I chanced upon Master Merosiel a few hours into my Unoffical leave.

I was with Intention to the bank, but I did not make it there. Instead, I took him to the Inn nearby where I was staying, because he looked so Lost and tired. He was startled to see me, too. I think, though, now that we have Talked already, he is no longer Hiding and so there was just Surprise and not Dread at our meeting on accident.

He smelled like flowers and cider and Dead Things, but I did not ask. It is not my place, asking, even when there are Questions and someone to ask for once.

I had missed him. There is something Different about his behavior, and I am worried. He talks slowly, and there are no smiles, even ones with teeth. Is he dying, after all? I am worried. He seems to be eating. His face is Not So Thin now, just thin, and more like it used to be, sharp and Nice but not like a Dead Thing.

He was barefoot. This is Troubling, too. Such a flimsy robe. It is very Cold now, there is always snow even when the streets are kept clear. I do not mind Cold, but he is a Warm Person and likes Warm Things, so why is he barefoot? There are no gloves, either, and his hands were as Cold as mine. He fell asleep almost as soon as he laid down. I am afraid to touch him. But he is Cold, and that is a Bad Thing for him. I asked the Innkeeper for More Blankets and he is Warm again. I am afraid to touch him. I am Cold.

Should I?

Although there is no outward indication of any lengthy time between the previous line and the next, it is perhaps easy to imagine that there was a considerable pause before the entry is resumed.

His stomach has moth wings in it. There was a shifting inside him and it made me think of that for some reason. Very Light.

Then there was Feeling and not just feeling; it is a person, I forgot this, not moth wings or anything else Light. It is Ours.

I stayed like this a Long Time, palm pressed to him and the shifting inside. It did not hurt to Feel.
The next boat will be soon. I must be at the docks. I do not want to work or Work. This is... a Bad Thing?

I keep thinking about the Not Moths.

I am overwhelmed.

The usual cramped, precise handwriting in its carefully lettered draenic runes is noticeably loose and blocky instead. It looks like a child's handwriting, awkwardly done with many mistakes and a lot of ink blotting the parchment; the entry apparently took some time to pen everything out. Even influenced, however, it's evident his compulsion to keep things tidy and neat leaks through. Every word written poorly or mispelled is scribbled out and fixed, although it is unclear if all of the editing was done during, later, or both.

MastrMaster Ryutan visited me again. This made me Happy, evneven though he arrangdarranged again all the stock in the bar leiklike always. I wish he would Not do that. It changes evryeverything adnand change is Difficult. Same is Good.

We talked, so much. My jaw aches form from it but there is no blodblood so it was not Too Much leiklike soemtiemssometimes.

He got me drinkdrunk. I tried Saying No but I think that I leiklike my frndfrondfrend him more than my soberatysobriety because I did not use tethe Real No where I mean it. I do not leiklike using that. No is hardly evrever Good. 
I do not not remember a lot of what he said, but I will Try because wenwhen MastrMaster Ryutan talks it is always Important adn and listening to it is jsut just as Immportant. Important.

So he ask _(^asked) adnand I toktaketickuntyed_(^untied) off my mask adnand drank with him because I am his frondfrend_{(word here I like him)} adnand he asked. WiskeyWhiskey tastes terrible. I had trubl troublhard teimtime counting aftrafter five shots. ThreThere wrwere lotted lots many more aftrafter these. He say next timesaid that th next the next teimtime we will havhavedrunkdrink bourbon but I do not leiklike bourbon, eithreither. I remembrremember drankdrinking much of it with MastrMaster Merosiel. It tastytastrtasted terrible, too.

I do not leiklike to drunkdrink. It always drabblsdribblsleaks out of my mouth when I drunkdrink adnand this is a Bad Thing I do not leiklike wenwhen having othrother people watch that. No one needs to watch that. It is digustigdisgustiga Bad Thing adnand ugly.

He left me aftrafter the drunkingdrinking. Oh, I am Very Late. No More Writing.

A second entry follows, most likely added much later. His usual cramped penmanship has returned in all its rigid meter and lack of errors.

