A figure chose its turning, as only one on the original path might know to. Keeping within the shadows of the trees, the dark form moved through the mist, wasting no time in reaching its hidden destination, far from the eyes of many, secluded; a place to mourn.

One For Sorrow.

Ar’thilmus had sat herself down in front of the small marker that was the gravestone of her first born son, Lakil. A robe of pure black was pulled tightly around her, including a hood drew over her auburn hair; her usual mourning attire. So many times in the past months she had knelt on the dew-soaked grass before this grave, wrapped in the same robes, flowers always in her hand to lie down. Plucking the dead flora from the muddy grass that was the grave, Ar’thilmus slowly took a deep breath and tossed them to one side, replacing the dying plants with some new ones, pinks and blues and yellows, small hope in her heart of brightening what was the most heart-wrenching site she ever had to lay eyes on. Even as she took the deep breath that came with the replanting, tears began to streak her pale cheeks, wetting the tangled strands of red that already hung over deep golden eyes.

“He was so young. So young! Never hurt a single person in his whole life. He didn’t deserve death, he just… didn’t… it’s not… he...”

Rarely would Ar’thilmus have let the tears flow so freely, but she missed Lakil more even than her remaining family could realize. She was strong enough to never mention him at home, to never miss him or to shed tears for him whilst she was in the confines of her house. But out here, in the wilderness, at her son’s grave amongst the mists…

“Not right, Lakil, not right… why couldn’t it have been me inst-“

She was cut off abruptly when she felt the hand gripping her shoulder tight through the robe, caressing the bone gently. She knew, without turning her head, who it was that was behind her; she had felt his hands so many times before, though never here. His fingers were purposely making sure she did not complete that sentence. Ar’thilmus rubbed her eyes quickly and then stood up, slowly turning to face him. Her assumption had been correct; there before her now was a moon elf, clad from head to toe in black leathers, his ice white hair tied back in a band of similar color. And around his finger he wore a wedding band made of pure shadow, crafted and solidified as only a master of shadowstuff could achieve; a wedding ring identical to the one Ar’thilmus wore on her finger. Clearing her tight throat, she muttered as he stared at her.

“You know you’re not supposed to follow me here, Di’thang.”

A small smirk crept up his lips, a gentle expression that was more a smile to him, and he gave her a gentle nod, gathering her up into one of his arms. He stroked his other fingers over her face, wiping away the tears from her face. She did no more than watch her husband as he then brushed her hair away from her face, his dark eyes always roaming over her face.

“Di’thang… you’re not supposed-”

She paused mid-sentence as he reached into his leather armor, slowly drawing something out. Lowering her eyes, Ar’thilmus scanned the object he held out. A flower, it’s petals stretched wide in bloom, its stem covered in thorns on both sides, the barbs cutting into the moon elf’s pale hand. A rose. Di’thang held out his hand and Ar’thilmus turned around slowly, leaning back against him and watching as he released the rose, letting it glide slowly down to rest on Lakil’s grave beside the flowers she had laid herself. A small, yet weak, smile crept up the lips of the deceased child’s mother, and she turned back around to stare at Di’thang as the fog drifted around him. His eyes hadn’t shifted, and he stared down on her. She brought a hand to his chest, absently casting a glance over her shoulder again to the rose upon the grave. He spoke softly, almost a whisper that was intended so as to not disturb he who was in eternal rest.

“We follow you wherever you might go, Ar’thilmus, forever. The past is behind you now; and Dhae is gone forever. A hateful history trapped within the scroll, captive as such a demon should be, and never to be released. You and us, now, our love. You and us.”

Ar’thilmus nodded slowly and rested her head on her husband’s chest, turning him slightly so that her open eyes could cast themselves to the grave of her son, Di’thang’s stepson.

Two for Joy.

The moon elf cleric took her shadow-weaving husband’s hand, and slowly began to guide him from the grave, back down the forked mud-path and from the misty banks, towards their home together, unaware of what was taking place there at the same moment.

-

The small home was the usual scene of serenity that Ar’thilmus had tried to always keep it, despite the occasional ripple in that plan made by her husband; Di’thang had a way of finding trouble, though he would always claim that it was trouble that did the finding. Within these walls of comfort Aza’lihnlia had just awoken to find the house still and quiet. Unusual, she had thought, to not hear her parents’ voices somewhere in the house. Presumably they had gone out again; she remembered hearing her mother mention something about visiting the grave, but it was too late to go with her. Clambering out of her small bed and straightening down her thin nightgown, Aza toddled out of her bedroom in search of her stepfather. Of course, if he was within the shadows he would be impossible to find, but he would more than likely appear before her as he so often did, startling the little one witless. Oh, she hated when he did that.

One For Sorrow.

The young auburn-haired elven girl found her way into the living room, looking around with bleary, tired eyes. Giving a yawn, she rubbed her eyes and tried to blink the sleep from them. She could hear a voice now, in one of the rooms across the landing. It was the voice of her nanny; so her parents had gone out. Aza shrugged, looking around the room for her stuffed animal made of shadows. She was sure she had left it in this room somewhere. Her eyes landed on something else, though. Her mother’s bag propped up against a bookcase in the far corner of the room. Hm. Toddling over to the bag, Aza silently knelt down beside it, wondering what sort of interesting things her mummy might keep in there. Perhaps some clothes to dress up in? Or some shoes to try on? Perhaps some perfume she could scent herself with to make herself smell as nice as mummy did? Aza fumbled with the string on the top of the bag for a moment before finally getting it undone.

Peering inside, the young elf did not find any clothes, shoes or perfume. Instead just a boring piece of paper. With a childish grumble, Aza picked the paper up from the bag, turning it over in her hands. Oooh, there were words on it! Aza could not yet read many words, but she recognized the word “and” and the word “the” on the page. Slowly the little girl traced her fingers over the writing, inscribed in some sort of red ink. Almost instantly she began to feel a throbbing in her head and she groaned quietly. The little girl really hated headaches, such nuisances. The headache distracted Aza so much that she did not notice the scroll in her hand shrivel into ash, nor did she notice the dark shadow-like essence crawling up her arm, dissolving into her skin. The headache was too much; the little girl even felt her hands beginning to shake. Maybe she was getting a cold; she’d felt like this when she got a cold last winter. Laying her little head down on the carpet, Aza closed her eyes, trying to make the headache go away. She wasn’t aware of herself smiling in an almost crazed manner, eyes glittering darkly behind closed eyelids, little fists balled up at her sides. Nor was she aware of the chuckle that left her lips. Freedom, at last. Free from the confines of the scroll, free within an innocent, weak little mind. And this time, none would change that. Aza fell into a slumber, completely unaware of the being now hidden within the depths of her conscience; free from the scroll Ar’thilmus had trapped him within.

One For Sorrow. Two For Joy. Three For The Girl.