The Lost Voices (OLD VERSION - New Version to Come)

CHAPTER 9... ANVILS (PART 1)

Recording 3: I'll Come Home 

8-21-1620 A.R. 

Location: Brickshaw, Terrarin 

Malien's emerald gaze could not penetrate the horizon as his whitening knuckles refused to unclench from his father's sword. It felt like letting go of that calloused hand he knew so well, but Malien still couldn't bear the weight it meant to him. 

Looking down, the smoothed dirt was imprinted with a stone slab that rested atop the grave. Its gray edges were cut to resemble archaic gears and engraved molten formations lightly drifted down from the sides. The lifeless surface was inscribed with...

Leor Kinray

8-7-1620

Bury It in the Metal

All of it had been constructed in the traditional Arayin style. Even though neither Malien nor his father were extremely devout believers, they weren't against it either. If anything, some people ascribed themselves to the role of ministers and others did not. It wasn't Malien's place to say who went where, who was right, and who was wrong. 

He had too many of his own flaws to say. 

To Arayin believers, which Terrarin had an abundance of, each detail of the slab was meant to illicit something about the one who passed on.

Yet, so much was left out. Where was his father's love of animals? The fact that he tried to read one new book every week? Where had he gone in life? The way he squinted at words he thought were stupid? How mad he got when people called him short? Who were the ones he inspired? How did he build his own little world so quickly, but so strongly? 

The questions could go on forever and Malien didn't even have all the answers himself. He knew that one cruddy rock couldn't say everything, but he wanted it to. He wanted people to see his father as he did. For Leor's memory to be happy, ridiculous, stirring, and human. 

Only he and his sister could testify, and she didn't even know he was gone.

Tears welled in his eyes, but he fought them back with a strength his father had gifted him. The strength to know when people should cry, and when they should not. Malien could hear Jack coming to meet him by the grave. With his steel skin ungloved, Jack gripped his friend's shoulder and Malien took a long breath before nodding. 

Slowly, he made his way behind the tombstone, almost dragging the sword beside him. Then, in a single powerful thrust, Malien plunged the blade deep into the soil, scarring the earth like a promise.

Jack's eyes remained open, as if he could see the burden and chose to share that promise. Finally, Malien let go of the sword, leaving it firmly in the dirt. Together, they walked away from the cliff behind Kinray Kogs and entered the workshop through a backdoor. As they entered, he slowly adjusted his overcoat with the strange metal plates, the same one he wore when he fought the gear-head. It seemed strangely appropriate to wear his father's traveling coat, despite its reminder. 

Then, upon packing what little Malien felt to bring, which included a wad of raels, his smithing goggles, his gun and machine-sword, as well as spare clothes, and other seemingly random items, his life suddenly felt enormously small. Could he honestly pack the various elements of his life into an unused satchel? After checking and double-checking the items, he latched the bag and went to leave. 

His last walkthrough of the house felt heavy, but necessary.

In the back room, the slab he once used to finish weapons was riddled with the chipped and broken shards of Oldsteel. Nothing came together anymore, but maybe time was all he needed. Time, and something new.