Even from here, he could perceive the tumult of churning water.
Genji's thoughts wandered as he stood on the terrace. Far below him was the flowing white and grey foam of the Mediterranean sea as it lapped against the cliffs. The salty taste of the spray and the cool mist of the waves were lost on his artificial body. But he could still smell the ocean. Removing his faceplate, he let the briny fragrance wash over him. His thoughts drifted back, further and further until they rested on shore just like this one. He had been there with another boy, older and prouder, but no less his friend. They had been playing on the beach that day, that beach on the other side of the world, the Japanese shores of their youth. They had laughed and fought as brothers do. But just also as brothers, they soon forgot their bickering.
He had come outside to try and find solace in the open ocean air, instead he'd only found the memory of Hanzo.
As the sun dyed the horizon deep crimson, Genji gazed out over the bay of Gibraltar station with a single question. "Where are you, my brother?"
The sun bent lower and lower, finally pulling its light from this side of the earth. When the sun retreats it does not only take its light with it, but its warmth as well. There are places on the earth were the land has grown used to this coming chill and people in those lands who have coped with the drawing of heat. But there are also places and people who have not so adapted, that though they walk with steady gait and firm foot, convinced they can live without the warmth, it is merely the yearning for it they do not wish to confront that they feel.
The sun is gone in the Himalayas, having set beyond the craggy peaks many hours ago. Yet still, even in the blustery cold of this utter darkness, one can still spy a lone pinprick of light making its way up the mountain. A single torch is held by a bent figure, arrows in a quiver on his back and bow on his shoulder. A hood of fur is drawn around his head, whether this is to fight the cold outside of him or the chill of his hard heart, even he does not know.
The desolate archer trudged on until he mounted a small plateau. His legs, weary with the trod of snow, push him as far as a small rocky cave in the mountainside where they collapse under him. But tired as he is of both life and his journey, he cannot rest. A fire must be made. There is wood enough for it and he has the skill. In little time a timid flame is alive on the dry timbers. Even for a man as used to the cold as Hanzo Shimada, the fire's warmth is gratefully received.
There is little to eat. Withdrawing his pack, he retrieves what little remains of the deer he shot further down the slopes. The meat is hard from the cold. Realizing it would be better made into a stew, the archer withdraws a homely iron pot no bigger than his two fists together. He unscrews the gourd he carries with him. It is filled with a much diluted sake, a hard liquor of the east. Part of him knows he should just dump the weak spirit out and fill the canister with pure water. Part of him knows he can't bring himself to do it.
On a flat stone, he prepares to cut the meat when a noise comes from the cave entrance. He remains still, listening. The sound draws nearer, a muffled impact, a faint crunching; the impression of treading snow. Footsteps. With deftness perfected by practice, he swings the bow into his hand and lights an arrow onto his string. His breath comes in long drafts, waiting.
A face enters.
"Hello."
The gleam, the body, the metallic surface. An omnic. He does not lower his bow, but his brow furrows All the way up in the mountains?
"May I join you?"
"Who are you," Hanzo asks, more accusation than question. The omnic takes it in stride.
"Curious."
Stange answer, Hanzo thinks but he asks a different question, "Where are you going?" His bow still raised at the stranger.
"To ask is to imply there is a destination."
"Are you lost?"
The omnic thinks. "To be lost requires that one knows where one is going. No, I am a wanderer." He cocked his head at Hanzo, "Are you one as well?"
"I am trying to cross the mountains," Hanzo replied, "There is something I must do on the other side, but I was waylaid by the storm."
"Then may I join you till it passes?" A pause. Hanzo slowly lowers his bow and nods. The omnic Zenyatta takes a seat crossed legged over the fire from him. "What is your name?"
He sees no harm in it, "Hanzo."
"Shimada?"
He quickly re-aims the bow, "How did you know?"
The monk's tone is as calm as before, kind even. "I met your brother."
Shock momentarily passes over the fallen brother. Genji. He quickly dismisses it. "That is impossible. He is dead." His throat tightens, "I killed him myself."
"Yes," Zenyatta's tone shifted, saddened, "that greatly pained him." He met Hanzo's eyes and although there was no expression on the omics fixed features, his voice carried compassion, "That troubled him greatly. Nearly as much as the body he now inhabits." He put a hand to his chest, "In many ways he as much my kin now as yours." The arrow flew, landing inches from the monk's head.
"YOU KNOW NOTHING!" Hanzo barked, notching another arrow.
"I know you are not the monster you make yourself to be." Hanzo simply laughed, but stopped at Zenyatta's next words, "You would not have missed," he plucked the arrow from the stone wall, "if you had not wanted to. Your brother has forgiven-"
"My brother IS DEAD!" he pulled the string back further, actually aiming for the monk. "And I am guilty for his death." In answer, Zenyatta reached into his pocket, "Don't-!" but the omnic only pulled out a small pouch.
"I cannot smell or consume food, but it looked as if you intended to have a meal," the patient teacher waved to the now boiling pot. He stood up, "I gathered these spices from my home," he crossed with slow gate to Hanzo who still held his drawn bow, "Perhaps they will be of more service to you than to me." He extended his hand with the spice pouch in it. Disarmed by the monk's even temper, Hanzo put his weapon away and the two sat back down.
Pulling the strings open on the pouch, Hanzo smelled the spices "Thyme and Sage."
"I am told they are delightful."
For the first time in his worn and embittered memory, a peaceful smile crossed the archer's face. Their mother used to cook with thyme, "It is." Taking a pinch, he added the fragrant herbs to the stew. The warm scent of spring infused the air.
The sat in silence for a long time. Night had long since come into its full embrace, but with it came an easing of the storm. Hanzo looked up from tending the pot as the wind stopped howling outside the cave entrance. He should start moving again soon. Before then, however, he served himself a bowl of the steaming broth and hungrily ate.
"Where is it you plan to go?"
Hanzo had to stop as the stew was still two hot. He replied as he blew on it, "Japan. Shimada Castle."
The sage cocked his head, "What do you hope to find there?"
"I seek solace," he answered. He had to make the island in the next few months otherwise he would miss the date. The anniversary of becoming an only child.
"With your past?"
"The past is lost," Hanzo flatly replied, "And I must live with it."
"The past is only as lost as we are ourselves," Zenyatta leaned back as sadness filled his words, "And you are indeed lost..." Hanzo answered with a humph, dismissive. Changing of subject, "How is your soup?"
"Good," was the reply between mouthfuls, "thank you for the spice."
"You are welcome." Zenyatta looked out of the cave, "the storm is passed and I must go."
"I thought you said you did not have a destination."
"A man you travels for the journey and a man who travels for his destination make poor company, for while they are together, neither can be satisfied." The monk bowed to him, "I am grateful to have dined with you."
A wear smiled passed Hanzo's face, "You did not eat anything."
"A meal is not simply about food. It is much like life, best enjoyed in the company of others." With a last gesture he motioned to the bag of spice, "And the more time we have with them, the greater pleasure there is." He quietly chuckled at his own pun, "Ah laughter, a much neglected balm for the soul." He turned to Hanzo, "Good-by Hanzo Shimada. I hope you find the solace you seek." The monk walked out of the cave, but turned and said once more, "And perhaps, forgiveness as well." Then he was gone, vanishing into the swirling snow, leaving the brother to meditate upon his words.