BELIEVE IN GRACE AND CHOICE ; private

[Thomas]

[align=center][div style=" background-color: transparent; border: 0px solid black; width: 530px; min-height: 9px; font-family:; line-height: 110%; text-align: justify; padding: 20px"]Thomas' dark eyes examined the sword in his hands. It was clean and sharp, and the metal of its blade burned brightly in the half light, illuminated by the moon that peaked through his window. Its hilt was crafted from the finest of golds, and it shined as though it had been made yesterday and not generations ago. The weapon was a family heirloom. His father had given it to him when he joined the royal army just as his father's father had done years before. The tradition traveled as far back as their kingdom's history could say. He turned over the aged sword, examining the lion's head pommel. It was the seal of their family. It was strength and courage. It was his most prized possession.

"Father, forgive me, I know not what to do. I cannot understand what has happened to our family much less this world. I am far, far from home now as well," Thomas said, weariness within his voice. "Does your spirit reach this place...? Does Mother's? I was once able to sense you both, I believe. You are gone from me now." His voice grew weaker as he continued to speak - a combination of his exhaustion and his longing to be home. There was so much he did not understand, and there was so much he would never understand. He let a sigh roll passed his parted lips, waiting and searching for some answer from his dead father, his death mother, the sword. There was nothing. "I am trying, Father. I know you will not be proud of me for being here as I was the next in line for your throne, but, Father, I was... I did not believe that to be my fate. I ran from it. I am still running from it. Father, I know I have failed you in countless ways, and I know I am the chief cause of your death, but please... Please do not leave me in this way. Though I am grown, I am still in need of you. I need your guidance, for I am lost."

But he was just speaking to a ceiling. The only answer that greeted him was the whispering breeze, and even then, it offered him no answer. It was not his father's gruff rumble that he knew so well. And though it was soft like his mother's voice, it was not nearly as warm and welcoming. He gripped the hilt of his sword tightly then, an anger flaming inside of him. Rage wreathed around him, and he shook in fury. He was so tired, however, that it dissipated with ease. The only thing left was the hollow frame of a young man that bore no resemblance to the lionheart he claimed to be.

He sighed once more, and halfway through, it morphed into a yawn. He needed sleep. He found himself laughing darkly at his ramblings. "Perhaps I am the mad one, not my dear sister." He shook his head as he laid the weapon on the table. It was almost alive in the moon and starlight, but he knew better. His hand lingered on the lion's head pommel for a heartbeat before he moved away from his table and toward his bed. Thomas would then lie down, murmuring something inaudible before drifting off to sleep.