章 48: The poor old man
As the sky slowly turned golden with the setting sun, the old man, Middleton, had been sitting on the stone for quite a while before finally coming back to his senses.
The pipe in his hand had already gone out.
He had once again drifted into his memories, as old people often do when they sit for a long time.
He gently brushed the dust off his clothes, stood up, and stretched his stiff legs.
He thought about taking a walk to the small chapel in the village.
Walking slowly towards the chapel, his steps were no longer as light as they had been in his youth, but they were still steady.
The evening air was filled with a peaceful stillness, with the occasional sound of birds chirping in the distant woods.
Just as he was about to reach the chapel door, he suddenly heard someone urgently calling his name.
"Is that Middleton Matthews?"
The old man paused, slightly startled, and turned around. He saw a young deacon hurrying towards him.
The deacon was panting heavily, with a look of slight urgency on his face, holding a freshly copied sheet of paper in his hand.
As he ran, the young deacon waved his hand, indicating that he had something important to tell the old man.
"Mr. Matthews, wait for me!"
The young deacon finally caught up with him, bending over to catch his breath, clearly having run all the way.
The old man squinted at the deacon, his deteriorating eyesight making it hard for him to see the young man's face clearly, but he recognized the voice.
"What's the rush?"
The old man smiled gently, his tone calm, clearly recognizing the young deacon.
The deacon, after catching his breath, handed him the piece of paper and hurriedly said, "Mr. Matthews, this is the latest news from Stormhaven. I just finished copying it. It contains some important information."
The old man reached out to take the paper, but his hand paused for a moment.
His eyesight had worsened with age, and despite his efforts to read, the words on the paper appeared to him as little more than blurry black marks.
"Sigh, I've gotten old. My eyes are no good anymore," the old man lamented, handing the paper back to the deacon.
"Read it for me."
The deacon nodded, took the paper, and immediately began reading aloud.
His voice carried a slight tension, as if the contents were urgent and not to be delayed.
"The Church of Stormhaven has dispatched a military force to the Celestoria Mountain Range, with the goal of eradicating the magic beasts..."
The deacon's voice echoed in the evening air, each word clearly reaching the old man's ears.
When the words "Stormhaven" were spoken, the old man's expression instantly changed.
His body tensed slightly, and when he heard "Celestoria Mountain Range" and "eradicate magic beasts," his face grew visibly heavier.
"Celestoria Mountain Range... eradicating magic beasts..."
The old man muttered to himself, his expression gradually freezing.
The young deacon continued reading.
"The army left several months ago with the objective of eliminating the large-scale magic beast threat within the Celestoria Mountain Range, to ensure the safety of the Southern Province.
It is expected to be a large-scale battle, with a significant number of soldiers from Stormhaven deployed in support."
As the deacon finished speaking, the old man stood there, silent.
Stormhaven, Celestoria Mountain Range, eradicating magic beasts...
These words bounced around in his mind, stirring his deepest emotions.
His grandson was currently serving in the Stormhaven military.
Would this battle draw him into its midst?
Noticing the old man's sudden silence, the deacon couldn't help but ask again, his voice filled with concern.
"Mr. Matthews, are you really alright?"
The old man slowly came back to his senses, the lines on his face deepening with worry.
He shook his head gently, his voice low and weary.
"I'm fine... It's just that this news came so suddenly."
Although his tone remained calm, his hands unconsciously tightened around the pipe in his grip.
The well-worn pipe, polished smooth with age, felt like a faithful companion that had grown old alongside him.
Now, it was the only thing he could hold onto for support.
A wave of unease and anxiety surged in his heart, swelling in his chest like a tide.
The image of his grandson, Borne, vividly surfaced in his mind.
That child who once cried in his arms had now grown into a soldier, heading off to war.
He could still remember Borne's boyish grin and the youthful naivety that once filled him.
The dangers of the Celestoria Mountain Range were all too clear to the old man.
It was a place even seasoned hunters dared not approach lightly.
And now, the army from Stormhaven was heading straight into a battle of life and death.
"Thank you for bringing me this news," the old man spoke softly, his voice carrying a deep fatigue.
He remained silent for a moment, then with trembling hands, reached into his pocket and pulled out some copper coins, offering them to the deacon as a token of gratitude.
"Take this money," he said, his voice slightly shaking.
"You've done me a great favor."
But the young deacon immediately shook his head, a gentle smile on his face, as he firmly declined the offer.
"No need, Mr. Matthews. I appreciate the sentiment, but you should keep the money for yourself.
You may need it for something important later on."
His tone was kind but resolute, laced with genuine care and respect.
Before the old man could protest, the deacon quickly turned and ran off, vanishing into the distance as if to avoid any further refusal from the elder.
His figure soon disappeared into the fading light of the setting sun, leaving the old man standing at the entrance of the chapel, gazing after him for a long time.
The wind gently tugged at the edges of his clothes, and the golden hues of dusk cast a long shadow of his slightly hunched form.
There he stood, consumed by his growing worry and concern, becoming ever more silent.
As he watched the sky, now tinged with the deep red of sunset, a heavy weight seemed to press down on his heart, making it hard for him to breathe.
"Borne…" he whispered softly.
The breeze brushed against his cheek, carrying a faint chill with it, along with the deepening worry that lingered in the old man's heart.
After a moment, the old man turned and made his way to the small village chapel.
Aside from waiting, the only thing he could do now was pray for his grandson, Borne.
He hoped that the divine would hear his pleas and ensure the safe return of his only family.
The chapel was modest and somewhat worn.
Simple religious paintings adorned the walls, and at the center stood a humble statue of Alkis.
Sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows, casting soft hues on the statue's face, giving the space an air of holiness and tranquility.
The old man walked slowly, his footsteps heavy with age and worry.
The sound of his feet echoed in the quiet chapel.
He approached the statue of Alkis and knelt down, his hands clasped tightly as he bowed his head in reverence.
"Lord..."
His voice was hoarse but filled with conviction.
"Please protect my grandson, Borne.
He is my only family, my only hope.
I know the battlefield is merciless, and the magic beasts of the Celestoria Mountain Range are fierce.
But I beg of you, grant him strength, grant him wisdom, and keep him safe."
Though his voice was quiet, each word carried the weight of his heart's deepest wish.
His hands clenched into fists, and his eyes remained fixed on the statue, as if waiting for a divine response.
He knew he had no control over the fate awaiting Borne on the battlefield.
"Lord, I am willing to endure all the pain in his place, as long as you ensure his safe return.
I do not seek wealth or glory, only that he may come back alive, so we can spend what little time I have left together."
The old man closed his eyes and sighed deeply.
His voice, though soft, reverberated throughout the chapel, filled with the weariness of years and the weight of endless hope.
As the last rays of dusk faded, the chapel grew darker, and only the flicker of candlelight illuminated the statue.
He remained there, kneeling in prayer, silently offering all his concerns and hopes to the divine.
In the stillness of the chapel, the old man was absorbed in his prayers, lost in a moment filled with both sorrow and yearning.
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