Krusu

Grief changes the tang and timbre of all things.

The year's delay took none of its power. Left it more twisted, perhaps: grief, relief, guilt, loss. The months of trying to acknowledge the good while all the rest was still there, and the stresses on us both of trying not to be whatever it was that would bring all those things to the surface... and failing too often.

And my warlord and touchstone lost the will to work within our constraints; once guardian of our ways, now flouter of them. I understand. It does not lessen the grievous losses of his counsel and his company.

The troika parts. We go our separate ways. We had good dreams together.

Arac's grieving, too; for deaths of some close to him. We were apart for the first blows, then subdued together, trying to endure.

Which brings us here, to the source of the Tronhadar in the Krusu ranges. Stone and sky and winding ways. Vistas that require focus beyond the distance of a room. The ache of unaccustomed muscles taking all their minor injuries and, perhaps, becoming stronger for them.

We passed ruined Salvation and headed to high hills. The mountains are. In the heights, ice cracks. Winds surge and flow. Mother-of-Snows lets slip her cloak of cloud and glories in the light.

The winds here speak of freedom. I don't know which hurts more: freedom, or the compromises we make to be together.

It's easing a bit. Enough. The other worlds call, and I can answer them. Enough. It surges like the winds, and is sometimes still.

They say grief keeps its own calendar. It does. I place on my own calendar the things that must be done so I can get through this, discharge my duties, and then take time to be and to become.

I need more changes. This is no way to live.