He loved to cause pain. She was pained by love.

The last one was broken in a week. The one before that lasted 16 days. Before that it was nearly a month. He thought about this before taking her, and worried that he was going too fast. He thought he must be getting too good at it, and that the girls were getting too weak. How dare they break so quickly? Weren't they all so selfish, not just disrespecting him but even subjecting more girls to this life because they couldn't take it. So pathetic.

But his hopes weren't high for this one. She was pretty enough, but life had already been hard on her by the looks of things. Maybe a drug addict, maybe a runaway. Dirty, skinny, poorly dressed: no redeeming qualities besides that face. It was a face he just knew would look wonderful when twisted in agony.

How could she know what would await her? Oh, that face... to see it fearful would be bliss. He knew what to do. At least, he thought he did. Well, it worked with all the others, didn't it? So why...

She looked calmly at his hands, studying the veins that bulged as he gripped a knife, pointed right at her. His degrading and demeaning howls couldn't raise so much as a flinch from her. Even when the blade did find her skin, all the reaction she could manage was a smile.

The first night was long, and it was the first time since childhood that he had ever felt so helpless. He was the only one to suffer: no matter what he did to her she would never cry or scream or beg or even move to stop him. Was she just stupid? Had he really gone through all this and wound up with a stupid one? A feeling of pity rose in him, for the first time ever. Dirty, skinny, and STUPID. He dropped his anger and felt only exhaustion as he lifted a hand towards her one last time, and gently stroked her cheek.

A look of pure terror.

She shook, she cowered, her eyes bulged and a gasp finally escaped those pretty lips.

He thought he must have imagined it. Again, then. The other cheek this time, he stroked with equal softness, and it did not disappoint.

Were her cheeks the weakness? No, he'd already slapped them so many times.

With mounting arousal he advanced, trying and testing until he was certain of what he'd discovered. She could take any pain, but she could not take this. She could not bear the gentleness. Being treated with any kindness hurt far more than any knife, any burn, any broken bones. Being spoken to sweetly would make her cry and scream, though she met all harassment with a smile.

She wasn't stupid, but she was much, much worse.

Once he realised how to hurt her, he would never stop. It was the pain of others that brought him pleasure, but it didn't have to be physical. Physical pain always worked so well in the past though, and he got so brutal he couldn't help killing them, but here was someone who would never die from the pain he caused, unless, that is, you can actually kill someone with kindness.

He washed her. He fed her. He clothed her.

She cried until her throat was raw, and then he gave her medicine for it.

It was already over a month now. She had lasted the longest, and every day she suffered. Every day he lost himself to the throws of arousal at least twice, content with how damn right he was that her crying face was the most wondrous sight in the world.

She was not his first, and he was not hers.

There had been another. Just one. Just one that was so gentle it hurt, so soft it scared, so sweet she lost herself in the honey of love and blinded herself to anything else. The love she received made her forget how to give it. Made her forget who she was supposed to give it to most. There was a man who loved her so much she hurt someone else to keep it, and lost everything.

A very small coffin she was not allowed to see. And then she only knew the streets. She sought the pain she deserved, and accepted what the world gave her graciously. That was how it should have been. She should never have known kindness again.

More months came and went the same. The pain of love never dulled, and the love of pain only grew. It grew until it morphed, a hideous thing with many faces, all turned to look at her and how she cried - but how he didn't want her to always cry anymore. She was the best he'd ever had, after all, and the pity that scratched at him that night was another face of this beastly affection, this obsession. He hurts her so much he loves it, and loves her so much he feels hurt himself by what he does. Does to her. But he's being so disgustingly decent, isn't he? How can he make it better?

He talks to her, while she's curled in the corner and covering her ears. He talks to her about these feelings. She can hear it through her fingers, she knows already what she's dreaded for months is coming true. He even tells her about the other girls, and how much better she is.

With the crust of long-dried tears peeling from her cheeks, she presents him with that knife. Kneeling, begging, she asks for it to stop. Those veined hands of his tuck the clean hair behind her ears, and his eyes on hers are so full of adoration that she has to force down the bile rising in her throat. Something inside of her finally gives way to the pressure.

