Rolling hills behind….
Grey clouds above….
The perfect day for a funeral.
The baying of hounds covered the sound of mourning as they finally lay him to rest. Whiskey was drunk by the cask. Little amber eyes watched it all.
It had been about a week since he had seen his dad bounding off into the highlands. It was still so strange to think he would never hear that gravelly drawl. He would never feel the rough brush of a beard from a kiss to the brow, those moments were buried six feet in the ground.
His hero was gone, but the world kept moving on. People asked him if he was okay. They stood in lines and offered their condolences. Words. It was all they could offer. He stood there, numb, frozen. And they talked.
Slowly the night came to an end. The last drunk was thrown out of the pub and the doors were locked. It was just him and his gramps.
“Archie, go to bed kid.”
It wasn’t the same forty a day voice, didn’t have the same whiskey soaked rough edges. It wasn’t the voice that told him goodnight and the beard wasn’t the same when it brushed his forehead. Everything was different now.
“Night gramps.”
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“Archie! Get out of bed!”A knock at the door. A pounding tattoo that he had heard a million times. It had been years since he had laid his dad to rest, almost a decade of hearing his gramps beating at his door to wake him up, yet it still had him wanting to sob. A thousand years could pass, a thousand mornings could come and go and still the pain would flare anew.
“Coming gramps.”
Sleep rough voice that sounded too close, too familiar. The hiccup from the other side of the door, the hidden tears he knew were shed. All that he was, just a reminder of the son that was buried up in those highlands. There was no moving on, no forgetting, for either of them. The mirror showed only the face of a dead man. If he wanted his gramps to let go, if he wanted to give his gramps’ heart a break. He had to leave.
For weeks his bag had been packed, resting by the door until he had the courage to pick it up and leave. There would come a day when he grabbed the straps and walked out of their little country pub. But not just yet.
Right now, all he needed to do was get up in the mornings and work. He knew his days here were coming to an end, he just wasn’t ready for it.
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“He was a good man.”“He did well by his family.”
“He will be missed.”
Another storm rolled over the green hills. More rain fell upon cobbled streets – it was another day of wearing black.
They had buried him next to his son. Covered him in the same dirt. Said the same prayers. It was the same numb feeling.
He was gone.
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“Next stop; Ravenblack.”
A year. That is how long he waited before picking up that bag and walking out the door. A year and a burial.
Long legs, lumbering steps.
He was alone in the world.
Mother dead.
Father dead.
Grandfather dead.
It was only him now, and maybe…that’s just the way it was always meant to be.
He stood on the platform. Head bowed, face hidden behind the grey cotton of a thick coat more suited for the cold north. He had no idea where to go. Boarding that train had taken all his will power. So, he stood there with his eyes closed, and he let his mind wander back to those rolling hills he had left behind him.
He could almost hear the bagpipes, and the baying of hounds let free on a hunt. He took comfort in that. No matter how far he travelled. No matter where he wandered. The highlands were waiting for him, and it gave him strength enough to move forward. Without looking back he walked out of the station and, true to his blood, headed for the nearest bar.
Stone behind…
Rolling hills of grey in front…
Clear skies above…
A perfect day for a journey.
Goodbye Archibald Dùghlas.
Welcome to the world Tokyo.
"Time to get hammered I think."