afraid. He was afraid of his past, and of his future. He was afraid of himself, and of what was left of his sanity.
"How are we here now?" the hermit asked. "Why are we here now? I have so many memories of the same incident. We died, and we didn't die. How?"
14
The sun rose up and then swelled in the sky. Seemed as if about to explode. Clouds settled down against the distant skies and made room for blue sky. It wasn’t quite noon, but close to it. The old man found himself again looking back to locking the boy in that room, looking back at that day with a heart drenched in confusion, dread, and guilt. The blurry image of all the memories of the same incident still muddled into each other. Still all true yet false. Still uncertain.
He thought again of the broken door. Why it was broken. Akied had been slamming into it desperately, but had given up, and left so suddenly.
Was it because the woman died?
Is Akied back because she is somehow back?
15
The old man looked up to the sky, and tried to remember how home had been–but found only blackness in his thoughts. He felt himself falling.
He collapsed, but maintained consciousness. His eyes were still clear, still fully aware, but were far away. Lost and afraid. His mouth was partially open. His hands still clenching the rope and sword, hands shaking badly.
Vincent sat in front of him.
"You've got to find her," the hermit muttered. "You've got to stop her. You've got to stop the monster following her."
16
The last thing to ever sail through the old man’s skull was one thought: it wasn’t supposed to happen this way. He was the last hunter from Bahnn. The world’s last hero. The last hope.
17
The old man tried to speak, but no sound came out.
He made no sound in the dream I had of him, Vincent thought, trying to make some sort of sense of it, and failing. Frustration dug at him with cold fingernails, the sensation of helplessness turning its face towards him again like a slow statue, seeming as if wanting to crush him.
Vincent stood up, and kicked the katana out of the old man’s hands. The expression on the hermits face didn’t change. He was slipping. Dying.
Rolling over to the katana, Vincent cut the ropes binding his hands. The feeling was like dropping the weight of a thousand stones, a weightless freedom which made him feel as if he could fly. He pulled the noose from around his neck, and the feeling was similar to freeing his hands, a weightlessness. Almost dizzying.
“What’s that?” he asked. A smile managed to crawl its way along his dirty face, but was one which had no resemblance to joy. It soon faded. Dropped as if it were the heaviest burden of all, one he was not strong enough to bear. One he didn’t deserve. But still, he felt the weightlessness, and that was enough. Smiling was overvalued anyways.
The old man’s lips moved, but still without sound.
Again, Vincent thought of the dream.
He reached across, and pulled the rusty dagger out from the leather belt slung around the old man’s shoulder. How long had it been since he had held the dagger? The blade was severely ancient, rust hiding most of the metal, and was littered in a multitude of scratches, nicks, and dents. Having it in his hands again felt strange. Felt wrong almost.
“The key to my freedom?” He laughed, dry and almost a whisper.
The old man’s expression didn’t change.
“You said it wasn’t supposed to happen this way? How was it supposed to happen?"
The old man’s mouth slowed in its muttering, and his hands no longer shook. His eyes never changed. Remained wide and unmoving.
Vincent's hate towards the old man had faded. Ended like stumbling upon a cliff that cut across a long road. His heart felt weightless. Hollow in a way. He also felt a deep sorrow. Felt a sad curiosity, a sympathy which wanted to know more about the hermit, wanted to know what drove him to do what he did. It wasn’t exactly a hunger so to speak, merely questions which were faded, and unanswerable. Mysteries never to be revealed.
The old man stopped breathing.
Vincent took the rope from the old man’s large, cold hands, and left it on the grass next to him. He placed his hands down on his lap, but left his eyes open. They were like windows peering in from another world. A world which didn’t make sense. No, he wouldn’t close them, for the view before him was breathtaking, and the brilliant sun was too fierce to be taken from anyone. Open his eyes would stay, and this is how the soldier chose to remember him. An image of an old man gazing at a pleasant view. No anger. No hate.
Vincent stood up, pulled the katana from the grass, and gazed around him. He took in a deep breath of the crisp air, and exhaled slowly.
Free.
The word came to mind all on its own, but had no substance. It was an illusion which made him dizzy, like being thrown off the side of a mountain. Free to flail his arms around as ground approached him at ravenous speeds. Free to question, but lost from answers. Free to the clenches of confusion and uncertainty.
Where do I go?
Look for survivors of a battle he hadn‘t seen end? Search for the woman from the sea who might not even be real? Try to uncover the mystery of the door, of his memory of dying, and of how he became a soldier? Search for the owner of the arrow that had knocked him off his horse? Or maybe run away?
What now?
The End
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends