The light filtered into Serci’s old room through a large, ornate painted glass window of a forest. Soft green danced lazilly onto the floor, followed by the hot red and oranges that composed the painted sun. Dust flitted without effort in and out of the colored rays, creating a point of focus for Serci as he stood leaning, white knuckled, on a dark wooden chestnut dresser. Where the light floated, Serci stared intensely, boring a hole into the floor as he did so. He grinded his jaws in confused anger.
After his… Awakening, He began roaming the halls. He had no plan at the time. In fact, when he looked back on it, he had no idea why he went wandering the halls in the first place. His old robes still clung to him then, his unneededly long hair was left in tatters, and he covered in dirt. He was sure he looked no better than a ghost to the dumbstruck clergy of Angela’s temple. Once he had caused a big enough scene, he was grabbed and directed towards a bath. He wasn’t quite sure, but maybe that's when he had regained conscience. He was aware of the warm water running down his back, and the vigorous scrubbing to remove the caked dirt and grime. His damn hair took almost most of the bath to clean. He said not a word as he bathed himself, a worried clergy checking on him every few minutes.
After his bath, he was handed clean white robes, no different than the clergy wore. He was then led to his room, his old room, and he was brought to speed. Dalanesca was dead. He too had died, he wasn’t sure how, but he was buried in Angela’s backyard, a personal request he was glad to see was honored. Time, a lot of time, had passed without him, as time does. Angela had appointed a new champion, and along the way she was remarried. A whole courtship went by without him. He was instructed Angela would come and he could have council in his room shortly. A lot of the news, Serci took with a straight face, however, once the clergy member had left, he hung his head low and cried. Tears fell from his face at a fastened pace.
He felt lost and confused. Anger had boiled inside him, anger that was not pointed at anyone directly, however it ate at him from the inside out. As he found his attention back to himself, he looked into a nearby mirror and took a long look at himself. His clean hair, once brilliant and shining, was now dull and the color muted. Even the volume of his hair, once lively and joyful was now limp and subdued. His porcelain face had cracked. The femininity was still there, but the once fair skin was now dry and void of color. His skin clung tightly to the structure of his face, true for the rest of his body, as if he had not eaten in months. He looked like a zombie. He felt like a zombie. Trying to think of better thoughts, he took a nearby paring knife and without second thoughts, serrated his golden hair just a few inches below his earlobe. He stared at his new self in the mirror, trying to admire the new bob cut from different angles.
He brought his attention downward and found the long strands of hair he had cut. Focusing on a life that seemed like a lifetime ago, he heard a short rasp on the door bringing him out of it. A voice that belonged to that life a lifetime ago called out. What would’ve been a comforting smile on his face was now replaced by a look of short panic, followed by a smile that was too forced. He called out with a voice that cracked. “You may enter, Angela.”
