At that point, I didn't really care very much about anything. Stories could be rewritten, plot lines redrawn, even refined, even the journal wasn't completely irreplaceable, but still…the exact combination of words I'd put together, the perfectly planned sequences…all the writing aside, the immense amount of work that had been put into it. That could not be gotten back. It was as though half of me had disappeared, the good half at that, the pieces of myself that were worth something. I never should have challenged Parvatio, tried to be a hero, it had been my simply but complete undoing.

Why had I decided to be so reckless? I had never been that sort of person, and now it seemed so out of place remembering. Maybe it was because the man/monster had made me feel so weak and before I had believed I was strong and independent. The difference between now and then was laughable.

I got out of bed to make myself a bowl of soup around two, but I didn't really taste it. My fingers twitched to write on the few pieces of paper left in tact, but I hadn't the heart. To pass time, I got dressed and went to Market Street, walking slowly past all of my fellow merchants. None of them spoke to me. Most of them didn't know about my disability, so I probably seemed very unsocial to them anyway, they had no reason to try to make conversation. I hadn't enough money to buy anything, but even if I had, this was not a trip to purchase things. There was no doubt in my mind that Parvatio would be in his usual place, only not selling his usual paintings. I was sure that my paintings and my writing would be gathering money for him. I was also certain that no one would notice the sudden change, or if they did they wouldn't care. The corner just ahead was all that hid our lots from sight, and my walk seemed to slow though it wasn't a conscious action on my part. I hugged myself, afraid of what I would do if I saw what I expected. No violence, no, I wouldn't be brave for a while yet, but I was terrified of exploding from the inside out in silence. I turned the corner almost in slow motion, the people around me seeming to move much faster than usual. A man scoffed and bumped past me, agitated at my hesitance. I watched him go, then refocused my attention…I stepped around the wall.

The lots were there, my own obviously empty, and Parvatio's…was empty.

I blinked a few times and then stepped out into the crowd again. Against the stream of pedestrians, I crossed the street, and reached the lot. I stared down in confusion. Not only was his lot empty, but the paintings from the day he'd fallen and scattered them still lay untouched. He hadn't been by his lot since the time he'd first threatened me. I shook my head a bit, folding my arms. Why would he steal my best paintings only to keep them by, useless?

*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*

I unlocked my door and stepped out of the now-falling rain into my dark and warm rooms. The sun was shrouded in rain clouds as usual, its dim contribution to the light of my fire made everything look gray. Shadows flickered, making even inanimate objects seem to move across surfaces. For some reason, I felt nervous as I shut the door…wary. I could swear there was someone looking at me from some hidden corner. The feeling was familiar, I stepped further into the room, trying to be casual, it was only my room, the same as always, but my fists were clenched at my side.

Something moved in the corner, I turned toward it with a sharp gasp. Nothing was there but flickering shadows.

It's only mice…I thought to comfort myself.

A low hum that almost sounded like a dark chuckle came from the corner behind me, and I whirled around again, my heart beating faster. Again, nothing. Either I was going insane, or there was someone very fast, cruel, and nearly invisible playing a terrible joke. Or, it was mice. It wasn't as though mice couldn't make noises.

Clattering from the corner where my portraits were. I turned, slowly this time, whatever it was would be gone by the time I looked anyway. I stared at the corner a moment, then realized…what was different. Walking over silently, I bent low and looked at the paintings, then brushed my fingers over the purple and yellow in a field of dandelions and tulips. This painting had been missing last night…and so had all the others sitting around it. I jumped to my feet and touched every one, more of the missing ones also sat behind those in front. Every single canvas, all of my previous work that had been stolen, returned. I covered my mouth with my right hand because I was smiling so ridiculously. My eyes felt wet with tears of joy. I wanted to clutch each and every painting to my chest and dance for happiness. I settled for standing and taking a few deep breaths instead. All that was missing now was my writing. Perhaps it had mysteriously returned as well.

I almost ran over to my desk, but there was nothing on it, nor in the drawers when I jerked them open violently. I stood back up and put my hands on my hips, perhaps it would appear later. I turned back to the corner, they were all still there, I wasn't dreaming, and I hadn't dreamed their disappearance. That sorrow had been too intense to be a subconscious illusion. I was more than certain Parvatio hadn't had a change of heart. So how had they returned? Who…or maybe what…had brought them back? I was still standing in the warm firelight when a knock sounded through the door.

