05-26-2019, 12:02 AM
Graveyards never disturbed him. He recalled visiting those of his great-grandparents as a child. Hands pat him on the shoulders, leading him along reverent paths. They whispered around him as though open dialogue about mortality might unhinge so innocent a mind. Even as a child, he was misunderstood.
Memory crept like fog unbidden into the crevices of his mind. Quietude settled like that fog finding low ground. The northeast United States were pockmarked with old cemeteries. The best ones dated to Colonial times where headstones were covered with lichen and the carvings smoothed to near nothing.
He decided as a child that death was something to rule rather than fear. Death on a man’s own terms was his reconciliation with mortality. In that alone was he able to sever familial connections following his father’s suicide – Nikolai hiked to the car before the casket was lowered. Arguably a youth, but he remained misunderstood.
When the Datsan adopted his wandering soul, he never thought it would become a battlefield, but the graves were easier to dig than that of his father’s. Anger dug the holes, and catharsis burned the rest to the ground. When he turned upon Nox’s arrival, it was with hands clasped behind his back and pensive gaze narrowed upon one he once judged as another irreverent youth. Yet Nox humbled himself in word and posture. If the Ascendancy asked him to bow, he would bend for the headsman before he bent a knee. He recognized now that Nox’s pride was bred by survival rather than ego.
Gratitude was an unusual color for Nox, but Ascendancy nodded an acceptance anyway. His turn, “And I want to thank you,” he said with all the calm of still waters. “You’ve twice saved my life. I owe you a debt,” and with that, he offered a hand to shake it.
A deep breath seemed to pass the tension and he offered that they walk. “When I was young, I once met a man who asked me a question that the swiftness of my answer surprised him. I want to ask you the same question now, Nox.” Ironic that the query was a repetition of that posed by a dead Regus.
“What do you want in life, Nox?”
“Mortal—immortal—Gods or men. We all want something.” A small breeze caught their hair, stirring dark strands along his brow and awakening scents of early buds and wet moss along their path. It was a peaceful place. He drew a deep breath. The aroma of death was a distant, but familiar, friend.
His steps paused, hands remained behind his back. He pondered touching Nox on the shoulder to likewise halt his steps. It seemed the fatherly and warm gesture to do, but he was new at this sort of thing. Instead, he tried a simple smile.
Memory crept like fog unbidden into the crevices of his mind. Quietude settled like that fog finding low ground. The northeast United States were pockmarked with old cemeteries. The best ones dated to Colonial times where headstones were covered with lichen and the carvings smoothed to near nothing.
He decided as a child that death was something to rule rather than fear. Death on a man’s own terms was his reconciliation with mortality. In that alone was he able to sever familial connections following his father’s suicide – Nikolai hiked to the car before the casket was lowered. Arguably a youth, but he remained misunderstood.
When the Datsan adopted his wandering soul, he never thought it would become a battlefield, but the graves were easier to dig than that of his father’s. Anger dug the holes, and catharsis burned the rest to the ground. When he turned upon Nox’s arrival, it was with hands clasped behind his back and pensive gaze narrowed upon one he once judged as another irreverent youth. Yet Nox humbled himself in word and posture. If the Ascendancy asked him to bow, he would bend for the headsman before he bent a knee. He recognized now that Nox’s pride was bred by survival rather than ego.
Gratitude was an unusual color for Nox, but Ascendancy nodded an acceptance anyway. His turn, “And I want to thank you,” he said with all the calm of still waters. “You’ve twice saved my life. I owe you a debt,” and with that, he offered a hand to shake it.
A deep breath seemed to pass the tension and he offered that they walk. “When I was young, I once met a man who asked me a question that the swiftness of my answer surprised him. I want to ask you the same question now, Nox.” Ironic that the query was a repetition of that posed by a dead Regus.
“What do you want in life, Nox?”
“Mortal—immortal—Gods or men. We all want something.” A small breeze caught their hair, stirring dark strands along his brow and awakening scents of early buds and wet moss along their path. It was a peaceful place. He drew a deep breath. The aroma of death was a distant, but familiar, friend.
His steps paused, hands remained behind his back. He pondered touching Nox on the shoulder to likewise halt his steps. It seemed the fatherly and warm gesture to do, but he was new at this sort of thing. Instead, he tried a simple smile.