He Who Remains

Everyone and everything around slowly dispersed, leaving Sol standing motionless in the rain, frozen in the place where his father had just died. The cheers of the crowd that had roared moments ago faded into the distance, leaving behind a hollow silence and the rhythmic patter of rain. Sol remained motionless, frozen in the place. He was numb, disconnected from the world around him, his eyes unfocused. After some time, a small trail of water mixed with blood trickled before Sol’s feet, drawing his blank gaze downward. Slowly, he looked up, He expected to see the gruesome remnants of the execution, a body, bloodstains, some trace of what had just happened but there was nothing. The platform had already been scrubbed clean, the corpse removed, as if the violent spectacle had never occurred. The square was empty now, eerily quiet, bathed in the dull glow of the rain-soaked evening. though it was too early for the lamps to be lit, casting the place in a shadowy, indifferent haze. After what felt like an eternity,, Sol moved. He began to walk, slowly, aimlessly, without any thought or purpose. His legs felt heavy, each step dragging as if his feet were weighed down by invisible chains. His mind was blank, just as it had been standing in the rain.

As he walked through the familiar streets, Sol had seen this world before, every day of his life. Windows glowed with the warm, inviting light of families having dinner. He could hear the muffled laughter of children running through their homes, carefree and oblivious. Couples strolled under the shelter of their umbrellas hands intertwined, their whispers and soft laughter blending with the rain. Sol moved through it all like a ghost, unseen, unnoticed. His eyes, once filled with longing for acceptance by this world, now looked upon it with a growing detachment.

But as he walked, the city around him seemed to shift, warping into something darker. His vision blurred, and the warmth and joy he saw in the windows was replaced with scenes of bitterness and decay. He watched a man violently rip a coin purse from an elderly woman’s hands near an alley, her frail body crumpling to the ground as her pleas were drowned out by the noise of the rain. A couple screamed at each other on the corner of a street, their anger cutting through the night like a blade their screaming voices echoing through the alley. He passed a home where a mother wept silently, her hands covering her face, while a drunken father raged in the background, smashing furniture as their children hiding behind broken furniture, frightened and forgotten.

Sol’s gaze hardened. The world now felt rotten, broken and its ugliness laid bare before his eyes. He walked on, his feet moving without thought, as if drawn by some unseen force.

Soon, he reached the familiar temple, a place that had been the closest thing to a home for him, though it had never truly felt like one. He could see the children sweeping the floors, the priests performing their evening prayers. But something inside him had changed. The temple felt distant, like a memory from a life that no longer belonged to him. His feet did not turn toward it. He kept walking, past the temple, his feet carrying him away from the life he had known. Soon, he reached the edge of the city and approached the towering gates of Black Pearl.

The city gates of Black Pearl were a sight to behold massive, grand, and imposing. Towering high above the ground, they were crafted from dark iron and adorned with intricate engravings that told the story of the city’s powerful founders. These engravings depicted fierce battles, legendary heroes, and the mythical black pearl from which the city took its name. The iron gates gleamed faintly, even in the fading light, and were set within towering walls made of polished black marble, their surfaces smooth and almost reflective. Everything about the gates spoke of the city’s wealth and might.

Four guards stood at their posts. Two of them flanked the entrance, their silver armor reflecting the last of the daylight and glistening in the rain. They stood tall and vigilant, spears in hand, their gazes scanning the few people still passing through. Above them, perched in a watchtower, was another guard, overseeing the comings and goings from a higher vantage point. The last man stood facing the horizon beyond the gates, Dressed in Grey armor that bore the city’s emblem, this soldier was different from the others. He wasn’t just a guard. His armor was worn, marked with the scratches and dents of countless battles, and a gleaming insignia on his chest marked him as one of the city’s elite. He wasn’t stationed here just for routine patrol. This man had seen war, fought in it, and carried with him the weight of a hundred victories. His eyes were sharp, constantly assessing, never resting. Unlike the other guards, who had grown comfortable in their routines, this soldier was always on alert, his hand never far from the hilt of his sword.

But even he didn’t pay much attention to Sol as he approached the gates. They saw just another figure another beggar or wanderer, soaked from the rain, lost in their own troubles. The guards gave him only a fleeting glance, and then quickly returning to their duties without concern. Beyond the gates, the world grew quieter still. The noise of the city faded into the distance, replaced by the whisper of wind and the soft murmur of the rain as it fell onto the open road. Sol walked through the night, each step taking him farther from the city, farther from everything he had known. The darkness enveloped him, but he did not stop. His mind was as blank as his face, devoid of thought or emotion. He simply walked.

As dawn began to break, the first rays of sunlight pierced through the clouds, casting a faint glow over the land. Sol finally paused, lifting his head.

As Sol finally looked up, he felt a strange mixture of exhaustion and clarity wash over him. The first rays of dawn stretched across the sky, painting it with hues of pale orange and soft pink, and for the first time in hours, he stopped walking. His gaze moved across the quiet landscape before him, and slowly, the realization sank in—he had come far, much farther than he had ever imagined.

What he saw was a lone mountain that stood tall and silent against the early morning sky, its rugged slopes covered in a thin veil of mist that clung to the rocky surface like a soft, ethereal blanket. Small clusters of trees dotted its lower reaches, their leaves swaying lightly in the breeze, while patches of wildflowers added small bursts of color to the otherwise muted tones of the mountain.

At the base of the mountain, a small, clear river wound its way through the land, its waters flowing steadily over smooth stones. The river’s surface shimmered in the morning light, reflecting the pale blue of the sky and the soft greens of the surrounding grass. It wasn’t a large river, but its peaceful sound—a gentle trickle—added to the sense of calm that permeated the area.

