28th Winter, 514 A.V.
The Trail of Waterfalls
The Trail of Waterfalls
The frigid air cut across deceivingly thin wooden planks that made up the Trail of Waterfalls, making Ben’s personal reverie more a test of endurance. The woolen coat draped about him was pulled tight, as if his willpower and diligence would keep it from letting in the traitorous breeze. Though the wind was cold and wild, it’s chaotic path left moments of silent stillness. In those fleeting peaceful instances he could hear the creaking of the pathway, and the crunch of his own leathery boots against the thin layer of snow that covered the pathway.
The wizard could feel the wooden pendant pressed against his chest. It was warm with his body heat, almost organic in it’s sensation. He had thought of leaving it in the chest back in his apartment. The wooden presence on his chest was a constant reminder of what was lost. But upon a moment’s scrutiny of the idea, Ben found his woeful heart too weak to abandon the grief just yet. Instead he would wander through the winter’s solitude in this foreign city, with these foreign people, wondering what it would have been like.
Farpoint loomed ahead. His final destination and the point at which he would have to turn around and return to civilization. The man sighed and pulled the collar still tighter about his neck. As he walked over to a nearby bench he watched the misty escape of his own breath in the air for a moment. Of course no one was in the picnic area.
Only madmen and lonesome woeful wizards wander in such places in the middle of winter. The solitude was why he had come. Though he was constantly trying to gain social ground in the city, his social life colder and more desolate than the path he trudged now, he did value his occasional bout of nostalgic self-pity. No matter which way he swung it, and he tried to swing it a few ways, that’s all it was. Sadness primarily for his own situation. And he hated himself for such weakness.
Ben stared down a bare palm, the scar upon it muted in the cloudy twilight of the evening. He pooled his focus into that hand. Emptying his mind of all the external and internal stressors, he focused on the hand. With a push of gentle willpower, an ethereal mist of Res poured forth to reach for the air directly above the palm. Benji frowned down at it.
He waited until the tiny amount of Res was a few inches above his palm before forcing a spike of willpower to ignite it. The edge of the Res lit slowly for a heartbeat, then caught the bulk of the mass and flared up. The flame burnt like a lopsided candle, low and orange in it’s fury. And in it’s fiery depth he saw her face. But then it sizzled out and he was left staring at the scar on his now rapidly chilling hand.
Bennar Witt thrust his fists back into his pockets. He turned to the bench next to him and contemplated sitting. It was covered in a thin layer of powder which he clumsily knocked off with one leather boot. The young man plopped down on the bench and huddled into himself. He let his mind drift back to years past as his blue eyes watched his warm breath disappear, a constant gift to Morwen’s winter.
