Journal Entry, October 17th.
Rain.
As a soldier, one is accustomed to death. It's a major result of our vocation, and a largely messy business. During one's tenure, one becomes familiar with spades, six-foot holes, and kind words spoken over the deceased, once they're buried, or placed upon a pyre, or covered in a stony cairn, according to their wishes and their culture. It never gets any easier. Ever. This goes double for those whom one has a deep affection for, be the deceased a friend, family, or lover. From the moment that Ramika turned her gaze to me, after I had tended to her and restored her to life, I knew that, deep down, she was in pain. I did not, then, and never wish to know the true depths of her pain, though the depths likely ran as deep as the sky is wide.
And now, in the strange and somewhat ironic cycle of things, I have once again attended her in death. This time, not to snatch her from Kelemvor's hoary clutches, but to gently escort her to Coronal's court in one final act of friendship. She now rests in the company of her loved ones, in the spot that she desired. I do not condemn her for her decision. I commend her bravery, in choosing the only sure way out of his prison, and having the courage to turn the key and let herself out. Perhaps, beyond the veil that lies between this world and the next, she and I will meet again.
My dear friend has departed, and the world is poorer for it. One fewer light shining in the darkness.
Darkness, shadows. People often forget that darkness and shadows are separate, if certainly connected, entities. The 'space between' the light and dark, always lurking on the terminus. I sometimes marvel at my own errant thoughts, when they make it onto paper. Why would I think of such? Shadows.
Dancers in Shadow- Doomed to a 'life' of instability, as they walk further down the path. Power, at a price.
I worry for Ramika's lover, Thraxys. I heard his muffled wailing through the door of our makeshift preparatory chamber in Degannwy, observed his peculiar change in speech pattern and stance, and helped to steady him when he collapsed. Without the arms of his lover about him, will he give in to the cruel nature that is his birthright, his heritage? Will he cease to walk the path of the Dancer in Shadows, and, instead, run? I sincerely hope not.
I admit my fear of eventually having to bury not a friend, in Thraxys' case, but something akin to a rabid beast. I would prefer that my blade act as a misericord for this Drow friend, over the cold kiss of a Garda's halberd, or the bite of a gendarme's bullet.
As for Maryn, I hope that she finds solace in one way or another on this grim night. Perhaps, with the loss of one dear friend, I have had the groundwork for a new friendship laid before me? Only time will tell.
The sun rises soon, and with it, the promise of a new dawn. A new beginning.
The cycle continues.
