Above the Waves' Mercy

I woke up with tears in my eyes, certain I had dreamt of something.

I recalled being engulfed in a foggy darkness and a lingering warmth gripping me tight, but everything else was blank.

Looking around, the Old Man wasn’t home.

A single bowl of soup sat by the hearth, thin smoke rising from the embers. He had likely just left.

I stood up and drifted towards the windows to open them, minding the small step and avoiding putting too much strain on my right leg. The pain was mild, but the wound was still too fresh. It could reopen easily.

I had yet to recover from my searing heartache. All energy had drained from my body.

My appetite hadn’t returned, but I forced myself to eat, just like yesterday, unwilling to let the Old Man's efforts go to waste.

I unhurriedly sipped the soup, pausing with each gulp, and left the bowl where I had found it.

I couldn’t stop the memories of Yrish from resurfacing. Every time I attempted to let them go, they came back, as strong and vivid as ever.

It was like a rough sea. Memories were pulled away, only to crash back moments later.

I was constantly being stabbed. As the blood spewed, her angelic smile turned eerie, laughing at my disgrace.

Her parting words echoed through my head.

“You did well” sounded more and more like satire. A direct critique of my utter inability to fulfil what I had set out to do.

My mind twisted the very image of purity into something cruel.

Crying became commonplace.

Years of crying myself to sleep hadn’t drained this well of grief. During those days, there were times I had gone numb, unable to cry. However, I seemed to have recovered my aptitude.

I had no desire to leave the house, nor did I even feel physically well enough to do it.

I took this opportunity to see what was beyond the wall. Limping my way to the other side, whines and groans rose from the bent wooden floor.

Unfortunately, there were no fantastical goods awaiting me there. That space served as a storage room.

It was chock-full of tools, utensils, and an odd variety of garments and fabrics.

It was also where the toilet was located, or so it seemed from the foul stench. A trapdoor in the floor revealed a stone slab guiding waste outside.

The breeze from the windows carried the town’s aromas into the house. A vast catalogue of delicious fragrances and cheerful chatter drifted inside.

It all felt sickening.

I couldn’t imagine this was the same town that had raised Yrish.

With nothing more to investigate, I went back to my bed. Seeking refuge in something familiar, I decided to meditate.

Despite the diverse sensations I was encountering, it felt nothing like meditating outside in the forest. The amount of mana around me was significantly lower. It was most likely due to the village's reduced density.

Controlling mana was far clumsier than before.

My inner mana seemed normal, but the outer flow dragged sluggishly, pulsing without rhythm.

Perhaps meditating next to the river might help, but I wasn’t feeling up to it right now.

After a while, I heard the sound of the door. A weight pressed against my chest as I opened my eyes.

Turning to my side and not seeing that precious expression after training hurt more than I thought it would.

Quickly wiping my eyes, I turned to face the door.

The Old Man was holding two strange fish-like creatures in one hand and freshly washed green vegetables in the other.

He met my gaze with a bright grin.

He placed all the items inside the metal pot and seized a knife-like utensil and bucket from beyond the wall.

He deftly removed their heads and dropped them into the pot before brushing off the scales with the knife’s blunt side. With practised ease, he peeled away the skin and tossed it into the bucket.

The fish had the smooth, slimy skin of an eel, with a jagged dorsal fin and an elongated tail.

He carefully cut and peeled some of the leafy greens before removing the spines and thinly slicing the fish’s meat.

Finally, he rendered the fish’s fat to grease the metal pan and tossed in the greens.

Everything was unfamiliar to me. Never had I seen a long, fatty fish like this one, nor the dark green, flower-shaped vegetables with delicate, layered petals.

The Old Man’s cooking was oddly comforting. I forced the heavy thoughts to the back of my mind and watched him work his magic with the foreign ingredients.

He struck two rocks together to light the fire beneath the pot, much like how I did it in the forest.

The sparks coaxed the embers to life, leaving the simple task of softly blowing on them to the old gentleman, for which he used a long, hollow wooden tube.

The gentle warmth I had once felt in the forest quietly returned.

He then let the food cook for several minutes, marinating in the fat.

The gentle stir of the ingredients caused the flavours to combine and permeate the dish. Delightful aromas exuded from the dish every time a bubble popped, overflowing the room with a mouthwatering perfume.

