The Passage Back

Alone in the crowd of a war-torn world, tending to his writing in a dark and disclosed corner of a tavern, sits a withering poet—stained with remorse and guilt, yet he remained benevolent his entire life. He had lost everything, but found comfort in knowing that he had lost more than most men would ever have. So he played with his words, for words were all he had left to play with.

A single man strides in—firm posture, a soldier's uniform, and a composed, commanding presence. His rugged looks, scars and leathered skin tell the tale of a long and disconnected life. His eyes wear a penetrating gleam—the look of a man with a myriad of battles behind him. The crowd silences itself instantly, with every single eye fastened on the soldier in awe and admiration. Their hearts brimmed with reverence, but losses had been overwhelming the past nine years. No one smiled anymore, as if repressed; they didn't know how to earnestly smile anymore, and when they tried, the disguise soon betrayed grimaces of harrowing sorrow. Returning soldiers were treated with great care and compassion, but never with smiles. The battles came to an end, and valiant men now return to their homes and families—as it is with this man-at-arms. The barkeep hurries forth to offer a bottle of his finest:

"A token of our gratitude. Anything you need, only let me know, and I'll see to it that it is provided for you. Around these parts, soldiers of the Vanguard will have no expenses ever."

The soldier nods and accepts the bottle. As guests rise up from their seats offering their table, he raises his palm and declines. He notices an empty chair far in the back of the tavern, next to a dilapidated wooden table covered with scripts, poorly lit by candles soon snuffed out, occupied by a man gnawing at his pencil, scribbling away in visible disconnect and remorse. The man sitting there was unattended, neglected by his own accord.

The soldier takes a seat across the poet in the gloomy corner, who withholds emotion, concerned not to aggrieve the soldier; he guests at the poet's table, yet the poet feels he is trespassing, wholly undeserving—the slightest nod assures him that he is welcome to stay. The barkeep's bottle is sternly drained; hard liquor would scorch his throat long ago, but these days, he felt no resistance to it. The two sit there for a while, both hardened by life enough, in their own ways, to recognize an empty glare and what that means. Time passes in silence. Gradually, they converse, sharing, pouring drinks to one another.

"How far is home now? Anyone left?", the poet asks.


"Not too far away. Down by the seaside, near Singer's Harbour. Been away for seven years. Haven't seen my wife and child since.", the soldier replies.

He speaks of them with joy, yet he suppresses it as best he can; in Elysium, hope can be malicious, and expectations are best tempered. The soldier still believes his return is too good to be true, a mere hallucination to engage in whilst the scarlet runs dry. He never believed in a return, and conditioned his mind as such over the course of nine years; callous, calculating, with sinister intent until the end of him. His passage into the ominous and the grim had cost him his way back, he believed; a raw deal. A photograph of his family, though blood-stained, worn-out, and barely discernible, is promise enough. He brings forth the photograph, for the poet to see.

"My wife, and my son.", he shows.

The poet admires the picture, and his curious nature compels him;
"Why are you here? Singer's Harbour – it's close, you'll be there before sundown?"

"He must have grown now too. Each day I imagine whether he carries his mother's face or my own.", the soldier continued.

The poet feels shame for intruding that way, to such a figure. An uneasy question comes with an uneasy answer, and he regrets this.

"I imagined many of his faces... but none are real. I wonder whether even a single one even comes close."

The poet realises something is unearthed sooner than it needed to be.

"I am no longer who I was. To survive, I became someone else. You had to. Everyone had to. I can't go back like this. And it still wasn't enough. I can't. No, not yet. No."

The soldier had sustained countless battles over the years, and sees calamity at the doorstep of an old life; trapped wherever his mind has taken him, and with himself alone, a lengthy, feverish monologue was at display for the poet. The sun had set by the time his demons relinquished their hold. The soldier stares down at the table with eyes wistful and morose—and another gulp, violently, as the moment passes, and then;

"I want to see my wife and my son, but I'm afraid of having them see me.''

The poet reaches for the bottle, and pours into the soldier's glass—liquor overflows, drowning the scripts on the table with all of the words he earlier played with, seeking its way through the meaning of his poems, through to the cracks in the wood, down and through— and keeps pouring until the bottle is empty; an old custom that displayed honour and gratitude for an encounter, and that it was time to part ways. The poet smiles at him. A small, but earnest, smile, as he stands up, approaches him, and affirmingly lays a hand on his shoulder;

"You may have lost love for yourself. They haven't."

"I ... I just needed a minute.",

"I hope I don't see you when I come back.".

Nor did he. The weary, discouraged veteran is sent to battle again; one last confrontation, one with the promise of freedom. The soldier reunites with his family—though hope can be malicious, and expectations are best tempered.

The poet returns to his writing, and remains in the dark and gloomy corner. This time, he decides on a story instead of a poem, and carries on as withering poets do;
"Alone in the crowd of a war-torn society, tending to his writing in a dark and disclosed corner of a tavern, sits a withering poet." he began, as he always did, in retrospect.


Upon concluding it, the poet walks down to the coastline. Through deafening waves crashing against each other, he distinguishes a familiar, soothing, singing voice. How could he ever forget it?

"I'll relish this feeling just a little longer," he whispers to her, "a little more...",  although she is now back in the arms of another, reunited, blissful, and singing to someone thought lost—someone who paid a heavy price in order to return.

The night passes, and the morning star flares. He takes a step into the sea, and though its water is frigid, the poet is rejuvenated by it. It is right, and it is time; a dark blue draws him closer to itself, with sweet strokes of promise and purity. He doesn't resist—why would he ever?— as he gratefully takes another step, and then another one.

And another one; one after the other—he begins to walk.

The poet keeps walking.