Elian slued the lid of the golden chest, appraising about the little commodities he had gathered.. no... garnered. Garnered was the word, for during the few months spent on Gobaith, founding the Silver Sword, he had quite well earned the goods that rested there. A sigh eluded his lips, taking nothing but a few coins, the arduous armor on his shoulders, and a randomly drawn sword onto the side of his belt, into a scabbard.
He gave a brief, farewell nod to Borgate, and with a deadening, nearly loath gait, digressed towards the southern gate. He leant his head as an Adieu to Nebar, and pressed the threshold's wooden door to a close, curtailing the acceding of the frosty breeze. He foiled both arms onto his metal chest, inclining his head as his hair fell down to veil his beauteous chestnut eyes, shielding them from the whip-like wind jostling flakes of snow onto his face.
A warm murk bilked from his mouth, at each breath, forcing his vision to evanesce gradually. His sight fleeted tardily, yet fresh vivid mental images came along his troubled mind. Images of his father.. of the dauntless men who sacrificed their own lives, to salvage his from execution, images his own men, the warriors that fought besides him, united under the brand of Silver Sword, and most dominantly... images of her.
But on the spur of the moment, the envisions overcrowded his mentations, cluttering his thoughts with dark cerebrations of what would come next. Or better, what could come next.
He advanced blindly, making his way onto the cobble-stoned path, dragging his cloggy armour with him, but he halted. Deluged by fatigue, he crumbled to the floor, seating onto the frigid snow, his respiration accentuating, as more mist rushed out of his mouth.
He closed his eyes momentarily, thinking onto the only person that had truly caught his heart. Would he go back, and stay with her? But what about HIM? He couldn't leave him in Salkamar.. What if it was all prevarications? What if he .. took her with him? No.. too hazardous. He cared for her life more than his own, this would simply make no sense..
He sighed again, this time deeply, as a single tear of an unbelievable scarcity trickled its way down his cheek, to land, nearly frozen, onto the snowy ground. He had just broken the promise he had swore to keep by his men.. 'A mercenary shall show no fear, no pain and no weaknesses.'
Then perhaps.. he wasn't mean to be a mercenary..
How could feelings be so smothering?