The knife finds flesh, pushing through like desperate footsteps through a crowd until it fights its way to the destination. Not pain. Not love. Just the end of it all.

She did not smile this time. Neither did he.

Removing the knife as the dead lay on the ground, she walked back to the streets.

I'd rather spend a year

Stoking embers

Than one night

Watching the fireworks

They're beautiful

But they burn out so fast

Maybe so beautiful they leave an indelible image in the mind for a lifetime

But the image is all they leave.

No warmth.

No safety.

No stability.

So I stoke the embers

Gradually building and burning

Until we can finally blaze

Together.

Not just for a night.

Something lasting, and lasting because of my efforts,

Will always be more beautiful than those loud lights that flash out in the night sky

The young man had always been a young man. Though he had lived longer than any being, he would forever be a young man. The cycles of the world were his own invention, so they could not affect him as they did all else. He may step in and out of the cycles as he willed, or walk alone outside of them completely.

Other ancient beings had often mocked his vision, refusing to see sense in the constant recycling of materials when they were all powerful enough to make things new. None saw his method as correct, but all were powerless against it.

The first time the young man met someone who truly understood his views, he made them his friend. His friend had shared bread with him, and loved to discuss the cycles of the world, though he did not know they were the young man’s own invention. Before stepping away from that particular cycle, the young man promised to give his friend all he ever asked for. His friend had asked offhandedly to “live a long life” but the young man took this oath seriously, and removed his friend from the cycle of life, so it would become a straight onward line instead.

His friend was never any good at asking for things, though. He had been a knight, and of excellent temper, born with all he wished for and the will to get anything he wanted with his power alone. It was entirely possible that his friend did not take the young man’s offer seriously.

The next time his friend asked for something it was after he had grown into a very old man, and he requested that his body not age any more, lest he lose his eyesight.

The request was granted.

It was another long time before there was another request, which had been for the help of an ox to pull a cart filled with the dead.

Easily granted.

The young man would wonder over and over why the old man never asked for help when he dug hundreds of graves for plague victims, but if his friend wanted to do these things for himself then the young man did not want to impose.

The old man asked for fire, so the young man used lightning to set a straw hut ablaze.

The young man felt pleasure in granting these things, and was glad that over all these years his friend had lived, he remained so happy. But the young man was also troubled. Why did his friend never ask to see him? Did he not remember him?

The young man had put himself back into the cycles to assist his friend close up, becoming a great ox, and spending months with his friend cleaning a town of corpses.

After giving his friend the fire, his friend had called out to him as an ox. The young ox was not asked to give heat to his friend, but being so close by and seeing how hard his friend had worked with such a frail body, he was stubborn and laid next to his friend, even pulling a blanket from his back to drape over that old man.

And then his friend made another request. A request to travel. The young man hesitated slightly. When they first met, both young men at the time, they had often spoken of an urge to travel together. The young man at last accepted, though granting this request felt more like a selfish indulgence to travel with his friend at long last.

Two more requests made at the very start of their journey, for the ox to stay young as long as it lived, and to live until their journey ended, were perfectly in line with the young man's own wishes. Though the old man had complained about the state of his own aged body, and boasted about how he looked as a young man, he never asked to be young again.

The young man could only conclude that his friend enjoyed being an old man, and so he would not interfere with this.

His old friend had been an apt storyteller when they first met, and so began telling a story to the ox as they walked to their first destination. Surprisingly, it was the story of how the friends had first met. An ox did not have the same capacity for expressions that a human did, and so the young man managed to conceal his delight. His friend truly did remember him! Not only that, he remembered every word they spoke to each other, though this was over 200 years ago. This was the perfect memory of an excellent storyteller. The young man felt pride on his friends behalf.

Still, even after speaking about him, and visiting the spot where they had first met, his friend did not ask for him. Was his fate to be remembered but not missed? He was not as free spirited as his friend, who could brush aside all worries with “no matter” and remain positive. Young men are passionate, and the line between love and obsession can easily be blurred through passion.

