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Chores, Chores, And More Chores
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Chores, Chores, And More Chores
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Everything had become a chore in recent weeks for the elder Reverend. As he grew more infirm, so did he seclude himself within the halls of the Harhold estate or the offices of the Church. He could not find the will to preach on the streets nor could he muster up the strength to move there. He could not sleep for the pains of his ailments were too much, instead finding himself staring blankly at the ceiling in the bouts of his arthritis, his yellowed teeth gritting together and the only sounds breaking the silence of his bed chambers being the pained grunts of the octogenarian.
What he could bear in past years from the attacks of criminals and the beatings received from the Isldar in Kausis was not the same. The pain was something he had dealt with time and time again in the past years. The realization of his so-called 'golden years' was not. The idea that he would no longer be able to take long walks with his family or Shepherd, that the work to strengthen his body in the past few months was lost, that he would never be able to move without the assistance of some damned cane or wheelchair again.
The fact that this pain he felt was likely permanent, unlike the bruises and broken bones of the past. That for the rest of his years or months, whichever the Spirit decided, would be filled with this dastardly pain in his joints and bones. Aching, shooting, terrible pains.
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Aelfric sat in his grand chair within the offices of the Radiant Eye, a piece of parchment placed before him, a quill with it's ink laced tip grasped between his boney and feeble fingers. He began to scribe down words upon paper, his near calligraphy like handwriting now shaky and crooked, written down upon the page. 'Twas a sermon for the next day and yet it was midnight in the Holy City, the dark cover of night having already been pulled over the capital hours ago.
As the High Exarch wrote his sermon, his stained teeth gritted together with more and more conviction, before he tossed the quill aside, swiftly bringing his right hand to his left. The elder massaged the joints of his right hand, his sunken and tired eyes falling upon the piece of parchment before him. "Chore." he uttered with disdain.
The Harhold pushed his chair back from his desk, slowly rising, his hands splayed over the edge of the table. The elderly man struggled to rise, pushing himself up halfway before falling back into his chair. This process repeated again and again, the elder floundering in his attempt to make his way to his feet. Finally however, Aelfric soon rose, quickly scrambling to reach for his cane.
His grasp upon the hilt of his cane tight as ever, he tottered forth towards the steps at a snail's pace.
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Slowly he made his way down the many flights of steps, suddenly regretting the placement of his office at the top floor. So did he regret ordering all home at this late hour, the elderly man alone with no help. Yet he tottered and tottered, each step causing pain in both his left leg, affected by the steps, and his left hand, affected by the movement along the wall, the elder leaning on it with his hand for support. The creaking of the steps and boards was all that could be heard on this silent night, however the 83 year old's mind was noisy as ever, crowded with thoughts and anticipation, anxiety even of the chance for a fall. At any moment, he realized he could tumble down the steps and he did not believe he would survive.
For the next set of steps, second to last, Aelfric slowly descended to his bottom, sitting down at the edge of the top. Like any child would do for fun, the man slid down slowly out of necessity, losing whatever personal dignity he had left in the process. He reached the bottom, the first floor and had one left to go to reach the basement where the kitchen and his tea leaves and tea set was.
"Chore." He said once more with distaste. The Reverend attempted to rise at that.
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Aelfric firmly placed his cane upon the ground, beginning to rise with the support of the walking stick and the wall beside him. Surprisingly, Aelfric rose on the first try, yet it was not all sunshine and daisies. The old man's legs faltered and he fell and it was not back upon the steps. Nay, this time he fell forward and onto the floor. Aelfric thankfully had guarded his head and he would receive no broken bones or injuries besides some minor bruises from the fall. Also much to his delight afterwards, as little as there would be, he had missed the table side by a few inches which sat right before the steps on the side. A fall for his head onto one of the corners would mean a slow death for the man, something he feared each day, yet something he was likely experiencing already. A very slow death indeed.
An exclamation escaped the elder, "Damn it!" of which he brought his hands to his lips.
He grunted in pain, winced, and gritted his teeth, the elder trying to crawl forth yet it was to no avail. He was stuck. He had fallen and he could not get up. The man tried to hold back tears. Tried to keep his sorrow at bay, to retain any semblance of hope he held, yet he knew he was stuck. Stuck both in the present and in a time where he did not want to be. A time where his freedom would be stripped away from him and he would be alone. To be looked at as a fragment of the past by younger generations, a man who was soon to die and yet relying upon others. While perhaps untrue, these ramblings and thoughts raced in his mind and he accepted them. Accepted them as his new future. Filled with sorrow, only to lead up to some cruel death by the grievous hands of age.
Tears burst out of his eyes, the elder weeping and weeping, his tears staining the floor wet. They would soon pass however, only to be replaced by a blank stare to the floor, the man awaiting for morning to come and for the people he relied so much upon to arrive.
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