“Thirty-five,” Rafael sighed and then frowned in sadness and disappointment as he gazed upon his grandson’s tombstone.
The headstone itself was simple - just a name and the year he was born, and the year he died. There was no epitaph, no words to commemorate his life. A life that had been wasted, and thrown away. A true embarrassment to the family, and a blight on society.
Today, Tomas Del Bosque, would have been 35 years old. The eldest child of his eldest daughter, Azucena. A daughter who had been his pride and joy. A daughter he had loved and wanted nothing but the best for. A daughter who also lay in the cold ground, and who Rafael had shed silent tears for. Hers had been a life cut short, a flame snuffed out before it could shine brightly.
Tomas, however, left him numb. He had often suspected that, at some point, the young man that had turned his back on his family, would end up badly.
Of course, Rafael had, in the beginning, denied the obvious, preferring to turn a blind eye to his grandson’s behaviour. However, ever so slowly the behavior … which had at first been very easy to ignore, was no longer deniable. His grandson had become worse than Balor and all the Fomorians together.
“A loved one?” A man’s voice, smooth and modulated interrupted Rafael’s dark reverie.
Turning to look at the tall, light-haired individual addressing him, Rafael felt a sudden gust of cold pass through him.
“Pardon?” Rafael replied, somewhat annoyed at the untimely intrusion.
“The grave,” the man insisted as he stared at Rafael impassively, his eyes never leaving his face.
“Does it belong to a loved one?” he asked once again - calm, polite, insistent.
“Oh, that...” Rafael remarked, unconsciously jerking his hand and shoving it in his pocket. It felt like a dog’s wet nose had just touched his fingertips.
“No. Just someone I used to know,” he said, no sooner speaking the words as the sudden sounds of angry whispers buzzing, crescendoed quickly by his ear like a million crickets, and then crashed, going quiet.
“Who are you?” Rafael demanded suspiciously, now aware that whatever was happening - the icy gusts, the cold touches, the whispers were most likely connected in some way to the blond stranger with slate coloured eyes standing a few feet from him.
A smile. Cold, slightly sadistic, coy. “Me? I’m nobody. Or, perhaps, I'm somebody you may have once known,” he replied cryptically, his words devoid of emotion. Lifeless. And yet strangely mocking.
The headstone itself was simple - just a name and the year he was born, and the year he died. There was no epitaph, no words to commemorate his life. A life that had been wasted, and thrown away. A true embarrassment to the family, and a blight on society.
Today, Tomas Del Bosque, would have been 35 years old. The eldest child of his eldest daughter, Azucena. A daughter who had been his pride and joy. A daughter he had loved and wanted nothing but the best for. A daughter who also lay in the cold ground, and who Rafael had shed silent tears for. Hers had been a life cut short, a flame snuffed out before it could shine brightly.
Tomas, however, left him numb. He had often suspected that, at some point, the young man that had turned his back on his family, would end up badly.
Of course, Rafael had, in the beginning, denied the obvious, preferring to turn a blind eye to his grandson’s behaviour. However, ever so slowly the behavior … which had at first been very easy to ignore, was no longer deniable. His grandson had become worse than Balor and all the Fomorians together.
“A loved one?” A man’s voice, smooth and modulated interrupted Rafael’s dark reverie.
Turning to look at the tall, light-haired individual addressing him, Rafael felt a sudden gust of cold pass through him.
“Pardon?” Rafael replied, somewhat annoyed at the untimely intrusion.
“The grave,” the man insisted as he stared at Rafael impassively, his eyes never leaving his face.
“Does it belong to a loved one?” he asked once again - calm, polite, insistent.
“Oh, that...” Rafael remarked, unconsciously jerking his hand and shoving it in his pocket. It felt like a dog’s wet nose had just touched his fingertips.
“No. Just someone I used to know,” he said, no sooner speaking the words as the sudden sounds of angry whispers buzzing, crescendoed quickly by his ear like a million crickets, and then crashed, going quiet.
“Who are you?” Rafael demanded suspiciously, now aware that whatever was happening - the icy gusts, the cold touches, the whispers were most likely connected in some way to the blond stranger with slate coloured eyes standing a few feet from him.
A smile. Cold, slightly sadistic, coy. “Me? I’m nobody. Or, perhaps, I'm somebody you may have once known,” he replied cryptically, his words devoid of emotion. Lifeless. And yet strangely mocking.