As the two travelled together and the young man heard all the stories of the old man’s other friends, his ache and obsession only grew. His friend never asked to see any of the others either. Did friendship really mean so little to him? That it could be forgotten after death? That you could say “no matter” this and “no matter” that and enjoy yourself even without those friends in your life?

To care for someone like this was painful, but the young man endured it. He would endure anything for his friend, even if it was a thankless endeavour.

Besides, living as an ox, he was blessed again with the friendship of that old man. And this time it was much longer than the brief years they spent as young men, for this journey spanned a millennium.

The young man was more than happy to continue for another millennium, but his friend had decided to return home at long last. On the way back they once more walked through the place where the two had first met, and the old man didn't seem to bat an eye.

When they reached the point that marked the end of their journey, which had changed at the last moment because the original spot no longer existed, the ox fulfilled his request and died.

The young man stepped back out of the cycles and into his true form, watching what his old friend would do now. What he saw was truly confusing.

Had the young man not granted all his friend ever asked? Why, then, did the old man fall to his knees and sob, begging for bread, looking like a truly broken and wretched soul. Bread was handed to him by some young girl, so the young man did not need to grant this request. But the old man only sobbed harder, spitting out the bread and disgracing his face in the dirt on the road. Lost in his despair, the old man cried out the name of the young man, and had said the words “come back to me now”.

The young man could not watch any longer. He called out to his friend in the way he had for a thousand years. A thousand years as an ox. Who could not speak. This meant three quick scratches on the ground with the back foot.

The old man froze, recognising the address but not yet turning to look. The young man realised he was no longer an ox, and could at last speak the name aloud, the name he held in his heart all this time.

At that, the old man finally turned fully, and saw the young man. “Ah…” he said, recognising the man instantly of course. Though the old man recognised his friend, he was mostly lost to the throws of delirium after losing the one companion he had for so long, and was fairly convinced he was just seeing things. “You will still give me all that I ask for?”

“Of course,” the young man said, elated that his friend had at last asked to see him.

“Then kill me.”

The young man froze. From elated to enraged in an instant. They were still in a fairly public space, so the young man grabbed his old friend and cycled them together to a time when this place was deserted. The old man looked around. “Is this death?”

“Of course not,” the young man spat, anger and anguish fighting for dominance within him. “Never. Never that. Not you. You can never die.”

“But why?” the old man pleaded, his sanity returning somewhat as his own sadness shifted to a form of anger. “The cycles of the world are absolute! All my friends are part of this, they have all died and been reborn uncountable times, yet I alone cannot. All I ask is to be with them once more!”

“Be with them?”

“Yes!”

“You think dying would accomplish that?”

“Wouldn't it? Surely my friends have looked for me, but until I join them in the cycles I won't be able to meet them.”

“I see. You believe you would remember your friends in the next life?”

“Of course! My memory knows no equal. I could never forget my friends.”

“You forgot me.”

“What? I never forgot you! Did I not remember you instantly?”

“You remembered this form. But simply cycling into the form of an ox made me invisible to you. I, who was the only one by your side for a thousand years, was still forgotten. How do you hope to recognise the reincarnation of a friend?”

The old man had no words. The storyteller had no words. The ox was…? All this time?

“With your memory as good as it is, even you do not remember what you were before this. You only remember that before you were an old man you were a young man, and before you were a young man you were a child. But what of the life before that? And before that?”

“... Before that… ?”

“For one so devoted a believer of my cycles, did you truly believe this life to be your first?”

“So then… did you know me in my other lives?”

“Of course not. And I'm thankful I didn't. To be befriend in one life and forgotten in the next – what Hell would that be to me, the only one who can remember? Your other lives are not truly you. To be reborn is to be changed. It comes, it grows, it goes… and it comes back different. Have you not seen the world by now? The town in which you once lived is gone, and while there is life near this spot, it is not the life you knew. Those who are dead stay dead. While life continues, it is not the same life.”

