The Mourning of a Friend

[AlphaMoist 1707]

https://youtu.be/8TfeCAJEZeA

 

An exhausted Mali’ame stares down at a freshly dug grave that has been adorned with flowers, trinkets, and other odds and ends over the past few elven hours. A kettle in his right hand, a glass in the other, he drinks his tea and just stares.

 

His mask lays on the ground beside him. This wasn’t the first time he had visited the gravesite. No, the first time he visited, he had been with the dead man’s lover and father. They mourned for him. They cried and they wept. He had as well, but the mask kept his emotions hidden from all but the ancestors above. And now it sits on the ground, leaving his red, irritated, and dry eyes exposed for all to see. Thankfully, he had come alone.

 

That was when he knew Daichia Jusmia the best: when they were alone together, sipping tea and talking about the goings on in their lives. The two used to do that quite a lot in the past. When the curse was first laid upon himself, Daichia was the first person the ‘ame came to about it. They had always been neighbors. He would wander over towards the Mali’ker’s house, knock on the door three times, and every night, consistently and without hesitation, Daichia would be there for him. He’d give the ‘ame tea, two ears to rant towards, and the security of knowing that he wasn’t alone that night.

 

This changed.

 

“You grew too busy to care about him.”

“He was your friend, but you treated him like a stranger.”

“You drove him away, ignored his cries for help, and you led to his murder.”

“You fucked it up. Like you **** everything up.”

 

The whispering started quietly within the ‘ame’s mind, but they grew louder and fiercer the longer he stared at the grave.

 

“He came to you. Cried to you. Just like you did for him. And how did you repay him? With a cup of tea?”

 

“No.”

 

“With two ears for him to rant towards?”

 

“No.”

 

“Did you offer him the security and comfort he always provided you?”

 

“No.”

 

“No. You did not. You pat him on the shoulder; you told him everything was going to be alright. And then you left him to his wailing. And now he is dead. And you are partly to blame.”

 

The mali’ame continues to stare at the grave, listening to the voice’s ramblings as he is always forced to do. Of course he wouldn’t be free from them during his time of mourning. The parasite never liked Daichia to begin with.

 

“It’s been a while since we shared a cup of tea, old friend. This one’s on me.”

 

Vas stretches his arm out, holding the kettle above the grave. He dips the handle, and a slow, steady stream of  tea flows out of the spout. There was no steam escaping the brew as it hit the ground, and it causes him to wonder how long he had been standing there. It was piping hot when he had left his Clan Hall, and it’s not even fifty paces away from the gravesite.

 

With that final thought, the ‘ame sighs, finishes his tea, and kneels down to the grave.

 

“I’m sorry, old friend. I failed you.”

 

He gets up, picks up his mask, and affixes it to his face, pulling his hood up around it afterwards. No one would see him cry this day.

 

No one other than Daichia. Just like always.