THE WAY THE WIND BLOWS

[RaindropsKeepFalling 884]

Spoiler

[Do not metagame any of this information; lest you interact in roleplay none of this would be known by anyone.]

 

 

THE WAY THE WIND BLOWS

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In the winter season, the wind carried hushed murmurations to and fro over the Empire's domain East and West respectively. It knew where it arrived, where it went, who it hindered with its frigid nature; yet few hearkened those calls. Few espied them whatsoever, or so a young man figured. It was as if they didn’t hear the ineffable words at all. 

 

MATTEO often found himself reflecting over the fleeting wind's halloos; they hollered to him after all. Some would surely act ignorant: hailing the supposed sentiments as odd, bizarre even. Hence, he kept his mouth shut, listening for the manifold calls much more than speaking up. 

 

As for what the young man heard; such would be left unsaid. They were notions he received, and he kept anything and everything to himself, seemingly. It was the safest, sane thing to do. From the outside, his varying spiels and musings of heroic futures and ambiguous ambitions — well, they were strange to put it nicely. 

 

Since his kin’s death, someone he’d not known, nor cared for, the atmosphere had become silent. Perhaps it was mourning; it appeared that most people were. At least, those possessing his family's name. It had been swept under the rug by the Imperials, and though Matteo had never known the late woman who had apparently been his great-aunt, the principal troubled him enough.

 

That is, an unjust murder with unjust circumstances too. It left a definite melancholia remaining in the humid air. 

 

This was the way things were, the place they lived in: where those who cared carried little sway, and the rest revelled in complete disregard. They were debris brought along in the idle breeze, unseen to most. No one would worry if they disappeared, and no one would stand up to protest. The wrongs were left wrong, and their rights seemed to barely balance upon a thin rope with each passing moment; at any second it could all go to hell. Either way, he had no say. 
 

There was no one left to fix it, for even those that recognized it would soon concede to the situation that was. Some would seek to abuse it, and others would ponder endlessly. Matteo had yet to meet a man or woman that advanced forward amidst their complicit lifestyle. What that implied, he knew not. No one lingered here or there long enough to tell him. 

 

 

Since a child, he was taught this is merely the way things are. There was no mind paid to the impending future, giving him no peace of mind. Shouldn’t they dither and hang around a little longer? Shouldn't they swallow their judgement and accept this fate? 

 

Rabbits, waiting to be hunted.

 

Nevertheless, an irking notion stuck with him that this was not enough, nor was he. While men recited wistful eulogies in sable garbs, he clenched his fists and hung his head. While his kin rose to success, he mulled over what was to come. He wished for a placid world. A placid, just world would be lovelier, and a “placid world” was not the host of Almaris, nor the place where the Illatian lived. If only he had the slightest indication of what exactly he ought to do. If he did, he wouldn't feel so bad. 

 

Instead, whether he would or seek to deceive, Matteo wasn’t so different from the rest. Albeit, a little more of a troubled recluse. A lot more of one, in fact. 

 

The past perturbed him, as did the future, and he knew not how to act. Was he really living, or just existing without a real purpose? Somebody had to work it out, he only wished he was privy like the rest. If only this, if only that. He hung around faltering, ever unsure as he survived day by day, never with any specific pursuit. He traversed here and there, and even that wasn't much help. 

 

What use was an understanding, if only to sit on one's hands? 

 

 

Showers of rain pitter-pattered on the desolate lands that once hosted Redenford. There, the brick house wherein Matteo lived stood, over the outlook ahead. It had not been so wet when he’d ventured outside, he thought. 

 

That was beside the point, as he found himself sprinting from the rain with a lit cigarette as his torch, finding refuge beneath a large bridge — where frogs and spiders alike dwelled. Perhaps he would have minded them, but his discernment was stifled with a deviation of his attention to the outside soon enough.

 

“HELLO.”                

 

The voice sounded like his own but it was evident he’d said nothing — otherwise it would not have caught him by such surprise. It overlapped akin to a chorus with the downpour, one with the ambiance, carrying a fickle lilt in its bitter tone. The wind; others would not have heard it. 

 

The young man flinched, huddling into a ball akin to a tortoise shifting into its shell.

 

“AH, FIGURES. THERE’S NO FEAR, BOY.                

WE’RE ACQUAINTED, NO?”                

 

“R-right, ah…” He stammered, relaxing somewhat.

 

“YOU ARE HERE TO ESCAPE THE RAIN.                

BUT YOU DON’T MIND THE DAMPNESS.”                

 

“Mm…?”

 

“AN AVOIDANCE OF BEING WATCHED, IS IT?”                

 

“Si, well…” He blinked, sputtering over his words. “You put it like I’m paranoid.”

 

“YOU’RE SMART.”                

“Thanks.”

 

“...YOU COME HERE TO THINK.”                

 

“I suppose so.”

 

“WHY HERE?”                

 

“You know why. You know everything. Especially about me.” He snarked with a roll of his eyes, unamused by its antics.

 

“DO YOU KNOW?”                

 

“Of course I know.”

 

“WHY, THEN?”                 

 

At that, he turned very very silent and began to feel overwhelmed with an unshakeable sense of utter loneliness, fraught with worries of why. Somewhere, he was aware, but it is one thing to think of something, and another to confess aloud.

 

“IT'S AN ESCAPE.”                

 

“I suppose so.” He echoed, quieter to himself as he stared toward the reflective ripples in the riverbank — searching for a source of the voice he knew was nonexistent.

