SOA SPECIAL EPISODE 2 – Caring for a Grave
by Shanna
BODIES OF TWO UNKNOWN CHILDREN
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FOUND TOGETHER ON THE DATE OF 6T53 Y29
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CARRIED TO ARCEUS IN LOVE AND GRACE
A figure stood in front of a plain square headstone, reading those words that had been carved into it.
The grave was slightly discolored and covered in grime. Its edges were worn down and deep pockets were forming on its now uneven stone surface. Dark streaks ran down its surface from years of rain. Dirt seemed to creep up its sides as though it were sinking down into the soil.
The grave wasn’t located in a graveyard, of course. It was far west of Yahneri port, deep in the Yahneri woods and far from the main road. It sat upon a hill that was hidden behind trees and vines and grass. The hill was just off the dead end of an old, forgotten forest trail. The trail itself was only found at the far end of large forest clearing littered with now-bare stone foundations – it used to be a village some decades ago.
Out in the middle of nowhere. The spot was nearly impossible to find unless one knew exactly where to look.
A massive gumball tree loomed overhead, casting shade on the obscure grave, with spiked seeds littering the ground. The grass was extremely high and sharp, thorned bramble had begun to grow up one side of the hill.
And there was no wind at all. The scent of the ocean wasn’t present this far west.
The figure that stood was short in stature and wore a full body black cloak, hood pulled over his head. He held in his hands a broom, taken from a crate of various tools he’d placed just beside the headstone.
He regarded the headstone for a single moment…
…then he swept.
Leaves, nettles, dirt and sharp seeds littered the overgrown space. The figure made short work of these, sweeping them from the headstone. He took a moment to run his hand over the top of the stone, brushing away the dust and other detritus that had settled there. Some of the leaves and seeds he swept would get stuck in the larger patches of grass, and each time he’d either dislodge them with a swipe of the broom or else pluck it from the foliage by hand.
With the old and rotting leaves now off in a growing pile down the side of the hill, the figure had to take this moment to uproot some of the weeds and crabgrass patches that made the space uneven. He silently sat upon his knees, gardening spade in hand, and plucked up the offending plants. He hoped this would make it easier to sweep away the dirt and rotten leaves that had built up under the topmost layer of leaves.
Broom in hand again, he set to work doing just that. Already he was beginning to see the gravel and rocks hidden under all the mess.
The burial had been hasty, without a doubt – no time to carry the dirt dug out back up the hill so they had brought a bag of gravel to hastily fill up the hole.
The figure was thankful they had at least bothered to put the two in fine wood boxes.
After all, the figure had checked. Years ago.
The figure took a wooden rake, using it to comb and pull at the grass that had spilled over on top of the gravel. He traced out the square shape of the gravel bed, uncovering it and pulling away the grass. The tufts torn from the ground were thrown over his shoulder, down the side of the hill.
With the grave itself clear, the figure went on to clear the rest of the site. Much of the grass surrounding the grave had grown exceptionally tall, to say nothing of the thorned bramble creeping up the far side of the hill. For this, the figure took a small scythe with which to cut at the grass.
There were easier ways to cut this grass, of course. A Pokemon such as himself could no doubt slash with his vines or send a flurry of razor leaves to cut the foliage in a matter of moments and be done with it.
Yet all the same, in rhythmic motions side to side, did the figure diligently cut the tall grass, clearing it in tufts that fell easily off the scythe and down the cliff.
It was slow. And that was the point. It would be rude to simply get it over with and leave hastily.
Soon the top of the hill was cleared of grass. The figure continued down the hill, cutting a neatly trimmed path all the way to the trail he’d taken from back road.
With his path made he decided he ought take care of that thorny bramble. Now that the grass was gone it would be free to grow unimpeded and that would be worse to deal with than the grass was. The figure didn’t know when next he’d have time to come back and he didn’t want the place to become even worse than if he had done nothing at all.
No, if he was here, for this brief time, he aimed to make it count and make it last.
Thus did he take his clippers, held in a pair of vines growing from his back, as he took another, smaller pair, in hand.
Looking at the thorned bramble he was relieved it wasn’t poisonous, but it was still nothing he’d want to tumble into.
It was a long and arduous process, clipping the bramble branch by branch. The figure had to work his way slowly down the hill, taking care not to slip. When he’d get to a stump he’d try to uproot it, sometimes using his clippers to snap the roots under the ground.
This took the most time out of the day by far. As dusk neared he was only partway done, having only reached the midpoint down the hill.
As ever, his work couldn’t be finished in time. He had to settle with only doing what he could.
The figure silently took the stumps and bramble branches away, stuffing them into a rucksack to burn elsewhere. He then took some of the clippings of grass, depositing them along the hill where the bramble had been. He’d hoped the grass would smother and stymie the bramble from growing again. He wasn’t sure how plants of this kind worked – he was no professional but he was the only one bothering to perform this task. So, ultimately, it all fell to him, expertise or not.
He paused a moment.
There was a gust of wind. The trees rustled and swayed in the cold and salty breeze that seemed to come from nowhere, carrying with it the scent of rain.