I was Very Late arriving to the dock, and missed the boat out to the base. I am in Stormwind while on this Unoffical leave. Also, I am struggling with the most terrible headache. It is not Too Bad, I suppose, just bad. Especially compared to the last time and Master Merosiel's binge with bourbon. It is nowhere near the pain of Too Many feelings in me at once from all around me, either. This is nothing like having to Work, or being in a crowd, so I will be content with this. It is my own doing, and there can be no blame to Master Ryutan for it.

We talked about Art and who might run the Golden Dawn if there continues to be a lack of its Mistress. He said I should. I disagree, and I tried to Explain but it came out as excuses and I do not think that he was convinced. Still, it was Not Nice, what he said about Lady Spennig. He can be really crude. Is this a Human Thing, a Dead Thing, or an Everyone But Me Thing? Iatrios is like this, so I wonder. There is no one to ask; there never is.

He showed me How To Drink But Not Drink and I did not get that, either. It was an interesting trick, though, even if it was lying. He calls it misdirection, but slight of hand is a lie, tricks are a lie. Goading or coaxing someone to believe a False Thing because they See It seems so Bad. He assured me otherwise, but I am uncertain on this, as well. From Art and Misdirection and Business we talked of Logic and Abstraction.

After asking why I prefer logical thinking to his philosophy or art, he then said that I would make a Good Artistic Type. I did not agree with this, either, or understand his thinking very well. I think it was meant as a compliment. I hope so. I like when he compliments me. He did call me an Idiot several minutes later, however. Master Ryutan dislikes that I only learn my trades and Work and work. He says I am not seeking to better myself, not trying to be a better person. When he said that I would be a Better Father if I tried to better myself, I asked him how, and then he had me drink A Lot. I do not get how consuming so much whiskey bettered me as a person.

I did learn that Logic is overused. There was a clever analogy about shields, but I cannot recall his exact phrasing. This is Sad. He is Very Clever even though he is Dead and I should like to keep in my head all the things he says to me, Good and Bad.

Like how he says I am afraid to feel. This is truth, but I think he means it differently than what the Truth is. I tried to Explain: free reign of my ability is not an Option or even an option. He said--I remember this, why can I not remember the shield analogy?--that I must Compromise. This Emotional Chasm is not an Option, because I will be a father and I cannot be One Half of a person any longer.

I think that I would go mad if I tried to let everyone Inside all the time. He says this is a part of Life and I should be living. I am alive. That made little sense, too.

He left me after this, drunk and confused with no one to ask these things. I have no concept of how I made it either to the docks or to Stormwind, but here I am. Unofficial leave is as Bad as getting drunk. Captain Oscella will be so Disappointed in me for not showing.

"All the Small Things." (Astarin's PoV)

(( part 2: http://ofemptyjournals.blogspot.com/2009/12/all-small-things-merosiels-pov.html ))
----
As I sit in this uncomfortable human chair, I am uncertain how much time has passed between the moments that the mage left me here to the moments when boot heels clacked on the wooden floor boards.

The sound is familiar, though, and the wait no longer matters. I am both startled and confused at the way my heart thrums suddenly in my chest for that particular cadence of footsteps behind me. Even though my hearing knows it and my pulse knows it, turning to look for confirmation seems as necessary as breathing.

The strange manner in how my throat closes and words are stolen leaves me staring up mutely at the elf hovering a few feet away. The mage did not lie. My eyes close. He is here, in Stormwind, he is here, he is safe, he did not kill himself, he is alive--

“Yo,” is the husky, soft greeting, as full of hesitation, nervousness, and defiance as the emotions flowing out of him in a palpable miasma. If I were not already seated, I think I would have fallen under the weight of it.

I open my eyes. The heavy burden of his anxiety and dread is staggering, blots out the tiny flickers of hope and relief that whisper when he stares back at me.

At first I believe this is the source of my unfamiliar reactions to him: surely the runoff of his anxiety is what stills my breath and quickens my heart, because if it is him, then it is not me, and then it makes sense. How could it be me? We were friends before he vanished, nothing more. I shared a bed with him because he asked, and stayed because it kept us both from feeling so lonely. Our friendship was one of convenience, was it not?

