April 4th,
I am lost.
His deep, intense eyes watching her, his hand in her hand, his lips on her soft skin... I can't stand it. This is more than I can bear. 
Never forgive. I can never forgive her for filling me with this feeling. This feeling of loss, this feeling of hatred, this feeling of disappointment. 
I will never forgive either of them. 
I hate feeling this way. It hurts. I feel as if someone has taken an ice-cold knife and has slowly drawn the blade across my chest, then poured pure salt into the cut. My heartbeat, it's loud and frantic. I can't calm down, I can hardly think. My hands are shaking, and I can't make them stop. My thoughts, they're coming too quickly. I cannot even express all I am feeling. All I can hear is my own voice, repeating the words over and over.
Never forgive,
Never forgive,
Never forgive.
I am broken. 
What will become of my life? I thought that my life was just about to really begin. Now, I am more confused than ever. My lantern doesn't glow brightly enough to save me from this impending darkness. I can't see her eyes the same way I used to. Now, when I look at her, there are no fireworks of joyful emotions bursting from my chest. I just feel betrayal and sorrow.
Was I just not enough? I thought I finally found someone who could love me. Have I just been making a fool out of myself? Did she ever care, or had she been tricking me from the start with her kindness and her beautiful, perfect smile? How could someone so good and kind make me feel this way? How could the most amazing, perfect person in the world make me feel such despair and hatred? I'm scared. What if I can never find it within myself to feel love for her again? Have I trapped myself? Where do I go?
I'm so lost and afraid.
I want to quit. I want to quit writing. This book- ALL books, they're just books. Nothing more than symbols on a page. All books are just concepts. The only thing that gives books power is the will and imagination of the reader, so what's the point? Why write when no one will ever read?

Marc didn't sleep that day. He couldn't bring himself to lay in that bed. Instead, he sat at his desk, his thoughts keeping him petrified. 

The next night, Marc left his house early. He felt a sense of dread whenever he thought about the future now. How was he supposed to move forward? What does one do in this kind of situation? He couldn't bring himself to talk to Danielle about what he saw. He hardly could even look at her. Not that she noticed his distress. She spent most of her time away from home anyway. She spent her hours with everybody but him. He couldn't believe that he didn't suspect anything earlier. Was he just that blinded by her kindness and beauty?

It felt like the world around him had changed. Now, whenever he went out and walked, he could feel people's eyes on him. They all looked at him with pity and remorse, which made him wonder how many people knew before he did. 

He found himself thinking of the baby. The innocent, unborn child who he had been so excited to meet. He wanted to raise the child in a strong, unbroken family. He wanted to give them the world. Give them everything he didn't have growing up. He was so happy when he first heard the news.

Now? He didn't even know if he was the father. He had no idea what to believe. Danielle never actually told him that the baby was his. Was that intentional?

His mood would constantly swing from numb to panicked. Sometimes, his thoughts felt too chaotic and loud. Other times, everything felt soft and empty. He wasn't sure what was worse. He wanted to go back to feeling excited and scared. He felt more lost and broken than ever now. He wished there was some sort of way to erase his memories of what he had seen. He wanted to make it all un-happen. He wanted to go back to being nineteen years old, sitting at that celebration of the new year and writing about pointless things. He wanted to go back to a time before he met Danielle. Back to a time when he was nothing. 

He walked past the temple in town, briefly stopping in front of the front doors. He knew that only certain tribesmen were allowed inside. Tribesmen like Kylian. 

Why should someone like that be allowed near the Dark Prognosticus, but not him? Why did the tribe put their trust in a bully like Kylian? Why should he have access to the book? It wasn't fair. 

Why should Kylian be viewed as someone worthwhile and important?

Marc let out a defeated sigh and bowed his head, lowering his lantern and allowing his arms to hang lifelessly by his sides.

Defeated. He felt so defeated. He felt like a character in those tragic stories, who had spent so long fighting so hard to be what the world wanted them to be, only to find out it wasn't enough. It was never going to be enough. 

