Translucent in the candlelight, the blade struck out. Once. Steel scythed through wax as if air. Twice. The wick of the candle became three from two. Three. Straight through the flame, and burrowing down into the core of the candle. It split finally, six pieces collapsing like a house of oily cards. The flame flickered once more in desparation, and then whispered away, flooding the room with shadow. Seb sheathed his sword calmly, watching the pieces of the candle fall with eerie fascination. He leaned forward and picked one up, holding it lightly in thin fingers, tracing every edge of the wax with his eyes... "You could have just blown it out, you know." He glanced back, and saw Alin leaning lightly against the frame leading out of his room. Still dressed in her armour, she nevertheless seemed at home, especially with the sly grin on her face. "I suppose so." "What's with the useless swordplay? Planning on becoming a Doman knight?" "Yeah," he said, then paused, tapping the hilt of his sheathed sword. "I guess." Alin moved forward, arms crossed over her chest, expression slightly softened. The hard lines around her eyes seemed less deep than before. "All right. Spill it," she said, a touch resignedly. "Spill what?" "You're talking like you've just hit a mid-life crisis or something. So spill your worries onto the floor already, and we'll see about mopping them up." "Mopping up my worries? Sounds like a bad song lyric to me." "Shut up. It's a cool metaphor; don't knock it. Now, are you ready to talk? I haven't all night, you know." Seb turned away, eyes swallowed into the abyss outside. His face was being lightly caressed by the soft starlight, moving across his face in smooth strokes... "No. Not yet," he said. "Fine. See you in the morning, then. I'll bring a mop when I wake you up tomorrow," Alin said, then stalked off with a laugh. Seb dashed over and slammed the door behind her, filling the hallway with a dull clatter. Alin looked back, eyes narrowed tight, the shrugged her shoulders, and headed off to bed. She could deal with Seb's angst in the morning. Seb flipped through the hard, dry leaves, a whirlwind of fingers and sight. It tore through his journal, eyes scanning over half-blurred entries, fingers stained black by inks and ash. His life was passing before his eyes; every moment since age two was there, printed in cold, lifeless black and white. He stopped his whirlwind of memory for a moment, eyes tearing over as he read passage after passage... * * * September 13th Dad gave me my birthday present today. His eyes were all wet and crinkly when he handed the box to me, and he held Mom really tight next to him when he talked. He told me that when he was eight, his dad gave him his very first sword. It was small, and wooden, and could barely open up a clam, but he loved it very much anyway. It wasn't the sword, Dad told me. It was what it meant. It was one sword, and there was nothing at all like it, but it was useful anyway. It wouldn't fit in anywhere. Then he pointed at the box he gave me, all brown and wrapped with a blue crepe bow, and he told me that he was proud that he could give me more than he got. He started sobbing then, tears all down his face, and I couldn't believe it. Dad was crying! I looked down at the box, pulled at the bow, and let it fly. It floated to the floor like a feather, and I watched it for a minute before I took the box top off. It was a badge. Tin, it looked like, and painted with a symbol, all in red. It glowed in a way... it was just really neat-looking. I held it up and pinned it to my shirt; it pulled it down some, off my shoulder, but I didn't care. Mom started crying now, and held herself tight. Dad looked at me, with my shirt half off, and my badge with red on it on, and smiled. My little soldier, he said. My little Imperial soldier. * * * March 25th She's not here any more. She's away now, and there's nothing we can do. I'm sorry. Dad said that, and he was crying again. This is the second time he's ever done that, I think. Before when he gave me the badge, and now... I think I'm handling it better than he is. I'm worried about Dad. Maybe it's because he didn't talk to Mom the way I did. I do feel sad inside; it's so hard to move on from something like this. And yet... what she told me just before she died. She told me that I had to do what I thought was right, no matter what. If I had to cry when she died, then I should. If I thought that I should try and move on, I should. If I want to join the Empire when I'm older, then that's okay too. Whatever I wanted. Her eyes were glistening when she said that, and I hugged her, and he both understood. I just wish Dad would understand. * * * November 27th I don't have time. I don't have time to write this but I am because I don't ever want to forget this day. Today is the day that I'm leaving home. It's that or die; I should never have hidden Dad's armour for him. I should have tried to reason with him... I should... I had to. He was going to kill himself. That's all. No discussion. * * * The pages of the journal breezed by every important moment of his life, and slowly, surely, the whirlwind died down, the pages ceased their snare drum pace, and the journal was left, one blank page remaining in it, white as death. Seb stared down at it mournfully, eyes moist, hands trembling. He reached up slowly, sliding his hand into his shirt, feeling around in the depths of the breast pocket until the five familiar contours, still sharp, brushed by his fingers. He pulled out the old Imperial badge, polished even after years of use. He lifted it out before him, as if presenting it to some unseen god, then quietly, silently, he brought it back up and repinned his gray cloak about his shoulders, held tight with tin. It clasped easily to the soft material of the cape, and somehow Seb knew that something wrong had just been put right. He raised himself up, feeling somehow stronger - a purpose had been instilled within him. The crimson on the badge seemed to flare bright in response as he dashed across the room, hand already reaching towards the windowsill. It was time. He was going home. The window lay open that night, while an shivering breeze sliced in through it, rustling the bedsheets. The room was left in a cold calm... One lone book lay on the floor, pages flickering wildly. Only one word was visible on the unmoving last page: Goodbye.