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Hope

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Curse the eternity he suffers, long has he forgotten the meaning of time, as of life, for life means nothing without death.

He has walked the earth for thousands years, witnessed the rise and fall of mankind. They diminished from the cruel strike of nature, and blossom again becoming stronger, though separated more from the nature herself.

He misses the old days, when human would form a society they called kingdom, look up to a chosen king and mind their own business accordingly, without something called computer or whatever comes along the line. Modern technology, as they named, is quite scary to an elf like him or should he say, the only elf. Long had his kind shipped to the blessed land far away from this world, he missed the last ship there and remain in this mortal land. Come to think of it, maybe he had stayed behind purposely. He couldn’t bring himself to leave this land his king had cared and sacrificed for, although the place is like an alternative universe now. He needs to see it by his very own eyes, however long he will linger until the apocalypse claim his body and his soul.

His king. His king.

He had meet some past faces. During the two world wars, he saw them dressed as a captain or a pilot or whoever in different camps, all died brutally in couple of pieces with their blood spreading all over the land. During the Great Depression he saw them run to make ends meet, struggled just to get by. He didn’t come to their help, for he knows nothing he could do to change their fate. The lifetime of human is just a flash compared to an elf’s, and he knows he will see them again and again no matter how pathetic their death had been.

He never approach, same as he never meet his King. Not till now.

He first spotted the new him outside a filthy Russian nightclub. It had been three thousand years since he last saw the man, on the death bad he lied, shone with his glory that renew his time of youth. That particular moment had engraved in his brain, locked safely in the deepest sacred place of his heart, along with others memories they have shared. He remembers every wrinkle on his face, the texture of his skin, every fall of his hair, and the warmth and wisdom in his clear silver eyes. This man, however, is a mixture of the past and the present. To differ, his hair was neatly combed, no emotion shown on his poker face, no longer the passionate man he had once been. Obviously, this man wanted to keep a low profile. To most of the men he was successful, but he could never escape detection of a more sophisticated man, for his very own being smelt like danger. Danger like a ranger thousands years before. Aye, it is the feel that stays the same, not the look or the face he wore, but the soul, the way he carried himself, recognised his mellon, his mela.

He kept watching the man. He saw the him chopped of fingers from a stone cold body, he saw him do all the nasty things he would never do thousands years ago. He saw him kill, he saw him throw the bodies to the Thames and let them sink.

Same sank his heart.

Then, after observing from a distance for a while, he started to recognise the same pure but troubled soul, the same yet different pain shot through the eyes occasionally. Without eyes of an elf, the tremble of the body would not be seen, the moment of hesitation and struggle would not be observed.

The man was scheming something, as he obediently do as the the gang lord told, he saw those eyes calculate fast. He, the once king of men, was manipulating the gang lord’s one and only son, carefully laid out a dangerous plan. One would never discovered this piece of truth if they do not possesses the long developed wisdom of an immortal, together with an intimate observation that only an elf could manage.

And the man knew it. He was far from ignorance or stupid. He must knew someone is watching his every step. He choose to remain silence and wait for this mysterious ghost show up, for he knew in his heart that this ghost will do him no harm. This must confused the hell out of him, the elf amused, but the man would chose to believe in his own heart, when he had nothing left to believe.

Then the elf approached the man. After a terrible fight in a bathroom, the man was brutally hurt and the elf could not stand down any more. The man’s tattoos were sliced, wound that would definitely scar laid bloody all over his trembling body. The elf was so scared, recalling the memory as the man fell off a cliff and was believed dead. It should not had scared him, for the elf had seen more brutal death of his other once friends in the wars, but seeing this man hurt so much is not something he can handle. The man remained bleeding on the wet and filthy floor without help, he was going to died for sure if no hand come to his aid. So the elf finally come out from the shadow he had been hiding (not that he was creepy hiding in a bathhouse, no, and not s stalker, mind you), and tried to stop the wounds from splitting blood.

The man raised his head to see the master of these soothing hands. The moment when green eyes and silver eyes first met in three millennium, the heart of the elf stop bidding. He felt his soul shed into pieces, and he could not stop those tears falling.

He saw the estel faded into nothingness.