by Kayleen Proffer

Created on: April 22, 2009

Helpless rage surges through his body as he once again tries to throw the sword into the darkness, to release himself from the binding curse that comes from holding this much pain in your hands. He cannot move, he cannot let go. Standing in the darkness, he cries without tears. He hits his knees, no longer capable of carrying the weight of it. Still silently crying, a light pierces the darkness. The sword glistens in the light. He looks at it for a moment, watches the light reflect of the sharp blade and feels it dance across his face. He wants to stand, wants to find out where the warmth is coming from. He pushes down the fear, lifts the sword and tries to stand. He falters, but stands strong.

With the unexpected change, his eyes refuse to adjust so he cannot see clearly. But she can see him.
And she looked curiously at this man, this hero, his face half hid by shadow his stare as well known as her own reflection. He held a sword in his grip. It seemed tied there by a chain. The unbreakable sort. She approached carefully for fear he might run.
A fellow warrior, she recognized that much immediately. Not just for the sword, but the conviction and the passion that burned outward from his body in an uncanny aura that her own body released as well. He was familiar, but unknown to her. The closer she got, the more she knew why.
The unhidden side of his face shone brightly despite the night. His eyes pierced her, and she felt herself drowning in them. He was cautious and his stance tightened, but the closer she got the more he softened. She wanted to ask why he carried such a sword. It was far too large for him, in spite of his own large size, and it weighed him down. Which is why, she assumed he stood his ground. The sword itself made it impossible for him to move.
She recognized the pattern of the chain once she could see its detail. It had been forged with pain. Not the hero's pain, but instead the pain of the victims for whom he had picked it up for to begin with. The curiosity in her face receded and was replaced with vexation at the person who attached the chains to begin with, and an ache she couldn't explain. She hurt for him.
She wasn't him, but she felt his heart beating in her chest. She wasn't touching him, but she could feel him. He turned, and for the first time she could see all of his face. She didn't see the lines etched across his cheeks, or the light scar across his chin, all she saw were her eyes looking out at her. She smiled, it was the only

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