 

“It's loud over there, and I don’t know what to do, so I come to think. I get stressed when it's extra loud, y’know. No one pauses to hear anybody, lest it's my brother…”

 

“DOES HE KNOW WHAT TO DO?”                

 

“I don’t think so, but I think he’s doing what he does real well. That’s enough for him.”
 

“AND FOR YOU?”                

 

“Like I said, you already know that.” He remarked, fiddling with his quenched cigarette, tossing it into the water. “I’m gonna fix things. Somehow. Do you know how?”
 

“THAT’S YOURS TO SORT OUT.”                

 

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it before.” He snickered, shaking his head with a scoff.

 

“THERE ARE MORE CONSTRUCTIVE WAYS                 

THAN PROJECTING IT UPON YOUR FAMILY, MATTEO.                 

THEY KNOW NO BETTER.”                

 

“I thought if you were gonna come around again, you’d tell me something constructive.” He retorted, mildly irritated as the rain began to pass. He sought to brush the mud from his pants and rise, almost hitting his head in the process. 

 

“DID YOU FORGET WHY YOU’RE HERE?”                

 

“Didn’t come to talk to myself.”

 

“YOUR MISSIONS TAKE WORK AND THOUGHT.                

MORE THAN CALLING YOURSELF A                 

‘FIXER’ TO STRANGERS.”                

 

“I know.”

 

“YOUR AUNT IS DEAD.”                

 

“I know.”

 

“AND YOU DID NOTHING.”               

 

“That's not true.” He faltered out. 

 

“NO ONE DID.”               

 

“Right, they watched. I didn't.” He muttered, tense in his shoulders. “I didn't even know her...”

 

“YOU'RE ALRIGHT WITH THIS?”               

 

“No.”
 

“THEN WHAT WILL YOU DO?”               

 

“I don't know. Why me?”

 

Matteo had begun to swivel on his heels and meander in the opposite direction toward the house. Perhaps it was his own angst or weakness, with a false haughtiness in his gait, veiling a certainly unsure expression. In whatever case, it was his foolhardy escape from the very wind, though its message grew no quieter.

 

“YOU’RE GOING BACK TO THE HOUSE.”                

 

He winced. “Would you LEAVE ME BE?!” He shouted, coming to a sudden stop.

 

It befell an unabashed silence, at that. The still air was heavy.

 

“...WILL YOU MIND THAT THIS               

WORLD IS NOT RIGHTEOUS?”                

 

He opened his mouth, vexed by its final taunt, only too soon to realize he’d made it inside already. Things were truly quiet then, and he was well aware of the answer, too wary and prideful to possibly admit. Previously, he’d felt isolated — from the world, the land, the God damned Imperials. It differed now, beside the hearth, like waking from a prolonged reverie — a nightmare during the day. 

 

Maybe if he was like Drudo, or his brother at the opposite side of the bottommost floor, things would vary. He was just Matteo: determined as hell and just as clueless.

 

“Eugh,” he muttered, storming upstairs with muddy tracks in his stead. 

 

 

When he drifted to a short lived slumber [a rare occurrence,] he was wise. When the stars still illuminated burnt crops and that dastardly plot of land he lived nearby, he could anticipate what lay forth. Perhaps he could even prepare, and scream from the rooftops: Something is wrong! 

 

He could do something. 

 

But he never remembered. By the time he sat up, by the time those memories of prospects ahead festered, they turned vague. Such was the way of nightmarish musings: soon to pass. He was left only with an unshakeable kind of malaise, one which danced across his spine and made him shiver even beside the fire. 

 

One day, he would remember, and brazenly pace into the light. Taking up arms without another to tell him how — that would be a start… He was independent. He could be, at least. 

 

So it went, and there were more constructive ways to make things right. Any way the wind blew, he followed ‘till he was off the roads into forestry far from any Descendent being. It was there he turned up swathed in a bothered reverie, depressed and decisive. 

 

Now was the time, more so than ever, to speak up by his own accord. For the first time, he almost had a solid idea of what venture he intended to set about. His self-preservation was minimal for a sense of grandiose liberty like the open skies extending far in each direction: wanting to be a hero whether right or wrong. Being there, alive unlike some, it allowed him to fight. For his mother. For his aunt, his family. For himself, and the future rapidly approaching. 

 

The myriad gales began to pick up, bearing louder messages once he'd journeyed back. 

 

Deep down, Matteo still wasn't certain. 

[Hephaestus 1317]

Spoiler

 

 

"I saw a ghost today," Drudo padded his hands along the aftereffects a recent downpour had left on his face. Moisture boiled on his cheek, a two-way cross between sweat and mourning, and glistening occasionally with grief: soft, but fine streaks in the sooty areas surrounding his eyes. "… sort of, in a way."

 

Life is precious, such as it was, and so started the trek for Drudo's well-beloved cousin.

[JoanOfArc 4586]

Aki of the Fujiwara recalled her own tragedy as she wandered the streets of Providence, thinking as to the sudden death of her mother when she was rather young. Though the pain haunted her throughout the day and even to when she left the city, she noticed the sunset in the distance over the vast eastern ocean. The beautiful reddish sun rays cast throughout the skies. She held onto a necklace given to her by Matteo some years ago when the first met.

 

There is much darkness in this world, but the beautiful light shines through it all. she thought as she closed her eyes.