The figure sighed, trudging back up the hill. The rain would be here tonight to nourish the plants and have them grow over the grave all over again.
Thus, he decided to spend his final moments wisely.
Stepping up to the grave, he stood before the square of gravel, only staring at the plain headstone. Then, for a brief moment, he turned his head to look back towards the trail.
Nothing but the wind. He heard no others approaching.
At last, he lifted a hand to lower his hood. The Snivy shook his head, basking in the final rays of the sun and the feeling of the wind rolling across himself.
Quayslaan’s gaze returned to the grave, only staring at it. His frown was deep – he could feel how much it pulled down the corners of his mouth, straining.
He never knew what to say whenever he visited them. It was odd, for he always had plenty to say, all the time, no matter what. Quayslaan would always talk in kind and their conversations would last well into the night until the Guildmaster would knock on the door and demand they sleep.
But Quayslaan always responded.
Now faced with nothing but a silent gravestone he didn’t have anything to say back.
What should one even say?
Simply rattling off what was new in life seemed redundant. Should he simply talk about how he felt? It hadn’t changed much, and Quayslaan had run out of emotional and sentimental speeches years ago. He’d found every word and phrase combination to describe his feelings and found himself run completely dry.
That felt like enough.
So, instead, Quayslaan only stepped forward with a handkerchief and a corked bottle of water. His footsteps crunched on the gravel and he knelt, wetting the handkerchief and wiping down the face of the stone. Dirt and grime had wedged themselves into the crevices of the lettering.
The words were a disgrace to the ones they were attributed to. An outright and knowing lie, all to protect the public image of a band of murderers.
But Quayslaan felt if he was still here he would tell him not to make too much a fuss. Perhaps any epitaph was better than none at all. Better than simply buried and forgotten in some unmarked hole or thrown into Ember Summit.
Maybe Olistia had ordered it be so herself, that she might show some semblance of respect for the life she ruined. Caught in obligation due to her cruelty she did do, Quayslaan supposed, what was good enough for her.
Thus…whatever Quayslaan’s own feelings on the stone may have been…it still was, no matter what, Richard’s.
And Quayslaan cleaned it all the same.
Tracing every letter, every little carved detail, wiping it down. If for no other reason than just to touch it and let him know he was still there.
A final wipe. Quayslaan could see the sheen of the stone once more. Good enough for now.
Yet he lingered.
Only sat upon his knees and staring at the stone, the handkerchief resting in his lap. The sky turned from orange and then to red and still he lingered.
He sat with them. Listening to them. The sounds of their voices had faded years ago, so Quayslaan tried instead to just remember the words themselves. The stories told during long walks out to missions. The descriptions of unknown, unseen cities of strange names and stranger countries described as they sat in a park in Arceliaze.
He had vague memories of bedtime stories Richard told him on stormy nights.
The story of a man in a desert and a singing spirit from a lamp. Some other about a woman falling in love with a monster in a castle of talking furniture. A story of a prince that lost his father and ran into obscurity only to return to his throne as a man. Richard told him that these were stories from his home.
A lot of it was fuzzy, no matter how much Quayslaan wanted to hold onto every word and image.
Yet he couldn’t worry about it too much. In the final years Richard confessed to forgetting much of his home. After all, he’d grown up in Arcea – lived in an alien world longer than the world he’d come from. Arcea may as well have been his home all along. Yet, even so, Richard used to wish that he better remembered his true home.
Just as Quayslaan wished he remembered more of Richard. Remembered all the little moments and passing days that were long forgotten.
As he sat there, listening to the distant sounds of waves, Quayslaan also felt the same conflict he always did – so many others took comfort in the idea of a passed loved one still looking down upon them from Paradise.
Was Richard doing that, too?
But he was a human, and Quayslaan remembered Richard talked of his own God and a place called ‘Heaven’. Even as all the rest of his past life faded into blurry nothingness Richard always held onto the idea of ‘God’, ‘Jesus’ and ‘Heaven’.
Though Richard always confessed he only remembered a few of the stories and even then, it was only vague memories. He’d written what he knew somewhere but the notes were long gone – probably found and destroyed to hide Richard’s identity.
Really…the last thing Quayslaan wanted was for Richard to be in Paradise.
He hoped his friend could leave this awful place behind and never again have to look on the land that stole him from his home. He hoped Richard was in Heaven, with his people and his God, learning of who he really was, getting to finally see the home he never had.
Some part of Quayslaan had to hope Richard wasn’t looking down on him.
But, selfishly, that thought made the world feel very empty.
It made this chiseled chunk of rock on a hill feel even more meaningless.
But he visited all the same.
But what of Kanah? The girl lied here with him. The girl Richard supposedly ‘eloped’ with.
What a terrible lie. Anyone that knew the two of them would see through that easily. They had, at most, a mutual respect, Quayslaan wouldn’t even necessarily call them friends. Kanah was with them because she was nosy and she shared Richard’s opinions. She joined them in those final years only to get access into the guild.
Though she never said it outright, Quayslaan always had a feeling she was part of another organization. Maybe even the one Quayslaan himself eventually joined.
