He used to have a family, they say. Before the War.
Most people, like me, survived the War with most of our loved ones; since the invaders did not intend to wipe us out. It was just to make a path inland to reach the major cities. It was easy for us to hide, since noone was looking for us. Most of the people thought all the citizens around the first landing, Gulf of Caliptiche, was wiped out; but most possibly the least casualty was there.
He, however, was among the unlucky. Noone knows what or who he used to be. I will tell you what he is, right now.
He lives by the cliffs of northeastern of the Bay, northern Beijon. He has a small hut, a torn windmill and a barn. I doubt he has any animals. His house looks like abandoned for the people who glance at it for the first time, but I know he lives there.
I watched him. I watch him all the time since the War. He did not live there before; one day, he appeared. He, despite the fact that he practically lives in a rabble, looks charming and neat. He is apparently a hunter: he sharpens his double-axe, he checks his bow and fetches his arrows, he tidies his clothes, he always shaves - every morning. He walks proud and straight. He poses a strong gesture. He looks invincible.
Although I was distant, I could see one thing: he never had any expressions on his face. He was neither happy, nor sad. He was happier when he returned home with a prey. I might add, he was lucky, too. He always returned home with a worthy prey. He was either very lucky, or very talented. Or maybe both.
Every night, he locks his door and lights the candle at his living room. The northern cliffs of Beijon are always windy; especially the edges can easily take you down all the way to the Northern Channel. With a spooky, chilling mourn; wind blows. Sometimes it rains, too; but do not underestimate it, it rains good. Seastorms occur, fishermen flee back to their safe homes, to their wives' warm bodies.
He, on the other hand, never gazed at the sea once. One man living at the edge of the sea and somehow not talking to her. Irony.
Every windy night at the edges of Beijon cliffs, I heard a mourn. First, I thought it was merely the wind, but I was wrong. It was a voice. A crying, male voice. Every windy night, he cried; mourned in a language none of us ever understood.
We always thought it was him, but whenever we visited his home next morning to check and observe him, he was as neat and self-esteemed as always. It can't be, we thought. That hunter may never have cried. I mean, look at him, fellows!
I am writing those on another windy, stormy and rainy evening in Beijon, and the winds of the North bring us the mourns again. A male voice, my brethren; a male, crying every night. It is as loud and sorrowful as the wind itself.
It may be the spirits of the dead from the War.
It may be the wind.
It may be him.
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