Chapter 19: The Power of Ancient Bonds
After the revelation that unfolded before his eyes, Richard couldn't continue with the exploration he had longed for so much. As his footsteps carried him back home, an invisible weight pressed on his chest, an unease that clung to him, persistent as a shadow at dusk. The truth was, ever since acquiring that enigmatic army system, his level had inexplicably stagnated. The only changes he could discern, as the days passed and his youth blossomed, were improvements in his physical constitution, a burgeoning strength, an awakening agility, but even these were natural phenomena that didn't elicit wonder. Richard began to ponder if there was a missing piece in the puzzle of his destiny.
The village, once asleep under the night's mantle, now pulsed with the energy of dawn. Life's rhythm there was as ancient as the distant mountains, an unchanging cycle of awakenings and early rests. The people, with tools in hand and hope in their eyes, embodied diligence. As Richard traversed the heart of the village, he couldn't help but be touched by the pastoral simplicity that surrounded him. The wooden houses, built with the sweat and hopes of their inhabitants, seemed to whisper stories of simplicity and contentment. The streets, though adorned with the honesty of mud and the traces of daily life, were more than mere pathways; they were the arteries of communal life, pulsating with the shared joys and sorrows of its residents. That morning, the village was not just a canvas of activities; it was a mirror of life in its purest form.
The air was laden with morning moisture, clinging to the leaves like a translucent veil. When Richard was just a few meters from home, his newest acquisition of reconnaissance, a crow with feathers as black as a moonless night, landed with somber elegance on a nearby tree branch. Its onyx-colored eyes fixated on Richard with an uncommon intelligence. With a knowing gesture, Richard addressed the crow in a louder tone than usual, promising, "I'll bring something for you to eat, wait right there." Without further delay, he crossed the threshold of his abode, leaving the crow to contemplate the emptiness with its predatory patience.
The door's threshold had barely silenced the echo of his steps when a welcoming aroma of herbs and burning wood greeted him. "Where were you, my dear?" The voice was familiar and laden with a warmth that rivaled the wood-burning fire crackling in the kitchen, where Margaret, Richard's mother, moved with efficient grace, her silhouette dancing in the flickering light. "I was taking a look around the village," Richard replied, removing his muddy boots. His voice, though calm, couldn't hide a hint of evasion. Margaret gave him a look that mixed maternal concern with keen insight. As the flames licked the sides of the stove, casting shadows that danced on the rustic kitchen walls.
"Has Father already left?" Richard inquired, his voice maintaining that low, controlled tone even when discussing family matters. "Yes, he's already gone. He'll spend the morning in the fields. In the afternoon, he promised to install a bathroom for the Millers, who live at the edge of the village," Margaret replied, never taking her eyes off the pot where the porridge bubbled. "Come, let's eat. The food is almost ready, so sit down," she invited, maternal affection woven into every word, but with an efficiency that brooked no argument. Richard nodded, moving to the table with a precision almost military, his body rigid in anticipation, even in such a mundane act. The familiar atmosphere of the kitchen was a bastion of normalcy, a fortress against the uncertainties now disturbing his strategic mind.
"Mother, do you remember the little bird that tried to fly and fell when I was young?" Richard asked, memories resurfacing like relics from a more innocent time, his expression unchanged but his eyes shimmering with carefully guarded tenderness. "Yes, I remember," Margaret replied, a hint of a smile crossing her face as she turned to him, momentarily setting aside her morning tasks. "Isn't that the bird that tried to fly and couldn't? Hehehe," she couldn't contain the laughter that escaped, soft and musical. Margaret's laughter made the hard lines of Richard's face soften imperceptibly, a reflection of the bond they shared, a connection that neither time nor adversity could erode.
The simple mention of the bird brought a wave of nostalgia into the warm kitchen, reigniting memories of lighter days. "He's back and he's outside," Richard said, his voice maintaining that even tone, though it carried a glimpse of affection he rarely allowed to show. Margaret raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Really? He still remembers you? How? He was so small; I thought he would have died by now after all this time." Richard, with a faint sigh that carried the weight of enduring memories, let a corner-of-the-mouth smile surface, as rare as it was revealing of his reserved nature. "Yes, he's a crow, so it's normal," he replied with a tone that suggested more than the words could convey, alluding to a deeper understanding of the nuances of nature and life.
"Could you make a plate with the leftover porridge for me to give to him later?" Richard requested, his usual icy gaze softening as he fixed his eyes on the plate in front of him. The relationship between the crow and him seemed to reflect something more than a mere interaction between a human and an animal; it was a bond, almost an extension of the familial connection he cherished so dearly. "Of course, dear. That bird was the one who elicited your first laugh, after all," Margaret said, her smile widening as she poured the remaining porridge onto a plate. With a nearly imperceptible nod of acknowledgment and gratitude, Richard continued his meal, the presence of his winged past waiting patiently outside, a physical reminder of the roots and affections that defined him.
When he finished eating, Richard picked up the plate of porridge that his mother had prepared with care, and as he stood up, his voice resonated with serene assurance as he said, "I'll be right back," laden with the intimacy only the family environment could understand. Outside, the morning was still young, and shadows stretched across the fresh dawn ground. Richard gazed at the crow, its abyssal plumage contrasting with the pale blue sky. His call, "Come and eat, my friend," wasn't loud, but it carried a calm authority, a promise of shared camaraderie and survival, echoing the reverence of a soul that found purpose and mystery in every detail of the world.
With silent majesty, the crow left its lofty perch and, in a fluid and controlled movement, took flight toward Richard's right shoulder. The synchronization was perfect, as if every wingbeat had been meticulously calculated by the strategist dwelling within the man. Raising the wooden plate to his face, Richard allowed the crow to feed, and his countenance, though marked by his usual sobriety, revealed a subtle smile. It was a smile from someone who knew the mysteries and peculiarities of the world, a man who saw in small interactions a complexity and comfort that only a true connection with all forms of life could provide.
CREATORS' THOUGHTS 
CreativeCJ
CreativeCJ I decided to change my writing style a bit; I realized I was deviating from the protagonist's personality, but now it's fine. Pretend nothing happened and continue with the reading as usual.
Of course, if you're enjoying it, add it to your collection and comment on what you think and how it can be improved. Don't forget to check the reference image for this chapter in the last paragraph commented.
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