Topic: Finish the Work

Azahr

Date: 2008-11-23 00:46 EST
He leaned back with the creak of wood issuing from the joints of the old worn chair. It was not his favorite wing-back from the inn. No, this chair had survived the last tenant of his apartment and would most likely, through not fault of its own, survive the current. Slender fingers tried to wipe the sting of fatigue from his eyes. Once giving up on that, the same fingers slid upward over his forehead to slide back in an attempt to bring order to his disheveled hair.

How long since sleep" But there was just a short bit more on the page to learn. Then he could let his body fall into bed and allow his mind the release found in true rest. Just a bit more, there. The letters that formed the ancient words taunted his consciousness, their secrets kept still even as he searched for the meaning behind the incantation. It was a simple few words is all but why was it so hard to find the center that they promised"

Azahr felt the faint touches of apathy forming but fought the idea of giving up with a remembrance of who had used the book last. His brother. It had found its way to him and this only through his brother's death. Azahr did not count this loss as personal tragedy for wars were common and losing important souls to it also common. This didn't mean his brothers death was any less painful but Azahr did not mourn to the world and expect something or someone to ease his ache by the telling of the tale. The book was his solace. If it was important enough for his brother to know, Azahr determined that he would continue the work.

But was he up to the challenge? Azahr once thought so but as he studied, he was not so certain as he had been. The eldest, Beniqna, had been much stronger in the healing arts than the youngest, Azahr. These were strange incantations of healing, spells that would bind wounds, heal others, remove from one and gift to another, lessen pain ...they were all so very involved, moreso than others he had learned. They carried with him a true power that he could almost feel as he read them, working up to the point where he might actually use one. However, Azahr had concerns. A misspoken word and the spell changed, causing hurt or deepening the injury.

His eyes grew heavy as he struggled with the words, trying to commit them to a memory once sharp but now sluggish. Azahr's chin tipped forward. Eyes closed.

The plane was full of fire and debris, a shade of the land of his birth. Trees charred, the land smoking, the home of his family an empty husk, and flames ...so many flames. He stood in a circle of green, the grass untouched by the devastation around him although he could feel the sting of heat on his cheeks. Spirits that were once dear relatives and friends haunted the smoky landscape; mostly too vague to be immediately recognized. A cloud formed around him. Words hissed on the wind. His name. His brother's voice echoed over the hissing that danced with flames.

"Finish the work."

Azahr woke with a gasp and a jerk of his lanky figure as the chair lost balance and tipped. He found himself on the floor, cheek resting against unforgiving wood. He could almost remember the words but they were gone to him. He pushed himself up slowly, admitting defeat for the night. He would sleep and then continue in the morning. As he turned, he caught the ripple of a cloak, a shadow of a figure. Azahr spun in that direction.

It was only the curtain on the window fluttering in the breeze, the flame from the candle dancing dangerously toward death.

Azahr shook his head and moved to the bed, falling into it with a sigh. His eyes closed he was nearly sleeping when his head hit the pillow. His breathing quickly settled into the patterns of sleep although it would not prove to be a restful slumber.

It had not occurred to him to question the source of the breeze that fluttered the curtain. Something rustled and the book closed.