Chapter 120 Tears of A Warrior

The following day was a day of celebration, but the nature of it caught Emilio off-guard quite a bit. It began at the peak of the morning, just before the afternoon; festivities began with feasts being prepared and contributed by members of the village.

A massive bonfire sat in the center of the village, to which children played and danced and the village shaman danced and sang.

The great trees that served as walls around the isolated village towered high, though were inhabited by the many occupants of the land, who celebrated together. It was a beautiful day in which the sun’s rays danced over the foliage, letting the soft, orange light glimmer down onto the verdant grass below.

What was curious about the celebration of victory itself is that it was also the funeral for those that had fallen in the battle against the Outriders.

“–” He sat by the large bonfire, a safe distance away.

It was a pleasant surprise, but Mienna managed to completely restore his outfit; cape, vest, and all, to perfect condition.

Seriously, I was happy not to have to keep wearing just a loincloth–I can’t unsheath excalibur so soon to the eyes of everybody! He thought.

The bodies of the fallen Verma warriors, including Raegun, who was carried in by Yula, were brought to the flames.

Vandread was sitting beside him, both of them eating sticks of meat as they watched the dancing and festivities continue. Even Bruman was involved, who was dancing around the fire with a teary-eyed smile.

“Is this kind of thing normal?” Emilio asked quietly.

Vandread chewed his meal, “…Normal isn’t the way I’d put it, but it’s not wrong, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“–” He looked at the dark-skinned companion of his.

“I’ve seen it in other clans, too. A ‘warrior’s death’ isn’t something to treat as a tragedy or a sorrowful thing; it’s something that should be honored and celebrated. I don’t know it too well, but that’s the gist of it.”

“You’re not too far off.”

–Catching Emilio by surprise, he looked back to see the tattooed, red-haired champion of the Verma standing right behind them, watching the bonfire dance with a somber smile of his own.

“Alekkai,” he said in surprise before his eyes trailed to the man’s bandaged torso, “How’s your wound?”

The crimson-haired demi-human smiled, grazing his fingertips over the wrappings, “I feel almost at my best, thanks to you. The magic you wield is amazing, Emilio.”

Emilio bashfully scratched his cheek with a chuckle, “Well, maybe it is,” he looked up, “What did you mean, though? That he wasn’t ‘far off?'”

Sitting just behind them, Alekkai rested as his lengthy, unkempt hair flowed by the natural winds; the man seemed to carry a smile more natural than any other when witnessing the celebrations of his people.

“It is a day of victory; a triumph of a lifetime for our people,” Alekkai said, “What sense would it make for only the living to be a part of it? It is because of those who died that victory was achieved in the first place…” He sounded almost regretful to say that as the look in his eyes dimmed, “…You see, ‘Melabak’, the festival of victory, is for all. It is on the day of such happiness, carefree joy, and celebration that one can grieve and overcome without losing themselves in sorrow.”

That much seemed true as Emilio looked towards the large, bright-orange bonfire that illuminated the village; those that danced around it had smiles, but also shed tears as they celebrated.

“I see…” Emilio said quietly, beginning to understand as he looked towards the illustrious flame, “What about the fire? What’s that represent? I mean, I doubt it’s needed during the day.”

Alekkai seemed happy to explain, “The ‘fire’ is the image of a warrior’s soul; his fighting spirit, his compassion, and his dreams. Every burning; bright and warm. Those that have fallen will be taken in by that flame and allowed to move on.”

“A ‘warrior’s spirit’ is something that amazing? Being a fighter does take a lot of courage…” Emilio replied quietly.

“You may be mistaken in your thinking,” Alekkai told him.

“Huh?”

“A ‘warrior’s spirit’ isn’t exclusive only to those who fight in combat; it’s born from those who stride against the flow, trudging through the river of fear. My wife, Mienna, may not be a fighter, but she certainly possesses the ‘warrior’s spirit’; she ventured past the walls around her and into the world,” Alekkai explained.

These words caused him to be left speechless as he looked at Alekkai, finding what was said to strike something deep within him; utterances that pierced through ‘Emilio’ and touched ‘Ethan.’

