It had been years since the battle against Kenway. I didn't return home; I left for a new place. For hours, after the battle with Kenway, I carried Nic over my shoulder, looking for the proper place to bury my friend. Alas, I determined the spot underneath a hunched willow tree would be the proper spot. I dug a spot for him, with nothing but a smooth rock I found. After hours of painstakingly burying my friend, I stood above him and drove his staff to mark his grave. I hung his monochrome robe on the staff. Once again, I knelt and wept for my friend.
Now here I was again. I placed some pieces of jerky that he enjoyed so much on his grave that I had made. Nature had taken over his grave; flowers now growing over it. Sitting there, I pondered what would've been of my life. I missed Annabelle and the village folk. For what they knew, we had all died. Perhaps it was the fear of being labeled a failure again, but I wasn't a failure, I was living a grim life. A cycle that perhaps was cursed to always repeat. Some questions did haunt me: What if Nic and I were to have lived? Where would we have gone? What if I never met Nic? Where was Kenway? Those were questions that would be answered in another life I suppose. As the curious morning rays of light peeked over trees, I began to tell Nic another story of my younger days, a story that I never got to tell him when we were together.