He wasn't enough.

It was so dark outside. Dark and cold. The early spring air smelled of rain and chilly breezes.

For a moment, he could almost feel the book calling to him. He felt as if someone from inside the temple was urging him to find them. He quickly fought the feeling off, however. He remembered what Merlon told him, and even while broken, he was not going to let himself fall victim to the darkness. He had read enough stories to know that manipulation was easiest to achieve when someone was feeling exactly the way that he currently felt, but he was smart enough not to let that happen to himself. He wasn't the type of person to go on a revenge rampage and destroy everything over something like this. He was instead the type of person to just fall into a state of quiet.

He quickly walked off, wanting to get as far away from the book as possible. He wished he could run from everything. From home, from Kylian, from Danielle, and even from himself. 

He began to feel sick once again, so he ran into the nearest building, hoping to get a glass of water to help himself calm down. He was lucky enough to have run into the tribe's bar. He ran up to the counter, ordering himself a glass of water. The bartender nodded, then quickly got one for him. 

Meanwhile, everyone inside looked at him with rather shocked expressions. Marc didn't blame them. He never went out to bars and had actually never even had a drop of alcohol in his life. Still, he wished they would stop staring.

"Ah, did the rumors get to ya?" One man asked, sliding up to Marc's side. 

Marc shook his head no, taking a sip of water and trying his very best to ignore all the thoughts swirling around his mind.

"Wow, he's actually out for once," someone else noted with a slightly snarky tone. "I never thought I would see Marc himself in a bar. You must have finally caught up with-"

"Stop talking," Marc weakly breathed, taking another sip of water, then placing the empty glass on the table in front of him. He bowed his head, then shut his eyes, fighting to keep the tears from spilling in front of all those people.

Why did everyone else already know? Was he really the last person to learn about this? Had he really been that blind and oblivious? Why did no one else tell him? Did they laugh at him? Was this all some sort of big inside joke with everyone else in the tribe?

"You know... this isn't the right kind of drink for your situation," the first man breathed, turning to the bartender and ordering two shots of liquor. 

Marc furrowed his eyebrows, then looked over at the man, who was smiling and holding one shot out to him.

He remembered the thought that had snuck into his mind a few moments ago. The memory of the stories of manipulation. He was in a fragile state, and there were definitely people out there who would try to take advantage of that.

Still, he was smart enough not to let that happen. He could spot manipulation from a mile away. He could see what was happening.

However... just where would he draw the line? He wouldn't let the book manipulate him, but books are books. People are a whole other game. A game he wasn't nearly as experienced with.

"What...?" Marc questioned, frowning.

"Have a drink," the man smiled. "It'll help. Trust me."

Marc looked at the drink being held out to him. The cup was tiny. The liquid was colored and smelled strange. The scent alone was already making him feel dizzy. It stung his nostrils and reminded him of the medicine healers once used on him when he was younger and had fallen ill. 

"I don't drink," he plainly stated, gazing away. He did his best to sound firm with the hope that this would be the end of the conversation.

It wasn't.

"Everyone drinks," the man stated, placing the small glass next to Marc's empty water glass. "Come on, have fun for once in your life. We're all rooting for you, right?"

The man gestured to everyone else who was sitting in the bar, who all raised their own glasses and cheered. Then, they all started chanting, "Drink, drink, drink, drink," as if they were at a sporting event.

We're all rooting for you...

Marc was good at spotting manipulation. 

But... they were all rooting for him.

Marc looked at all of them with confusion. A part of him felt fearful. He was very well aware of the effects alcohol could have on people. He knew he was past the legal age for drinking, but he still had decided against it. He didn't want to risk the substances making him unintentionally say something that could get him into trouble, knowing his tendencies for accidentally speaking out of turn when sober. 

However, a small part of him didn't want to let everyone down. He had never been in a room full of people smiling and cheering for him. It was a strange feeling, to say the least. Those worlds had kept playing in his mind, over and over.

We're all rooting for you.

