I never thought I would be the type of person to pick up a quill and ink, put my words, myself to paper. I guess I never understood why before. How important it is to know that your story doesn't die with you. The magnitude of mattering. I hold no disillusions, my story is not one that I believe will change the world. Instead, It is declaration, an offering to this world as proof of me. Whomever finds this and turns through its pages, know that I was here. No matter what this darkness takes from me. I can say at the end of all things, with gravity and certainty, that I told my story. I told it to you, to these pages. I told the world and it echos still.

Beginnings are always tough. It is the foundation of any structure, the first bricks to be covered up, and nearly forgotten by the end. I don't want this to be a transcription of dates, names, and events. This isn't a journal. It's the story of me. Just another kid who never imagined himself becoming one of those doddering men, locking themselves in a red-brick library. You know the type—old people, those decrepit sods leaning forward, hunching over that small hardwood desk, scratching at pages incessantly well beyond the mid-night hour. What ever happened to fun?

Well in my youth, I always took a pause to glance in at the ancient ones, especially when I would sneak past that garden's window ledge. I was, on occasion, considered to be incurably impish in my shenanigans. It's not my fault—I was driven, compelled there by the scent of the freshly baked pastries. Mmmm—how those wondrous scents could waft. They were like gossamer curtains spun of sugar and sweet, carried through the air for me by divine providence. I swear, each inhale was like the singing of angels. I still sigh at the memory. I gave those kindly people all the trouble in the world.

Now, as I sit here in this room, watching over the sleeping form of her, I can recall them with an almost foreign fondness, shaking their fist over their head and screaming with mock-rage to the hills—for my neck. "Get out of here you fairy bastard of a sugar-thief! Begone! May Oghma himself learn you respect with his boot up your arse!" They would rave, and I would sate myself in celestial bliss. Granted, it was with a nearly scheduled persistence that I would take to those hills with a pastry or two. I was slick however—on my own, and living the glorious life of a top-notch pick pocket, and the self-declared champion pie pincher of all of Shadowdale. 'Yeah!" I would shout. The audible exhale of my imagined crowd cheering me on.

I consider what I was then and am held in wonder at the tenacity of youth—hiding away in fantasies when something about their life isn't as complete as one needs it to be. I am both an orphan and a bastard, but worse, or seemingly worse, I am a half-breed. Inhuman they would say. What did they know? They were living a secure life surrounded by family, food, I never did give a rats-arse about what they had to say. All the same, everyone of them. I'd out live them all anyway... It was on this contempt that I found my dedication, a mistake I still find buried in whom I am.

Only now, sitting here scratching away well beyond my own mid-night hour, here in this Rothe shit of a Sanctuary—a twisted city of stolen stones. I've found something worth holding on to. Finally, as I watching her breathing, I know I don't have to be alone.

Alone, It is a shield for those that expect it, and wound for those that do not. I scratch against this paper sheet, turning the page, thinking far back. Needing to escape. These dark lines draw against this paper, their image burdened by the nightly weight of silence– I roam. She brings a tender stroke through the core of my being, her touch a ripple, more powerful than distraction. The world blurs away as I spin to regard the brush of her, suddenly dizzy, lost in her eyes, her smell. The sensation courses though me. I inhale, no– I gasp. A flash of blond wakes me from her memory. I wait for the bleeding to stop.

I grow aware of my surroundings: the dull ache in my heart, the hardwood desk, the flickering of my quills shadow, the shape of her but an arms reach behind me. I brush my hand against the covers to reassure myself, she stirs. My angel. Back again I turn to you, the blank pages expecting the journey, the roaming of my thoughts. I think of her, the sounds of her laughter. It is something I will never forget. Its duller then it used to be, evidence to the erosion of time. I shall let reality slip away and take you with me.

Where did I meet her...?

Rage! My veins fill with lava, hard and hot. My skin radiating heat like the very brimstone of the nine hells, smoke clouding my vision. The urgent pressure building through every ounce of my being, unleashing, tearing through my searing wounds, frantic for expulsion. A constant world-blown scream echoing though me, within me. I taste my blood– they see me pause. My fingers tremble and my breathing slows. Inanimate, I hold myself perfectly still, cloaking the fury, dominating the reaction with a subconscious control. Fighting the tears. I am entirely internal at this point, finding my calm, my balance. Interruption can lead to a explosive result.

Ka'Boom. A jarring pain in my ribs dispels my trance. Laughter in the distance, children, mewing for my death. I cannot see them through the puddling tears. My hands are cut against the stone, knees torn, I realize I am no longer standing. Another rock is aloft, striking my thigh. The world spins, the sounds of them disorienting, whooping and cheering the assailants. I grind my teeth.

The seconds still, I scan for anything in the blurring motion. The warrior in me picking it out easily. Amidst the chaos of movement, someone is still. Her young face, no older then my own, framed by those bouncing golden curls I would come to know so well. Our eyes met. I saw her rage, not at me, but at those trivial imps cackling in their cruel games. I saw her take a step forward, a pain, then nothing. The entire world pausing in a fearful respect of the silence.