When the food was ready, the Old Man grabbed two bowls and two pointy tools, metal-tipped utensils slotted into hardwood handles.

This time he only served two plates.

He likely served food to the dead on special occasions. It might be related to visiting the graves, but I couldn’t be sure.

There was no way to confirm it with him right now. I would need to wait for the Old Man to do it again.

I watched as the man picked up the food by stabbing it with the uniquely shaped tool and mimicked his actions.

The greens had a subtle crunch, likely from being cooked in fat.

The fish tasted different than I had imagined. Its texture was soft at first bite but stretched in the mouth, breaking apart like rubber into silky strands.

By the warmth of the fire, I suddenly recalled my notebook.

I hadn’t written anything down since before the accident but was not feeling up to the task at the moment.

A tear slipped down my cheek as I remembered that Yrish had written something there.

The thought emerged out of a sprouting curiosity, almost a desperate hope that perhaps the Old Man could read what she had written.

I rejoiced. He would certainly be able to translate her words. I wanted to know what she was trying to tell me back then.

I stood up, gesturing for him to remain seated.

After rummaging through my belongings, I grabbed my notebook. Returning to the fireplace, I opened the book to the page Yrish had written and showed it to the Old Man, pointing precisely where she had written it.

He took it from my hand and tried to read it.

After a few seconds of viciously eyeing the scribbles, he turned to me and shook his head, as if telling me that he couldn't understand them.

A sharp sense of melancholy filled my hollow husk. He seemed to have recognised the letters, having attempted to read them in the first place, but was he illiterate?

The old gentleman seemed well respected in the town. Could this imply that the majority of the villagers couldn't read or write?

If so, how could Yrish do it?

I wasn't sure if I was overthinking it, but what she wanted to tell me remained a mystery.

Time waved mockingly as it drifted past.

Two days had already elapsed, and the severe ache in my chest showed no signs of subsiding yet.

I hadn’t been able to shake off the feeling of guilt and hadn’t left the Old Man’s house since the cemetery visit.

I found myself bound to my bed. Every time I tried to leave, I was dragged back through the sand. My hands grasped at the fleeing pebbles, but they escaped through the crevices.

The same tide that had mocked Yrish’s memories returned. Seized by my feet, it dragged me under, and I drowned in an ocean of anguish.

The water pressed down. I watched the bubbles rise to the blackness above.

But at last, a faint glow cut through the darkness of the waves, and I wrenched free from the chains around my ankles.

I hesitantly grabbed my trousers and my shirt from the pile in the corner.

Despite lingering doubts, I was finally ready to step outside.

This time, I had no one to look for.

It was just me and the strange town.

The adrenaline coursing through my body stood no chance against the overpowering pressure of the villagers or the sheer weight of the sounds and smells around.

Making sure not to put too much strain on my leg, I wandered aimlessly through the village.

The villagers’ stares sent shivers down my spine.

I was a stranger in their world, swallowed by the unknown.

It felt as if vultures were eyeing their prey. Whispers rattled like snakes, coiling tighter with every step.

They had their eyes on me.

Everyone was looking.

I could tell without raising my head. Their scorching glares burned holes through my clothes, searing my skin.

I had been walking for a bit when I finally stopped to pay attention to where I was going.

My mind was a masochist, dragging my legs to the one place I shouldn’t return to.

“Why… Why am I here again?” I laughed in distress, asking myself.

I was once again at the top of the hill.

My hard-won freedom vanished in an instant. I reached for the sun with the same wax wings.

I glanced at the graveyard for a few seconds, utterly still before it. Tears streamed down, but my expression never broke. I forced my thoughts aside, keeping my face stone-cold still.

The pain surged.

This was my punishment, the self-inflicted chastisement that I deserved.

Fighting the urge to overstay and rot there forever, I wobbled sluggishly down the hill.

I was heading once again towards the lion’s lair, as if begging to be eaten alive. But even their stares felt kinder than the brush of the reaper’s scythe at the graves. Where death’s cold mist embraced me from behind and whispered in my ears, leaving me to quiver in fear.

Gaining nothing from this outing, I returned to the Old Man’s home with the promise to try once more tomorrow.

There was no safe space.

Not in this house.

Not out there.

Only a choice between crying by her grave or crying here, where her absence echoed louder than words.