Marc was so used to being alone that the idea of people rooting for him and being on his side was so enticing...

Everyone was smiling at him. Real smiles, Marc noted. They weren't cruel smiles like Kylian's. They weren't perfect smiles like Danielles. They were real, giggly, pure smiles. 

He knew that he could never stand a chance against peer pressure when it came down to it, so he ended up grasping the small glass, then downing the liquid in one gulp. Everyone cheered and clapped for him as he stumbled to the side a little and set the empty glass down on the bar counter.

The taste was strong. Very strong... it was a startling burst of flavor all at once. 

He didn't like it.

But it was done. He did it. Surely that would be enough for everyone else to move on with their days, right?

"Get him another one!" Someone shouted.

Before Marc knew it, another glass was placed in front of him. People continued chanting for him to drink. Their voices were already beginning to sound distant. He felt like his mind and thoughts were muddied. 

Before he could even think, he picked up the second glass and quickly downed that one as well, despite hating the feeling the first one gave him. 

It was just as strong and startling. 

Then he drank another.

And another.

And another.

He kept drinking. With each drink, he grew dizzier and lost more control, until the ability to even think simply vanished. The world was nothing more than a blur of colors and noises.

He had to leave. He had to get out of there.

He stood up and stumbled into the wall, dropping the glass in his hand, unable to see where he was stepping. 

He silently wondered where his glasses had gone, when he realized that they were where they always were, situated on his face. Funny, they weren't getting rid of the blurriness like they usually did.

Blurry. Fuzzy? What would be a better word for describing his vision? It had always been bad. He remembered getting his first pair of glasses when he was five years old. Kids laughed at him. He didn't like it.

"Keep drinking, Marc," someone urged him, holding another shot up to him and helping him down it.

He didn't even resist. He couldn't remember how to say no. Was no even the right word? Or was it yes? What did either of those words mean anymore?

Who came up with those words? Why those words specifically? No... yes... such strange sounds. Who assigned meaning to any words? How long had these words existed? How long had language existed? Why didn't anyone teach him these things when he was a kid? 

"Drink your sorrows away," another person chimed, holding up a shot.

Sorrows...

Sorrow. Sorrow was a funny word. What did it mean again? Sorrow...

Dejection. Desolation. Despair. Despondent. Danielle.

Danielle.

"Danielle..." Marc muttered, his voice slurred. "Why... why is my heart crying? Why can't I fight..."

"Shh... keep drinking, Marc," a voice urged.

He didn't want to.

He felt sick.

Sick and afraid. 

He wanted to go home, but he didn't remember where home was. Home...

Delightful. Dazzling. Daring. Desirable. Danielle.

No... Those words didn't work. He didn't feel a sense of belonging when he thought of them. They didn't describe home.

Home... home was a place of peace. A place of safety. A place he could be himself. 

Home...

Mellow. He liked mellow. Mellow wasn't scary. Mellow was safe. Marc thrived when surrounded by mellowness.

Mindful... mindful was good too. Mindfullness kept him from giving in to fear. 

Motivation. He needed motivation too. Motivation to keep writing. Motivation to get out of bed each morning. Motivation to live and to love. Motivation to find purpose.

Magic.

Magic, the concept he and everyone he ever met had been built upon. Magic was the power to influence and control situations using abilities that some would presume as unnatural. Magic, the very thing that this world was built upon. 

Home...

Mellow. Mindful. Motivational. Magical. 

Merlon.

Home...

Home was a place with a table, right? Table... book... Merlon, where was Merlon?! 

Where was Merlon?!

Marc looked around, slightly panicked, but he couldn't see anything aside from colors. He took a few deep breaths, trying his hardest to collect his scattered thoughts, which were floating around in the mess his mind had become.

No, Merlon wouldn't be there. Merlon was with the Tribe of Ancients.

Home was in the Tribe of Darkness, with Danielle.

Danielle...

"Danielle," he whimpered between hiccups. 

Why... he would have been fine if she just told him that she didn't want to be with him, but keeping secrets and deceiving him all this time... 

