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The clear sky brimmed faint hues of gold from the sun. The breeze would brush lightly across and in between his long silver hairs as the lone man quietly sat, a porcelain cup brimming with tea in hand.
It was, a gentle spring… and an afternoon as light as its season.
The breeze only carried away the sound of the cup placed on the trunk of a tree, until he called a name, melancholic was he.
“Zahhak…”
Face to face with a tombstone, a sword, delicate like a petal, but heavy as gold, he held in hand. The man sat there as if he was making an offering. And the sword, as pale as it was, had long lost the light in its soul, as such for its owner, the one he called in grievance.
“It’s been a while… hasn’t it?”
…
Long he waited in silence, hoping that somehow, a response would come to light. Yet, he knew that what was wishful thinking, would remain wishful thinking. Only the gentle wind, caressing his face like a wave of nostalgia, accompanied this nothingness. He clutched at the sword, leaving red bleeding marks along the palm of his hands, as he gazed back and forth at the monolith, adorned of the purest white flowers and essences lightened up.
“That was the least I could do…” he spoke, but his eyes lowered once again.
“Back then, had I listened to you, your cries for help…” those same glistening eyes rose again at the grave, the snow white petals dancing along with the wind. Red, the colour of his pupils, the colour of anger. Yet those same eyes held no fury, for only grief remained. In his broken voice, one that contained guilt and regret, he talked time and again.
“That cursed past tormented my reason. A tainted picture of you that I could not bury far under the ground, and now-!“
Gradually, droplets of tears, crystal and clear, formed around his eyes. As he flapped his eyelashes, the latters would take away those beads to break them into smaller ones.
“Hah… aren’t I a selfish one. Shedding a tear on your grave, but none on your living…”
…
Even the wind had gone silent.
His tears, a tempest of pain.
A voice shattered from the cold harsh reality he lived in…
A reality he, had helped create. And to change it, he knew, that it was too late.
“You did everything you could to save us, to save me. Yet I did nothing to save you in return.”
Neither did he sweep his plaints, nor did he move. Immovable like a statue, or for him, immovable like a madman who had lost his world. A small crystal of tear fell on the cold steel of the lifeless sword. And shortly after, it faded to make one with the blade. The same cycle continued, over and over. Until his hand would unconsciously caress the sharp edge of the blade. He had long removed his gloves, thus pearls of blood now shed from his index finger, which he paid no heed to. Yet the more he admired the sword, the more his eyes softened.
“We used to spar a lot together, in those glorious days.” Eyelids gently closing, as he reminisced that time. “Suthan would watch us in awe, while Amid would pray we wouldn’t go too far. But we were young and oblivious, and we always ended up breaking a villager’s bits and bobs. In the end, papa built a place far from the vill, for us to continue our games.” He paused for an instant. His mind drifted onto that bubble of anecdote he spoke of while he sighed a breath akin to a hum.
“Now that I think about it, I was quite the hot-headed kid back then… but even now. Always trying to surpass you and, throwing a fit whenever I would lose, that is, every time. Until that day, when I was finally the one pointing my wooden sword at you. I won’t lie, I had a tickling sensation that you let me won on purpose. But too proud, I let that slide. Before our little battle, we made a bet that whoever won, would have to say the biggest wish he had in mind at that time, and the defeated would grant him his wish…”
The grip he once had on the sword slowly became weaker, and weaker, until only his knees held it. The perfect silver light of the blade was soiled by his dark red blood, impure as he deemed himself. Shortly so, he opened his eyes, now not brimming as red as rubies, but a beautiful shade of golden-orange, like topazes.
“ I wish to travel around the world, with you by my side. “
No more words blossomed from his being. His face towards the sky, he watched silently. The afternoon slowly but surely faded into evening. He had thought of staying, but for a short time. Yet the sky told otherwise. Two birds flew over, perhaps towards their shelter. After all, night was approaching, and the beasts lurking in the dark corners of the day, would soon rejoice for a feast of prey. At last he fixed the grave, and with a smile he said,
“Ah- my bad… what was supposed to be a reunion over a nice cup of tea, became such a mess, all because of me…”. With that he took a long piece of cloth scattered on the ground next to him. Once he carefully wrapped it around the sword. He rose discretely before giving one more glance ahead of him. Though his eyes were narrowed onto the memorial, his mind escalated into another vision. He was not staring at the tomb as a tomb, but as someone with whom he spoke.
“Perhaps… it’s time for us to make that wish come true. Don’t you agree, Zahhak… my Zahhak?”
Likewise, he turned around. With the sword, once his partner’s, he strayed away from the pleasant spot.
And away, and away… as his figure shrank, and shrank.
He left behind him, the precious set of tea. The cup still preserving the drink, now completely cold. Out of the blue, a tiny white petal dancing from the sky, arrived at its final destination; inside the cup.
The petal lightly floated on the cold tea, until the latter’s weight engulfed it. Frail it fell, and fell, until the light green of the drink hid it, to be forgotten.