The moment he sat down across me, my curious eyes fell helpless. It had to observe the nooks and crannies of the substance that made him. Like an author trying to uncover the story of her unfinished character, it was my duty to decipher his tale. Across me was a man in his early 30s. He wore a neatly pressed white shirt. The collars were sharp and the cuffs were rigid. Donning a brown leather belt over his black trousers, he looked as sophisticated as a man could be. His posture was what my mother yearned I would achieve. His air was the confidence my father envied in other men. For a man such as him, it was weird to be wearing a pair of black shoes with brown leather across his hip. “Stiff” would be the word to describe a man like that. I would have done so… if not for the vibrant smile he wore as he looked outside the train window. It was evident. The pregnant suitcase, warm clothes, and a smile. His destination was as obvious as it could be.
“Are you going home?” I asked. The book I was reading had slowly found its way down to my lap. His eyes followed it.
“Yes. How did you know?” He replied, still maintaining the curves of his lips.
I felt an insatiable pride travelling to the palm of my feet. “Just an educated guess,” I added. “Where is your hometown, if I may ask?”
“Rush Valley,” he replied. “And yours, young lady?” No one had described me as a young lady throughout my brief career with the press. They knew me as the child of the company, even at the old age of 27. Yet, it wasn’t the most surprising part of the sentence.
“I am originally from the Briggs’ region. But nowadays I stay within Central itself. And coincidentally, I’m also off to Rush Valley.” I smiled. I wondered if it was enough to compliment his own.
“What brings you to our small part of the world?” he leaned forward. If not for the smile, I would have mistaken it for an interrogation. For his voice was heavy and his air was intimidating.
“Oh, I’m writing a report on how the war affected the little villages of the country.”
“Oh…” was all he replied.
The train suddenly jerked. Not even the most experienced travellers could get used to the faulty engineering in the tracks. Nor could my heart, which rose and fell. My book kissed the train floor. And his hand fell to pick it back up. It was then that I saw it. The story of the man who sat across me. The scars which were seared across his forearm. As soon as he saw my curious eyes peeking. He took it back.
“You were in the military,” I inferred. He nodded. The smile slowly faded. “I’m sorry you had to fight the war for 8 long years.”
Shaking his head, he said, “It allowed me to protect those whom I loved.” The gentle smile returned. “It also allowed me to protect you, young lady.” I felt the temple of my cheeks grow warm amidst the cool, travelling air.
“Thank you for all the hard work,” I said earnestly. It was indeed hard for them. Harder than what many could imagine. Our county, Amestris, headed into war 8 years ago. Amidst which, over 80,000 died. Some by bullets, some by knives, but most… by hunger. “Why did you decide to join the military?” I asked.
“We’re a family who had nothing,” he started. My story of the man across me began to take shape. “I still remember the days when I go home to find an empty bowl of cracked clay sitting in the kitchen. And my mom, frail as she was, would break down into tears seeing me. It was not an easy life by any means. My father worked day and night in the fields to make whatever pennies we could obtain. My mom walked two villages over to clean houses, toilets, and pantries. I did my best too, of course; often teaming up with my old buddies to do odd jobs that no one wanted. Yet, across all this, I don’t remember a single day in which we ate all three meals.” The train stopped on a station in between. The man stared outside blankly. I stared at him the same. “Our story was the same from when I was a child, till I had grown a small enough moustache to be called a man. I was 24, and helping my father in the fields when the war came.”
“It must have been a scary day for you, then.” I added.
He shook his head. “Quite the opposite. It was the first day we ate three meals. While everyone was dreary that the war had come. We rejoiced that day. I even got a second serving of rice, believe it or not. The military paid many multiples to the pennies we were living off. Me and my father ran off to the camps. He got rejected for having one blind eye. But they selected me. Even with my fragile arms and legs.” The man sat back loosely in his seat. It was hard for me to believe there existed a time where his now bulky arms were fragile.
“Weren’t you scared?” I asked.
He shook his head. “If I died in the war, my family would get a pension for it too.” He claimed rejoicefully.
“Still, it must have been difficult to leave home,” I replied.
“That…” He nodded carefully. “That it was. I remember crying. My entire village came to the gate to send me off. Yet, even on that endearing occasion, I was treated like a hero. I was about to save my family from the bottom of the pan. My mother, as usual, cried for hours before my journey. My father too joined at the very last second. I knew that they wanted me not to go. But I knew too that I had to go. They were good people. People who showered me with happiness from the little droplets they found lying about.”
“Did you get to visit them during these 8 years?” I asked.
He shook his head. “It’s my first time going home since the war. I wonder how much my village has changed.”
“How far would you say it is from Rush Valley?” The curiosity within me kept growing.
“An hour at most… Why? Are you interested in coming?” He asked with a glow on his cheeks.
“Yes… I would like to start my report from there, if I may.” I answered.
“We would be honoured to have you!” He exclaimed.
I smiled. He smiled back. The rapid wind from the windows washed over our faces like a mellow orchestra. I began to notice how brown his eyes were. And the small stubble that outgrew his freshly shaven beard. The empty space where his once manly moustache existed. The small dimple on his cheek. And his pat-dried hair that danced around with excitement. Somehow, over the last two hours, the air had changed. It was now tepid and calm. Smelling of blue roses, sometimes of jasmine and tulips. Sounding little choo-choo’s and crack-cracks from the metallic monster we were swallowed by.
“Where were you stationed at?” The reporter in me asked. Ruining a perfectly fine silence. I cursed her for a moment.
“The eastern front, near Ishval,” he said, as if it was nothing. It was something. It was everything. Ishval was the bloodiest of all the battles. The famous image of the blood-lake, dumped over by thousands of corpses still sent shivers down my spine. Yet a man who fought and scurried over there sat across me without horror written on his face. It was true what they said. The military makes men into “Men.”
