Acheron
The Acheron
The Anjyarr desert stretched endlessly before Haeden, the sands shimmering in the fading sunlight as if echoing the whispers of a time long past. The oasis appeared ahead, a patch of solace amid the desolation, now a graveyard of memories. The once-vibrant waters were still, mirroring the silence of the place where his mother’s songs had once soared and his father’s lessons had grounded him in their strength. It was a place where love had flourished, but now it was quiet, heavy with absence.
Haeden knelt on the cracked earth by the edge of the water, his broad shoulders slumping under the weight of loss. From his satchel, he drew a leather-bound book, its pages worn from years of use, and a piece of charcoal. He hesitated, fingers brushing over the cover as if trying to summon the courage to disturb the fragile stillness of the air. He opened the book and found a blank page, letting the familiar scent of aged parchment ground him. With a slow, deep breath, he began to write, the charcoal gliding across the page like a whisper.
Haeden knelt on the cracked earth by the edge of the water, his broad shoulders slumping under the weight of loss. From his satchel, he drew a leather-bound book, its pages worn from years of use, and a piece of charcoal. He hesitated, fingers brushing over the cover as if trying to summon the courage to disturb the fragile stillness of the air. He opened the book and found a blank page, letting the familiar scent of aged parchment ground him. With a slow, deep breath, he began to write, the charcoal gliding across the page like a whisper.
"What is the worth of love when it comes from something the world deems unworthy? What value does it hold when it burns in the heart of a being the world has already cast aside, when it is offered by hands the world fears, from a face the world refuses to see?"
The words flowed, drawn from the depths of his soul. He wrote of the fragile ember of love that persisted even in the shadow of rejection, a contradiction that defied the world's indifference.
"To those the world calls monsters, love is not salvation. It is not shared. It is not even acknowledged. It is a fragile light in a sea of shadow - a light that refuses to die, even when there is no one to see it."
Haeden paused, his gaze lifting to the skeletons of palm trees, their broken branches reaching skyward like mourners. His hand trembled slightly as he pressed the charcoal to the page once more.
"But what is the worth of a monster’s love? It is not the love of poets or dreams, not the gentle union of equals. It is a love born of isolation, of yearning, of defiance. It is a love that stands in the void, unreturned, unseen, and still burns. It is not love that saves - it is love that persists."He continued, his thoughts spilling onto the page in a steady stream. He wrote of the silence he carried, the unspoken truths that lingered in the corners of his soul. The loneliness of a voice unheard, a yearning unseen, and the fragile ember of hope that burned within him, no matter how cruel its persistence.
Hours passed, the sun sinking below the horizon, painting the desert in hues of crimson and gold. Finally, his hand stilled, the charcoal worn down to a nub. Haeden gazed at the pages, his words staring back at him like a mirror. The weight of his love, his silence, his defiance - it was all there.
With a mournful sigh, he closed the book, pressing it to his chest as if to shield the fragile truths within. He lingered a moment longer, his eyes fixed on the still waters of the oasis. The memories of his mother’s song and his father’s lessons swirled around him, mingling with the ache of what had been lost.
With a mournful sigh, Haeden turned and walked into the desert, the weight of his love and the silence of his memories following close behind.