The old man lowered his eyes and shook his head, trying to make sense of this revelation. Did it not… make perfect sense? How could he have missed something so obvious? For one so old, he had grown no wiser. Still, at heart, an optimistic knight who would befriend an opposing warrior on the battlefield, and ask for nothing. Really, truly, at heart, still just a young man who had seen a friend he thought gone long ago. When anger and confusion and sadness faded, wasn't he in fact the happiest he had ever been? Even his ox… the one he valued most in all his life, had been his lost friend all along.

“I see…” the old man spoke at last, letting the young man catch his breath and wipe his frustrated eyes. “Say, old friend. You would not grant what I asked, so why not let me grant you something instead? What would you like?”

The young man’s eyes widened. His friend was truly a bit stupid, to still need to ask. After thinking it over, the young man decided to put a twist on the words his friend had spoken to him a long time ago, back when he was an ox. “I would like to travel. Even if you have objections, please accompany me. I can't say how long it will take, but I promise to treat you well. You must stay by my side.”

The old man felt his throat tighten, and he used his shaking hands to try and tidy his appearance a little. “Travelling may be difficult without the ox…” the old man mumbled in some humour.

The young man furrowed his brow. “I let you ride my back for a thousand years and never spoke a word, so now… Now won't you let me talk to you for a thousand more?”

And so their journey began anew.

The old man was going to finish his journey. If all went well, another journey would surely begin right after, be it in death or acceptance. Either he would return himself and his ox to the natural lores of the world and finally die, so they may be properly reincarnated and live on anew, or he would have to accept that he could not die and instead go back to travelling.

The old man really did enjoy travelling with his ox friend. To have somehow found another being like himself, unable to die or age any further, felt like enough of a sign that the pair must be soulmates, but to then get to know the ox and see how it cared for him, see how it listened to him, the old man knew that this bond was deeper than merely sharing the same fortune.

The pair started heading home. Since they were going in that direction, they went through the kingdom to the south of the town, which had been the first stop on their journey, to see how it had changed.

It was no longer a kingdom at all, having been a democracy for many years after over a century of civil war and the murder of the royal family.

What was once the battlefield was now a housing estate, made affordable to even the poorer citizens. Where the grave once was, now a mining shaft had been dug. This boom of employment and opportunity must have served the locals well, and only at the cost of one forgotten grave.

Having nowhere left to pay respects to his first friend was not too disheartening. Any time the old man ate bread, he would remember his friend. He realised he had not had the same bread in a long time though, not since beginning his journey. The way bread was made in this region was different to others, and the old man learned on his travels that everywhere had their own type of bread. But he liked this type the most. “I’ll find some bread when we get back to the town,” the old man said happily. The area that was once the kingdom did not make the same bread anymore. The style was the same, but after 1000 years, the type of wheat used for the flour was essentially unrecognisable. The original strain no longer existed at all.

The old man did not consider that the town itself was once part of that kingdom.

Never mind about finding bread in the town, they couldn't find the town itself. The cliffs it was built atop had eroded back so much, the very shape of the land bore no resemblance to what they had left behind. The old man and the ox had seen the erosion of the land before, seen the rise and fall of entire civilisations before, but the old man never once thought about it happening here. Even the old can be naïve.

There was a coastal settlement here, though it was not part of the original town, and the old man accepted this as the town’s rebirth. It had been a town of the dead when he left it, so finding new life felt like an improvement regardless. But all those graves he had dug for the townspeople must have washed into the sea so long ago.

The old man told the ox that this settlement would mark the end of their journey, and the ox huffed in agreement, walking steadily along. The old man lowered himself from the ox’s great back just before they reached the threshold of the settlement, wishing to play his own part in making those final steps.

And so it was, together, the pair completed the cycle of their journey.

