So, here's the epilogue for Flames of Lecraesa. I'm only posting the first part because the second part doesn't make much sense, but oh wel. *shrugs* This is actually my response to dialogue challenge #1 with the narrative, so enjoy!
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Epilogue
The trees were dark and cast their shadows upon the grave stones scattered over the hill; rain fell in heavy sheets, creating a gray haze over the scene. A man and his three year old nephew stood among the grave stones – the old man with his arms crossed and the little boy shivering against the persistent cold. The boy lowered his head, his black hair plastered to his damp forehead; he suffered the biting chill in silence. The old man glanced down at him with narrowed eyes, a grimace twisting his lips. “Are you mute?” he demanded sternly, rain soaking his pale face.
Shaking his head, the boy shivered and stared at the muddy ground where the rain had formed puddles, his blue eyes churning darkly between all shades of blue.
The man scowled. “No,” he snapped and reached down, seizing the boy’s chin and jerking it upward so he could look into his nephew’s eyes. “Look at me! Now!” The boy shivered, his face ghastly white; his eyes wide. “You will listen to me when I speak or I will leave you in this graveyard, understand?”
The boy was trembling in the man’s grasp. “Y–yes, sir. What–what is a graveyard, sir?” he asked in a voice hoarse with disuse and cringed when the man frowned.
“A graveyard is–” His scowl melting in an expression of regret, the man clenched his teeth and released the boy’s chin; instead, he lowered his head and drew a deep breath. “Please listen to me. You should not be afraid of me.” He looked down at the boy who was cowering beneath his gaze, a pang of guilt penetrating his heart. “Please don’t be afraid of me,” he said more softly, running his fingers through dark brown hair.
Swallowing hard, the boy nodded hesitantly and lifted his head to look up at the man, his strange blue eyes still wide with fright. “But… what is a graveyard, sir?”
The man lifted his head, his jaw set in determination as he stared off at the gray stones glistening in the rain. “It is a place for the dead,” he whispered, “a place where the dead are honored.” A frown contorted the man’s grim face, and tears glittered in his dark eyes; he balled his fist at his side when he said, “But Elehna has no grave, nothing to remember by. Most people are remembered, but some people just die.”
“What does that word mean, sir?”
The man looked down at the boy. “What word?” he asked bitterly.
The boy inched closer to the man, shivering against the cold. “Dead.”
Flinching in surprise, the man drew away from his nephew and stared at him incredulously. He was frightened of the boy’s dilated, blue eyes – eyes that reflected a soul yet untouched by the world. “Death is…” the man trailed off and averted his eyes from his nephew’s face to look out of the grave stones. “When someone is dead, it means they have been taken from those they love,” he whispered. “It means they have left forever.”
Silence hung in the air for a moment before the boy finally piped up in a fearful voice. “I don’t want you to leave, sir – not unless you come back.” The man started in surprise and glanced down to see the boy staring at him ultimate trust.
Chortling bitterly, the man said, “I don’t want to leave either. Few people do. They do not want to leave the people they love.”
The boy tilted his head to one side. “What does the word ‘l-love’ mean, sir?” he asked.
“What do you mean what does the word love mean?” The man demanded in disbelief.
Shame creeping into his face, the boy lowered his head to stare at the mud, hunching his shoulders in fear that the man might shout again. His black hair fell in front of his eyes; behind the gray trees, a sun was rising.
The man took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a few minutes before whispering, “Love means– love is when you would endure anything, when you would pass through any fire to save someone. Love is not leaving a person behind. It is when you give everything – everything for a person– until there is nothing left.”
“Even go away a long time, sir?”
The man wrung his hands uneasily, and his eyes darted around the graveyard. “Go away? Um, yes, even die or go away.” He glared down at the boy with unintentional severity. “Now would you stop calling me ‘sir’? It’s annoying. Call me Uncle Jaistin and– you’re looking at the ground again; look up, boy! Look me in the eyes. You call me Uncle Jaistin, not sir, understand?”
“Yes, si–Uncle Jaistin. Why are we in the graveyard, Uncle Jaistin? It’s cold. We aren't going away, are we?” Biting his lower lip, the boy looked up at the man hesitantly, trembling against the cold.
The man called Jaistin gazed off into the shadows of the graveyard, drawing his mouth into a thin, white line. “We are remembering someone,” he said solemnly.
“Who are we remembering, Uncle Jaistin?”
“We are remembering Elehna.”
“Who’s Elehna?”
Jaistin smiled faintly. “My sister… and your mother.”
Excitement flashed across the boy’s eyes, and his eyes wandered about the graveyard. “I don’t see her, Uncle Jaistin. Where is she now?”
aistin lifted his chin a little higher. “She’s dead.”
The boy’s face fell. A wind rustled through the trees in the silence that ensued.
“She died because of your father,” Jaistin said, and then glared down at the boy accusingly. “She died because of you. The world could not tolerate a woman with a spirit strong enough to touch the wind.”
“Why did she leave, Uncle Jaistin?” The boy grabbed Jaistin’s fingers and held them tightly, staring straight ahead with damp eyes.
“She didn’t really… leave,” Jaistin amended and closed his hand around his nephew’s; tears glimmered on the man’s cheeks as he blinked back more. “She died because she loved your father, I suppose,” he spat.
“Did–did she go away for him, Uncle Jaistin?”
Jaistin wiped at the tears on his cheeks furiously, yanking his hand away from his nephew. “Would you stop asking questions?” he yelled, and the boy cowered under his loud voice. “Enough about Elehna for today. Let’s leave.”
“But I thought we were remembering her.” The boy frowned and looked up at Jaistin in confusion.
“I am remembering her,” Jaistin shouted in his nephew’s face. “But you can’t remember her; you never knew her!”
Tears welled in the boy’s eyes when he whispered, “But I want to know her, Uncle Jaistin.”
Jaistin sank to the ground and lowered his head into his hands, digging his fingernails into his wet scalp. “You don’t understand, do you? She’s gone!” he cried. “She's dead. And before she died, she left me with an over-curious, half-Lecräesan who doesn't know what the word love means.” He drew his knees closer to his chest.
The boy was trembling where he stood, a few tears escaping his eyes and staining his dirty cheeks. “Uncle Jaistin,” he whispered in a wavering voice. “You’re not going to go away, are you?”
Staring at his dirty hands, Jaistin bit back tears and lowered his head. “No,” he breathed in response. “No, I’m never going away.”
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My concerns: I feel like Jaistin's emotional shifts are abrupt and could be conveyed more clearly. Any comments?
Yes, the fact that the boy (he's Strick, right?) is too young to talk like that, does make this a bit unrealistic, but I think you got his strangeness across right.
