1 Certainties

In an old stone house, atop a silent green hill, an old man sat by it's dark hearth. All was as quiet and still as the night hung around him like a heavy drape. With a long gray beard, he had a heavy woolen black cloak covering a pale blue robe and a face as wrinkled as the bark of a tree-- he gave the impression of a wizened old wizard out of fantasy folklore. The small cottage he resided in was in shambles, a complete mess which only seemed to add to the appeal of this bizarre scene; frankly speaking, it looked like an explosion had destroyed most of the home, coating everything in a thick layer of dust, dirt, and debris.

Yet still, the stone hearth was mostly untouched and still viable for use, its stout chimney still standing tall with nary a brick out of place, a bed of coals burning beneath a pile of blackened logs flickering with dull blue fire above. So the bent, old figure of the man crouched by the fire on a lone, three-legged wooden stool, the dim light from the fires dying embers casting deep shadows on his cracked and wrinkled face.

Pulling a long wooden pipe from his robe pocket, the man stoked the fire for several minutes with it before shaking the ash free, coaxing the flames back to life and catching the end of his pipe alight, after which he brought it to his lips and took a long drag. Another couple minutes were spent puffing silently along with great clouds of scented smoke, and he turned from the fire to regard the interior of the house.

"Where do you intend to go?" Rasped the old man, his voice deep with age and the chronic use of his pipe.

There was silence, then a great, windy sigh that shook several bits of debris; small rocks and pebbles were easily scattered loose from their beds, and it sent them all scattering about.

["Away."]

The word felt like a howl, and it shook the cottage like thunder, dust forming a thick cloud that hung in the air all around; but the old man merely nodded, unmoved and unsurprised.

Stroking his beard in a downwards motion, he looked to the shadows, face stiff and pained.

"You've decided, then," he whispered hoarsely.

Silence, deep and as still as the darkest, secret depths of the ocean greeted his words and his eyes closed; that was as good an answer as any, he knew.

"Let me go with you."

It wasn't a question, nor was it exclaimed, but there was a ringing loneliness in the words, or perhaps desperation. Hope was too pure, too innocent, and not nearly dark enough to hold that longing edge, that need. This was the voice of grief.

There was a shift as the wind began to whistle through the stones in the cottage.

["Impossible."] Raged the wind, roaring and swallowing all other sounds in its wake, a harsh and terrifying gale. ["Your life would pass, I cannot guarantee your existence."]

This was the most the other had spoken to the old man in months, and filled with anger as it was, the old man still smiled sadly. "I had thought you would say that," the old man admitted, voice soft.

Taking a deep breath, the old man rubbed his hands before the fire, scrubbing vigorously to increase the blood flow to his old hands; hands that had once shaped the world, now arthritic and covered in age spots.

"It'll be over for you if you ever stop running," he said conversationally, more to voice his concerns than expecting a real response. The other was always listening, though they rarely spoke.

["... I know."]

It was quiet again, and the silence was muffled and heavy with tlintent. The fire began to dim and cool, red embers casting deeper shadows in the darkness till it seemed suffocating; darkness like a great mouth devouring light, movement, and sound. More time passed in the dark, and soon it was just before dawn, as dull, gray rays of light poking through the deep indigo veil of night.

"I will miss you," the old man announced, smiling sadly and blinking back tears from his eyes. He was old, well over one hundred, but before the other he felt like a child, small and bereft. Specifically, he felt like an orphan, for the voice was his last living family.

There was no response to his sentiment, but the wind had calmed and shifted, swaying, and the old man looked satisfied.

"I will see you again one day, old friend," he promised, smoothing out the wrinkles in his cloak and shaking free small piles of ash and soot from his robe as he stood; but this was something that can be expected, simply from sitting still before the fire for twelve hours.

["Yes."]

A simple agreement, however there was no emotional inflection, merely a finality in that single word. The absolution was calming, and the old man glanced at the broken doorway, eyes filled with memories. Melancholy seemed to take elders hostage, for he battled away the echoes of his memories; the laughter, the sounds of singing, loud conversations that dragged deep into the night. All had disappeared like the dark shadows before the light of the sun.

"Go now," he whispered. "Go before the Dawn; new hope, a new beginning. That's what the rising of the sun signifies. Fitting, yes?"

With determination, he didn't look back as he left the broken cottage behind him. A heavy heart and a heavier soul crushed all words that he might have spoken. All was said and done, as it were.

The house was silent as the old man climbed through the front gate and down the path through the grass, his back prickling with his strong desire to turn back. Still, he soldiered on, throat tight and chest heavy. And if he shook a little, or if his face prickled with the heat of his tears, it went unspoken and unknown.

Silence continued, broken only by the sound of his heartbeat and the soft pad of his feet on the dirt path, but such mourning in the heavy atmosphere was suddenly interrupted by the sound of an explosion. Deafening noise, fire, and smoke rained down with debris, showering the countryside with mess and leaving a foundation where a house had been.

The old man resisted the urge to look, closing his eyes as a last, single tear traced a path down his wrinkled cheek.

"Goodbye... old friend."

There was no response and the trees stirred in the breeze, birds flying noisily towards the sun in the wake of the fire. His walk home was harder this time than the walk to the cottage, but finally he returned to his village, trying to quiet the pain in his heart.

A child stuck her head out of the wooden fence of her yard, staring intently at his sad face.

"Your face is going to get stuck that way," the child announced, sounding confident and full of spirit. "My mommy says so, and she's always right."

The old man laughed, startled and delighted with her response.

"Your mother is quite right," he agreed, feeling the burden of the night ease with her company. "If my face were to get stuck, I had better hope I am making a more pleasant expression."

The girl nodded solemnly and then darted back to her own small home without a word. Looking back the way he came, his beard and cloak swaying in the breeze, the old man looked once more at the sunrise on the horizon. He could only hope for the best the future could possibly bring. Everything else was in her hands...