azwraith,
Literary: Going Home
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.
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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