Postby Ataraxia » Sun Apr 17, 2016 8:32 am
The stinging pain in his knee nagged him the entire walk home but his head was in the clouds, riding the storm of emotions that came after flirting with death. While the bugbears had gotten a few hits on him, he had surprised himself with the reflexes and strength that made him feel fifteen years younger. But the pain, that, he had trouble handling. He was much too old to suffer still, too tired to let the dull throb of bruises fester in his aging body. It had been a long time since he did not feel invincible, and even now it was something that still itched the back of his mind. He knocked on the front door, briefly licking his thumb to adjust his hair before brushing down his beard to its impeccable position while he waited. The turn of a lock was heard and the door creaked open to reveal a young girl covered in paint stains with eyes of a thousand stars peeking in the opening.
“Uncle! How was your day?” She threw the door open to ambush him with a hug that made him laugh and forget he was a crippled old man. He patted her head lovingly as he returned the gesture. “Oh, honeybun – I lived a splendid day, how was yours?” The girl snatched his hand, decisively pulling him inside as she began to recount her daily activities with the innocence and excitement of youth. He always loved hearing her talk, she gave him the courage to find enthusiasm in all things. When she began explaining that she was covered in paint because her mother was teaching her how to paint in the workshop, the painter climbed down the flight of stairs to welcome the man home with arrows firing into his soul, more alarming than a pack of orc scouts.
“What the fuck happened to you? You look like a goddamned drunk brawler.” Realizing her daughter was there, she quieted, nudging her aside toward a corridor with a deliberately soft whisper. “Layla, why don’t you go complete the painting you were so fond of? We’ll hang it in the hall after.” The girl was unamused, her eyes drifting toward the floor but she nodded nonetheless. The mother kissed her cheek and forced a smile that melted when her daughter was out of sight. Turning to Ben, she primed her hands on her hips, ready to knock over a charging bull. “Well?”
Ben watched sadly as he hanged his hat, movements having lost the resurging energy that Layla had blessed him with. He was almost stalling, wishing to avoid another argument but his voice spoke true nonetheless. “Bugbears. There was a caravan that never made it to the city.” He began explaining before the woman stomped her foot in front of him to interrupt him and take a stand. “You are /not/ a soldier anymore. You’ve got Layla and I and I can’t raise her alone! War is what killed your brother and he’s not there for my daughter and me anymore, what the fuck were you thinking?” Her fury left him speechless, the arrows marking the bull’s eye in his heart. “Please don’t yell at me.” He cleared his throat to keep calm, “People were in danger, and I cannot just walk away from that.”
“Sure you can. You walked away from my husband, and wasn't your first duty to family?”
He turned away to bury the face he was losing in a dirty hand. Her eyes settled on the coat, the relic of the past he wore, as he turned toward the front door with the intention of taking a walk while she settled down. “And still with the goddamned coat. It makes you look like a fucking deranged jester. Take out the chamber pots while you throw it away for me.”
The last dagger in his back made him slam the door, rattling the nearby windows. He knew how much Layla hated that, and the guilt instantly sank his heart when he recalled her. He shouldn’t have slammed the door.
