[Mkguild] To Scorn the Flight of Doves 4/7

[Radioactive Toast]

    Nearby a woman in her twenties moved near Sivarth.  It took Zynaid less than a moment to recognize Arrie, Sivarth’s only (surviving) daughter.  Her gaze was hard to judge, like she was too uncertain of the village’s long absent son to make heads or tails out of him.  Considering the last time they had met he had clocked her dead in the face, some part of him was mildly surprised that she wasn’t more hostile to him.  Then again, this was Gemesaret...

    Other faces began to take shape; some made themselves easily recognizable, other Zynaid had to stare for a moment for his memory and their features to meet together.  Off near the back near one of the of the village’s wells he spotted the mutely shocked face of Ioel.  Aside from a close shaven beard he didn’t look all that different.  Some other faces he looked for... but could not find.  Which was probably fortunate; if they had still been here things would have gotten ugly [i]really[/i] fast.

    “Certainly then,” Sivarth said slowly watching Zynaid as if the young man might have been a snake in the grass that could at any moment lunge at him.  “You must be here to pay your respects to Ranshod.”  He phrased it more like a declarative statement than a question, he narrow eyes holding out for something from the young bearded man who had returned home after more than a decade.

    Rather than answer right away, Zynaid swiveled himself to the left and dropped to the side of his horse, careful to put his weight on his left foot and balance himself against his steed with his hands.  He started towards his old Elder, limping heavily on his right leg, hiding the involuntary winces that attempted to burst across his face with a near perpetual scowl.  The giant crab that had bitten at his right leg three years before had nearly cleaved through his ligaments; his limb had barely been spared, but even after years of various priests and healers he could barely use it, capable at best of a slow hobbling limp.  He would probably never again run or walk without pain again.  The villagers’ eyes noticed it without fail, several finding themselves wincing expressively at the sight of the crippled man the youth they had once known had become.

    Trudging right up to the grayed Elder, Zynaid didn’t stop until he could feel the old man’s breath blowing past him.  The younger man fixed his eyes on Sivarth, staring hard.  The Elder didn’t flinch, his gaze upright and firm, though a breath did escape from him that could possibly have been a soft dejected sigh.

    “What happened?” Zynaid asked without preamble or pretense, holding himself neutral and waiting as a man wishing to inspect merchandise before he purchased it.

    Such bluntness did disturb the old man ever so slightly, and the crowd of villagers surrounding them watched with stillness, as if afraid that the slightest gasp or scraping of gravel against a shoe would create a spark that would incinerate the atmosphere.  But Sivarth was always a man to take a deep breath and try and calmly work his way through a problem.  “Abba decided it was time.  He had trouble with his breath for several days, and then on the first day of the month his breath simply left him.  All in all it was rather peaceful.”  Sivarth twisted his body to point to a grassy hill to the northeast of the village.  “He rests already in the cemetery, should you wish to pay your respects.”

    The Elder’s gaze glanced back at Parnsus, still perched atop his horse looking distinctly uncomfortable and like he really, [i]really[/i] wanted to be somewhere else; if it were his choice he would probably have preferred to hold back and not enter into town to witness what they both knew was going to be... awkward.  Actually, the mage’s first choice would probably have been not having to come here to northern Ainador at all but find some city where he could quietly pursue his studies.

    “That’s my trade partner.  We were nearby on pilgrimage,” he said, taking a little of the Scolastin brothers’ own cover, “when we stopped for water and we ran into Eansoet.”

    Sivarth’s eyes darted behind the crowd, as did Zynaid’s, spotting the weedy looking young man in question hanging out near the back of the small throng which now puffed as stragglers came in hearing of Zynaid’s return.  Eansoet barely met the two gazes, his eyes darted to the ground evasively.  Nearby Parnsus turned to catch said villager in his sights, his own eyes shifting uncomfortably but held in place with a distinct curiosity.

    Breaking the awkward silence that followed, Zynaid turned and faced the cemetery upon the hill, and without preamble headed off to it.  

    “There are those who are no doubt eager to speak with you after twelve years,” Sivarth suddenly said behind him.  “You are welcome of course to spend the night of course, or longer if you wish to mend time and issues with them, heal your pain.”

    It took all Zynaid’s self control not to explode at that moment.  He wanted to spin around and snap at that old twig and tell him just what he thought was what.  He could see his old wizened eyes trying to dig their claws into him, trying to control him.  Taking a deep but quiet breath, the black bearded man quieted his fuming and resumed his trod back to his horse.  “As I said, there’s no need for a welcome home banquet,” he said as straightforwardly as possible.  The twinge of disappointment was evident in Sivarth’s eyes, his old wrinkled lines sinking just a little deeper, but this did not console Zynaid in the slightest.  In fact it quietly stoked the furnace that was boiling inside him threatening to burst.

