Wilted leaves fell from frail branches, as a gentle late summer breeze blew across the mountain slopes. Daloran gazed up towards the mountain top through his visor, he insisted on making this journey in his traditional half plate uniform. He had always disliked the stiff ornamented set that had been made for him when he ascended in the ranks.
He released a quiet sigh for the journey to come. He removed his helmet and brushed his ashen hair away from his face. The clear sky above was a rare sight in this time of contempt.
How long has it been now? Daloran had been making this journey every year now since Vanar had joined the realm of the gods.
He picked up his backpack and adjusted it on his shoulders before starting his hike. He couldn’t help but sympathise with the dying summer season and trees that soon would wither.
Daloran snuck a glimpse down the mountain to see how far he had come. Seeing the land from this far away almost made it feel like nothing had changed at all. He would soon reach the village that resided on the mountain incline.
“Took you long enough,” a voice called out to Daloran.
Daloran tightened his grasp on the helmet under his arm and moved his other hand to the pommel of his greatsword. He had another one strapped to his back.
“Quiet now, these old bones won’t hurt you,” the voice had moved up besides Daloran. “It’s good to see you again, old friend.”
Daloran’s eyes found their way to the ageing village elder whom he was towering over. She wore a simple dress and, as always, leaned against her staff for support. Daloran gave her a nod of respect and loosened his grip.
“These old bones of my own are easily startled, Elder Wassa,” Daloran replied before adapting a distant expression, turning and staring towards the horizon. Airships could be seen as tiny dots in the distance. “Kalaed could not make the journey with me.”
Wassa followed Daloran’s gaze and observed as he did. “The journey through the Vollachian Scar can be unforgiving, but the land is bountiful,” she replied, “I am afraid I have to live out the rest of my days here as well, not that I mind.”
“And the future generation will make sure to take care of his grave after…” Daloran hesitated “after you and I both are gone?”
“Don’t be so shy with death, we’ve both had very fulfilling lives,” Wassa replied “Considering how much death you brought yourself, I had hoped you’d become less shy welcoming your own.”
Elder Wassa turned her head toward Daloran and gave him a gentle smile.
“Everything is in order, as promised.”
They stood in silence for a while, watching those tiny dots inch forward in the sky. In the distance the village children could be heard playing.
“I cannot decide if I am glad to be old enough to wish my world, this kingdom, a fond farewell, or if I envy the young who get to explore this new era,” Daloran noted, having finally broken quiet.
“Perhaps that’s for the best…” Wassa replied solemnly. “Let’s head back now, I’ve prepared tea.”
The pair made their way to the village. On their way they saw the village children playing a game of weichi with pebbles and lines scribbled in the dirt. Daloran observed them as they passed, he noted they looked healthy. They soon arrived at elder Wassa’s garden.
Resting on a bed of fire lilies was a lion which Daloran approached. Despite the lion’s deteriorating health over the past few years, he still seemed proud and mighty resting there.
He caressed the noble creature's mane before he continued on into Wassa’s home.
Daloran continued his journey after speaking with Wassa over tea. Another hour would pass before he finally reached the solitary grave. Vanar’s grave.
Vanar’s image had been immortalised as a tall statue draped with warrior garments. Under his arm he was carrying his helmet, shaped in the form of a lion’s head. He had a regal posture and the same righteous expression on his face as always. It was very close to the one Daloran remembered from when he was alive.
Daloran halted in front of the statue to admire it, “it has been another year without you, my dear, lone friend…” In front of the statue Vanar’s greatsword had been plunged into one of three slots arranged in a triangle. Daloran placed his hand gently on the hilt.
A statue of a lion stood watchful at Vanar’s feet guarding the grave. Everything had been well maintained like the elder had promised.
“Kalaed is too weak to continue coming, he will join you soon. Perhaps I will too,” a fleeting smile softened Daloran’s rugged face.
“I brought his sword today as well,” he sat down beside the lion on the platform, caressing it like he did with the one in the village.
Daloran loosened the wineskin hanging from his belt. The alcohol burned his throat and a familiar warmth spread within his stomach. He poured some alcohol into the earth below.
“The Academy never did teach us how to grieve, only how to shove it aside,” he mumbled to himself, staring towards the capital in the distance. The banners of the kingdom had long since been replaced.
“I saw the village children on my way here. Our kingdom might not live on, but the Vollachian blood runs strong,” his mind wandered back to their own youth and their time at the Academy together.
“Like we did, these new young flowers will bloom, hopefully they won’t have to go through the same hardship like we did.” He looked to the north towards something far beyond the horizon. “Maybe the Republic will do better after all?”
He grimaced as the horrific image of the trail of corpses he left behind appeared in his mind. “I remember foolishly charging in during the battle of Rummouth and the earful you gave me afterwards.”
“I am tired of fighting…” Daloran took a last swig from the wineskin and got up. “Despite all the killing we did, I hope we have done enough good to leave something worthwhile behind.”
He started unstrapping Kalaed’s greatsword from his back. Despite its size, it had an elegant and thin look to it. The blade had a silver finish to it, and a ruby had been embedded in the centre of the crossguard.
“I wish I did not have to put all three of our blades to rest…” Daloran said, running his fingers across the edge. He plunged Kalaed’s blade into one of the slots where it seemed to meld with the stone.
“I will come see you next year again if I do not join you in the realm of the gods before then,” he drew his own greatsword. It was that of a common soldier, except for the heliodor gem embedded in the crossguard like with Kalaed’s blade.
“Perhaps I will write a book to leave some final pieces of wisdom behind,” he grasped the sword in a reverse grip with both hands before plunging it into the final slot. He took a few steps back from the statue.
Daloran gave his final salute to Vanar, to his king.
He packed up his things and continued on his way.
He did not look back.