A figure, a young male of 18, stood in the woods, stonestill as lightning flashed and thunder rolled overhead. His hair bleached yellow each time lightning cracked, his green eyes wide and dim in the darkness of the sudden storm. In front of him, only waist-high, was a stone, carved out from a cliff. He stood there, staring blankly down at the stone. The rain fell, but he hardly felt the ice cold water against his skin. He was unable to turn his head, to even avert his eyes from the gray headstone. The engraving was painted black, but did not appear in his mind. It said:
Noifan Jatori
Born 690 Died 784
A wonderful teacher, a loving father,
and a loyal friend.
All he could think was of how much he had learned from the man who was buried in front of him. He could still hear Master Jatori calling his name: "Frost, don't forget to come and visit me once in a while, if you're not too busy on your travels!" He fell to his knees on the drenched grass as something inside him finally snapped and he wept, oh, how he wept. He did not sleep, nor did he leave his teacher's grave throughout the night. By morning, his eyes were red, his hands were numb, and he was soaked to the skin. With one last look at the grave, he whispered, "I'll never forget you, Master Jatori," and walked away.
His comrades knew naught of the death of the one who had raised him, who had loved him like his own son. They knew naught of the sadness and despair that was flowing from every inch of his body. They knew naught of the memories that he would keep forever in his mind, every one of them of him and his master. They knew naught of the love shared between them.