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#12198843 Mar 23, 2016 at 04:06 PM
"Good Enough"
25 Posts
The frigid wind whipped around a figure standing atop a mountain overlooking Surwich in the Blasted Lands. A cloaked and hooded figure leaning on a very old scythe. In the hand of this figure was a tattered book, loose pages sticking out at odd angles, the cover worn and tattered. A single word was embossed on the front, but untold ages had made it almost illegible.

The cloak and robe of the figure was as tattered and frayed as the book, the hood drawn down over the face. The gloves over the hands were charred and burnt around the fingers, a sickly greenish black ash covering most of the fingers and palms. Chains hung around the waist and clattered in the wind. Some holding a crisp and clean tome, other ending in odd charms, and other still, broken or bent at the ends.

As the man under the hood lifted his head, his deep purple eyes looked into the bright green eyes of his shadow. The two stood a few feet apart, each a part of the same man.

Both figures hold up his own tattered book, "Why do you still carry this? You don't even know what it means anymore."

"It doesn't matter. I made her a promise remember?" He replies.

A dry hollow laugh escapes the throat of one. "Please, you promised her so much. You think this was the one that mattered to her?"

Both figures find their hands empty, the book lying on the ground between them. The wind causes a few pages to fall out of the bindings and be picked up in the air. As they fly away, the man catches a glimpse of a child's drawing. A house, no a home, with a loving father and a caring mother, a small girl between them.

"Its not like they even knew you." One said to the other. "Its not like they loved...this." He gestures to his counterpart.

"They don't know me, and I can't remember them, I just know I made her a promise." One of the two bends down to pick up the book. The other stops him, his hand over his own.

"Its time to move on. There is no coming back from what we did."

"Do you think she would forgive us?"

"Would you?"

The man takes a deep breath, his eyes closed. He turns from the book on the ground, pulling his hood down over his face. Two colours escape under the frayed trim. Perhaps its a trick of the fading twilight, or the wind wiped enough dirt off the cover of the book, but for a second, that single word seems almost visible.

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