It keeps me from writing, quite frankly.  Because I’ve killed the mystery.  I can’t see the characters anymore, and all I see it as is “filling in blanks.” Boring blanks.  The excitement of the tale has fled.  THat’s not to say it won’t be finished, but…I need something else.  Something new.  Something that is unexplored, because otherwise…I’ll never write.  I’ll always be caught up in this, always returning to the epic.  I don’t want to be caught like that, like I’ve seen other friends of mine who write.

The story is valiant, and the characters do matter to me, but I need time away.  I need to leave it for another time when the story might be right again, when I might be able to revisit the world I made and really make it my own.  Until then…I need something new.  A new project.  I need to finish a story for my own sake, and Thread must wait.  A new tale, and I’ll let the characters come to me.  I’ll be able to enjoy it again.

Farewell, Thread.

Sari had long been accustomed to the death of hope and the flaws of memory, but his failure stood apparent within the column at the center of the dais at the forefront of this monument of death. Pale light flittered above a small bowl worked into the stone.  From it wafted the scent of flowers in spring and the damp swampland of Sari’s home. Yet Sari knew that what he felt was only illusion.  The scent struck each person in a different way, drawing forth that which was most dear.  For Sari, home was an impossibily distant land, far across the sea.

How many years had it been since he stood in this spot? Too many to accurately remember. But what he did recall were those last few moments of Kessith’s life, when the boy had stared pleadingly at him for help. Had his mind changed in those final instants? Was one life a fitting price?

Sari had no answers. That day haunted his dreams. Each night for nearly forty years he had faced Kessith’s painful stare. Each night he’d sought for words of comfort to give.  Yet it always ended the same way, with no help offered to a man who had chosen something more than simply death.

“Friend,” Sari’s voice broke the silence. He felt that the sanctuary itself tried to silence him, but forced himself to continue, “I’ve returned.”

It felt as though the room suddenly focused on him, daring him to say more.

“I’ve seen many roads since I last stood here.  Many lands.  Places I doubt you would believe.”

Silence.

“I wish you had been there, friend.  I wish you could have sailed with me to the furthest shores and seen the stallions of the western continent.  There is so much more than we could have ever dreamed in our talks by the fire.”

Sari took a step toward the dais. The soft glow of the stone bowl had grown slightly. “It once was that I considered you only a child. Cursed with such a short span as was alotted. I thought you could only grasp but a fragment of what there was to behold.  Perhaps I was mistaken.”

It could have been his imagination, but Sari felt the room quiet itself, if such a thing were possible. As though the walls were taking a deep breath and holding it.

“I think you must have seen far more than I ever could.  One moment must have felt an eternity, whereas a year seems but an instant to me.  I wanted you to know–” he hesitated.

“–I wanted you to know that you were right.” Was it foolish to speak to himself? Sari scolded himself.  Who else could be listening?

“Your choice was correct.  So much beauty is worthy of such a price, and I feel proud to have known you as a man. To have shared those moments with you. My life has not had such purpose since our ways parted.”

All I can say is…dang.