"Shiro, there is much to learn before I pass on my title, my legacy, onto you." Ryoma says, voice as calm and collected as usual.
His once long, curly, brown hair is now clearly turning grey at the roots. It wouldn't be long until he was completely silver, with not a hint of brown, not even at the tips.
His face had become wrinkled: mostly around his eyes and hints of them touched his cheeks. Each line; so Ryoma had told Shiro; is a story - a part of his identity and a part of his history.
Shiro could vividly remember the story of how he bested Saizo for the first time in combat - for it was one of his better stories. He remembered every detail: from how he deflected each ninja star; despite how quick they were thrown; all the way to the point where he got his retainer on the ground, thus earning his respect.
Shiro looked up to his father. He admired him, while also aspiring to be just like him.
In fact, he looked almost exactly like him; aside from a few faint freckles and his blonde hair. Though, now that the colour was fading, even their hair looked similar!
"Today, Shiro, I will tell you of the deepest scar I have - the deepest wound I have ever been given."
And, so, he began to explain:
It was many years ago, when the wars between Nohr and Hoshido were frequent and extremely dangerous. So dangerous, that any soldier would have been lucky to have made it out alive.
Shiro was no older than 2 years old.
On this particular day; one with bright sunshine and gentle winds that blew the flowers and carried the wonderful scent through the air; the strongest and the bravest Hoshidan soldiers were called off to battle. This, of course, included the High King himself.
One of the mightiest battles, with the most soldiers lost on either side, took place that day.
Weapons were clanging; spells were shouted; war cries were yelled; wounds were created and sobs were echoed throughout the battlefield.
The leaders on either side could do nothing but slice the enemies out of their path: they could only save their own skin.
Eventually, the Hoshidans won this intense battle.
But, this victory was short lived for the High King of Hoshido.
Ryoma received word from a messenger. Terrible news had befallen the royal family; the entirety of Hoshido.
Through the cheering crowds of soldiers he had ran, eyes filled to the brim with tears that soon overflowed and flood down his face.
He had one thought going through his mind. One thought. Round and round. Over and over. 'Please, don't let this be true'.
As he arrived at the said location, on the ground: he fell. He took his bloody hands and took another's into his.
There lay his wife. Her beautiful, freckled face was pallor than ever and this caused her features to stand out even more.
He took his hand and brushed it across her cheek, gentle, but was greeted with nothing but an icy coldness.
He traced his thumb gently across each freckle. It was as if he was playing dot-to-dot, trying to make an image out of it. He decided years ago, that each freckle was a constellation. Each one represented her many qualities: strength, beauty, passion, love, kindness... The list was endless, though she always told him to stop - she got embarrassed easily.
Her eyelashes seemed darker, somehow, and yet even more beautiful. They were gentle, much like her - once you got past her rather fearful exterior.
Her armour was drenched in blood; as was the ground beneath her.
Ryoma's face was also drenched, with the floods of tears that could not be held back.
She was gone. He could do nothing but save his own skin. He was so sorry.
That wound evidently was not a physical one, but rather, it was one that would stay with him for life.
Slowly, Ryoma carefully lay some flowers down onto a random area of land, or rather, a not so random patch of land:
"Shiro, this is where your mother - The Brave Wyvern Rider, Scarlet - fought her final battle and took her final breath." Ryoma finished his tale, with his eyes softened and his heart wrenching. Even now, he still missed her.
Shiro was silent. His tears were fast and quiet.
All these years, all this pain, and still his father continued as strong as ever. He could never do that. He could never continue to lead a nation forward to peace; especially with another nation that destroyed his own world.
"With this immense pain, I learnt one lesson: vengeance is never the answer." Ryoma continued. "Your mother wanted nothing more than peace across the land, and so I battled on - not for Hoshido - but for her, and for her legacy."
Ryoma paused, and wrapped an arm around his son's shoulders: firmly.
"So, you see, Shiro. This legacy that you will one day carry, it is not just mine, but also your mother's." The High King smiles gently, as he looks up to the sky. "Her legacy lives on through us and through the smiles upon the people's faces."
Ryoma holds Shiro a little tighter, his eyes having a shine to them.
"Her legacy lives on, and so does she. She lives on, in our hearts." Ryoma reaches to the stars; fingers ever so slightly stretched out. "And, remember, each star in the night sky, is just one freckle upon her beautiful face..."