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“Brothers?”
Four palms overlap.
“Brothers.”
*
*
Zeno dies in the war.
The Ouryuu survives the war.
He had been one of many who had turned up in the mud after the battle, but unlike the others, there is not a single wound or scratch on his pristine skin.
“That’s odd,” the nurse says, glancing over the people who have been brought in via cart. “You were there with the others…”
She fusses with some herbs before asking him if he’s hungry. He says no, and then she tells him to rest and wait for her to come back.
The Ouryuu looks to his side where an elderly man is sitting. He’s eating an apple, bright and red, while looking towards the other injured people resting about. He isn’t as hurt as them; his eyes flick towards the Ouryuu. “I wish I was young, like you.” One bite of the apple; he chews and swallows. “My heart is a poor thing these days.”
The Ouryuu looks to the sky. “So are Gods.”
He is gone before night falls.
Seasons do not pass in Kouka (as the people are calling it now) the way they do in other places; here, the winter comes with marvellous sparkles, and the spring comes and melts away all the sorrows and kisses the earth with flowers.
This land is exactly the sort of paradise the king had envisioned and fallen in love with, and yet for the Ouryuu, it is all hopelessly empty.
He wanders through mud and snow and grass and leaves. He watches on dully as the skies change from afternoon to evening, from night to morning. The sun withers its petals over the land, making the tree leaves dappled in warmth, and the Ouryuu wishes he could internalise the sight, make something within himself blossom like the next day.
He tries settling down, finding himself a humble village far from his hometown. He gets a little house where he works on a garden, keeping his hands busy and mind obedient.
He practices wood carvings that children marvel over. He barely remembers being a child himself; whenever he thinks back, sunlight and warmth fills his mind, and he supposes that means his childhood must have been a good one.
His adulthood, however…
“Why does mister not grow old?”
You lose your concept of time when it is endless. He must have been here for too long already. One swipe over the villagers faces and he knows that it’s time to leave.
He goes from village to village. There isn’t much to do after all when you can never truly get close to anyone. The Ouryuu remembers the last time he truly was alive; during that first lifetime, he’d loved connection.
The connection his brethren and himself shared was his most beloved, and even though they have been gone for centuries, the Ouryuu can still feel that connection alive and breathing like a resting creature; one he could never muster to approach.
Not until now, at least.
The leaves rustle as he pushes them aside to get a closer look at the white dragon's death place. A big patch of houses have been erected there, and there are people walking amongst them, all with a set of white hair.
The village Hakuryuu created has blossomed since his long departure from the world. It’s prosperous, and looking closer, the Ouryuu can see there is a child with the hand of a dragon—a white claw exactly like the one his brother had had. The power must have been passed on.
To confirm this theory, the Ouryuu travels towards the other places where he can feel a connection. He finds boys with blue and green hair. He finds boys with golden irises and scaly green legs. He eventually goes back to Hakuryuu’s village and by that time, the previous white dragon has died and another one born.
His clothes are filthy and torn. He eventually stumbles upon a woman who takes pity on him. She drags him inside her home by the sleeve and makes him sit down.
She’s a seamstress. Her fingers work nimbly with needle and thread and soon enough, Zeno has gotten a fresh new pair of pants. A man comes over, grumbling about having an extra mouth to feed and then soon enough, night falls. They invite him to dinner, to which he declines—he doesn’t need to eat, afterall—but they both insist.
The Ouryuu tentatively eats the soup they’ve prepared. It fills him up, reminding him what it’s like to have a full stomach. He realises he’s completely forgotten what that was like, and thanks them earnestly.
“Do you have anyone dear to you?” The woman asks, a kind expression on her face.
“Lay off him, will ya?” The man next to her gruffs. “He’s no more than a kid.”
The Ouryuu falls into thought as he once again wanders.
Someone dear to me…
‘Kaya lives by herself, I say that sometimes…’
“Zeno likes to wander.”
“Zeno likes good food.”
“Zeno likes to make people smile.”
The statue, made of rough stone and skilled craftsmanship, hardly looks like anything recognizable now. Yet there is still something there that makes his throat tighten. Zeno descends to his knees in front of it and presses his forehead to it.
The statue is the depiction of a man. His posture gives an air of beauty and divinity. His face is a quiet expression of peace, and his hands are knitted together in front of his chest as if he’s praying. Vines and moss have gathered around his feet and up his legs, reaching his torso; he is standing, frozen in time.
Zeno raises his head and looks up at his face.
When confronted with the idea of an immortal life, one question came to his forefront: Would our feeble memories be enough to withstand the amount of time I have to live through?
And now, after living through hundreds of years, he knows that he cannot forget his brothers and beloved king. He cannot forget, even if he truly wants to.
And he knows that there will come a time when the king will walk again; the other dragons have been reincarnated as well, time and time again.
The king will be back, but it is still a long time before that will come to fruition.
But that’s okay, because:
“Zeno is good at waiting.”