Till the train sloshed its way to Rush Valley, he described me of the horrors he faced. Of the people he had to kill. Of the people that tried to kill him. Of the scars he had gifted. Of the scar that painted his outstretched arm. I felt admiration, fear, disgust, sympathy, pain, more pain, and a world of pain hearing his tales of agony. Yet I wondered… what was it that kept his smile alive, unlike many others?
“You’re excited to go home, aren’t you?” I asked.
“Yes. It has been 8 years, after all.”
“Were you able to write letters to your family during that time?”
“For the first few months, yes. Until the postal service broke down, and only important mails were allowed to pass through. But fortunately, my salary was correctly deposited to them. So, I was glad with what I could get,” he replied.
As we got down at Rush Valley, I stared at every shop, person, road, and building I could. And so did he. Apparently, over the years, Rush Valley had transformed into an unrecognizable land by his confession.
“Ready for your homecoming?” I asked. “Your family must be excited to see you.”
He nodded with a smile. “I wonder how my village has changed.”
Through the next hour of journey, I crafted the early years of my story. His childhood. His friends. The times he got scolded by his father. The days he and his mother had fun in the yard. He even showed me a secret locket from the depths of his suitcase, encapsulating, by his account, the only picture of his parents.
“It’s beautiful,” I said. It was the same as every other picture of two people. Old, grainy, and half torn. Yet his smile, the little teardrop in his eye, the stories that filled up his mouth, the homely smell of porridge he described all the way up to my nose, all of which… made it the most beautiful photograph ever.
Journeying mountains and seas, we finally reached our destination. “Rune Village” as it was written on an arch made of stablewood. Which by his own admission was a luxury they didn’t have when he left.
“My village has changed,” he proclaimed. We hadn’t even taken a step into the one-kilometer path that remained. For the final ten minutes, he finished up his story. By a funny story. About the day he tried to cook for his mother and father. The porridge nearly burnt the house down. And left the three of them hungry for two days. I was confused as to whether I should smile or cry. But his laughs were thunderous and wild, recreating whatever they felt into a good note.
“Johnny boy?” An old voice called us. I looked around the dried fields. A head rose up out of nowhere. “It’s you!” It ran towards us ferociously. “IT’S YOU!” It jumped up onto the path and onto Johnny Boy. It was at that stupid, utterly indescribable moment, I realised. I hadn’t even asked his name. Nor did he, mine. Johnny Boy seemed good enough for me though.
“Who’s this fine young lady?” the other guy asked. He had two missing teeth, creases on his face, and dirt all across his clothes. Yet his smile was familiarly unfamiliar. John described our acquaintanceship, and we were escorted into the Rune Village by our guardian.
It was a sight to behold. Every turn and stride, someone would stop us and rejoice over Johnny Boy. To each, he had to separately describe my existence. The one thing I noted that all had in common was a scar. In one location or the other, when the war reached Rush Valley. They were the survivors of war who still was capable of a smile. By the time they were all finished with him. The neatly pressed white shirt had transformed into a crumpled up onion with specks of dirt on all sides.
“So… You’re Johnny Boy?” I asked, chuckling. Rubbing off the dirt on his chin.
“I guess so,” he smiled back. Still without asking my name.
“Where are your parents?” I asked curiously. My eyes wandered for any new faces of rejoicement, which was also filled with tears upon seeing their son.
“They’re a bit further ahead,” he said, and walked with me down a narrow strait to the side of the village.
Our walk grew more silent as the crowd slowly withered away from us. A minute later, it was just the two of us down the narrow strait. Either side of which had a meadow of long grasses and white fences.
“Your parents sure do live in an isolated part of the village,” I said. He smiled gently.
As the seconds passed, it became clear to me, far ahead, donned in white, a small welcoming arch. It was then that he started to walk faster… No… It was me. My legs felt heavier with each passing second. Why? John became a cloud of blur in front of my eyes. Why? He kept on walking… and walking… and walking. Till I could not catch up. Why? Until the arch, where he waited for me, and gently gazed into my now-red eyes. “Why?” I asked, my voice broke, my cheeks groaned. I looked at him. He smiled back.
“I got the news one and a half years into my service,” he said. The arch above our head seemed to be a veil into the unknown. The strongest man in the world walked into it with a smile. “You must be wondering if I regret it… No, I don’t.” John walked into the cemetery and sat down affront of two stone tablets decorated with fresh flowers. “For a year and a half, my mother and father ate three meals a day and smiled,” he added. He lit a match and placed a candle in front of the stark grey graves. “For that small time, I was able to shower them with the happiness they deserve.” He bowed down in front of the grave and prayed a silent prayer. “When the war took them… I was sad. Yet, I was glad.” He looked at me, still smiling, yet a thick droplet fell from his cloudy brown eyes. “I was glad that it wasn’t the hunger that took them away,” he confessed. “And even then… they made it so that our village benefited from the money I kept sending.” I looked back again. Far behind us, with flowers donned in their hands, the village walked towards their savior. Covered in scars and dirt alike. To the boy that came back. On his fated Homecoming.
My heart felt a million shatters. My eyes approached a staggering blindness. I could hear the birds sing the songs of the requiem. I could smell the burning wax of an everlasting candle. John prayed all his prayers of eight years. I sat beside him, a symbol of the tears he could not shed. I cursed all the gods who ever existed and some more that didn’t. We sat there in tranquility, singing two tales of a story my curious heart cooked up. The silence lasted an eternity. Yet eternity felt too short for what John deserved. Finally, still with a smile on his face, the 24-year-old boy who left his home, now cometh back a man said to his beloved parents,
“I’m home.”
