Post by Nate on Sept 23, 2013 13:29:52 GMT -8
Hope. What is hope? Hagan never was able to figure that out.
Why did people need to have a name, some emotion, to put one foot in front of the other? There are always goals to reach, promises to keep.
Failure is always a possibility. Death is always riding on your shoulder, waiting for that small mistake. Sometimes the right people die, sometimes the wrong people live. Sometimes your friends die despite the attempts to keep them alive.
He had watched Mary in that final fight, dancing brilliantly in that flickering flame. He watched her die, taking that monster into oblivion with her. There was the tiniest emotion that Hagan registered. Heart-break, he thought, so this is what a breaking heart feels like. This is the result of a broken promise, of a failure to keep a brilliant spark alive.
"If you don't come back alive," Hagan remembered saying, "I will find you, in whatever hellhole your spirit will hide in."
"At least I won't be alone then," was her response.
"My friend, the dead are never alone."
Hagan, the ancient, withered Ahroun, listened patiently to the wisdom of the Theurge. He mentally marked the dangers ahead on this journey, his final task to keep a promise. He dropped his battered shield to the earth, and handed over his worldly possessions to his alpha. They were too heavy a burden for the old wolf. He became a pillar of light again, no longer blindingly brilliant, but still shining steady in the darkness of the night. He lent heavily on his spear, the crystal head glowing above his bent back like his own personal moon. Step by shambling step, Hagan put one foot in front of the other.
And so he started along that long, dark path. A beacon of light fading into the distance.
Why did people need to have a name, some emotion, to put one foot in front of the other? There are always goals to reach, promises to keep.
Failure is always a possibility. Death is always riding on your shoulder, waiting for that small mistake. Sometimes the right people die, sometimes the wrong people live. Sometimes your friends die despite the attempts to keep them alive.
He had watched Mary in that final fight, dancing brilliantly in that flickering flame. He watched her die, taking that monster into oblivion with her. There was the tiniest emotion that Hagan registered. Heart-break, he thought, so this is what a breaking heart feels like. This is the result of a broken promise, of a failure to keep a brilliant spark alive.
"If you don't come back alive," Hagan remembered saying, "I will find you, in whatever hellhole your spirit will hide in."
"At least I won't be alone then," was her response.
"My friend, the dead are never alone."
Hagan, the ancient, withered Ahroun, listened patiently to the wisdom of the Theurge. He mentally marked the dangers ahead on this journey, his final task to keep a promise. He dropped his battered shield to the earth, and handed over his worldly possessions to his alpha. They were too heavy a burden for the old wolf. He became a pillar of light again, no longer blindingly brilliant, but still shining steady in the darkness of the night. He lent heavily on his spear, the crystal head glowing above his bent back like his own personal moon. Step by shambling step, Hagan put one foot in front of the other.
And so he started along that long, dark path. A beacon of light fading into the distance.