Guest Room

Passed. I am now the latest Scribe of Ar, my certificate riddled with small rips and blurred words, having held it in my hand all the way back from the academy, in the rain. I thought I would feel different with the accomplishment, one that I have been working on for years now, on and off. Though I am quite excited that I’ve finally made it, it doesn’t make me feel any better about my life; still too many things I feel have been left unfinished.

With one step behind me though, now I find it is time to travel on to another. I have always taken the easy path, I think because I’ve always been afraid what I might find had I not.

As cold and calculated as it seems, one of the guest rooms was chosen for our first liaison, neither of our own sanctuary’s offered up. I wonder what that says about us and aside from the fact that my room was in complete disarray, I think such an arrangement will continue to be, so no invasion of personal space is taken.

I chose him for a reason, aside from the fact of convenience of me living beneath his roof, but now my other reasoning is being turned back on me. A means to an end. Something I have had to remind myself a few times since.

For the first time in a very long time I find myself smiling without reason. It’s hard to admit that I am happy, afraid that if I do so often, something horrible will happen to change it, but I am. I enjoy taking care of Julian, which I have been doing more of lately, and though I have lived her for quite some time, I finally feel that now, I have a home.

Almost Disaster

It was almost disaster, why I waited until the last ehn, I have no idea. Usually I am not a procrastinator, deadlines met long before the project is actually due. I had been laboring over my essay for hands, unsure of the subject and unwilling to choose something that I didn’t whole heartedly want to write about. And now, with subject chosen, I was feeling cursed for the lack of time I had to complete it. The subject? Prophecy. My chosen caste? Historian, though not a Historian of my world, but a counter culture.

After visiting with Lucian for a time, I left for my room, several more ahns given the nature of my paper, before I donned my cloak and headed towards the academy, where my plans were to turn my essay in, so that come tomorrow after my test, I could get my results more quickly. But I have learned to never rely on what I think is going to happen.

The evening was cold and blustery, a subtle mist glazed just above the cobbles, the moons half hidden beneath the play of dark shadowy clouds. I had taken two guards to travel along with me, something I am still becoming accustomed to.

A man passed me, one I thought was familiar, but when I turned back to look, the pages of my paper were ripped from my hands by the wind, doomed to fly off in all directions. Several were retrieved immediately, while others were caught by the one I knew as Vincent, a man I had read for hands previously.

We retired to the café on the square as I tried to get my essay back in order. He is a curt man who says exactly what is on his mind, regardless of how it appears. It’s something I can respect, but not something I necessarily could do myself. He seemed a little disappointed that I hadn’t returned as I told him I would, so that we could talk. I had intended to, there was just so much else to be done, that I hadn’t yet found the time.

Upon inspection of my paper, I realized that several of the pages were missing, probably by now swept up in some alley in Anbar.

So with my farewells said to Vincent, I trudged back home to repair my missing information. Next time I’ll know to keep my work safe in the confines of a satchel.