January 30, 2006

Dear Alli,

I wish to begin with a quote, one from a writer named Truman Capote, that I've heard and can very much relate to:

"Life is a moderately good play with a badly written third act."

The third act always seems to be the worst within any place; nearly always where the plot reaches its climax. It seems to fit then, that our lives all fall into many lengthy four act plays. Even though we seem to reach a critical point, almost to the edge of losing our very selves, there is also that fourth act where someone or something comes to pull back the main character from that cliff, back to their life where they should be.

A dear friend of mine, though..now that I think on it, he has never called me as such, is currently sitting at that edge, that third act where nothing ever seems to go right. I am praying still this night as I lay in bed trying to convey this evenings happens into words that I shall never forget, that he will be all right and that tomorrow he will still walk on this earth as a living being.

Sitting at the brink as he was, I found him, alone and far more drunk than I have ever seen anyone. The darkness cloaked about him as it kept trying to pull him into itself, away from this life. But as the lights appeared in the tavern, it seemed he was still here, in this world. I am not one to be direct, but I do not like to see anyone ever in such a state. So I sat beside him, talking mainly at first, trying to be as optimistic and happy as I could be, but even as slow as I am, he sat twirling and spinning his still shiny wedding ring upon the table. It does not take much for a person to realize the cause of his depression.

It seems his female had left him, and not...not with reasons that one can even begin to logically understand. Love does not understand logic. It is an emotion, the strongest that all living creatures can feel. But...at the same time, it is very much a double-edged sword, where it can hurt just as much as it can make a person over-joyously happy. He did not speak much of his wife, but spoke instead of something I did not expect. More than I have heard of his history than I ever expected to hear.

I will try to relay the account of it as best I can...though I fear I may not fully finish this night.

It seems his mother was an elemental of some kind, that I am not sure what she was, but able to manipulate nature, he said, but the way it sounded, her magic was innate, not learned; and he had been blessed with that nature as well. Somehow this is important to his survival, though...no details he gave.

After a moment though, he pulled down his hood, allowing me to see his face that no one from this area has ever seen, at least to my knowledge. His eyes were steel gray, hard with unexpected age and a pain that seem to lay beneath the cold outer surface. His face hard and chiseled, and most prominently were three large scars that ran from his left temple down to his right jaw line. It was terrifying and yet explained so much in an instant. It was a goblin he said that was responsible.

His parents had died protecting him from the goblin, though he can still remember and feel the guilt from not protecting them. A mere ten years old, and so much the weight of guilt he carries. And then, something I did not expect from this hardened warrior, a single tear fell down his cheek. Knowing only to care for others, I wiped it away, and pulled him to him, just holding him close and trying to comfort him.

So much pain that was locked inside of him, and now I only want to be there to help with it all, to comfort him, to share in that pain so as to lessen it for him.

And now I myself am crying, but the handkerchief is with him now, hopefully being a comfort of some kind. I will not write more tonight, not while the waters of my tears may ruin this record. Tomorrow is another day and more time to think on such a night as was tonight. I will pray and think on him tonight, and wish that he can find happiness in life once again.

By My Hand,
Brianne A. Alcinoos