Post by Deleted on Dec 21, 2019 21:09:29 GMT -5
6
That was the number of names in the walls of the Memorial Park which end in Vas. The surname of a bloodline which has sacrificed its members in the line of duty in the defense of their homeland. Was it truly out of duty? Or was it honor? Or just sheer stubbornness in keeping traditions alive? Whatever the reason it may had started, the price that had to be paid was crystal clear. Blood. And in blood, it was paid.
And was given in return?
Having their names carved in one of the damn granite walls. Maybe their names would be remembered, but the person behind said name wouldn't. Who they were, what made them be what they were. Their successes, their failures. Everything that made those names have some depth to them would be lost to the tides of time as soon as the last person to remember them perished too.
Ryan was that person. It was very early in the morning when the silent and tall figure of Ryan entered the deserted Memorial Park. Dressed in nothing more than his shirt and some pants, he fought the cold by Aura and guts alone as he slowly walked towards the wall where his family heritage was carved on. Once in front of it, he kneeled into a seiza position on the front of the wall, his eyes focused on the names, while carefully placing a small wooden box in front of him.
And as he looked at the names, he couldn't help but feel contempt. What sort of payment for giving one's life was this? Having your name carved in a wall? Names were just that, names. They didn't show the full scope of the person behind it, who they were, why they were the way they were.
Placing his hands on his hips, Ryan bowed down until his forehead touched the ground. And what about those who had given their lives before Hunstmen were even a thing? What about those soldiers who had given their lives against Grimm or against fellow humans beings once the fires of war had started? Why their names had to be swept into the dustbin of history once fire turned into ashes? Didn't they also died defending Mistral?
Whatever the response for that may be, right now was not the time to dwell in its search. Straightening, he took out a piece of paper from his pants' pockets and leaned it against the wall. Its contents, you ask? A letter, a contingency, written who knows how many years ago supposed to be sent the day his father joined the ranks of Vas in hell.
That had happened a week ago. And now, Ryan was truly alone in this world. He had no home to go back to. No matter how much he had tried during his life, he never had been able to bring himself to hate his father. No matter how much his father had disdained him, no matter what harsh or downright cruel words he had said to him. He had still taught him how to stay alive in this world. How to protect those who couldn't do it themselves. he hadn't loved the man, of course, but he still held respect from him.
But he now was gone, and he was alone. The heritage of the Vas now rested on his shoulders, the memories of those in training in hell where solely on his mind. Yet, did he bear the right to remember them? He was nowhere like the men and women who had already given their lives. No matter how much he hated the burden that had been thrown at him since his brith, the truth was that he had a duty not only to Mistral, but also to the memory of the bloodline which had been built upon sacrifices.
The burden was too much for a single person.
Slowly reaching forwards to the wooden box, he opened it and looked inside. The disassembled pistol which nearly made him follow his brother stared him back. With practiced motions, his hands quickly mounted the gun into its lethal form. And, after inserting a mag with a single round and cocking the gun, placed it at the side of his head with the smoothness that only happens after repeating an action uncountable times.
The burden thrust upon his shoulders, the oaths which had drove him nearly insane, the guilt, the self-hate, all of it had slowly eroded his until it wouldn't be able to hold its own weight. The death of his father had been the last eroding which caused his mind to finally snap after nearly two decades of stress.
All that remained was a final flick of a finger to all to finally crumble.
His Aura was being actively suppressed. The same mistake would not be repeated twice.
Closing his eyes, he whispered to himself.
"I hope for forgiveness."
WC: 821/821
That was the number of names in the walls of the Memorial Park which end in Vas. The surname of a bloodline which has sacrificed its members in the line of duty in the defense of their homeland. Was it truly out of duty? Or was it honor? Or just sheer stubbornness in keeping traditions alive? Whatever the reason it may had started, the price that had to be paid was crystal clear. Blood. And in blood, it was paid.
And was given in return?
Having their names carved in one of the damn granite walls. Maybe their names would be remembered, but the person behind said name wouldn't. Who they were, what made them be what they were. Their successes, their failures. Everything that made those names have some depth to them would be lost to the tides of time as soon as the last person to remember them perished too.
Ryan was that person. It was very early in the morning when the silent and tall figure of Ryan entered the deserted Memorial Park. Dressed in nothing more than his shirt and some pants, he fought the cold by Aura and guts alone as he slowly walked towards the wall where his family heritage was carved on. Once in front of it, he kneeled into a seiza position on the front of the wall, his eyes focused on the names, while carefully placing a small wooden box in front of him.
And as he looked at the names, he couldn't help but feel contempt. What sort of payment for giving one's life was this? Having your name carved in a wall? Names were just that, names. They didn't show the full scope of the person behind it, who they were, why they were the way they were.
Placing his hands on his hips, Ryan bowed down until his forehead touched the ground. And what about those who had given their lives before Hunstmen were even a thing? What about those soldiers who had given their lives against Grimm or against fellow humans beings once the fires of war had started? Why their names had to be swept into the dustbin of history once fire turned into ashes? Didn't they also died defending Mistral?
Whatever the response for that may be, right now was not the time to dwell in its search. Straightening, he took out a piece of paper from his pants' pockets and leaned it against the wall. Its contents, you ask? A letter, a contingency, written who knows how many years ago supposed to be sent the day his father joined the ranks of Vas in hell.
That had happened a week ago. And now, Ryan was truly alone in this world. He had no home to go back to. No matter how much he had tried during his life, he never had been able to bring himself to hate his father. No matter how much his father had disdained him, no matter what harsh or downright cruel words he had said to him. He had still taught him how to stay alive in this world. How to protect those who couldn't do it themselves. he hadn't loved the man, of course, but he still held respect from him.
But he now was gone, and he was alone. The heritage of the Vas now rested on his shoulders, the memories of those in training in hell where solely on his mind. Yet, did he bear the right to remember them? He was nowhere like the men and women who had already given their lives. No matter how much he hated the burden that had been thrown at him since his brith, the truth was that he had a duty not only to Mistral, but also to the memory of the bloodline which had been built upon sacrifices.
The burden was too much for a single person.
Slowly reaching forwards to the wooden box, he opened it and looked inside. The disassembled pistol which nearly made him follow his brother stared him back. With practiced motions, his hands quickly mounted the gun into its lethal form. And, after inserting a mag with a single round and cocking the gun, placed it at the side of his head with the smoothness that only happens after repeating an action uncountable times.
The burden thrust upon his shoulders, the oaths which had drove him nearly insane, the guilt, the self-hate, all of it had slowly eroded his until it wouldn't be able to hold its own weight. The death of his father had been the last eroding which caused his mind to finally snap after nearly two decades of stress.
All that remained was a final flick of a finger to all to finally crumble.
His Aura was being actively suppressed. The same mistake would not be repeated twice.
Closing his eyes, he whispered to himself.
"I hope for forgiveness."
WC: 821/821
