The busy city path, much more lively than before, soon branched off and led him toward a calmer scene. A simple signpost guided him down a dirt path, labeled “Ridgedale Park”. Soon the city’s loud chatter of people and talking and the clanking of machinery began to fade away, and Ronin was left only with the occasional chips of the birds and the twittering of the assorted woodland creatures to distract him as he walked.
He did not want to think about everything; not yet. He just wanted to exhale, to… relax. As much as that was impossible, he knew the stress of getting out could easily overwhelm him. He had waited for decades, literally decades, for this day. Determined he was to not bend to the will of the universe, to stay strong.
The path winded and weaved, over hills and under bridges, till the city entirely vanished from view as he rounded a bend and entered a densely populated forest. He assumed he was still on the right track to the lake; at this point he was walking more out of habit than determination, and he wanted to see what lay on the other side of the trees.
The leaves crunched underfoot; the autumnal season’s madness had infected the trees and they stood barren and naked, the branches shivering in the wind, their clothing long since removed. Ronin ran his hand along a fallen tree trunk that lay parallel to his walking path. The bark was rough to the touch, but the texture felt good in his hands as he walked along. He ran the claw of his index finger across the wood, enjoying the sight and sound of a thin sliver of wood being carved as he moved.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted movement, and he tensed involuntarily. His legs forgot to move, and he stood in the stillness of the forest, the illusion broken.
A bird hopped out from behind a tree and perched on a branch a few feet in front of him. He craned his neck to look up at it.
Neither the man nor the bird uttered a sound. The wind whistled in the trees.
Finally, the silence was broken. “What are you doing here?”
If the bird understood him, it hid it very well. It tilted its head and peered at him with its black eyes.
“Most of your friends have gone, hmm? Left town? To pursue new ventures?”
The bird chirped.
Ronin’s gaze fell to his feet. A leaf was caught in his sandal. His knees popped quietly as he bent down to pick it up. It was golden brown in color, save for a small patch of brilliant red, the color of blood, on the third blade. He did not know what kind of trees populated the forest, but he imagined that if they were all even half as beautiful as the single leaf he held, then the forest truly would have been a delight to see before the leaves had fallen.
A soft melancholy began to overtake him. He could feel the gem burning. It woke him from his thoughts and he let the leaf fall silently from his hand.
The bird had flown away. So lost he was in his thoughts that it seemed the conversation had ended even before it had ever begun.
His hands fell to his pockets and he smiled sadly.
“Go to your friends. Enjoy their companionship while you still have them in your life.”
He resumed his stroll.
And it seemed over so quickly, the forest. It felt like just moments ago he had stepped inside, the fallen leaves greeting him as he trampled forward. But the leaves now gave way to lush grass.
And the lake stood before him, sparkling brilliantly in the midmorning light. He knew not how long he had been walking, but the sight of the lake assured him internally that it was all worth it.
The lake was long, oval-shaped, with a few ducks swimming around near the bank opposite him. A large tree, mostly barren, but with a few leaves desperately clinging on, overlooked the water and sat next to an old wooden bench.
Ronin stood at the bank and stared into the water. The ripples danced hypnotically, and there was an almost rhythmic sound to the foreign conversation of the ducks.
It was one of the most perfect and beautiful things he had ever seen.
There were not many beautiful moments in his life; Ronin stood as still as he could, absorbing every detail so the memory would be as perfect as possible.
After a while, his legs began to tire, and he turned to the wooden bench sprawled out beneath the long arms of the naked tree. The bench was long, hand-carved, and very old; it was covered in all sorts of minor vandalisms, from carved in initials to dried bird droppings. Ronin was careful to check his seat for any unwelcome textures and sat down delicately. The bench groaned ever so slightly, old and battered as it was, but supported his weight comfortably.
Sitting under the tree, staring out over the water, the ducks purposefully ignoring him, with a gentle breeze scraping across his scales, he suddenly felt very old. Justifiably so. The world had left him for dead and forgotten about him; and now he had returned, like a child in a world he did not know or understand. A world that had changed without him.
So much time lost…
The melancholy returned to him. He sat forward and clasped his hands, resting them on his legs. To an outsider, it looked as if he might have been praying to any number of gods.
But he did not pray.
His hands shook slightly. He clasped them together harder, the claws digging into his scales. He ignored the pain.
He closed his eyes, tried to imagine the faces of his family. The years had dulled their memory; all he could make out were vague outlines, dancing shapes with no form. They moved with the wind, and dissipated. He racked his mind for something, anything… the scent of his mother’s perfume, his sister’s laugh... finally, the deep calming voice of his father.
“Why do we sleep, my son?”
“I don’t know.”
“We sleep when our work is done. And when we awake, there is more work to be done.”
“More work? Why?”
His father had laid his massive hand, decorated with scars and cuts, on his son’s head and laughed that quiet laugh that always made him feel safe.
“As long as you live, there is always more work to be done, some problem to be fixed. A man without work is a man without purpose. Promise me you will never sit idly by and let the world pass you by.”
“I promise, Father.”
“You are a good boy.” Obairn kissed the forehead of his eldest son. “You are a better son than I deserve. And I know you will do me proud.”
He did not know exactly when he began to cry, only that his hands were wet. The tears started slowly at first, running in rivulets down his face, down his snout, falling like raindrops. The melancholy had reappeared and sunk its claws deep into him. The gem in his chest burned as it always did when his emotions began to overtake him, but for once he did not take notice. He was simply lost in the moment.
He wept for his family, for his brother, his sister, his parents, the graves he hadn’t decorated with flowers, the house that had burned down, the trial where he spent more time crying than defending his honor, the cell that had contained him for two hundred years, that accursed cell, with the gash on the wall. He hated it, he hated that he remembered it, he hated himself for remembering that but forgetting them.
He considered throwing himself in the lake. He was vaguely aware of the idea of swimming, but had only once actually done it. He imagined it would be a slow and painful death. He imagined his father would stand at the gates of the afterlife and berate him for dying the death of a coward, running from his destiny, his fate, the fate that She had thrust unwillingly upon him.
His tears turned his sobs, and his sobs to wails. He held his head in his hands, the tears now unleashed, flowing like a waterfall from his eyes. A river of sadness. He rocked back and forth, desperate to just let it all out so he would never feel this way again. He did not remember the last time he had cried. It felt so foreign to him, and yet… so familiar. Perhaps he was lying to himself, that this was just a reaction to the sadness that had irrevocably altered the course of his life. Perhaps he was just a weak old man, a man who had been left behind, a man who cheated death, a man that time forgot. Perhaps this was simply what he needed at this moment. A leaf fell and landed on the bench beside him.
Eventually the tears subsided, and he sat there cursing himself for his transformation into a sniffling, whimpering fool. The Great Sadness removed itself from him, and over time his breaths returned to normal from the staggered, shallow breathy tear-stained sobs. For the longest time he simply sat there, his eyes glazed and his gaze lazy.
A duck honked at him.
He stared at it.
It honked at him again and began to swim away.
He smiled in spite of himself.
When he stood, he felt as if a massive unseen weight had been lifted from him. He ran a hand along the stained wood of the bench.
“Thank you,” he whispered to the wind.
The emotional breakdown had not been part of his itinerary, but there was nothing to be done now except move forward. Overall, he surmised, the walk had been worth it.
And so he returned to town.
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