Epilogue

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In the current days, most citizens of the holy city would meet their end through the disaster that would be named 'The Clicker Crisis'. Horrid creatures from the gaping abyss that was no doubt connected to the Void poured out en masse, wreaking havoc in their wake and destroying many years of accomplishments produced by the proud Regalians. And whilst most died fighting for their city's wellbeing and faced the creatures head-on, others were not granted such an honourable end to their lives.

One of such individuals was Valan Hallev. The once renowned cook had been reduced to nothing more than a sickly heap of frail bones and wrinkled skin. His thin legs had proven unable to support the man and had doomed him to spend his last days bedridden. Forced to watch himself deteriorate at such a rapid pace, that he could not even crack a joke at the situation.

Truly, his life was at an end, and he knew as much. But the small amount of time he had left before his final breath allowed him to, for the last time, reflect upon the life he had lived. And so in his final moments, when the sounds around him seemed to die down, and when the light started to fade from his eyes, he pondered about the most important memories he had made.

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"Patience, Valan. You need to stir it properly, or the rice will burn."

"But my arm! It's getting so sore, dad. Can't you just do it for me instead?"

"That's not the attitude of a good cook, son. You need to learn how to do it yourself, or you will never truly learn the craft. Now, keep stirring."

Despite the words of his father, the Estalar grumbled a little. Although he knew better than to backtalk Ryuji, he couldn't help but feel that he was being too strict on him. He had been stirring for minutes now, and his arm was starting to cramp up. Nevertheless, he did not relent and continued his work, even if his muscles practically screamed at him to stop. The aroma of jasmine lingered around the kitchen, an indicator of what was being cooked.

He had always enjoyed cooking with his father. He knew so much about ingredients and meals that, sometimes, Valan wondered if Ryuji invented the concept of food. And although his father practically forced him to learn the art of cuisine, Valan didn't mind it too much. He enjoyed it, and he felt as if he was improving rapidly every single day. He didn't feel such accomplishment with anything else he did.

"That should be enough. Let me taste that for you," Ryuji remarked as he approached his son, his face stoic and unmoving as it always were. He settled on picking a greasy, wooden spoon that had been worn from use over the course of many years, and he picked out some of the stir-fried rice Valan had been preparing. The small Estalar stared up to his father and awaited his criticism.

"How does it taste?"

"It's alright," he responded, his voice coarse as it usually was. Ryuji knew that if he gave him too much praise, he would slack off. "You'll get there."

"And when you do, you'll be the best cook Aloria has ever seen."

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It was midnight when the Estalar heard the harsh thuds of knuckles against wood, which forced him to awaken earlier than he had planned to. His mind was clouded by fatigue and stress, like a thick fog that prevented him from thinking straight. Nevertheless, he soon found himself descending the stairwell and opening the door for whoever had roused him.

"What is it? It's late," uttered Valan, his words slurred. Partially due to his exhaustion and partially due to the late-night drinking. Life was simpler back then. When it was easy to shrug off a hangover, but he had aged significantly since those younger years of recklessness.

Before him stood a woman, an Isldar no doubt, evident due to the pale skin and flowing white hair, carelessly thrown over her shoulders. Her silhouette was nearly a shadow, only illuminated by the warm candlelight emanating from inside the house. A figure so familiar to him, yet he was surprised to find her at his door at this time of day. His face wrinkled as he observed the Nelfin, who was equally displeased to see him, tension rising as they went without words for what felt like hours. Eventually, she let out an annoyed breath, before uttering those wretched words that would forever shatter his world.

"Valan, I am here to collect my things. I am leaving you."

The Estalar needed no words to display his shock. Whilst it took a moment for the words to penetrate his foggy mind, they eventually burrowed their way in and left him standing in the bitter winds that forced their way through the doorway. The tears in his eyes and the lump in his throat made it hard to speak, and as such he vowed for silence. He simply nodded, stepping aside for the woman to allow entry to allow her to take away both her possessions and the last remnants of his emotional stability. It was as if the very floor he stood on collapsed right from underneath him, letting him fall into a void of agony and pain. The concept of time became foreign to him as he was left in the vast space of loneliness.

When he was alone in his house again, he did not weep, or cry nor did he even sleep. He merely drank, for it was all he knew. Suppressing the memories of old by drowning them with alcohol was the only way he could cope.

And so he drank. And despite filling himself with unhealthy amounts of booze, he had never felt so empty.

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"Have patience, Rinaedith. You need to keep stirring, or the rice might burn."

"But my arms! They're very sore, dad. Can't you just do it for me instead?"

An odd feeling eased its way into Valan's body, but he soon identified where it originated from. He had the feeling as if this scene happened once before. Déjà vu, as it were.

"You remind me of myself, dear. But no, you have to do it yourself. The best way to learn is to just do it," Valan muttered with the softest of chuckles escaping him. His scarred hand rested on the counter as he watched Rinaedith stir the rice she had so proudly prepared. At that moment, he felt exactly how his father had felt so many years back. He was practically beaming with pride as she served the meal for him to taste. He soon dug his wooden spoon into the meal, letting it rest in his mouth a moment before he spoke up.

"How does it taste?" squeaked her small voice, belonging to the pair of large eyes which were staring up at him expectantly.

It tasted terrible. There was no flavour to the rice, and she hadn't added any of the vegetables she cut beforehand. Overall, the meal was bland. As if he were a cow, and he was eating a patch of wet grass. He coughed lightly, preventing himself from scrunching his face up as to spare her feelings.

"Couldn't be better! You're going to be a great cook," he replied, his hand seeking to pat her on the back in an act of encouragement.

"I'll never be like you though, dad."

"I don't want you to be."

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Pain. Throbbing, agonizing pain. As he fell to the ground with a dull thud, Valan's attention was immediately drawn to the bloody mess his right hand had become. The Deathling he had run into had shown no mercy during the retaking of Regalia, and had been quick to strike at the defenceless Estalar who had charged into the fray, eager to assist the good cause.

He soon learned, however, that the battlefield was no place for a cook. With his hand hanging limply by his side, he stared his certain death in the eyes. As the creature prepared a finishing blow, however, it was interrupted by another citizen of the holy city, who was as efficient as he was quick. Intercepting the Deathling's blow by parrying with a sword of his own, the man acted as an obstacle, standing between the brute and Valan. The soldier wasted no time, thrusting his blade to end this fight as soon as it had begun. As the creature's cold eyes dimmed, the unknown individual offered a hand to help the cook to his feet. His green eyes glared down at Valan with bitterness as his hand gestured behind him.

"Now run," he spoke. His voice wasn't kind, but it had no reason to be with the circumstances at hand, and soon Valan found himself spurting the opposite direction of where he was previously headed, hot blood gushing from the wound, which burned a crimson trail into the snow below him. Lightheadedness started to overtake him, his head spinning and his thoughts uncontrollable as if he were suffering from a terrible fever. His legs trembled as they threatened to collapse from under him, the shock starting to affect his ability to walk. He was tempted to simply drop down and give in to the pain and had it not been for the healers being nearby, he might have fainted right there in the cold snow.

As he found himself with the medics, he became frustrated with himself. He had been too reckless, charging into a battle he had no reason to partake in. He had eagerly signed up to assist the Regalians to retake the city, even if he had no combat knowledge he could utilize. He should have been dead if it weren't for the man who had heroically come to his aid.

He had never felt as hopeless as he had back then. The fact that even with his good intentions, he was dead weight. Better left behind. He spiralled into self-doubt during his stay at the medic's tent.

And even when the news came that the Deathlings had been defeated, and the city had been retaken, he still had the feeling as if he, personally, had lost. The lasting scar on his hand would forever be a reminder of such.

_______​

Valan, in his entire life, had never seen such an enormous festivity before.

After he and his family had moved to the city of Da'rann to admit Valan into the culinary academy of Pei'ming, they had all anticipated the day that he would finally be able to call himself a chef. The road there hadn't been easy. Blood, sweat and tears had gone into his education, but after so many years of learning, cooking and brewing, he had finally achieved what very few before him had; graduation from the Pei'ming Culinary Academy.

On that fateful day, Valan was dressed in a suit his father had passed down onto him; a uniform that was mostly black, accompanied by a red silk tie as to splash in some colour. Whilst he wasn't someone who cared much for the clothing he wore, and someone who definitely did not see the need for something as extravagant as a suit, he couldn't deny his father from such a simple request. And so, in the early morning, the family of four set out to the Academy for the graduation ceremony, where they were greeted with something akin to a festival. Paper mache Loong Dragons were hung up on nearly every surface, and the Academy grounds were filled with all sorts of smells. The quiet, although audible music, showered the Estalar in feelings of tranquillity and harmony; as if all of his worries and his stress were swept away in a torrent.

The ceremony of graduation was a blur to him; names were listed, people walked up and were congratulated on their accomplishments, before the next one was called up. Valan had never enjoyed ceremonies like this; they caused him a great deal of stress, more so than any test could achieve. They made him feel out of place, and vulnerable. And so when he was finally called up to the stage, he could feel a strangling sensation creeping its way around his throat, making it difficult to breathe. With his legs quivering underneath him, he soon ventured past the rows of seats and towards the grand stage, accompanied by hundreds, if not thousands of individual claps; encouraging applause for his achievements and for what he had become, although he could've sworn those claps caused the earth to quake beneath him.

Stepping onto the stage was a challenge in and of itself as he stumbled his way up the steps, nearly tripping over his own feet as he managed to make it to the top of the platform. He cursed himself for his clumsiness, but continued his way towards the centre of the stage, feigning confidence as to at least appear as if he knew what he was doing. The floorboards creaked under his feet with each step he took; taunting snickers from a crowd of inanimate wooden boards.

Whilst it was nice to hear the headmaster congratulate him on his accomplishments, Valan paid little attention to the speech that was given and, after receiving his certification and another round of deafening applause, he was quick to dart off the stage to join his family and most importantly, his father. This was the moment the Estalar had waited for; he could care less about the praise of thousands of people he knew so little about, but the approval of his father was the one thing he truly desired. And as he came shambling back to his family, his heartbeat had increased drastically, more so than it had when he had made his way onto the stage. It felt as if his heart was trying to break free from his chest. A sheen of sweat had covered his forehead, some droplets trailing down to his neck, causing him to awkwardly rub at his skin in a futile attempt to remove them.

