And suddenly the light enveloped him. The shining rays of the morning sun washed over his darkened scales and the warmth spread throughout his body. And the sounds of the birds and the wind and the aimless chatter of passersby, no longer dimmed by the thick walls that once contained him, hit him all at once. For the first time in many a moon, his own thoughts were not pounding away at his skull; for but a moment even they were silenced as he took in the sights and sounds of the world he had left behind what seemed like so long ago.
In the grand scheme of things, he thought, two hundred years is barely a second, but to a humble dragonborn, it’s more than a life, almost two, or three even.
His body relaxed, and he nearly dropped his knapsack, but he caught it at the last second by the string, and his eyes popped open. He hadn’t realized his eyes were closed, but he must have done it involuntarily. The sunlight stung his eyes for a moment, as they had become more than accustomed to the darkness over so many years. But he was surprised at how quickly they adjusted.
The first thing he noticed was the colors. More so than the sounds, the warmth of the sun, the wind swirling around him as without a care, was the colors of the leaves on the nearby trees. He guessed it was sometime in the fall; their autumn colors shown brilliantly against the backdrop of a rising sun, a nearly blinding collection of oranges, reds, yellows, and muted browns. The leaves gave way to an orange sky, an explosion of color spreading through the atmosphere as far as the eye could see.
And he could taste the salt in the air, rolling in from the sea. He nearly choked on it as it seeped into his soul, but he had never felt more alive.
He looked down at his feet and saw he was standing in some sort of garden, a stone pathway that led right up to the door he had just departed from moments before. The grass danced with the gentle wafts of the sky’s breath. Something about it soothed him, and he nearly plopped down to run his hands over it, but even as his knees threatened to buckle beneath him, the mantra of his plans returned to him.
First, the graveyard. To visit the dead souls long since departed.
He began to walk, his sandals flopping gently against the stone. But for once, it was not the only sound he heard; in fact his new surroundings provided so much ambience, so greatly welcomed, that it drowned out the pitter-patter of his gait. He soon reached the end of the garden, and the grass gave way to gravel.
He recognized the road; it was the same one he had walked in on. To his left was the main entrance of the prison; he dared not return to its doors lest they be thrown open to suck him back in. Besides, the graveyard was to his right.
As he walked, he took in the new sights. He was surprised to see how much of the city had changed. And yet, it still felt familiar.
There were new buildings, built from mortar and stone. Long gone were the wooden abodes that had once lined the street. Most of them, anyway. A few had managed to survive the ever-changing times and stood hidden away in corners and around darkened alleys.
There were lots of signs, many written in languages he did not understand. And there were just as many people, all of differing races, sizes, and colors. He had remembered Ridgedale as a bustling sea town, and generally that meant more sailors than anything. But this newer people were smaller, more refined, and dressed nicer. He could feel some of them staring at him as he walked by in his simple uniform.
The uniform.
He realized with a growing sense of unease that he was still wearing his prisoner’s garb. He ducked into a nearby alley and changed into his clothes from his knapsack; a simple white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, and a pair of pants, much like those of a farmer.
He held the pale orange cloth in his hands. He wished nothing more than to tear it to pieces and spread its remnants to the wind, never to bother him again. Instead he dropped it to the ground, as one would a piece of garbage. It landed in a small pool of water and sunk into it.
Fitting, he thought. Drown in your sorrows, as I once did.
He emerged from the shadows with a renewed sense of purpose and resumed his trek to the graveyard. It took him much less time than he had expected. Perhaps the years of his youth had warped the distance he had mentally retained. He remembered the day he was convicted; he had walked by the very same graveyard, shackled. The man leading him, as one would an animal, turned to him, and had said, “One day they’ll bury you here, among the people you slaughtered. But you don’t deserve it, you dog.” And the man had spat on him.
He shuddered at the thought.
The fence leading to the main gate was no longer a shining piece of metal, blinding those that walked by as the sun bounced boldly off it. It was now a warped sculpture of dirty iron, beaten down and weathered over the years and storms. He ran his hands over it. Most of the metal was smooth, and cool to the touch, but occasionally his hand would dance over a bit of rust, adding a bit of texture to the journey.
