#goldane

[crimsoncompendium]

Saaferah slips into her thoughts like a second skin or a suit of armor: focusing on them lets her ignore her life and its present problems. She’s more comfortable in them than out. But there is so much Goldane left to her memory that the sobering sense of solitude she picks up while listing through her head can’t be helped. Jingling anklets and bare feet, messy fronds, swimming in the sea, and all of it gone, unattainable. If wishes were enough...

The years spent without her don’t help, needless to say. Flashes of Lion’s Arch, blurs of Dwayna’s Mercy, little tines of terror and the larger blades of regret—memories she wishes she didn’t have to relive every time she sought succor in Goldane’s ghost. She had gotten accustomed to being alone. Unwanted, even. No one understood her like Goldane had.

But in her last gasp she inhaled Diathys, and with each unexpected breath thereafter life began to shyly sprout in the blackened places inside her. His quiet intrigued her, and his voice wove words and thoughts she could understand. He seemed to speak from within her, somehow, and raise up that life she didn’t know she could support.

He understood her. More, he saw her. Saaferah hadn’t been seen before or after Goldane. Rather, she had been imagined; fashioned. He saw that she was alone and afraid, but capable. He understood that if only given a little guidance she could grow into something better. And he gave her that guidance willingly, without demand. He wanted nothing from her, like everyone else seemed to.

When she goes away into her mind, Diathys gently brings her back to him. She does not know how he does it—how he knows to take her hand or kiss her shoulder or brush his knuckles against her cheek. She returns to him instantly with wide eyes and a humble sense of wonder, and she remembers she is not alone.

It has been a long time since their first quiet conversation away from the group. They were strangers, but somehow less strange to each other than the rest of them. From there they had gone further than Saaferah thinks anyone predicted. They had sprinted through the streets of the city that used to haunt her for no more reason than the fun of it; they had danced to music heard only in their minds; they had laughed at things intimate to them, foreign to all the rest of Tyria. Most importantly, they had taken a vow of eternity.

Saaferah winds her arms around Diathys, not knowing what she did to deserve him but willing to do anything to keep him. It’s been a year since they made that promise to each other, and she can see no end in sight; she doesn’t feel different from when she met him. She feels better.

[crimsoncompendium]

The end of the journey exchanged relative solitude for quiet company. Saaferah stood with her feet in the sand and watched the sea lapping gently at the shore. Looking east, she squinted against the glittering bay. The Warden’s empathy was sparing. In three days of travel she had felt little from him, nor had she been asked to argue her decision for the fiftieth time. When the shape of another sylvari emerged on the island, he laid a hand on Saaferah’s shoulder. She brushed back a prickly vine from her eyes and thanked him, and he turned away, his job done. She took a breath, then crossed the bridge. Though she had only lived there for six days, Saaferah understood she was ill-suited for life in the Grove. Living on the Isle without the unimaginable weight of the Pale Tree looming always above her head underlined that. Sky, sea, and breeze—and a mind all to herself—felt good. It felt like home. Even when storms battered the houses and the Court came calling, she never missed the temperate sylvan city. Nonetheless, she would never call the lifestyle ‘easy.’ She struggled to find her place and, being so young, a way to pull her weight. She was not quick to make acquaintances, either; in classes and gatherings her mind was often elsewhere, and her eyes would wander to follow the catboats and skiffs as they glided through the gulf. Her first friend was a grey tabby cat, a favorite around the Isle for his friendly, whimsical demeanor as well as how ‘talkative’ he was. When not dashing about the commune on the hunt for only he knew what or dozing in the sun, he would frequently crawl into Saaferah’s lap and purr his little heart out, or cry so loudly half the population could hear him until she stopped what she was doing to scoop him into her arms. On a day Saaferah should have been mending fishing nets she instead found herself on her back in the sand with the cat curled into the crook of her arm. Her daydream about saddling up a moa and riding it across the shoreline ended when she heard someone trying to get her attention: “Pssst.” She lifted her head and looked to her left where a tall, tomboyish sylvari woman stood. “Sorry. Not you. I was looking for my cat.” She clicked her tongue to summon him from Saaferah’s arms. “Oh,” murmured Saafi. “Sorry.” Sighing, she got to her feet and took to brushing the sand from her clothes. “It’s all right!” The cat leapt into the other sylvari’s arms and purred loudly enough that Saafi could hear it above the tide. “I only missed him.” Her eyes ticked toward the coral-colored sylvari again. “How do you like the Isle so far?” “It’s okay.” The other tossed her shaggy green fronds from her face as a smile blossomed at her mouth. “Are you shy?” “Not really.” It was only that turning her thoughts into speech was puzzling, and most conversations regarded none of her interests. “Just quiet, then. I’m Goldane.” She shifted the cat’s position to face Saaferah, his yellow eyes slivered happily. “This is Murchadh.” Saafi smiled a little. “Saaferah.” “Want to climb a tree with me?” It sounded a lot better than mending nets.

