azwraith,

Literary: Going Home

4/28/2018 09:01:00 PM Media Center 0 Comments





There was a man who lived a long and fruitful life. It was a life without rest, one that, at first glance, lacked peace. It was a life full of hardships and strife, fighting one bloody war after another. Day after day, from sunrise to sundown, until he grew old, it was all he ever knew. And it’s only now that his world was able to find peace.

A decade after peace was found, the old man could be seen wandering around the countryside. Once, in the time between high noon and sunset, he came upon a cliff, overlooking a deep gorge that hosted one of too many battles. He figured he was tired so he decided to rest. He sat by the edge, staring into the distance. While resting, he remembered – the friends he lost, the stories they shared, the battles they fought. Oh, the battles they all won! When he was younger, he thought that they would all be together until the end.

At first, he may have been correct.

Victory after victory, glory upon glory, they had it all. From the mountains in the north to the deserts in the south, they rode as one unit, never splitting, never separating, and never, never alone.
 
But the years haven’t been kind to them.

While they grew more and more victorious, they also grew older and wearier. They lost their old strength, their old fire and vigor when facing the enemy. They grew tired of all the fighting – for every tale about glory, there were dozens about loss. For every enemy they took down, so, too, did their allies fall. And for every victory, there was a price.

Grief first struck during fall, 36 years ago.

His wife died giving birth to their son, their only child, and so he was left alone to raise him until he became an adult. And while his wife may have died, he was given a new purpose: to give his son a future.

Fate, it seemed, was merely getting started.

At the Battle of the Red Gates, it felt like one of their earlier battles: quick, easy, and very, very bloody. He and his comrades chased the enemy off of the city’s Gates, with the purpose of hopefully ensuring the city’s safety. And yet, the moment they stepped foot 500 yards away from the Gates, the enemy struck back, leading an army five times larger than theirs. And while the enemy was miraculously defeated, few of their forces returned to tell the tale.

On the Summer of the Iron Raven, monstrous forms rose from the western jungles, spreading various plagues and diseases that, left unchecked, would ravage the entire continent. While he himself contracted diseases and was restricted from fighting, his friends vowed to bring back a cure, not just for him, but for their fellow countrymen as well. And while they did bring back a cure, not all of them were able to return. The disease – and thankfully, the cure – came from an old hag’s experiments, which turned all nearby life into twisted corpses controlled by sentient fungi. It was a nightmare to put their allies down.

By the Winter of the Frost Wyrm, the dead grew restless. Spirits from beyond came back for those they left behind; many of the living, in their mounting grief, decided to join them. And so the forces of the Dead God grew. His son had been one of them, in desperation to see the mother he never met. 

And so the living, outnumbered by the dead that walked, struck at the Dead God in secret. It fell after a lengthy battle, freeing those formerly bound to its will. Death Himself, it seemed, conspired against the Old One. 
While many more events happened since then, they were small compared to what he has witnessed. Again and again, he cried out to the gods for reasons why he had to endure these. Again and again, he got no answer.

As the sunset began to blind his vision, he looked downwards, into the abyss that rested there since the day his son died.

Naturally, it stared back.

It saw a man who lost everything, yet was willing to give up even more. It saw a man who had to watch his loved ones die, one by one. A man who fell off the edge a long, long time ago, yet painstakingly climbed back up, inch by bloody inch. It was a man who already had died, yet somehow found reason to live again.

Embarrassed, the abyss looked away.

The soft clip-clop of approaching hooves was ignored.

Hello, friend, said a voice like leaden doors.

“Ah. Fancy seeing you here today,” he said.

The same could be said of you, said the man on the pale horse, I was expecting to see you in town, in all honesty.

“Sorry to disappoint. Anyways, what brings you here?”

I was only passing by, when I decided to go and visit some old friends. How about you?

“Remembering, mostly. About our friends. When they were around, at least.”

Mmm, true, true.

For a moment, the two friends sat there, having a silent conversation with the being below them.

“How are they, by the way?”

How are who?

“Oh, stop beating around the bush. You were there. You were always there. So, how are they now?”

How can I say? I was only there to see them off. I cannot see what happens afterwards.

“When can I see them again, then?”

I’d say, the being checked a pocket watch, about, a few moments, actually.

“I see then.”

. . .

“Did I live a good life?”

That depends. But if I were to judge? Yes. A very full and good life. Why do you ask?

“Oh, no reason, really. Now, shall we go?”

Why, of course. No reason to keep them waiting.

And with that, the old man went Home.

The End.

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