Before he could even utter a word to his family, however, Ryuji had already come up to pull his son into a tight embrace, nearly choking the air out of his lungs. The hug was a simple enough gesture, yet this moment meant everything to Valan. And amidst the loud applause of the crowd around them, presumably for the next graduate, the Estalar heard the words he had been so desperate to hear for countless years;

"You have made me a proud father, my son."

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The silence which lingered in the park was akin to a restorative draught after the stressful workload of that day.

Valan often visited the park at night. It allowed him to let go of the burdens that he carried in order to unwind without the prying eyes of other visitors. The chirping of crickets, the quiet rustling of leaves and the faint luminescence of the moon were all the company he needed.

The ambience of nature, however, was soon interweaved with another sound entirely; a clear voice which rolled its way over the land and past the trees in mournful waves. The lullaby, whilst inherently pleasant to listen to, called out absently to no one in particular. Valan usually never came across any other people at this time of day, so the sudden shift in sound came as a surprise to him. And so, obscured by the embrace of darkness, he set out to investigate the origin of the distant melody.

As his boots tapped on the weathered stones below him, the voice that had called out slowly became more audible to him. A sense of familiarity soon seeped its way inside of the Estalar's head, cogs starting to turn as he continued to listen, hoping to find a connection between his memories and the far-off voice.

Recognition eventually came in the form of a silhouette; a swaying mass of black outlines painted against a charcoal sky, the monotony of such only broken up by the stars which filled up the emptiness of the void. The shade of a person had seemingly noticed Valan's approach, however, as the voice died down. In silence they stared at each other for a moment, contemplating on how to proceed from this, but eventually the Estalar invited himself to sit beside the figure, who he could now more clearly identify.

"What brings you out this late then, Aster?"

It wasn't a question he expected an answer to. At least, not an honest one. It was a means to break the quietness the two had found themselves in.

"Spring came early this year. I'm enjoying it while it lasts," she affirmed wispily. "What of you?"

"The park is one of the few places one can collect their thoughts. I came here to do just that."

They continued to talk for hours on end, laughing at the display of two birds fighting over breadcrumbs, mulling over the current state of the Regalian government, and comforting each other from the turmoil both of them had stowed away in the back of their minds. Overall, a warm and amiable conversation between two incredibly close friends.

"Valan?" Asterlea piped up, her eyes fixed upon him.

"That's me."

"What's family to you?"

It took a moment for him to respond. The question she had asked was far from expected. He pondered over his answer a moment, struggling to find the words he needed to answer this particular question.

"Family is a funny thing, dear Aster. Many presume family to be the people that share your name. Those connected by blood. In reality, family can be whoever we want them to be. Family may be a close friend, or someone you feel a connection to. So long as you think of them as family, and treat them as such, they will be."

A hidden levity suddenly shone through Asterlea's eyes. She continued to watch Valan for a moment longer before averting her eyes to the water again.

"I guess so."

During the late hours of the night, fatigue started to ease its way into both of them. Minuscule, at first, but soon too pressing to ignore. Their chatter died down and made way for peaceful, comforting silence. Valan eventually felt the weight of Aster's head resting upon his shoulder. The woman had seemingly been comfortable enough to fall asleep on the spot, entrusting him to watch over her. And so he sacrificed his own rest, sticking with her until the break of dawn to make sure she would get a proper night's rest. As if he were a parent guarding over his child who had just awoken from a horrific nightmare.

"You are like a daughter that I used to have, Aster."

A quiet whisper. One that would be blown away by the wind, and being heard by none but himself. But even if none would hear the words he spoke, they would never be disingenuous.

_______​

It was a coughing fit that brought him back to the grim reality of the current day. A burning sensation which tightened its maleficent fingers around his lungs. As he continued to wheeze, the intense pain spread its way around his body before slowly ebbing away again, leaving a dull ache in its wake.

Valan wanted to rest. His body was exhausted, and he was tired. Tired of all the burdens he had been carrying on his shoulders. Tired of the pain his muscles and bones had to endure. He wished for it all to disappear in a flash, so that he could finally be at ease.

But he knew that if he did so, he would leave behind good memories as well. He would no longer be able to provide for his dearest friends. No longer be able to comfort them in their time of need. He would no longer be able to enjoy the art of cooking. And, most importantly, he would leave behind his loved one. He could not do that to poor T'sanya. Not in good conscience, at least.

And so he was left with a choice; would he free himself of the pain and turmoil he was enduring by succumbing to his illness, or would he continue to fight against his certain death so that he could, for unknown time, continue to care for those he loved?

It was hardly a choice, in the end.

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Submission for the 'A Moment in Time' Writing Competition.
Special thanks to @CocoaCherry for all the support she gave throughout the writing process.
And thanks to @Ryria for hosting this competition!​