Pages I Will Never Show Her
It is a rather novel sensation for me - to be at a loss for words. Even committing these thoughts to paper carries an unfamiliar struggle, as though I am thinking and writing in a language or dialect I have not yet mastered.
My thoughts, of late, are of her.
Each knock upon my door sets my heart into a foolish, traitorous anticipation. I listen for her voice before reason has a chance to intervene, and I confess to a certain... heaviness of spirit when it proves to be anyone else. At times she smiles at me and offers an offhand remark so unexpected that my carefully maintained composure falters. I am rendered speechless absurdly so. It is infuriating.
And yet… my heart responds as though it has been praised.
I ought to know better. I *do* know better. She is generous with her smiles and her kindness. I am well aware Davrin and Lucanis are equally frequent recipients of her bright spirit, and yet I feel singled out when I am the one upon whom it falls. I harbour this peculiar notion that I am uniquely favoured. Truly, I must exercise better self-discipline.
I truly ought to know better.
I never imagined I would experience envy again, a vice shed with youth. I had believed that chapter of my life long closed. I have accomplished much - becoming a professor, a mentor to so many great, young minds, an authority on corpse-whispering. Manfred himself is a walking testament to my diligence and perseverance. Senior Necromancer of the Grand Necropolis. Hard-won titles, all of them. And yet…
I envy the simple cup her slender fingers cradle each morning at breakfast - the cup that meets her lips with every sip of coffee.
I envy her ring. She found it upon a riverbank during one of our excursions in the Arlathan Forest. I was fortunate enough to witness the moment. The sunlight catching its surface, as if it had been waiting for her all along. I remember the way her breath caught when she bent to retrieve it, and the glimmer in her eyes when she lifted it free. She smiled then, unguarded and radiant, and something in my chest gave away. I do not believe she has ever appeared more beautiful to me.
Yes. I envy that ring. The way she absently removes it and slips it back on while Harding delivers her scout reports. She is so focused, so intent, that I doubt she is aware of the habit at all. But I am. Entirely. Regrettably so. In truth, I find it difficult to focus on anything else in those moments. I watch her hands far more than is proper wishing I could be that ring. I can only hope the others remain oblivious to my distraction - though, I take great care to avoid seating myself directly opposite Neve.
I have asked myself how I allowed this to happen. Why is it, that I view Bellara or Taash with the paternal affection I reserve for my most cherished students, while Rook stirs something altogether different within me.
Perhaps it is because we are both children of the Mourn Watch. Because we share an appreciation for the tranquillity of graves and the dignity of silence. Because she understands and honours the spirits we meet on our journey, the same way I do. She is so young, and yet she carries our traditions with reverence and care, as though they matter - not merely as relics, but as living truths. That is so vanishingly rare among her peers and it moves me more deeply than I care to admit.
And she is unfailingly gentle with Manfred, which does my heart no favours whatsoever.
For so long Lichdom has been my purpose. A demanding path, yes - but a clean one. In death, I would have shed fear and uncertainty. I would have served the Necropolis with perfect clarity, unburdened by mortal distraction. As a lich lord, I could have done immeasurable good for the Necropolis. I was certain of that.
Now, however, there are… considerations.
Considerations that bear her face and her voice. And most unsettling of all, when I allow myself to imagine a future that includes her - not as a passing presence, but as something enduring - I find myself smiling.