Thankfully, the main gate had fared better. He noted with a keen gaze that a few of the hinges had been replaced; they weren’t nearly as discolored and did not squeak as he casually opened the gate and slipped inside. With a quiet creak, it closed behind him, and now the man that should have been dead stood silently with those that were.
He started from the front. His family had told him they had reserved a plot, as this was the graveyard nearest to their home- at the time, anyway- but they had never shown him where.
He was in no rush, and he stopped to read every gravestone. Many names he did not recognize, but those that did caused his heart to weigh heavy. Artoz, the butcher. A hundred and eight. Incredible for a human. Senica, his old history teacher, sixty five. His next door neighbor, Mr. Grendell, first name Luideina, seventy two.
And then he arrived at his own gravestone.
Durante Shordus. y. 987-
He had yet to die, so there was no date. But with a heavy heart, he knew that a small glance to his right would reveal the dates he so desperately wished to avoid.
Obairn Shordus. y. 963- 1002.
Ludella Shordus. y. 970- 1002.
He never realized that his mother had birthed him at 17. For humans, this was a common age, but amongst dragonborn, 17 was rather young. But then again, few ever felt as much love as Obairn and Ludella did. Or… had.
Both his parents had perished in the fire, he knew that much. He doubted there was even anything in the caskets, but he knew that the dragonborn were a proud people and would have demanded a normal, traditional burial no matter what the circumstances.
But then his eyes panned right yet again, and what he saw made his stomach turn.
Adel Shordus. y. 992-1002
Nokama Shordus. y. 992- 1091
He felt the despair in his soul grow stronger. Nokama had survived the fire. He had thought that everyone had perished. Adel and Nokama were twins, just children at the time.
He realized that Nokama had probably barely known him; she would have been ten when he was convicted. And then she hadn’t seen him for the rest of her life. He had spent more time in jail than she had lived. His heart mourned for her. She was the only one who had to live with the reality that she would never see her mother, father, or two brothers ever again. For a while, during the first twenty or so years, Ronin hoped that he would be let out on good behavior, that he would be able to reconcile with his last remaining relative and explain to her that it was all just a misunderstanding, that the fire wasn’t his fault… but that thought slowly became but a fleeting memory in his mind as the day turned into weeks and the weeks into months and the months into years and the years into decades and the decades into centuries and he wanted nothing more than to go to sleep one night and never wake up. Maybe then it would be over and he would find peace.
But he would not find it here. He could feel the tears welling up inside him, and involuntarily bit his tongue. He would not cry here, perched over the graves of his parents like a mourner. He would not give the passerby the curse of his desperate wails. He could feel the burning in his chest, as he always did as his emotions flared.
He lay hands on the tombstones of his parents. He cradled his father’s name with his left and the claws of his right grazed his mother’s.
“I am sorry.”
But his voice was lost in the chatter.
“I have failed you.”
If the spirits heard him, they did not show any signs of it.
“I have returned. I wish to make things right. To clear the once-proud name of our family; now sullied with shame. The name that I swore off until I was once again worthy enough.”
His voice was shaking, his heart pounding in his chest. The dam was near breaking.
“I will not fail you again, as I once did. I have been granted a second chance by the goddess Herself. I will make this right, or may my bones turn to ash so that I might die as you did; a death only worthy of a fool who could not save what he loved most.”
His knees were caked with dirt as he stood; he brushed it off absentmindedly. His breaths were shallow and staggered; his emotions threatened to run amok.
Momentarily, he was angry at himself for almost having a breakdown in public. But the anger turned to shame just as quickly as it came.
He decided he would take a walk. He knew internally that he really should stick to the plan he had spent oh so many decades reciting to himself, but the thought of gazing into the sky for the first time in years overruled his better instincts. The plan crumbled away as though ash in the wind.
If his memory served him correctly and had not faded away amongst the nightmares that oft occupied his thoughts, there was a small park just down the road; a small park he had romped in often as a child. There was a lake, too, overlooking the valley below. And in the distance, the sea, stretching to the horizon. The thought calmed him, and he began his trek, exiting the graveyard and looking back forlornly at the tombstones of his family members.
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