    And before anyone else could jump in, Zynaid set off hobbling up the hill to the cemetery.  Ignoring the constant strain on his right leg as he put one foot in front of the other; it would have made more logical sense perhaps to ride up on horseback, but he wasn’t in the mood for what was the most logical thing to do.  His heart beat furiously as his emotions only now started declining from their furious peak.  Concentrating against the pain helped take his mind off of it.  Parnsus, apparently not wanting to be left behind to awkwardly answer questions, grabbed the harness of Zynaid’s horse and trotted up on his own after him.  Some of the villagers seemed to want to follow, a small number that turned out to a mere three or so people who after a moment thought better of it, while others looked and drifted away.  Others, however, looked on with Sivarth at the long lost son trudged stubbornly up the hill.  

    The village’s elderly had always complained about the cemetery’s location on such a tall hill, demanding a substantial exertion from those that wished to scale it.  The old, worn condition of the trail didn’t help matters; for as long as he could remember it had always looked to need repairs but nothing substantial had even been laid down.  “Zyn,” Parnsus called up after him after a good third of the way up had already been climbed, panting somewhat.  “Don’t you want to ride the rest of the way up?  Your leg’s gotta be...”  The young aristocrat was interrupted when the commoner reached out with said crippled leg and kicked a rock out of its settled place in the caked dirt and whacked it with his heel, sending it tumbling in the mage’s general direction.  “Um... ok, forget I said anything.”

    “Done,” Zynaid said agreeably, ignoring the screaming sensation that came from his leg.  He granted it no reprieve as he continued his way up the broken trail.  Why they still had never gotten around to fixing the stupid thing, he didn’t know.

    And then, finally, the steep grassy slope gave way to a flat expanse you could build a decently sized village on.  Indeed, once upon a time Gemesaret had been built upon this plateaued hill, watching the Galean valley from a higher, more picturesque viewpoint, but during the chaotic years of the Predecessor revolt against the Suielman Empire the entire settlement had been razed, the inhabitants brutally slaughtered, so the tales went, and the old village so utterly burned to ashes, the casualties so grievous that the flat hilltop had been converted into a cemetery.  The settlement was moved down the slope, always looking up to the emptiness that had once been itself.

    It took some doing to find the tombstone among the collection of several centuries’ worth of death, but a good fifteen minutes of searching revealed the final resting place of Ranshod Hamoneen, buried after a life of seventy one years.

    Neither prayer nor reflection did Zynaid have ready this moment as he stared at the grave of his grandfather.  It... just...  What was he supposed to say?  That the old man had been important in his life?  He had raised Zynaid, of course he had an effect.  That went without saying, so why say it?  And despite Ranshod’s being the closest thing to a father the young man had growing up, he still did not think of him as a father figure.  A father figure had to be stand larger than yourself, had to mentor you, teach you, and protect you both from the world and from yourself.  Lorian had been that.  It wasn’t that Ranshod hadn’t tried, but he had never been able to... contain his grandson.  He had never been able to truly stand above him, to confidently show him the ropes, to guide him along his path.  He had attempted to lay a path for Zynaid, but the grandson had never been content with the bland platitudes and the weak answers he had been provided.

    After only a minute’s or so worth of reflection, Zynaid drifted away.  He drifted away from the graves of kin, drifted away from the resting place of those who populated his childhood.  He soon found himself well past the graveyard proper, passing onto an adjoining slope.  There, past the simple tombstones of poor men and unknown travelers lied an even simpler marker, in reality nothing more than a pile of rocks, crudely assembled at one time to emulate a pyramid of sorts but having long since crumbled and fallen apart. 

    It was a small thing, it was a crude collection of rocks but Zynaid Amadias stood over it a long time, ignoring his still throbbing leg, ignoring the whipping wind which bludgeoned its way through, ruffling his gray robes like a pudding.  The bearded Galean paid these things no mind, instead contemplating the circumstances that had led him all those years ago to place these rocks and upturn this earth.

    Parnsus’ approach broke him from his reverie, and he snapped up to see the squat mage again staring curiously at him, not wanting to pry him open, but certainly interested in catching whatever glimpse he could.  He was also pointing behind him.  Zynaid spun his head and found himself greeted by a brown haired man wearing a thin beard, with yes carrying the wistfulness of memories.

    “Ioel,” Zynaid declared without flavor.

    The man named Ioel stood as if he were witnessing a ghost or a man bidden back from the dead.  “By His Wounds, Zyn,” I thought you were dead,” he said, echoing Zynaid’s own thoughts of the look on his old friend’s face.

    Raising an eyebrow, Zynaid commented, “Am I such a surprise that you react with such strong language?”  He didn’t hear such words often from most people, certain brash nobles aside, unless of course one was talking about sailors.  It had been three years since Zynaid’s last voyage on the sea, and it had taken about as long to purge his daily vocabulary of many of the more profane words that had rubbed off on him.

    Perhaps he had not expected such a comeback, or perhaps it was simply that Ioel had never expected Zynaid to come back home, ever.  “Do...  It’s been twelve years.  A [i]dozen[/i] years, Zyn.”  Ioel trailed off at a loss for words.  The young man who as a child would sometimes race across these hills with Zynaid gazed uncertainly. 