[crimsoncompendium]

58 Zephyr, 1330 Home

Decided to do something nice for myself today. It was a bit of a strange impulse, admittedly; I’ve rarely felt it in the recent months. Living alone in Lion’s Arch I succumbed to it with some frequency. Probably something to do with preserving my sanity. I have been low lately. Decided to This isn’t what’s on my mind. I want to get out of this. It is impossible to reconcile with the fact that nothing is going to change what I’ve done, and moving forward is grueling. Back here again, not sure if I have the strength to be the person you would want me to. Isn’t that rich? First I kill you, then I fail you. It should have been me. Somehow it seems like everyone can tell that with a passing glance. How long ‘til Dia and the others are sick of this constant crisis? I know I’m sick of myself. The only thing that’s kept me going since I made the decision to get clean is no more than a comforting story I tell myself—that you’d want me to get better and live well. When it comes down to it I have no idea what I’ve done to you. I think of you in the Mists. You could be alone, suffering, scared, hurt. For all I know you have more than just the one reason to hate me. Somehow that thought is easier to stomach than imagining you’ve forgiven me. Maybe not easier, strictly—just easier to accept. Usually I try not to doubt it even if it is a lie. Without it everything collapses. The new life Diathys has given me amounts to nothing if you agree that I should’ve been the one. But the bottom line is that I’ll never know. That’s one of the several reasons this is so hard to live with. It won’t redeem me and it won’t undo the damage I’m responsible for, but I have something like a plan. I have to compensate. Do all the things you didn’t have time for. It’ll be easier to think of than to do, I’m well aware. Socializing remains a puzzle I only imagine solving after the fact. I want everyone to let me in and to share their innermost thoughts with me in the name of bonding, but so seldomly do I let someone in. I don’t want the pity, the attention, the assumptions, or the concern. I find strength in my silence, and I have so little of that. I have to wonder if it’s the same for the others even if they all seem much more capable than myself. Yet I am always, always on the outside looking in. I feel trapped inside my head. It never stops going, the compulsive searching for clues that I’m not wanted (why should anyone want me?), and when you look that hard you’re bound to find something whether it’s there or not. Even when someone is being kind to me that voice in my head tells me it’s out of pity, not any real interest in me as a person. I let it win more than I should. I want so badly to know someone, but it’s easier to be alone. It may be selfish of me to have taken such an interest in Ashling and Cadvail, but seeing parts of myself in them makes it easier to connect, as if we speak the same dialect in some varied tongue. It’s the best way I can think to describe it. Since I sat down with the intention of recording what happened today: bought my leathers, finally. Dia doesn’t like the helmet, but I don’t mind. Got a piercing. Don’t think he likes that either, despite what he said. I mind. Received my communicator from Sio. Still can’t put my finger on her. Gave Cadvail his painting. Went home and laid in bed like the useless piece of shit I am. Slept so I wouldn’t have to deal with myself. Woke up and wrote this. Going to drink and play solitaire.

[crimsoncompendium]

“What are we going to do?” “I’m not sure.” Holding worry in her eyes Saaferah glanced up at Goldane, prompting the latter to tighten a sturdy arm around Saafi’s narrow shoulders and haphazardly kiss the bloom of her ear. “We’ll figure something out,” she continued thereafter. “If you keep up with your drawings we can save enough money to get back to the Isle.” “I’m out of ink.” Goldane set her jaw and reached into her pocket. Four coppers. We might be able to eat on that today if we’re clever. After that... She kept silent. Saaferah didn’t need to worry about that. That was how the kind old gentleman found them, huddled wearily on a curb. Their dirty clothes and drifting states of waking gave him pause. “Ladies, you’d do well to take cover. A storm is blowing in.” They each looked up at him, but Saaferah deferred shortly to Goldane. Neither of them responded. “Poor girls,” sighed the elderly man. “I have a place you can stay.” He knew their type well. Goldy and Saafi exchanged indecisive glances, but at length the former stood. The latter, of course, followed. That was the first time they saw Dwayna’s Wardrobe.

A bony man wearing a grave expression bent low over Chapel’s desk. “She’s dead, Chap.” He looked up from his work. “Who’s dead?” “The sylvari. The yellow one.” He bit his knuckle and looked away, reflecting on his prediction that Goldane would one day overdose. Why hadn’t he acted on it? Still, he felt a perverse wash of relief. “I’ll deal with her,” mumbled the man as he turned to leave. “No. Let me have her.” He looked at Chapel strangely. “Don’t,” Chapel warned. “Just get her out of here. I’ll be downstairs within the hour.” He followed the thin man into the sylvari couple’s room, one of the few with a window (and the only one with open curtains). Goldane laid still behind Saaferah as she dabbled blissfully in her paints. He swooped in to distract her while his help removed the body. “Sweet Saaferah. What are you painting?” “Mmm, I don’t know,” she answered in a giggling slur. “I just see all these colors and they’re—they belong together, don’t they?” Chapel’s heart sank low.

Saaferah’s mind was as still and quiet as a midwinter morning. The crust of snow lay unbroken. The animals slept in their dens. The trees reached up, black and silent, to an indifferent grey sky. Years had passed. Loss and absence had aged her beyond her years and left her empty. She had been preparing for her demise a long while now. There was no other option. But the sun broke through the still and the ice. Spring, Saaferah knew. This isn’t the end anymore.

