Meng Kuan's wine pouch used to hang at his waist, sometimes empty, sometimes full. He once thought that only b…
Meng Kuan's wine pouch used to hang at his waist, sometimes empty, sometimes full.
He once thought that only by gulping down strong brew could his ears find peace; otherwise, the drums, the hooves, the fading calls, and the piercing screams would drown him like a tide.
But no wine in the world could stop such noise. Who says death is a final departure? As long as he lived, they lived too. He carried their names, living for them all.
Until the very last drop was gone.
He held the empty pouch to his ear, listening to the wind wail through the opening, just like the horns of old.
Following that sound were the names crawling from his throat: the names of his fallen brothers.
He gazed at the distant beacon fires, standing still for a long time, then tied the empty pouch back to his waist.
It was time to go back.
Don't let their names down.
He rode north, his old name waking with the dust of his horse's hooves.