    Zynaid crossed his arms, “I haven’t exactly been idle, Ioel.”  His tone was a trifle defensive, aware that the young man had to have certain… assumptions about his former neighbor.  “I hadn’t even returned to Ainador for any length of time until recently.”  Conveniently he left out that he had in fact spent a great deal of time in Ainador; there was no reason for Ioel or anyone else to know that.  

    The point he was eluding was one that his old friend seemed intent on focusing on, however, and he prodded intently.  “Couldn’t you have visited in all that time?  Sent a message?” he said, his voice was laced with concern.

    The bearded prodigal tried to hide his scowl.  “To what purpose?   To serve as entertainment, to serve as an object lesson in another tired Aesop?  Perhaps just to serve as an example of everything a native of Gemesaret should not be?”

    The words stung Ioel, that much was certain from the way a grimace crossed his face and his footing shifted awkwardly, as if his sense of balance itself had been jostled by the pronouncement.  “That isn’t a fair judgment, Zyn… You’re not speaking well of your home when you say that,” he responded at last, disappointment clearly leaking from his downward looking gaze.

    This time no scowl was hidden.  “Home,” he spat the word with vile contempt, before calming himself.  Out of everyone, Ioel was the least deserving of a harsh tone; he’d at least tried to not follow the herd so much.

    “It's just been so long...” the old friend mused, staring out to the sea.  “You've been missed.”

    A humorless grin came up on Zynaid's face.  “Oh?  By how many?”

    Another hurt look from Ioel, this one more chastising.  “All of us, Zyn.  No one was really happy to see you go.  None of us ever wanted you to just leave, all we wanted-”

    Zynaid waved his hand dismissively.  “You all wanted me to play by your rules.”

    It took several moments for Ioel to respond.  “Rules?  Zyn, they're hardly 'rules.'  They're just the how any good Followers should treat each other.”

    It took a great deal of willpower to snap back at that comment with a retort Zynaid knew would just inflame things further.  Instead he allowed himself a long sigh.  “My quarrel was never with you specifically, Ioel.”

    “Ruth either?”
    
    Zynaid paused longer.  “She wanted more from me than I was willing to give,” he responded as blankly as he could.

    Now Ioel took a long time to pause.  “Zyn... well, you probably realize that the whole village knows you're back by now.”

    A subtle stiffening took hold of the gray eyed prodigal's spine as he realized what his old friend meant.  “No doubt.  No doubt at all...”

    “It... the polite thing to do would be to at least present yourself.” Ioel managed to say.

    Zynaid stared out into the distance blankly, keeping his face rigid as possible.  “I'm aware.”

    “Then shouldn't we head there then?  A meal at least sounds in order for you since you have just come from a long journey.”

    Zynaid smirked.  “A meal.  I suppose that is in order.”

    No one moved for the longest time, as if afraid their motion would cause the sky to split in half above them.  Then Ioel started walking toward the edge of the village, looking back at his childhood friend to follow.  Zynaid promptly did so, limping as he did and motioning Parnsus to follow.

    The squat mage hurried over beside, utterly perplexed.  “Uh... I missed a great deal about... mostly [i]everything[/i] that was going on in that conversation.  Where are we going?”

    A sigh escaped Zynaid's lips.  “You'll see soon enough unfortunately.”

    Parnsus seemed to take the grim prediction at face value and slunk down nervously, as if he were worried that at any given time monsters or giant crabs would burst from the hilltops and assault them.  Zynaid rolled his eyes.  “Relax.  No one's going to try and disembowel us today.”

    “The last time you said that we were robbed blind...” the mage said unnerved.

    “Exactly.  Robbed of what we had on us; no knives pierced our livers or our stomachs,” Zynaid said as if that was all the comfort that was needed.

    They followed Ioel, over the next hill as they skirted around the side of the village nestled in the hills, the water looming before them with roiling clouds.  The Galean Sea churned about in the unstable manner it was wont to; it was notoriously unpredictable and stormy and caused many a headache or worse for the fisherman who took from its bounty.  The village made its livelihood off the sea, and most of the men who lived in these huts and shacks plied their trade from it.  It was the fate of most of those who stayed behind.  

    Zynaid turned his head aside in disgust, focusing on the next small rise of hill, on the northern edge of the settlement.  There sat a lonely farmhouse, small plots of gardens adorning it in somewhat haphazard rows, denied the opportunity to etch themselves as straight lines into the earth by the uneven contours and the oft rocky soil.  It was a testament to tenacity, or perhaps stubbornness, that they existed at all in this spot, as even in the village far better plots of land speckled the land the landscape.  The small winding garden wove itself around the house, built from some stone but largely from mudbricks.  The age of the structure necessitated numerous patchwork repairs that lent it a curious look, one that at once made one both admire and pity the occupants for their tenacity in keeping up with such a dilapidated residence.  

    Outside, standing near the front door, stood a woman with dark hair, waiting with a brush of impatience, wearing a slightly more flowing form of the typical working women's outfit.  She caught gaze of Zynaid almost instantly, her deep brown eyes settling upon him with brimming, conflicting emotion.  “Zyn...” Ruth began, her voice as uncertain as her expression.  “It's been a long time.” 		 	   		  
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