I didn't really think much about what I was doing as I walked toward the door, even my eyes still lingered on the corner full of canvases. I fumbled for the knob, and when at last I gripped it firmly, pulled the door open. Ripping my eyes from the corner, they found a new (and much better) fixations. There, in my doorway, he stood, the most beautiful, most captivating man I'd ever seen, would ever see no doubt, and I didn't even know his name.

His eyes were the color of fire shrouded in thick smoke, black covering red, but I could only just see them. He kept looking up, then down again, afraid to meet my eyes. Still though, he stood straight and tall, but he seemed to be trembling beneath his black shirt and breeches, as though resisting some terrible temptation. Only just. I had never in my life wished so fervently to be able to say the word 'hello.' I might even have opened my mouth a bit, but the memory seems so distant I can't really recall. I also feel that I must have had some sort of expression of pain, as much as it was hurting me to see him and not know him. It seemed to take all my strength to look away, and I moved awkwardly, not even knowing where to place my own hands. I moved my right tentatively back to the edge of the door, hardly letting it rest there. My left came up to tuck my hair behind my ears and then rub my temple, hiding my eyes for a moment.

He moved, though it seemed forced and unnatural, and began to extend his hands to me. My heart thumped at the thought of touching him, but then I realized he was holding out his hands to give me something. Clasped safely between his long graceful fingers was a sheaf of paper that looked at least eight inches thick. All of my writing, my entire life held between his hands.

He cleared his throat, then spoke slowly and clearly, each word articulated with artistic perfection. "Pardon my coming here, I didn't mean to disturb you, I only wanted to return these to their proper owner." He held them out to me again, almost cautiously, his arms doing most of the reaching. He couldn't have been any less than two feet away from me.

Everything he did made me feel slow and stupid, and it took a moment for me to reach out and take my work from him. I was overly careful not to touch him, I felt as though I would simply go into convulsions were I to slip up and feel his fingers. Once my writing was in my possession again, I felt sad, he no longer had a reason to stay.

His hands were behind his back now, and he stared at me intently, a little fearfully, did he think I was going to run away? I only then remembered again that I had every reason to be fearful. This man had attacked me, intended to kill me, but something about him was too beautiful to fear. Was he made that way? Whatever he was…my attraction was undeniable, but it angered me, it was lust. I knew nothing about him. God forbade lust in the Bible. Still, that was no reason to be impolite, I looked up at him and cleared my own throat, coming to my senses only through great effort. I directed my eyes to his and tried to speak with them, the only way I knew how. I thought purposefully, trying to say words without technically saying them.

Thank you. Thank you a thousand times…

"You're welcome." He said, looking down again, but stepping back. At least I'd gotten through.

I wanted him to look at me again, so I could try to invite him in with my eyes, but then he spoke as if he knew what I was thinking.

"I can't come in, I can't stay." I wasn't quite convinced he wasn't telling himself as well as me. I hung my head a bit, then lifted it. I wanted to figure out if he was the one who'd brought back my paintings as well. I was sure it had been him, but I needed to hear it from his mouth just as much. Then he spoke again.

"I brought all of this back to-to apologize for the other night." He didn't seem to want to go on. "I was…" He seemed to be thinking so hard, as though determined to convince me of something he hadn't convinced himself of yet. "I'm sorry." He finished awkwardly, turning at an angle to leave. "It won't happen again." That was firm and harsh, a command to his own intentions.

Please don't leave…I thought desperately, gripping the door, digging my nails into the weak wood. I wanted to spend time with him, justify this lustful attraction by discovering more about who he was, his personality. I had no doubt he was a wonderful person simply from the past few moments, but still, I had to know.

He closed his eyes and spoke almost too low to hear, setting his jaw. "Please don't ask me to stay. I can't. I can't." His accent was American, and the words sounded strange. How could he have known how badly I wanted to invite him in? He hadn't so much as glanced at me the past two minutes…this small concern left my thoughts quickly however, and I could only contemplate ways in which to make him stay longer.

I could offer him tea, something to eat, maybe make him think something's wrong and I need someone's help, tell him I'm lonely…

At least that last one was legitimate. I heard a soft chuckle, but when I looked up, his face was the same as it had been before. It was still…and sad. I wanted to paint him.

Despite all his talk of needing to leave, he still stood there, waiting for something I wasn't sure of.

Stay. I willed it in my mind.

Don't leave me.

Talk to me.