CHAPTER 13 - THE LAST DAYS WITH TROD
Morning fog settled as it always did.
Not too thick. Not too thin. Just enough to make the world feel slightly removed from reality.
Zio stood in front of their small stone house, retightening the strap of the ration pouch at his waist. A short dagger hung at his right side, the fresh marks from last night's sharpening still visible along the blade. His hands moved automatically, familiar with every knot and every fold of cloth.
But that morning, there was one thing that did not move.
Trod.
The old man sat on the wooden bench outside the house, his back against the stone wall, facing the forest as it slowly turned pale green beneath the morning light. He was not carving. Not sharpening tools. Not checking traps.
He was just sitting.
And that was unusual.
Zio watched him for a moment before speaking.
"You're not going into the forest."
Trod did not turn his head. "I've already been there."
Zio paused, his hands stilling on the strap.
"That's not funny."
Trod chuckled softly, the sound shorter than usual. "I'm not joking."
Zio stepped closer. From this distance, he could see Trod's shoulders rising and falling unevenly, his breathing heavier and less steady.
"Are you sick?"
"No."
"You're lying."
"No," Trod repeated, quieter this time. "I'm old."
The words tightened something in Zio's chest. Not because they shocked him, but because they were too simple to argue against.
The days that followed felt strange.
Not because something happened.
But because nothing did.
Trod still woke early. Still lit the hearth. Still complained about meat being too dry or wood being too damp. Still corrected Zio's posture when he stood too straight or too stiff.
But there were gaps.
Trod sat more often.
Spoke less.
Ended conversations with short phrases.
"Enough."
"Tomorrow."
"Not now."
Zio began noticing details he had never paid attention to before.
The slight tremor in Trod's hands when pouring water.
The brief pause in his breathing before it resumed.
The way he stopped halfway to the storage shed, as if he had forgotten why he was going there.
Zio did not ask.
Because asking meant acknowledging.
Physical training stopped progressing.
Not because Zio lacked strength. Not because Trod was incapable.
But because Trod refused to continue it.
Whenever Zio tried to increase the load, run farther, endure longer, or ask for more advanced training, Trod stopped him.
"Enough."
"Why?"
"Because your body has learned what it needs to learn."
Zio knew that was a lie.
His body was changing. He had felt it for some time now. Since the world had begun to listen to him. Since the subtle warnings in the forest. Since Zyon appeared.
Yet Trod always stopped just short of that line.
As if he knew that something should not be opened.
One afternoon, a light rain fell.
Not a storm. Just enough to dampen the ground and chill the air.
Zio returned from the forest with a small catch. A rabbit. Not much, but enough.
Trod was sitting inside the house.
Not on the bench outside.
Inside.
That was rare.
"You're not going out?" Zio asked.
"Rain makes my bones complain," Trod replied.
Zio hung the rabbit and began cleaning it.
After a while, Trod spoke again.
"Zio."
"Yes?"
"If one day I don't wake up…"
Zio's hands froze.
"…you know where everything is kept."
Zio turned sharply. "Don't."
Trod was not surprised. "I'm not telling you to be sad."
"I'm telling you to stop," Zio snapped.
Silence settled between them.
Not an angry silence.
A heavy one.
"Old bodies don't ask for permission," Trod said at last, softly. "They just stop."
Zio gripped his dagger too tightly.
"You're not dying today."
"No," Trod said. "Not today."
The answer brought no comfort.
That night, Trod cooked.
He had not done so in a long time.
The soup was simple. Too watery. Too salty on one side and too bland on the other.
But warm.
They ate slowly.
The fire crackled.
Rain outside set a steady, calming rhythm.
"You know," Trod said suddenly, "I never meant to bring up a human child."
Zio did not answer right away.
"I just stayed," Trod continued. "And you kept living."
Zio swallowed his bite. "That was more than enough."
Trod smiled faintly.
"I didn't teach you to be strong," he said. "I taught you not to die stupidly."
Zio almost smiled.
Almost.
A few days later, Trod handed him a cloth bundle.
"Keep this."
Inside were dried rations, a map of the surrounding region, and a coin pouch far heavier than Zio expected.
"You were saving," Zio said quietly.
"For years."
"For what?"
Trod looked at him for a long moment.
"For the day I'm no longer around to complain."
Zio's chest tightened.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said.
Trod smiled thinly. "I know."
And precisely because of that, Zio did not believe him.
That last night felt peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Trod fell asleep early. His breathing was heavy, but steady.
Zio sat near the hearth, his dagger resting on his lap, eyes open.
He did not know.
He could not know.
That the world was preparing one final day. Not with screams. Not with tragedy.
But with a silence that carried permission.
End of Chapter 13