A Journey Home [SOLO/Finished]

[Donovan]

Time was funny. Sometimes everything feels like it all blended into itself. Memories dance and play in the mind so fluidly that it can become easy to forget when, where, and what happened. Donovan could barely recall how much time had passed since he’d gone searching for his friend. He had searched high and low. Dropped everything that had seemed so important so long ago. Or was it long ago?

What was undeniable was that he hadn’t been home for some time. He had not seen his Lycian rivers and mountains. He had not heard the songs of birds in her woods, nor rustle of the leaves as the wind brought him the scent of home. But as he stood on a merchant path in the woods of Pharae, the home he had known for so long flooded his senses with nostalgia. With a longing he had been too desperate to realize laid beneath the surface. It was with a quiet, sinking feeling that he realized how close he was to the site of his first true loss. In another hundred or so paces he’d be standing in the spot where it had all happened. Where this lunatics journey had begun for the wayward warrior.

With a breath he took a step forward. And the next came easier. And easier. Until he was moving without the guilt or dread that he had felt hang so heavy on his shoulders mere minutes ago. He stopped at one hundred and 3 paces. As he finally recognized the simple stone that marked his father’s grave.

Off to the side Donovan saw the felled tree that had once blocked his troupe’s path, now hollow, pulled to the side of the road. He could just barely make out the divots in the trees that bore the mars left behind by the arrows. And though he knew it was impossible - the smell of iron filled his lungs as if he were there on that day again.

Time is funny. Sometimes everything feels like it all blends into itself. Memories dance and play in the mind so fluidly that it can become easy to forget when, where, and what happened. But even as he smelled his father’s blood. Even as he heard the sinking of blades into flesh and the desperation of the actors and dancers and bard as they fought to save their family and friends. Even as he saw his failures - one after the other - dance behind his eyes. He knew one thing that he couldn’t forget in the annals of history, in the tricky winding river of time. Who he was, is not the same man that stood over his father’s headstone today. And the moss that grew on its side was not there when they had first carved the name into eternity.

For as hard as time may be to perceive, it never stops. It always and only moves forward.

The weathered man, in battered armor and torn clothes, ruffled his silver streaked black hair, took off his pack, and sat by his father’s grave. He was home.

[Donovan]

Opening his pack, Donovan found his neatly wrapped road food - the hard cheese had cost more than he might like to admit, but it was worth the extra coin to eat something other than nuts, apples, and stale bread with his meal. He unsheathed his dirk and punched a hole in the bread before breaking it with his hands. That sound was all it took, as a quiet scuttling in the bushes reveal the small, clever fox that had been his companion for years now.

Kitchi’s snoot pushed Don’s hand out of the way as the fox grabbed its portion of bread. The man cut a piece of cheese and tossed it down to Kitchi, who jumped up and caught it out of the air before scarfing it down. He remembered a time that the fox couldn’t catch an apple slice as he rode with Duma, Remus, and Perun. That little slice fell to the dirt floor and was crushed beneath the wagon’s wheel. Now his little friend could snatch a fly out of flight if it wanted to. It had grown so large and gained a severe deal of dexterity, but even still the fox insisted on sleeping on its human’s chest every night. Donovan’s hand reached down and gave Kitchi some much deserved pets and the fox gently nipped at his hand.

They ate in silence, a simple tune his mother used to sing played in Donovan’s head and Kitchi scampered off after finishing his bread to find a mouse or vole to finalize his lunch. Unsheathing Fragarach, Donovan stood, though he did not seem particularly on guard or afraid.

You feel… strange, Liar. Even still, the name his blade had given him had stuck. It isn’t often you seem so… glum. 

This is my father’s grave he replied simply.

I see, was the only reply. The blade’s arcane symbols lit up slowly, glowing a deep green. If you wouldn’t mind. Donovan raised the blade and pointed it at his father’s tombstone, a bead of wind whistled around the point. It swirled faster and faster, compacting smaller and smaller. Now.

The bead of wind spent into a beam and Donovan traced his father’s name back into the stone’s face it. It took some time, he could feel the effort Fragarach was displaying to create just enough force to carve into the stone, without completely shattering it. It was impressive. And it was clearly tiring the weapon.

That’s incredible, Frag, he thought, as they finished his father’s name.
There’s still more to do. This was technically true, there was a faded inscription and dates that could have been made clearer, but Donovan felt the gasping exhaustion of his sword’s soul.
I know. But let this burden be mine from here on out.
With that, Donovan laid Fragarach against the trees and cracked his neck and his knuckles. Bending down, he took his shield and began to shovel away the loose dirt. This took time. Lots of time. 

[Donovan]

Time enough for Kitchi to return with a couple of vermin in his grasp, one of which he laid at Donovan’s feet - An offering to a friend. The Mercenary took that moment to grab a drink of water and pet Kitchi’s head.

“If you help me dig, little one, you can have my vole.” The man said, a smile playing at his lips. He went back to digging and, miraculously, Kitchi set about to join him. And together, with a little more time, he found his father’s bones. He wasn’t quite sure what had compelled him to start digging up the grave again - perhaps it was to ensure that his dad hadn’t been risen as a Wight. He supposed that was the soundest logic behind it all. He stepped out of the grave and rummaged through his pack once more. He’d kept this shattered weapon for years. Never quite sure why. But he supposed that he’d found that purpose now. He unraveled the cloth that kept the small player’s blade tucked away at the bottom of his bag. He had recovered most of its pieces, but it lay truly broken and dull.

Still. It felt prudent to return his father’s sword to its original owner. Stepping back into the grave, he laid the cheap iron fragment out along the bones.

“When I was a kid you reveled in telling me stories. Stories of every kind. Of Monsters and Heroes. Love and Loss. Gods and Men. I never understood then. I never knew how real it all was. Even the fiction. We still live in a twisted and brutal world. One with great loss and destruction and inexplicable compassion and love. This is still a world of Gods and Men. I don’t know if the Storyteller is real. Or if that god is truly just a frame to tell the story of the world. But I can say that I’ve learned more from stories than some learn from living. So… I suppose I just wanted to thank you, Dad. Thanks for telling me stories.”

He knew what he had to do, though the thought of actually doing it felt perverse and disturbed.He pulled his bag closer to him and pulled out his flint and tinder, laying it out on the ground beside the grave. He then picked himself up out of the hole and grasped Fragarach in his hand once more.

How are you feeling? He found himself asking. Whether or not they bickered. This sword was as true a friend as any Donovan had ever known.

I’m doing just fine, Liar, Its voice rang in his head, not unkindly. You know what we must do before we leave this place. Don’t you? There are fates worse than death - especially in Lycia.

“I know.” He spoke those words aloud, despite there being no need to do so. 

Donovan walked with purpose to the felled tree that had started it all. Long dead and deeply dry. This would work. Fragarach arced down - a focused blade enhanced by the wind - and the hollow tree was cut through cleanly. After a few more arcs of the blade, he returned to his father’s grave with an arm filled with firewood.

Placing them carefully in the hole he had dug, he struck the flint. Igniting the wood after a few tries. Soon the fire was hustling and, with some gentle coaxing by Fragarach’s wind, roaring.
His father wouldn’t suffer that fate worse than death. And neither would the others, he decided as he looked at the 5 other headstones that marked the graves of the trouper - his family - who were killed alongside his father.

The weary warrior took a deep breath and got to work.


[End Thread]

O.O.C. It's great to be back after such a long absence! I hope my writing hasn't deteriorated too much over the past couple years haha

Edit - A typo