Child of the Brave

12. Epilogue: Final Encounter

The man was dead, yet his spirit lived on. Maybe that was what it means to be immortal; immortalized by the stuff that could be found in history books. Stuff such as, courage, self sacrifice, honor, and justice. Olan Durai dug a bare toe in the soft soil and tossed a single white rose on top of the headstone. It noiselessly splashed and hit the marble surface. The rose slowly slid across the emblazoned name, "Beoulve". It leisurely touched the earth where it belonged, its petals untarnished by the mud. The flower was a symbol of peace and life.

Olan squatted beside the side of the stone. Brushing a cold hank of hair from his relaxed brow, he let out a breath to the humming wind. The whisper of rain water splashing through the trees and hitting the soaked floor echoed. His enemies were coming for him and the others. They would not think to find them here, though. Olan did not expect those cowards to thump their feet and touch their hands on the land that belonged to legend.

Olan clenched his teeth, biting back a cry. Here he was again after leaving behind his wife and two children. Here he was chasing the past, so that he could set the foundation for a future in the next generation. There was no turning back.

You put your books before everything else in life and you believe that anything else you do would be a fool's way.

The chestnut eyes of his wife floated in his memory. They were filled with love. Forever a memory.

You've eyes of a seer and a spirit of fire. Your spirit would go out if you do not put it to your own use.

It had been a long time since Riovanes; a long time since he had made his choice of path in the forked road. How hard was it for him to give up his life for his beliefs? His stomach twisted in a knot of pain. It was hard.

A clack reverberated in the rhythmic beat of the rain. Olan turned from his place to look behind him at the tall hooded man, who had disturbed the broken branches with his feet. He raised a hand in greeting as he threw off his hood.

Olan smiled for the first time in a long time as he recognized the blonde. He did not notice how the rain was suddenly subsiding. A cool breeze was left behind to rustle his hair and the hair of the man now standing just three steps behind him. The visitor squeezed the rain-drenched cover of his sleeve.

"It's been a while, Old Friend," he said, throwing a few violets and irises beside the single rose.

The moment seemed to call for something more than that kind of a greeting, so Olan stood. He abruptly threw his arms around the man, a fatherly gesture half remembered and blurry from disuse. To the recipient, it was completely brand new and unexpected.

Of course. Here was a man, a prime example of hero material who gave up a childhood to find the truth. Did he know it all, yet? Not even close. He had to give up much, too, just to handle the scrap of truth in the world that was dealt to him. Did it hurt him? Most likely, but who's to say that he hasn't learned from pain as well? To know the existence of savagery and corruption was only the beginnings of a larger lesson plan; a lesson plan that wasn't simply taught in one lifetime.

Rough, mud-encrusted fingers touched Olan's shoulders to pull him back at an arm's length. For a moment the younger man stared at him with a look that studied.

As if he knew what the older man was thinking he spoke, "there are not as many scholars as fighters."

Olan chuckled. "There are not many fighters who can wield their choice of weapon well."

"And yours—I mean your weapon—is the pen. Who can wield that better than you?" he flippantly retorted.

Olan turned his head and shrugged in surrender. Papers were suddenly pushed into his hands. Olan looked down, surprised. "These are…"

"What were left of Father Samuel's book… The Church got there before me, but I salvaged most of the pages."

"Father Samuel?"

"Past on long before The Church figured it out. Natural cause."

"I'm sorry, Aster."

"Hey, don't be. He had a long, full life; one worth dying for. He certainly wasn't sorry for how he lived it, so why should you be?"

The young man stroked the smooth head of the grave. Olan jerked his head up and watched him. Every time he looked at him, Olan would recollect the man he met nearly eighteen years ago. Same golden eyes, same golden tan, and the same brightly colored eyes.

Aster broke from the grave and from him, bounding up the stony pathway. He was standing at the very top when he looked down at him again. He shouted, "Olan, never forget that you yield that gift of bringing immortality!"

The sun, riding just on the edge of the cliff furnished Aster Beoulve with a golden glow. A white eagle soared over his head, buffeting both of them in the ghost of freedom soon to pass.

Yesterday was history and tomorrow will be history unwritten. Betwixt these days, is today and what you'll make of this day.

THE END