You had just finished crying when we met.
It was a crisp, cooler day. The smells of an abbreviated, slightly more brisk, season were in the air. You were seated on a bench that overlooked a pond, underneath a tree that had shed the leaves that once occupied its branches proudly. Even though the air had a touch of chill to it, you remained truly oblivious. It was impressive to see you seated, hunched over, with your elbows on your knees and your hands folded over. Inside your hands you were holding something. We would get to that later.
Your eyes sang songs of true and immeasurable hate; your words were laced with paralyzing, profound, echoes of regret and abandonment. You felt loss, a true loss. You felt alone. You loathed the gods for it. You felt sick to your stomach. This was when the normal, aloof, disposition that you most commonly displayed, crumbled like a falling building. Your tired eyes started to spill their liquid.
You were a warrior in your younger days. Many men met their tragic demise at the wrong end of your sword. You took countless lives and, in return, countless lives were taken from you, as so many of your comrades perished in war. You witnessed much suffering and you caused much of it too, for your enemies. Such was the way of war and you knew, and had accepted, that long ago. You were a proud man with every right to be as such.
On this day, there was a different suffering. You were older now and it had been many years since you had ever taken up arms against anyone. You retired from war; at least, as much as any man can ever ‘retire’ from the thoughts that creep into the minds of former, professional killers. You left war behind you when you met her.
You were instantly smitten though she was instantly indifferent, at least that’s how she appeared to be. Eventually, your charm, your smile and your shocking sensitivity won her over. In her defense, there was nothing about you superficially that would ever indicate that you were capable of such gentle touch or quiet reflection. That was not what you were ever trained for.
You loved her because she never forced you to speak of the days you spent at war. She loved you because, with you, she felt safe and appreciated. You two rarely, if ever, fought and when you did it was never for long. Before you were anything, you two were the best of friends. You each confided in each other on a great many things. You had never known any relationship to be as layered and complex all while feeling exceptionally simple and fun. It was hard to communicate this feeling with others, but to you and her it made perfect sense. You both were never far from each other's thoughts. And you two grew old together.
And then she died.
And it was on that day, the same one that you buried her, that you met me.
“Mind if I sit down?” I broke through your depressing thoughts and jolted you back to your reality. You looked momentarily startled before your eyes moved to the vacant space next to you on the cold and apathetic bench then back to me. You cleared your throat before you replied kindly, though with such sincere dispirited tone, “Yeah, of course”. I sat down.
I took a mortal form as to not overwhelm you anymore than you already were on this day. I appeared to be an older man. My hair was a dark brown with noticeable gray hairs. I looked aged and I was dressed quite plainly.
I betrayed the silence once more.
“Raygor”. I said. You turned toward me with great confusion and asked “What?” You were getting agitated. I could tell.
“Raygor. The god of warriors: the symbol there on your arm” I pointed to it. Your face went from slight aggravation to forced politeness. “Yeah that’s him. He is my primary god…”
And with great resentment, you turned back, looked at the pond in front of us and finished your thought with one word. “Was”
“Not a believer, I take it?” I asked you. You were quick to change the focus on the conversation. Much like with actual sword fighting, you were great at verbally fencing.
“I’m sorry but who the hell are you?” You stated. Partially interested in actually knowing but mostly interested in the conversation ceasing to be.
“I am Z” I replied in a jovial, yet vague, nature as well.
“Z, huh? Listen, I am not interested in a conversation right now. It’s been a tough day.” You stated with great firmness still not bringing your eyes from the pond in front of us.
“It’s been a tough three months.” I retorted back to you. You mistakenly assumed I was talking about myself. Therefore, you thought that you and I shared a bond of having had a trying three months. What you did not piece together, not then anyways, was that I was talking about you. Regardless, it gave us some common ground, albeit in your inaccurate assumption. I didn’t correct you.
“Yeah…me too” you said as your gaze remained transfixed on the pond. You were a man clearly wounded.
“Were those beads hers?” I asked. Your attention snapped in my direction immediately and a look of puzzlement befell your face. It was clear that you were not going to be easy to communicate with. You asked, clearly annoyed, “Excuse me?”
“The beads you are holding in your hand. The medallion at the center is a rose. You are praying to the three gods of fate. Given their color, I would assume that they were given to a woman…” I replied. I was correct and you knew it.
“They were my wife’s.” You said as you held the orange beads. It was customary in your culture to give orange beads to young girls and red beads to young boys. The chain was made of gold and the beads were a very hard plastic. They were given to men and women in your culture as a rite of passage, of sorts, into adulthood. You had lost yours years ago. Your wife was the sentimental one in your relationship. You never held on to anything for too long, except for her.
“I am sorry for your loss.” I stated calmly. Your look grew softer as you stared at me. You looked as though you wanted to cry. Your look was that of a scared child, perhaps wanting to scream out a confession. The words were right there, on the edge of your tongue, though you elected to hold them back on the day we met. It’s okay. I knew what you wanted to say, anyhow. You weren’t ready to discuss such emotions then.
I placed one of my hands softly on the top of one of yours and gave you further condolences. “I am sure the gods will welcome her into the eternal haven for the faithfully departed.”
You scoffed at that comment as I knew you would.
“Fuck the gods.” You declared and shook my hand off of yours.
I shook my head and allowed my hand to return back to my lap from where it originated. “You mustn’t talk like that.”
“What’s the use? Wherever she is I know I won’t be joining her” You said with your eyes skyward for a moment before returning them to the leaf-topped ground below our feet.
“That’s actually not true.” I replied. I wasn’t lying either.
You suddenly stopped the conversation in its tracks. “Listen, I am not interested in talking about this stuff with anyone, especially not a stranger. Thanks.”
I did not wish to press the matter much further. I simply patted you softly on the arm that was closest to me and I stood up. I looked down at you as you sat there with your head lowered. Although you were still physically imposing and clearly retained much of your strength from youth; before me sat a wounded boy. It was not uncommon for the gods to think of people in such ways. Most adult mortals are wounded children at one point or another. Age and size does not replace all the traces of youth, after all.
“Remember, friend, it is sad that she died but…the cosmos is a far better place for having her.” I turned around and walked away, “and so were you.”
You scoffed sarcastically at what I said and talked quietly under your breath “you have no idea…”
I stopped and turned back to you. I grinned as my eyes finally caught yours. “You will be reunited again with her. This…” I motioned with one of my arms to the things around us, “…all of this, it’s just temporary, even your pain.”
You blinked your eyes finally and shook your head a little bit. I turned around and kept walking.
“You cannot promise such things.”
I brushed off your comment and with a reassuring tone I stated softly, though you would hear my voice loudly in your head, “Do not worry. I will protect you.”
You grabbed the side of your head, near your ears and grimaced with your eyes closed forcefully. When I finished saying those words, you lowered your arms. You opened your eyes and looked for me but I had disappeared. You could not see me, but I was still near.
You then noticed the beads of your wife on the ground. In haste to grab the sides of your head, you had dropped them. You reached down to pick them up. Next to those sentimental beads was a small gold pin of wings…