The plain stretched wide and open, a vast expanse of untouched land that spread out from the foot of the mountain. Rolling hills could be seen in the distance, their curves blending into the horizon, while the plain itself was covered in tall grasses that swayed gently in the wind. The simplicity of the landscape, with its serene river, expansive fields, and the solitary mountain, held a quiet beauty—one that was peaceful and undisturbed, offering a sense of tranquility and solitude, For the first time in all his years, Sol felt like he had control over something, even if it was just the decision to be alone. There was something freeing about it.

As Sol stood in the clearing, the realization settled in, heavy and cold. This was where he would remain—not because he wanted to, but because there was nowhere else to go. The thought of building a place to live here, a meager hut among the silence, filled him with a quiet, bleak resignation. There was no hope in the idea, no comfort—just the dull acceptance of isolation.

He wasn’t choosing this life; it had been thrust upon him by a world that had shown him nothing but cruelty. The thought of carving out even a humble existence felt hollow. The mountain, the plain, the river—all of it seemed indifferent to his presence, just like the rest of the world. But in that indifference, there was a twisted sense of peace. No one would come here to mock him, to hurt him, or to remind him of the life he could never have.

Building a hut here, far from the city and its harshness, felt like surrendering to the emptiness that had always lived inside him. It wasn’t relief he felt—just the slow, creeping numbness of knowing he was truly alone.

It had been some time after Sol had moved into the small make shift hut that he had made. Sol tried his best to fish and hunt in the small river that wound through the clearing near his makeshift home, but his frail, sickly body was ill-equipped for the task. Each morning, he would sit by the water’s edge, his fingers numb from the cold as he cast his line, watching the ripples spread across the surface, but his catch was meager. The river, once a source of hope, now felt like a cruel reminder of his limitations. Hunting was even worse. One day, he had tried to corner a wild goat, but the creature had turned on him, ramming into his chest with a force that knocked the wind out of him and left him unconscious in the dirt. When he woke hours later, bruised and battered, he realized he couldn’t survive this way.He was fortunate, though, that the mountain’s proximity to the city meant there were no deadly predators roaming about. But he knew this wouldn’t be enough to save him from starvation. His injuries from the goat were minor compared to the hunger gnawing at him every day. The solitude, once something he had yearned for, was now no thing but a bleak prison where each passing hour reminded him of how close to death he truly was. A week, maybe two, he doubted he could last much longer. With no other choice left, Sol decided to return to the city. He wasn’t ready to give up on life, not completely. He needed food, and the only way to get it was by working. The city, with its noise and crowds and harshness, was still safer than the unforgiving wild.

When Sol returned to the city, he felt lost and adrift, his mind racing with thoughts but unable to settle on anything useful. He wandered through the streets, desperately seeking work. He approached bookstores, restaurants, shops, and even the sewer cleaners, but no one was willing to accept him. His frail body and worn demeanor seemed to repel any chance of employment, leaving him feeling more like a specter than a person.

After several days of fruitless searching, he stumbled upon a grand restaurant, its opulence on full display. This establishment catered exclusively to the city’s wealthiest patrons, a world away from his own bleak existence. Sol hesitated at the entrance, glancing at the lavish decor and the well-dressed clientele who passed through the doors. Just as he was about to turn away, a banner caught his eye. It fluttered gently in the wind, emblazoned with the emblem of the Helvig family.

A wave of recognition washed over him. This was where his father had worked. A mix of emotions surged within him—curiosity mingled with a tinge of dread. Perhaps it would be worth a visit to see where his cruel father had spent his days.

As he stepped closer to the entrance, a man clad in a black robe blocked his path, arms crossed and a scowl etched across his face. “What business do you have here, kid?” he barked, his tone cold and unfriendly. It was clear he viewed Sol as an unwelcome presence. “Beggars and peddlers are not allowed,” he huffed.

Panic surged through Sol. Without a word, he turned to flee, but suddenly the man’s hand shot out, grasping his arm. “Wait a moment, kid. Aren’t you that old drunkard Paul’s child? I thought you were dead.”

Fear gripped Sol, but he managed to maintain an expressionless face, his heart racing in his chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied, struggling to keep his voice steady. He had never heard his father referred to by name; in fact, he wasn’t even aware of his father’s name. The mention struck him as strange and foreign.

The man studied him for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he took in Sol’s ragged clothes and the dirt smudged on his cheeks. “ You look like you’ve been living in a gutter,” he remarked, his tone softening slightly. “What happened to you?”

Sol stammered, wanting to say something, but the words tasted bitter on his tongue. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead, he felt a lump rise in his throat, the weight of his past pressing down on him.

Garrick’s expression shifted, and he sighed. “Listen, kid. You don’t have to share your whole life story with me. I can see you’re in a rough spot.”

“Yes,” Sol replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

He paused, looking around the bustling street. ““Are you looking for work, then? I can tell you could use it.””

“Yes,” Sol admitted, his hope flickering like a candle in the wind.

“Listen,” the man said, glancing around as if making sure no one else was listening. “You don’t have to wander the city like a lost puppy. Your family’s been working in this restaurant for centuries. If you need a place to stay, you can always come here. Name’s Garrick, by the way.”

With that, Sol’s fate was sealed. From that day forward, he began working at the Helvig family restaurant as an errand boy, moving through the bustling halls. His days unfolded in a blur of unnoticed tasks, and he became a shadow in the grand establishment unseen by the patrons, overlooked by the staff, living his days unnoticed and unbothered by the world.