Aftermath

Sometime after midnight—when all had gone to sleep in the town, and the fires had sunk down to embers glowing softly in their hearths—sometime after midnight a man rode into town.

In the dark there was not much to tell about him. The hood of his dusty cloak shrouded his face. The set of his shoulders betrayed his weariness; He had the look of a soldier riding home at last. Whether it was from victory or defeat it was impossible to say.

Stepping down from his dark horse, he quickly tied the reins to a post. Lashed onto his saddle was a bundle of black cloth. He untied it and walked briskly to the center of town, not wanting to be disturbed in his business.

When he reached the center of the small town he laid down his burden and sunk down to his knees wearily. Unwrapping the bundle of black cloth, he drew forth a bundle of leather armor. It was pierced deeply and in many places. There would be no mistake about the fate of its wearer. Nor would there be about his identity; it was too small of a town, its sons too few and precious not to note the absence of the one who would not ride back from the war they had all ridden away to years ago.

Sighing softly, he withdrew a small spade from his belt and began to dig. Not deep enough for a grave, or to cover the armor by his side. Just enough for the small acorn he drew next from a pouch on his belt. He set it inside and pushed the dirt back over it.

Standing, he paused in silence, what might have looked like a moment of prayer, if the man had been one for praying. Directed to no one but the wind that came whistling through the trees, he spoke:

"Most would say that planting an oak here is something profane. That it is an honor reserved for those who served the light until the bitter end."

He paused and pull his cloak closed against the cold.

"None of them know the darkness, truly. They forget the darkest shadows are cast by the brightest lights. If there is a creator, it is him and only him who can know the truth of this. If he judges you innocent, then perhaps this oak will grow. Or perhaps it will not."

Without any hesitation, he turned and strode back to his horse, pulled himself up into the saddle, and turned the way he came. The horse trotted slowly out of town. Just as he was passing out of sight, back into the shadows from which he had arrived, he turned back and said, in a voice no louder than a whisper, "Goodbye, Yinz." And then he was gone.