Working on the ending of most of my characters, trying to close a chapter in their lives. I need new characters, new life. New hope.
Anywho, this is what will at some point happen to Vian D'Unian.
I hope you like it. I don't, but I did enjoy writing it.
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Giving in and giving up.
The sun lazily crept over the hilltops. It was one of those days where the light moves a bit slower than usual, where the golden shimmer of dawn is a bit early on its travel and can therefore take its time. The sky had been kissed a purple color by the rising morning star, and the song of awaking birds echoed trough the small valley between the hills. The light, morning dawn, made crystals sparkle across the surface of the valley river. The waterfalls weren't as noisy, and the trees swayed peacefully in the air.
The low hill was the best spot to watch the sun rise, to watch the world come to live. Wild, white flowers stood, gently rocking in the wind upon that hill, yawning and stretching like flowers do, silently not to break the magic of the morning mist.
His boots were made from leather and too warm for this type of weather, unless he felt something other than the wind's gentle breeze. He was wearing skin clothes from arctic wolves, a comfort against a snowstorm but it made him stand out doing summer days like this one. His gaunt-like figure was covered in layers of clothes underneath the coats, and it made him seem comical and strange. His white hair got caught by the wind and blew into his face. His old, scared face, yellow skin, the trace of ancient knowledge, too much for him to bare, too little for him to feel satisfied. His lips were broken and dry, they hadn't tasted water for ages. He supported himself by a walking staff, woodwork as ancient as him. He traced down the runes with a rough, dry finger, a finger, a hand that had done too much hard work for a man his shape. The skin like studded leather, without much feel to it any longer.
He slowly brushed some of the air away from his grey, dull eyes, and studied the valley, then the sun rise. Lastly, he eyed the only building in the valley. A small, white house with a roof made of straw and a small chimney where smoke calmly rose. They were up and about already.
Slowly, as if the weight of the entire world was upon his shoulders and he had to use all his strength to do this move, he lifted his left foot, placed it in front of the right, then the right and placed it in front of the left, and so began his stride down the hill and into the valley.
It had been a decade since the valley had last had uninvited guests. Most of the world kept turning without paying attention to this small sanctuary. Everything was untouched, not harmed by human hands. The little river side, the wild apple trees, the bushes of berries, the wild horses running around. The only thing that indicated any form of interference was the small house.
The visitor crossed fields of tall grass and wild flowers. He grimly remembered his years there, and as he turned his head, he heard the laughter of a young woman and his heart pounded in his chest. He turned, only to see empty sky.
The house came closer, or maybe he came closer to the house, he wasn't certain. It had seemed so calm and peaceful from afar, but now, as he got closer, it seemed as if the structure would devour him and keep him a prison here. He felt the urge to turn and run, his old bones screamed, begged it of him. But he kept walking ahead.
His hands whitened lightly as he took a grip around his staff. He knew what he had to do. He stopped close to the building, a sudden move, as response to a sudden sound. The door opened, he could hear a calm female voice from inside, asking someone to fetch water from the river. A small shape danced out the door, playing as she tiptoed towards the waterside. She wasn't old, maybe past her first ten summers. Her hair was white as the snow that decorates the top of mountains, and she was dressed in a simple dress that seemed yellow in comparison to the hair. Her skin was a dark brown color, and she ran on bare feet. The visitor kept standing on his spot, studying the girl run off. He didn't say a word, he didn't move, he just stood there, starring.
A moment later an adult woman came out of the door as well, looking after the girl and shaking her head with a light laughter. She emptied a bucket by the side of the house, and stood up straight, enjoying the light breeze trough her white hair. Her ravenblack skin glistened in the light of the first sun that was still creeping its way over the hilltops. The woman laughed and waved as she seemed to spot something or someone approach her home from the opposite direction of the still unknown visitor. A large, brown bear walked towards her, and as it came close, it went up standing on two legs, shaking off the fur of what changed to a human body, and the man wrapped his arms around her small waist, then kissed her forehead and looked down at her. He was muscular, youthful and undressed, not that she seemed to mind. His brown hair reached down to the small of his back, and his skin was a tanned, light brown color. He seemed touched by time and war, but not harmed or crippled, unlike the hidden visitor, he seemed healthy.
She took his hand, and they walked inside again, leaving the old man to his own. They didn't even pay attention to him, to them, he did not exist any longer.
He removed the hood resting over his white hair, and dropped the staff to the ground. His arms moved in the air and he mumbled words in an old, forgotten, forbidden language. Fire erupt from his sleeves, running up his arms, surrounding his shape, caressing his wrinkled face. He forced the fire into the ground, shaped it in his mind, made it charge towards the little home. But something broke him off. He could hear singing coming from the lake.
His grey eyes turned, the girl was on her way home. She could have been his.
He stopped, choked the magic before it could do any harm, and studied her dance and sing with the little bucket of water between her two hands. A boy ran out from the house to meet her and help her carry the bucket.
The visitor studied them, then turned and left the way he came, the only thing indicating that he had ever been there was a small, burned spot in the grass where flowers never seemed to grow again.
He made it home.
He dropped himself into his old chair.
And decided that no matter how much power he would get, he had lost.
Lost himself.
Lost her.
And he died that night, sitting in his chair.
Not by the hand of Juan D'unian
Not from a vengeful apprentice
But because he had given up.
And so it came to pass,
that Vian D'unian gave up immortality.
Copyrighted by Cecilie Hornstrup Nemeth, DK ©
