A/N: italics pretty much mean what I want them to. . . either I'm putting emphasis on something, or it's a little flashback of Kaistern and Kharl's conversations. Or it could be someone's thoughts. It's your call to decide. And -blah- encompasses the italics, if the italics don't show.

Endetheme: Anesthesia

Act I: Garden

The sun shone, broken and worn, on the earth in the garden. The weak light seemed to hesitate, as though unsure it was still allowed to shine upon the earth. There was no warmth to the light, no safety or salvation, and the shadows cast were numerous. It was a waning light, a dying light, and eerily reminiscent of the reality of the earth.

But people had always said that the Lord of the Dragons was connected to the world in a way even the fair folk could not fathom, that the world reacted to his feelings and emotions in a desire to be one with him. The elements loved the Lord of Dragons, and the elements loved the Clan of the Dragon. So, perhaps, it was not unusual for the light to be so thin and sickly, as though all strength and will had died with the early dawn.

The garden, cast in shadow and light, was still. There was no movement from children or animals. The birds' song was quiet in the trees, and the trickle of the fountains and streams was fading as the day continued. There was a sense of waiting, maybe an overlaying mood of mourning, as the dying light dragged itself, soul weary, across a garden that did not sound like a garden.

The Garden of the Dragon Lord was said to be the most lovely garden in the world. Books had been written, describing the beauty of its thousands of flowers, its acres of trees, the thick carpets of grass and moss, crossed by streams and fountains, dotted with small paths, little alcoves, benches and carefully placed stones to act as chairs. It was a place of mysterious romance, a place to be alone, a place to be together, a place to just exist.

The light was struggling though the garden. The birds did not sing, no children played. A runaway Lord did not wander the paths with his Queen, prized officers did not relax in the shade, delaying their work, young knights did not play in the water. The garden was still.

The tall oak tree had been torn from the ground by its roots, branches cracked and broken. The flowers were burned and crushed. The animals lay where they had fallen, unable to flee, their eyes glassy and cold. Red smears splattered the grasses, the benches. There was no peace. There was no one there at all.

Huddled still against an alcove was a limp blond, his green eyes faded and lifeless. Red turned to brown on the front of his armor, and a sword was dropped at his side. In front of him, sprawled in the ground, torn and broken like a china doll, an emerald haired woman lay quiet. Not far, a dark haired man was collapsed in a heap, stains of rusty red in pools around him.

It was carnage.

Near the center of the garden, a black haired boy rested limply against a stone pillar, coated in red.

In the center of the garden, in an open clearing of blood and tears, a man kneeled.

He was splattered with red. His clothing was torn, and dried wells of rust could be seen beneath.

The light called to him, the last living thing in the garden.

- It was carnage.-

White on white on white on white. Red on White. There were tears, silent tears, pouring from a face so empty it screamed of the deepest agony. His hands were limp at his sides; he was kneeling in the grass. Alone.

Empty white eyes stared at the sky, at the dying light. And he cried.

Agony, soul screaming agony, a loss so profound that words were meaningless.

A pale shadow entered the clearing.

"Kaistern?"

The light shied away from the shadow, struggling to leave before there was none left to call it at all.

"Kaistern!" the shadow stared at the center of the clearing.

A pale shadow, a shadow almost as pale as the man in the broken garden. His hair was white ivory, the streaks of violet highlights within matching cream-edged eyes. He was tall, and his long white cloak swirled about him. There was no color save for white and violet.

-They're very peaceful colors. They make me feel calm.-

The shadow stepped closer to the man in the center. "You're alive. . . ."

A gasp of relief, a visible change in the way the shadow carried itself, and the shadow spoke again.

"I'm so sorry, Kaistern. I'm sorry. If I had known - I would have done something. But I'm here now. It will be alright. . . ."

There was nothing from the man in the center, as he cried and cried, face turned in a plea toward the sky. It was as though there was no one else there, no shadow talking to him.

"Kaistern. . . ?"

The shadow stepped closer, staring down at the begging white eyes. "Kaistern, are you alright?"

The red splatters on his face stood out like paint of mourning.

The man in the center continued to cry, unmoving.

"Kaistern, what's wro-!" An ivory hand had touched the white shoulder, the splattered white and white and red.

And he collapsed, the man did, falling gracelessly from his kneeling position.

There was no god to answer a prayer that may not have been made. . . .

But the shadow caught the falling man, his violet eyes wide with horror.

"Kaistern!"

And they waited there, shadow and man, as the light died in a garden of carnage.

Endetheme: Anesthesia

Act I: End