Tales of Oblivion Book 3, vol 1: The Parting

[Joshua, the Wayne]

Warm and inviting bore the setting sun that day within the infinite realm. Clouds of many colors curled past, licking the dark black sky lightly, racing to the sunset. The castle of Ka'Hendridth rested in its ruin, finally fallen to its last stone. Ah, but one piece remained in tact and stood tall as it had generations ago. It was big enough for few to live in, but could nonetheless be inhabited by all. Proving so as an old thief with flaming red hair and eyes that could be mistaken from afar as polished emeralds walked our of a large hole. His black cloak dancing behind him, he stood on the near edge of the pavillion and moved his head to look at the heartening sun. The sun that not far back finally shone as it had not done in eons 'oer ages. Dameus gallantly stared and stood, his image provoking others to flee. Old eyes weary, he closed them and lifted his head to face the sky and batter his figure with the cold soothing blanket of wind. Peace. That was the feeling eminating from the whole scene. Dameus, one who had seen no peace for years, and the land, which had endured no peace until now. Taking in what he knew would be his last sip of homeliness for yet another while, Dameus remembered a second reason he had walked out here. Opening his eyes and reaching towards his back under his cloak, Dameus gripped the handle of an older blade of even he himself. Remembering old times and close encounters, he gingerly pulled it out and held it before him. It was his oldest blade that he remembered fighting with. He fought with it from the beginning of his own time. It was once a great piece of art, now rusted and gnawed by time's gnashing jaws. Some blood stains here and there decorated the blade finely, an intricate pattern lining up from the blade tip to the hilt. The edges, once sharp as an axe, now were dull and worn bumps. But what he treasured of this blade most that had not died since was the pommel. On it, when Dameus was young, he had etched in his family crest. He and his sister, actually. This blade, of which he named Wound, was a token of his own pride. A symbol representing his grey and dull past.
He wanted this blade to rest in peace just as he felt at that moment. Raising the blade up slowly, gripping it's handle once more and feeling the old ridges, Dameus stabbed Wound into the ground, the last moment it would ever be held by it's very master.
As Dameus withdrew his hand and stepped back to honor his old friend, he saw something on the ground he never had seen earlier.
T'was a white rose. A white rose within the infinite realm? Ah, what a legendary rarity.
Reaching down below him and gently plucking the rose from the ground, he raised up and smiled at the flower. White roses, that was his favourite hymn his stepmother sang for him when they had reached the end of a tragedy. That song, he remembered, was calming. Especially when she sang it. Elasia might like the rose, he thought as he turned around and stepped towards the hole in the wall.

Where do you think you're going, Dameus?

Dameus halted in his tracks.
skul'Kera took a few steps towards Dameus and grabbed the handle of his own blade.