Cleo trudges past the Chauntean Shrine, giving it hardly a glance, his eyes focused instead on the gleaming Dawnspire ahead. "Slow progress," he thinks. "But progress, all the same. It will be a sight, once the scaffolding comes down."
He mildly returns a salute to the patrolling knight, then fixes him with a questioning gaze. No words are needed for the knight to know the question, or to give the answer: a sad shake of the head. Cleo nods dejectedly and lifts up a silent prayer, holding fast to a thin crescent of hope that the scroll Jay had found may still contain answers unrealized, that the lost could still be returned. All of them.
He keeps walking, gazing upward still to the tower, his neck craning as he approaches the temple, a little checklist running through his mind: horses fed and brushed, camp in order, items given to his mate so that their work might continue in the coming days, then a proper goodbye to him. Or two. Or three.
On the temple steps, he makes one final check of his pack--nothing he doesn't need; enough clothes for three days, his book of prayer, water--then he shoulders the pack and enters the temple, his pose a reverent one, hands clasped before him, head bowed. He nods solemn but polite hello's to Helene, to the Mornmaster, to the assembled temple guards and acolytes, then begins to undress.
The armor had to go. The weapons. The gauntlets. Even the chocolate covered orange slices in his pockets were given to the young acolytes. But the ring could stay. Oh yes, he'd made certain of that.
Of course they'd been apart before, many times, and for longer. But this was different. This time, there is no chance that Jay will surprise him, appearing at the temple door or atop a hill in the city. This time, Cleo's confinement in Myth Drannor isn’t merely a side-effect of a difficult situation or a logistical fact of his work at the Dawnspire. This time, confinement is the whole point.
They draw the itchy old robes over him, then lead him up the steep, winding stairs to the prayer room. It would be a long several days, but it was a right and worthy thing that the Mornmaster asked. After all, the elves were doing so much. Ironhouses had come through, as well. The Elves. Mark. Even the Lyons. And the Awakened of the Dawn had done all they could, but their numbers were low and they couldn't help a lot.
What they can do, however, is pray.
Cleo walks into the prayer cell, glancing around at the tiny room, then peeking out the tiny slit of a window, high in the tower, remembering a song he'd recently heard played on his mom’s old lute--a song remembering a light gray and ruined windowsill, where tough and heavy red curtains flap, overlooking a brownish land.
He turns back to the Mornmaster and gives him a nervous smile. The Mornmaster returns the smile, a little sadly, perhaps, and closes the door, locking it from the outside.
Cleo sits, opens his prayer book, and begins.
((( I will be gone for a few days, but checking forums. Back on Thursday. )))
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Subject: Blessed Retreat 
