Audemus Dawnspark

Homecoming

The owner of the estate spends a lot of time smacking his lips about Kul Tiran high society, which seems an oxymoron in and of itself. As if the crumbling stone foundation of the flat rock fences around the unkempt heather fields aren’t a poignant symbol of his dying lineage, a hermit of a Baron who has no one left and thinks that this should impress something upon him. He thinks about helping speed along this miser’s death — it would certainly make the negotiations more tolerable, but it seems a sour way to start a new chapter. It wouldn’t take much, though, and it would be easy to make it look natural.

x

He’s used his real name, of course, the transfer of funds from his trust necessitating such, and it’s not exactly a surprise when he receives a letter at this new address. It’s heavy weighted card stock adorned with elegant calligraphy and it bears the spicy effluvium of his mother’s perfume: cashmere woods and white amber and black pepper and salt, but the last one comes from what’s streaking down his face. It’s a good substitute for tinder in the empty fireplace and smells wretched when it ignites.

x

The home is stone and wood and thatch, perfect for withstanding the salty gales that buffet the black rock cliffside; it’s been constructed to outlast generations of humans and even the occasional presumptuous elf. Once all of the previous occupant’s things have gone, he finds that he has nothing to fill it with. Down comes the wall of rambling roses on the southern face of the house, ripped away and shredded with his bare hands, and the bloody mess of petals and thorns makes a unique carpet for the foyer that appeals to his sense of vulgar humor.

x

He spends a lot of time attempting to make a nuisance of himself but only receives patience and empathy in return. It’s positively infuriating. It would be easier if she would just yell at him, tell him to leave, make known that he’s worn out his welcome. Two weeks of moving around the things in her room just so she can’t find them and just because he can, but he’s the one that breaks. A blanket of woven wool, rose taupe, familiar. He drapes it on the corner of her bed that he has left untouched (today) and plants a note on top: Keep it.

x

The shadow — dark and jagged in the coruscating moonlight beneath a slatted veranda — that comes to call has already cast a doubtful pall over his thoughts with a few simple words: Is this what you want? Perhaps not a shadow at all, just a beacon of (certainly not light: the only thing that’s light is the glimmer of sharp, white teeth and the spill of sandy hair he longs to touch) illumination about his misguided sentiment. Perhaps he’s just been mistaken.

He so often is.