Farad al Madahni

“My nights have grown long and warm, filled with a hue of beautiful aquamarine”

Perennial... of long lasting effect and of amazing impact. I’ve come to know both a spontaneity and a rooted ground I didn’t think were possible. A vibrant blue hue upon my own life has come from simply being close... It is a feeling so ephemeral and frightening that oft in the moment I’ve not a single word to bring the swirling torrent of doubt and surety that intermingles within my heart. To see such strength, sadness, vulnerability and passions exist is proof to me of far more than the Divine notions of my youth, of my teachings, and of my long years.  Yet, with a sure vine I am held, drawn deep to stable roots hidden beneath the surface of arid grass. The body of such rich dusk and a sky of such wonderful aquamarine... It is simply to much for my eyes to have witnessed.  

Farad’s brow quirked slightly higher for a moment, looking over his morning coffee towards his confidant friend. The book sitting before him at the bar top was covered in some sort of outer binding.  “You know I do believe we’ve spoken of this... You know my penchant for lurid tales of romance and adventure, I’ve quite the collection. I don’t know why some find that shocking when they learn but perhaps that could fit” A hand moved towards the book, no it wasn’t that one. It would be uncouth to read the tales of Secretary Dorne here? Right? No this was a different book, one about a buxom priestess of Kormir on high adventure with her roguish lover, gallivanting through the world on noir mystery and sprawling battles for the fate of the world. “This is a Raphael Storm, my preferred writer, you could always borrow a copy Ruza.”

“The dread future I once saw in my mind... long ago did I gain the moniker, but the impact...the thoughts... the paths still crack through my armor. I fear the day I am regarded once again as the Emperor.”

Hidden deep within the Ministers desk sat a leather bound book, dark in color and wrapped unceremoniously in a cord. Few people knew where he often took to solitude, and fewer still could manage to find their way into his desk without being found. “I have found solace in few things as of recent... though few come to the forefront of my mind. It has been months even since my last letter, I have nearly forgotten what the feeling was to anticipate such a thing. With both a curiosity of youth, and the terror of the future turned uncertain. The missions...the drops have long since ended... yet there is a fear when I turn my eyes to the south. Have you stopped looking for me? Have the sands finally claimed you once more? My daggers are long withdrawn, and my armor has grown tight and colored with patina... yet I know you are still somewhere.  I can still smell the ooze, ..the sight of the tarnished gold at the edge of my vision... why did you stop following me. I had only wished to end this torment for us... had you only come, so I could stop the mistake I had made. Samarah... I miss you.” 

A pen scrawls across pages, a hidden memoir kept within his desk brought into the light, which for a long time had become a rarity. Though many things hung upon his thoughts in the previous weeks. “In the sands I knew what I was, I may not be proud of the time as a desert whirlwind but it made life simple. Rarely thought about the myriad futures that were taken from me, but in these months far from the sound of blade and blood... I have begun to wonder. Beneath the scars, and the armor, there is a fear that little remains of the man I could have been, and less still of the man I hoped to be. It is an endless boulder up a hill to remain true to my conviction to my people, one I throw myself to without reservation. Yet there are regrets. Ones I have yet to settle, with myself... “The fear that one day this armor will crack, and all that is within is the product of the Kings rein, the product of what the Shadow made me to become. Less a man, and simply the remnants of a storm long past.”

Farad reclined in his chair a moment, the crackle of the fire filling the air around him as he mulled the thought over in his head. Fingers tapping along the well crafted wood of the arms before bringing a scotch glass to his lips. “Eye contact... I have a habitual tell that sees right through my masks, my subterfuge, and anything I try. I can’t seem to hold such for long without belaying each and every one of my thoughts.” A hand waved before his face, his sandy eyes often cast sidelong or away from those he spoke with. Practiced to hide the fact that it was rare for him to truly look upon someone in return.