30 Zephyr, 1330 Glencarn Sperrins

I don’t know where I’ve been the last few days. I don’t know how to process this.

Chapel is dead.

This, for now, is what I know. Dia killed him.

He asked me some days ago about myself. What resulted was my confession about what happened in Lion’s Arch. Dia, without even a hitch of his breath, offered to h insisted on helping me. And now Chapel is dead, and Dwayna’s Mercy is gone.

Though Castien remains alive (as far as I’m aware), I can’t help the feeling that my life is finally my own again. I won’t be cornered in alleys and beaten anymore. The debt which has kept me shackled to my mistakes is erased.

Dia flew blindly into danger for me. He barely knows me. I suppose I know what I need to know about him: to keep him close. He is my future.

I’m going to take that job at the prickly fruit farm in Astorea. Maybe just for now. I’m going to repay Sio for the rounds she’s bought me. More practice with my pistol, more research into trapmaking, and more time training with whoever will teach me. I’m not going to waste this, Dia.

I still feel my losses—I think I always will—but I am not in my grave anymore.

[crimsoncompendium]

24 Zephyr, 1330 Sandycove

Ash mentioned she wanted to find her roots. Just like Dia and I she left home early, the difference being that she came back wondering if the Grove has anything for her. I hope it does. It’s an interesting thought. Roots. It took me a while to properly process what she meant when she said it, and when the realization came I understood that’s what I’ve been missing all this time. That’s what I lost when you died. Roots. The Grove isn’t home. Nor is the Isle. Lion’s Arch felt close, but it was too lonely and too hard. You were home. I would never have left the Isle if it hadn’t been for you. You wanted to go and the decision to follow was easy because I belonged with you. The Isle was neither here nor there. All those things we had to live through together were hard, Goldy. They were so hard. But I could stand the hunger as long as you were there. I think about the orchard all the time. Thought we could just climb the trees and take the apples, didn’t we? Had no idea there was a hound. But we stayed in the branches and ate until the farmer came. Now I can’t stand the taste. I love you so much. You were my armor. I could see the bad in the world, but it couldn’t get to me. That changed when you passed. I’ve been living in a nightmare since then. Everything gets to me now. Everything hurts me. People come to take a piece out of me and walk away. Every time I think I can’t feel more barren or empty I’m proven wrong. They talk about feeling nothing after a while. I’m waiting. But most importantly, you were my roots. I’ve got nothing now. I don’t belong anywhere. I don’t have a home. I just drift here and there until I’ve found a way to fuck things up, then I go. There aren’t a lot of places left for a pissant like me. There’s some solace in that. I go through bouts of wanting to get better and hoping to die. Yeah, I know what you’d say if you could, but I have been and it has never ever gotten any easier. I’m not like you. It’s not as straightforward as everyone seems to fucking think. I really wish it were. Point being, you were my roots and nothing has been the same since you’ve been dead. I don’t know if I’ll ever have them again. It’s not a statement made in reluctance. I cannot imagine having what we had with someone else. It just doesn’t fit. It’s not right. They’re not you. Then I remember how close Thanik came before—well, all that happened. Gin could’ve had them if he had let me in. I wanted Rhio to have them, but there was always too much distance. Z might have some, but not like you did. Chapel has the most, as unsettling and unseemly as that is, but he’s one of the only people left who knew you. I guess, after some introspection, that’s what I’ve been doing since you died, as strange as it is to think: looking for someone to regrow my roots in. I’ve lied to myself and been let down more than I want to admit. I’ve believed for a long time there’s no one else like you and it’s hard not to think this is my penance for letting you down. I couldn’t keep the one good thing I had. Why should I get another chance? That won’t change anything, though. It’s ingrained. Written in my fibers. I’m so sick of myself and all this fucking whining.

[crimsoncompendium]

Well, here I am. In a room with just a ratty old mattress on the floor and my clothes in piles on top. It’s the only room, with the only door, and the only window. The only candle I have is burning so I can see to write.

This is everything that I want.

All of my friends have forgotten me or been forgotten. I left everything to find a place where I could be happy, where no one limits my growth. I have spent a lot of time alone, but finally I’ve found a quiet, peaceful place at the bottom of my lungs where I know that because you’re gone, I have to be my own Goldane. And I don’t have to be scared anymore.

It took two months of sleeping on stoops and benches, and I had to stay alone. If I had fallen in with the rest of the downtrodden I would have returned to my old habits—the things that got me so far off my path in the first place. The things that killed you, Goldane. But I thought of you and stayed straight, and being alone helped me love myself.

So here I am. I am completely, desperately alone, huddled over a candle in a cramped and dusty room. I’ve known what it’s like to be in love, to have friends, to share a cozy bed, but always at my own expense. This is destitute, but it’s mine. This is the proof that I can succeed on my own, that I don’t need anyone else. Yes, it was difficult and terrifying, but I built this with my hands alone.

For the first time, I’m proud.