder, he saw her glowing hand rest upon it lightly.

"W-who are you?" He asked her, now able to hear himself.

He noticed that she stood, slightly bent to touch his shoulder from where he sat, and rose

to his knees, "I am Eyroon, heiress of the Dragon God." She replied quietly, withdrawing

her hand from him to smoothly fold her arms in front of herself.

"Torak?" Durain murmured in surprise.

The maiden's full pale-pink lips slightly twitched into a half smile that said everything.