Yet, strangely, the press always mistakenly reported Richard and Kanah as lovers. And no matter how much the two tried to correct it they kept printing it. At the time Quayslaan thought it was funny.
Now Quayslaan wondered if the newspapers had simply known something the three of them hadn’t.
But, alas, she was here. Buried next to Richard, feeding ever further into the lie.
But, then, everything else about the grave was a lie anyway.
And Quayslaan still respected the Plusle. He supposed he could settle for her looking down on him from Paradise – separated from Richard in some way at last.
Quayslaan had to hope Kanah was proud of him for where he was today.
He honestly only wished he’d gotten to know her better. Kanah had no family he knew of nor kin. He’d sat here reminiscing about Richard down to the last detail – the smile on his face, the stories he’d tell, the places they went to and the things they did together.
Yet he didn’t have nearly as many of these memories with Kanah.
It felt unfair to him. Who else out there remembered Kanah but he? She was a whole person, even if she didn’t talk about herself much. She no doubt had dreams and feelings – secrets all that died with her, for Quayslaan knew none of them.
Kanah brought Quayslaan a different uneasiness. The way she was really and truly gone, with whole swaths of her self just erased in a single brutal instant. The only living touchstone she had barely knew anything about her.
Quayslaan saw in Kanah how much of a blip his own life was.
Who would remember him and his past were he to die? Who would remember Kanah, even this incomplete image of her? Kanah’s name would die with him, and they would all be meat in the ground to one day be dust and nothing more. Churned up and buried by the Arcean machine.
It made him hold on tighter to what little he knew of her. An incomplete picture was better than none at all. He’d written of her and drawn her along with Richard.
Quayslaan took especial care when writing of and drawing Kanah. For whatever he wrote and drew would be all there ever was.
That notebook sat on a shelf back in his dorm room where no elite could touch it.
They were safe. Both of them.
But now the first stars in the sky were beginning to make themselves known. The deep red in the sky was fading into an ever-darkening blue and the trees were slowly turning into looming shadows of themselves.
Quayslaan would have to come back another time to finish his work. If opportunity did not present itself he’d make the time himself.
Silently, the Snivy stood. He gathered his tools and lifted his hood back over his head. He turned and took the freshly cleared path back down the hill.
He stepped onto the back road, still deep in the Yahneri woods. The path was overgrown, sporting crumbling stones buried in the dirt from a time long passed when this was a maintained road. The trees were close together and the underbrush thick on this dark and secluded path. Nearby was a dead-end, where the brush had totally overtaken the path – some locals had hastily put up a wood barricade and a hand-painted sign warning of poison bramble ahead.
Quayslaan lifted his head toward the canopy above, spotting a tiny figure perched upon one of the branches.
He sighed, seeing them fast asleep, light snores fluttering down.
“Newbie. Wake up. We’re finished here.”
The figure jolted, his head perking up and wings flicking in surprise.
“Whuh…? Who…oh, Quayslaan.” The Starly yawned, hopping down from the tree branch and landing in the dirt in front of Quayslaan. “Man…is it night already? Time sure flies when you’re having fun, huh buddy?”
“This was not a pleasure trip.”
“Oh…well time flies when you’re having misery?”
Quayslaan couldn’t help but smile at that. All at once the bubble of that secluded place burst and he was pulled back into the world outside.
He took a deep breath – it almost felt like the first he’d taken in hours.
Reality. The world that kept spinning.
Being out of his own head was nice.
“I do thank you, newbie, for coming out here with me. I know you probably would have preferred to stay home.”
“Whaaat? Naaah, never, Q. You know I’m always up for adventure and stuff – even the adventures where I just sit in a tree and take a nap!” The Starly, Calladin, gave a nod. “That’s what buddies do, right?”
“Hmm…” Quayslaan smiled, looking down the road. “Even so, I owe you for your trouble. Let’s head into one of the smaller villages to eat. Do you remember that one village we passed to get here? Rowanwood? I think I saw a diner there.”
“Aw man, finally. I thought I was going to have to start eating the berries off the bushes! I’ve been starving and-“ Calladin covered his beak with his mouth. “Oh, uh, not that I’m complaining, Q. I-I can tough it out, yeah! S-starving for days, living off the land-“
“That won’t be necessary.” Quayslaan laughed, patting the Starly on the back. “We’ve a privilege and obligation to live and live well while we still live, don’t we?”
“Huh…? Whatcha mean?”
The Snivy shook his head.
“Never you mind, Newbie.” Quayslaan said at last. “Let’s just…get the biggest meal we can afford. Fill ourselves to burst with food and have some to take home after. And while we eat…why don’t you tell me of those books you’ve been reading again? There was a new one, wasn’t there?”
“Oh!! You mean ‘Treasures of the Volcano’??” Calladin said excitedly, following after Quayslaan. “Yeah, the newest book came out and I’ve been super excited to tell you all about it! It’s the longest in the series so far so I hope you’re ready for a long explanation.”
The Snivy couldn’t help but laugh, listening intently as he and Calladin traveled down the darkening path.
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