“Being a warrior doesn’t mean wielding a blade. To me, it means fighting against what has shackled you, and pursuing what it is you truly desire. Whether that means to be a powerful fighter, an adventurer, or simply to overcome what’s held you back. Even if you’re enclosed by impossible hurdles, you must try to overcome them; that’s what it means to be a warrior.”

Such words caused him to remember memories he painfully tried not to reminisce; he remembered it: the buzzing of the fan in his room, the hum of his computer, and the darkness of it all, hidden behind curtains.

I was anything but a warrior then, he thought, I wasted away in my room; bitter and resentful of my own defects. But, I changed it, didn’t I? I overcame it, right?…Or, did I run away? I don’t know.

As he questioned this, he looked down at his own hands, unknowing of what his actions led him to be. Though he knew the answer; as much as he wished to think of himself as a warrior, he knew the truth.

[“Ethan Bellrose”]

It was the same as any other day in the life of the young man who thought of himself as the most miserable person who inhabited Earth.

He sat at his desk, tapping the mechanical keys of his keyboard with his frail fingers as his hollow eyes reflected the bright light of his monitor.

All the frail, bandaged youth could do was browse the internet, day in and day out, wasting away without any feasible aspirations held.

There were things he yearned for, sure, but he knew well everything he wanted was impossible for his ‘accursed’ body.

A knock came to his door; gentle and light.

“Ethan, honey…”

“–” He didn’t respond.

Only the tapping of his keyboard stopped for a moment to signify to the woman on the other side of the door that Ethan had even recognized the sound of her words.

“I found a movie we could watch–you know, like when you were little? It’s ‘The Cautionary Knight, Rumptil’–it used to be your favorite,” his mother said from beyond his bedroom door.

He sat there in the darkness of his room with his oxygen tank sounding out, tubes running up his nose as he failed to respond.

“Ethan?”

“–” He didn’t respond.

It was the same thing he did every time; he simply sat in silence until she left him alone. Though his solitude was something that was unquestionably a necessity, he chose to remain utterly alone.

That bitterness was like acid; he melted his connections, sealing himself away.

“…I hate you…”

Those words he whispered almost in a small exhale through his non-rebreather mask were ones that were heard through the door; said in his darkest hour, those words came from a place of utter miserableness.

He was a spiteful being; each day as his skin itched and burned, his body ached and yearned for the outside world, and his loneliness pressured his soul, he cursed the one who brought him into this world with such a miserable constitution.

—

Remembering the way he was back then, he felt disgusted with ‘Ethan’, but he knew he could only judge who he was now because he had found a place of happiness. It wasn’t as if he naturally became a better person of his own will, but it was the new body and life that allowed him to desert the bitter, hateful shell of ‘Ethan Bellrose.’

I’m not some strong-spirited person who overcame hardship. If I managed to beat it…I wouldn’t have abandoned the one person in the world who cared about me, he thought, maybe if I recognized what I had, not what I didn’t, I could’ve carried on with it. But, I ran away in the end. There’s no changing that.

“You’re a warrior, Emilio,” Alekkai said, setting his hand down on Emilio’s head, “There’s no question about that.”

“Huh? Really?” He looked up at the man.

The words caught him by surprise as he became lost in his own thoughts momentarily, but they meant a lot coming from the champion of the Verma himself.

“…Did you not venture to rescue your companion here? Not only that, it was you who slayed the elder of the Outriders; a legendary beast in his own right! Perhaps you’re gifted now, but you chose to use those gifts not only to fight alongside us, but to save another. If that’s not the spirit of a warrior, then I don’t know what is.”

After remembering his old life, those words that meant everything coming from the pinnacle of a ‘warrior’ brought tears to his amethyst eyes as they sparkled.

“Darn, this dust…!” Emilio said, rubbing his eyes with his sleeve.

Alekkai laughed, “It’s alright to cry. Even warriors shed tears.”

As he was told that, he moved his sleeve away from his eyes as he looked up, finding Alekkai to be looking towards the great bonfire as visible tears ran slick down his cheek.

“Oh…” He said quietly.

It wasn’t just the champion himself; those who danced around the fire, moving so jovially and with passion, weren’t absent of tears, either.

Perhaps the only one in the village that day that didn’t shed a single tear was the stoic, darkly-dressed man himself, who sat there, filling his stomach quietly.

“–” Vandread sighed to himself.