he had just started building a life for himself.
nothing grandeur. nothing incredible. weyland had had to build himself from the ground up. the only possession in his life had been a pendant from a woman he never really knew, and his blades, of which he’d been taught to forge himself. a necklace and two swords. that was all he had to his name.
but things shifted, and suddenly, he had what he’d never thought he would: a family. people who loved him. people who cared for him. two people more than most.
where it had been barren, there had been changes. slowly, he started to collect little things. trinkets from his adventures-- little figurines from small children thankful for a rescue. plants he’d grown in little pots on the window sill, the seeds of which had been lovingly cultivated by his own hand, to prove to himself that he could grow things. that his hands weren’t only good for killing. scattered leaflets of parchment, all scrawled with his own writing, evidence of him learning slowly. books he’d been gifted by the scions to encourage him. journals he intended to fill.
on his desk lay quills and ink, letters and notes half-made, barely legible, but with care. just in case.
paintings and portraits, drawings of places and things and people he didn’t want to forget littered the walls. some gifts. supplies for artistry lie strewn across several surfaces, as if his artistic process was controlled chaos.
some days, they expected to still find him there. in the corner, near his blades and knives and other weapons, sharpening them away into the night, humming a ghostly, lonely melody, plucked from ul’dah. on his bed, a single candle lit, hunched over a book, scribbling down words, brows furrowed in a hard concentration, teaching himself to write and read. or strewn on the covers, asleep, eyes moving behind the lids in a dreamlike state, a sense of rest that beguiled his still half aware senses.
his room was encased in time, with none willing to move it forward. they dusted. cleaned when necessary. kept it pristine. but kept it as he left it. and so time stilled. life stopped. and his room remains the same.
can a room hold its breath?