Absence should not have strengthened what I had believed to be a weak bond in the first place. We were friends. Are we friends, still? Are we less?

I remember Lady Windila and her words, and my eyes drift from his face--his hawkish features are thinner than before, as if he has not been eating well. From face to chest to the gently rounded slope his embroidered silk shirt makes over his belly.

Time is slow once more, slower than is normal for me, and I wonder again. Are we friends? I did this to him. I have spent these three months believing I killed him, yet he is here and not dead and are we friends? I did this to him.

My gauntleted fingers are in my line of sight suddenly; did I extend my hand to that sloped curve just out reach? I do not remember doing so, yet my fingertips hover and falter under the wash of dread that spikes and darkens and sinks into me, a pit in my gut that wrenches me into nausea and fear that cannot be mine and has to be his but it is confusing and I cannot split it apart and--

“Don’t.” Strange mist curls like smoke from his lips, both with the word escaping, and with each exhale. I do not know what to think of this, and I do not know what is more startling: his rediscovered ability to speak or this lich-mist that accompanies it. Something tremulous worms through me. Panic or despair? Is he dead? Am I staring at a resurrected corpse?

I want to know if I killed him, and my fingertips brush the shirt draping his belly. He flinches, repeats, “Don’t,” in a thinner tone that has me abruptly motionless.

This is as far I am allowed. If I touch, he will run. I can see it in the nervous twitch of his lips as they fight the grimace of teeth for a warmer, crooked smile instead. It is evident in the slouched, yet tense posture: his feet are lightly planted, his weight is on his toes, and his arms are hanging loose to his sides.

He will flee if I flatten my palm. I drop my hand, slow, sluggish as ever; I find my voice, a paltry little whisper. “Thorje Merosiel.”

No, no, that is all wrong, is it not? Formality has never sat well with him, and suddenly the lines crinkling the corners of his creased eyelids show as he closes his eyes, cringes. The tense posture is shifting minutely. Time ticks down by seconds and I cannot get to my hooves, pinned by the emotions he will not or cannot rein in.

“Xi Buras,” is the next whisper to steal past the barrier of my teeth and lips, and that has him pinned, in turn. Silvery eyes open, flick down to me, and suddenly he lurches forward a step, all grace in those long limbs of his thieved away.


He has remembered, the apology lining his mouth says so, and the emotion mutes enough that now I can stand. I am on my hooves in a rustle of leather and plate, and the chains attached to my kilt and belt rattle quietly against the libram strapped to my hip.

The space between us is met; he is a steady pulse of relief behind my eyelids, and little more. This is a headache I should be able to bear, but the way his thin face is now a gentled expression mixed in confusion and weary sadness makes it hurt more, makes me hurt more. I did this to him. But he smells of life. Smells of life, not death.

Curling my arms around him takes time, too; movement is so hard for me some days, when I feel as if I slog through tar just to breathe or think.

I press small palms to the middle of his back, the highest I can reach, curl my fingers around the thick rattail trailing down from the nape of his neck. He sucks in a soft breath, a hiss of air escaping inward rather than out like it should.
Before I can wonder if my embrace is unwarranted, unwanted, he is enfolding me in those lean arms and sliding into a crouch so that his face presses to my throat, my shoulder. The fabric of my mask is turning damp, and his shoulders shiver, tremble, under my fingertips.

“Xi Buras,” I breathe again, breathe for him, perhaps. “Shi lok revos.” These words taste bitter on my tongue, a memory of how it felt to say this to another friend: another missing under different circumstances and never found, but returned by his own volition. Is Merosiel to be another failure of mine?

I did this but he is alive.

I am overwhelmed.

I cry silently without moving.

I received a letter today in the mail.

The letter in question is paper-clipped neatly to the page, smoothed out of wrinkles.

I like getting letters.

I like being Useful.

I will write again when I am not Busy.

"Astarin:
I, Fizzle Breakstop, would like to congratulate you on your new chef hat!
However, thanks alone is never fair to a good chef, so I have sent you plenty of materials so you can do what it appears you love best, cook!
Fizzle.
P.S. The Captain says to stop re-checking today's cargo. It's starting to smell."