"Shh, keep drinking," another voice urged. "People like that are never what they seem. You get used to it."

No...

No, Danielle was kind. She was gentle and good. She loved him.

He loved her.

He loved her so much. He would have done anything for her. He would still do anything for her. Or would he? Did he still love her? Was it possible to love someone who hurt him like this?

Why...

Why did everything hurt? Why was his heart bleeding?

"But I love her..." Marc whimpered, trembling. "I used to love... I used to want... I..."

"Keep drinking, Marc,"

He was handed another shot, then downed it without thinking.

There was the sound of the door opening, but Marc couldn't even see who had walked in. His mind was too foggy. Everything was spinning faster than he could keep up with. Voices were muffled. 

"Grambi, to think she married a man like that," a voice remarked, their words cutting through the other muffled voices surrounding Marc.

He flinched.

He wasn't sure what voices were real and what voices were in his head anymore. The line between reality and imagination no longer seemed so solid. 

The memory of Kylian leaving his house the other night replayed in his mind over and over. He could see that demeaning smirk. He could feel his own world shattering all over again. 

"Look at him. He can't even stand up straight," the same voice spat.

Marc blinked and looked up. All he could see was red. Red fabric everywhere.

Red, red, red, the color of evil. The color of blood and fire. Red, the color of passion, energy, and danger.

He HATED red so much at that moment. More than he had ever hated anything before. 

"How dare you..." Marc muttered, snatching the red-cloaked person's wrist with a grip tighter than he thought possible for himself.

Kylian smirked his condescending smirk at the taller man. He raised an eyebrow, his deep blue eyes piercing into Marc's simple silver eyes.

"Get over it. You can't even love her right-"

"ENOUGH!" Marc screamed as loud as he could, letting go of Kylian's wrist. He slammed his lantern down on the bar counter, then pointed a shaking finger at Kylian. "You're a BULLY and a JERK!"

"And you're a coward," Kylian calmly stated, pushing Marc's hand away. "I'm surprised it took you this long to see anything. You should just leave and let her be happy. Guess what? She told me about the baby a month and a half ago. Trust me, you're nothing. No one will even care when you're gone."

Marc winced, trembling more violently. He felt like he might drop dead at any moment. Perhaps he would, knowing how much he drank. He felt as if he had been poisoned and was seconds from collapsing.

But he couldn't let himself. He had to keep standing. 

"If that's true, then why don't you just end it all now and kill me yourself?!" Marc exclaimed.

Everyone in the bar suddenly fell silent.

Kylian raised both his eyebrows, then slowly grinned.

"Are you challenging me to a duel?" The man in the red cloak asked.

Before logic and reasoning could even enter Marc's mind, he found himself nodding.

"Yes." Marc firmly stated.

Kylian smiled, then began slowly pacing around the room, keeping his intense gaze on Marc. He raised an eyebrow, nodding in approval. 

There was tension in the air. Marc felt like he was walking on a tightrope, thousands of feet in the sky. He could fall at any moment.

"Jealousy isn't a good color on you," Kylian quietly noted with a grin. 

"Shut up," Marc shakily breathed. He couldn't think, he could hardly even see. 

Kylian's smile grew.

One of the reasons Kylian was even allowed into the tribe's leadership was because of his sheer amount of power. Dueling between members of the tribe was not an uncommon occurrence, but no one had ever challenged Kylian because they were all aware of who would be the one to come out on top. He was insanely accurate with his attacks.

"Alright then, Twig, tomorrow in the woods, just after sunset, I'll be waiting," Kylian stated.

"Perfect!" Marc hissed, throwing his drink onto the ground. Everyone in the bar winced at the sound of the shattering glass.

Marc then re-adjusted his glasses, then quickly stormed out. His breath smelled of alcohol and his eyes were teary. He could hardly even walk in a straight line. He had no idea where he was going.

What he just got himself into didn't even process until he was halfway through town.

He found himself stopping, the realization suddenly hitting him.