The ox had fulfilled the oath it gave the old man, having lived for their entire journey, and stayed young and healthy all the while, so when the great beast crossed that threshold it was finally returned to the natural lores of the world. It could cycle again at last. That strong and gentle body, which had never once faltered on their travels, at last gave way to the weight of a thousand years. All in a matter of seconds. The coastal air blew and took with it the ashes of this ancient animal, leaving not even the blanket on its back. To see a sight such as this, all would be forced to admit the beauty, but few would argue it to be correct.

The old man bid his dear friend have a safe onward journey, and closed those weathered eyes as he waited for his turn.

But it never came.

The cycle of the journey was completed, and so too had the old man finally cycled back to his own bottomless sadness, but still he could not die. The cycle of his life would remain frozen.

The mind of the old man, which had never faltered under the years of life, and remained clear even after a millennium, at last began to crumble.

“Bread… bread…” he mumbled, having fallen to his old knees at some point. A resident of the settlement noticed a terribly old man, clearly suffering, and was sympathetically reminded of her own ageing grandfather, so placed a plump roll of bread on the old man's lap before scurrying off to complete her chores.

The old man felt his mouth water and he continued to repeat that word incoherently. Tears and saliva fell in droplets, but he didn't notice. His shaking hands held that plump roll and at last brought it to his wrinkled lips.

But it didn't taste the same.

His cries sent pieces of half-chewed bread into his beard. A truly wretched sight.

In this state of delirious sadness, the old man began calling a certain name. One he had not spoken aloud since he was a young man. Whenever he ate bread, he would think of that name, even if the bread did not taste the same.

“Where are you?” he asked through sobs. “The bread is wrong. Everything is wrong. Just come back to me now!” His body folded in on itself, the dirt of the street clinging to his face as it was so wet with tears.

And then he heard a noise that he was convinced he would never hear again. Three quick scratches with the back foot. The name his ox friend gave him.

He held his laboured breath, waiting to hear that name again, for he was mostly convinced that his broken mind had hallucinated.

Rather than the scratches, this time he heard a voice, and the voice spoke a name.

The old man knew very well whose name that was, for his memory could not err even now, but it had been so long since he heard this name with his own ears. So long that those three scratches felt much more like his name than that did.

Who could be calling him?

The old man lifted his head with great effort, paying no mind to the dirt and chewed bread that covered him, and even his clouded eyes could not be mistaken when they at last laid on the young man behind him.

“Ah…” the old man said upon seeing the young man. “You will still give me all that I ask for?”

“Of course.”

“Then kill me.”

The old man had become a thoroughly lonely old man. A drowning man will clutch a straw, a lonely man will befriend a beast. He called out to the ox, his helper over the past few months, and bayed the beast to come over.

The ox, firm and gentle, and black as night, shining in the glow of the fire, slowly walked over to the old man in the snow. A blanket was laid over its great back, providing some defence against the chill of winter. It was far warmer than the old man, at any rate, and after letting out a few low grunts, blasting the old man’s face with the cloud of hot breath and vapour, it folded its legs to lay down. The old man was three parts surprised and seven parts delighted with this. What a kindly young ox! The old man tentatively reached out a shaking hand to stroke the ox’s neck, which was easily twice as thick as the old man’s entire body.

Content that the ox was comfortable with the contact, the old man relaxed his shoulders and leaned against that warm animal. The ox slowly moved its head, apparently not wanting to disturb the old man, who had been working so hard for such a small creature, and took a corner of its blanket in its teeth, tugging it up to drape over that frail shivering body which leaned against him. The old man’s body was warmed, and so too had the little crystals of frost in his heart been melted away by this act of kindness.

“Say, old chum,” the old man spoke to the ox. This felt much more comfortable than talking to himself, though there still wouldn't be any response. Or so he thought, but the ox did make a single small huff at the address. “You’ve been such a great help to this old one these past few months. Truly, thank you for all the hard work.”

There was another small huff.

“The town is so quiet now.”

There was a slightly louder huff.

“Ha ha, yes. We can make some noise ourselves, I’m sure. But I wonder if there is any reason to stay here now.”

The ox’s tail swatted lazily but he did not huff.

The old man had assumed that staying in the same place would make it easier for his friends to find him in their next lives, but not one had come. He reasoned that it was perhaps time for him to go look elsewhere. Take the initiative.

