The Loneliest Traid

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  • Published: 2 Apr 2017
  • Updated: 13 May 2017
  • Status: Complete
Love and death and war and Gods and blood and magic and dancing and rest and revenge and kings and fate.
Don't worry, within these three stories you'll know yourself,
And I will put you back together again.


92. The Wait

I won’t bother tell you about Chene’s life as the clan leader - the hero - he was always going to become.  He freed hundreds of wicca and prosecuted those who locked the children in the orphanage he  knew, not to mention ruled his people with the kindness he learned, setting up foster homes and schools.  He became the greatest man in their history, just like his mother.

    He was not wizard, at all, but warlock - a sorcerer.  As he grew into his powers, the beast left him alone, and only came out in the nightmares he had.  As he got older, however, they were less frequent, and he could accept what had happened to him.

    Chene never found love, except with the children he took care of.  Both Ruby and Noom died not long before him, and their bodies became holy things to the people, a show of time, and of the power of love.  He never saw Meliae or the others again, but sent her a broken key - what changed into the treasured symbol of his land - and a letter that read, “I’m sorry for all that you’ve lost, and know that Gomez will help you through this, C.”

    He never touched a sword again, and his people never went to war.  He spent his youth building, his older years walking between the town and the cave in which he was born.  There was a shrine for him and his mother - “The Fortune Teller, and her bab.”

    And if I told you that he died a hero's death at an old age, would you mind?  That he drifted off in a warm bed, heavy medals on his chest - would you wonder why he lived in such peace when Gomez didn’t? When almost no one did?

    But that is how his story went.  Waiting, and that was a fate worse than death to him.

    He waited, sitting as an old man on a bench in his town, telling the children by his feet stories of Elf who could fly home, their parents babs he himself had raised in turn.  He eat well, and slept through the evening, and the beast only visited one more time.

    You die how you live, and although he was loved as a veteran and a leader, a father to the people - he was alone, and he made himself that way.  But no one minded, they knew that he was waiting for someone else, although he never told them who.  So he died in a room with the monster waiting at his feet, watching him go, a peace in his heart.  This was what people were so afraid of, himself included.  This little thing that sat on  his stomach like a dragon and curling into a little ball was what cast him out, and what scarred him so.  But it was nothing more than a scar itself, and when he died, it did too.  

    The next morning, they sailed his body over the sea, a flaming arrow in his ship, and the wait was finally over after such a long time alone.


    The world was orange, and red, and on fire.  The clay was wet under his fingers, and he was lighter, younger.  A man that he once knew when he had everything he wanted in life.  But he knew what he was looking for now, and he was ready to find it again.

    He took off running, tears in streams down his eyes, his hands catching on treewood and just pushing him faster, his legs slower than his body.

    He stopped, and saw him waiting in their island, playing lyre quietly.  Dressed in the green of growers.  He didn’t see him at first.


    His head jolted up, as did his body, the lyre falling to the ground.  He ran across the stone bridge, and Chene reached out his arms to hold him.

    They fell into each other, colliding, their worlds melding again.  They cried, the world around them falling with the changing season.  The dropped to their knees, pulling at each other, bring ech other as close as can be.  They said that they missed each other, that they’d been waiting for so long.  They loved each other.  The day became the one they spoke of, when they’d meet again, and they cried until it was over.  

    If I told you that sometimes you have to wait for everything you want, will that be enough?  And if I told you that sometimes, nothing will make you happy but them, will you blame me for what I’ve done?

    Life is made of those things.  Kindness, love, change, and maybe rising up to become who you feel like you should be.  You’re no more the past than the present than the future, and I would like to say as I finish their story that there is nothing you can do to be anything that’s remembered.  But you can be good, and you can be giving, and it will mean nothing in the end, but today, you can make everything brighter.

    But that's enough of all that, this story isn’t a lesson, or a the sad lives of how ever many people died between then and now
    This story is one of someone you’ve met, but you’ve forgotten, haven’t you?

    This was not about your heroes from the beginning, they were just a part of it, strings that we play with, felines, cutting loose what should have stayed together.

    But the story now goes to somewhere greater than anything you know, our tale becoming twisted, and you can finally see what becomes of those who claim to be great, or fools, or heroes.  This is your life too, but we’ll begin at the end.

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