Also, by now, having been the only survivor of a plague, the old man was finally starting to think it was odd that he had lived so long. He had ignored this curiosity for a while, convincing himself that he was perhaps just very healthy because he had been so active as a young man, but now things were a bit too obvious to ignore. It was undeniably odd. Maybe he could find answers if he searched for them.

He did not tell this to the ox. Instead, he said, “I would like to travel. If you have no objections, then please accompany me. I can’t say how long it will take, but I promise to treat you well if you are willing to stay by my side.”

The ox seemed to contemplate the offer, and at last let out a small huff.

The two set out the following day. One old man, and one young beast. Being a draft animal, the ox was happy to pull along a large cart with all they could carry and thought they might need. It was filled with bales of hay for the animal and reserves of food for the man, as well as blankets and some odd tools, including a spare cane. Stocked as it was, this presented a problem. There was nowhere for the old man to sit.

No matter, he thought, for he could still walk with his cane. It would take longer, and there was still a covering of snow underfoot which might make him slower still, but they would be able to travel.

The ox did not agree. Its tail whipped back and forth fiercely and it refused to move a step.

“Come, now, I won’t slow you down that much,” the old man tried to coax.

They were at a stalemate and hadn't even left the town square.

Bovines were notorious for their stubborn natures, so the old man had no chance of winning this battle of wills.

“Very well,” the old man sighed at last. “What would you have me do? Ride your back?”

It seemed that was exactly what the ox would have him do, and it lowered its giant neck in a low bow, bending its front legs as it did so. Still, it was quite an ask for the old man to climb up there, even lowered as the ox was. It was a combined effort that got him up eventually, holding one of the ox’s large horns for support as the animal slowly lifted and turned its head, while the old man used what leg strength he had to fling one of the limbs over that enormous back. There were no stirrups, for there was no saddle, but the old man got some purchase for his feet on the frame that hung over the beast’s shoulders, the frame being then attached to whatever the animal was tasked with pulling by lengths of rope.

The ox gave a few huffs once the old man was settled, apparently being appeased at last, and so began walking out of the town.

The town was near the sea, built atop a cliff overlooking the water. The main street wound all the way down that cliff and to the shore, where there was once a bustling fish market. It was empty now.

The pair were not going to the sea, so they made a turn in the road and headed south. “There is a place I haven't been in a very long time,” the old man told his companion. “I would like to go there first. I was still a young man when I was last there.” The old man patted the ox’s back, and the sheen of its coat only proved to exaggerated the rippling muscles of a working animal underneath. The old man smiled. “You know, good chum, when I was a young man, I looked much like yourself.”

The ox turned its head back slightly to look at its rider.

“I don’t mean to say I was an ox in my youth!” the old man explained, laughing and giving the beast a little scratch behind the ears. “I was very strong. Your muscles have reminded me of the ones I used to have. Aiyah, I have been complacent since becoming an old man and my body has become like this. No matter.” The old man thought for a while. “Listen, my friend, you must not be complacent as I have. You are still young now. It would be best if you could stay young and strong for as long as you live - avoid becoming an old ox if possible.”

The old man didn't think this request was something the ox could fulfil, but he had said it anyway because he was talking to an animal. The old man wondered, though, how long would it take for the ox to become an old ox? How long did an ox usually live? Was it longer than a human, or shorter? The thought worried him quite a bit. “Ah, friend, you had really better live a long life, eh? That would be best. This old one humbly requests that you live until we finish our journey,” he fretted. The old man closed his hands in prayer, muttering to himself. If he were to lose even the ox, he really wouldn't know what to do.

The ox only gave a small huff.

“Do you enjoy stories?” the old man asked suddenly.

The ox huffed.

“Excellent, excellent! You see, all I can do well these days is tell stories. I’ll tell you one as you walk. Let me tell you about where we are going, and what I was doing there as a young man.”

The old man began his story. He talked about a kingdom he had fought for. A knighthood he was granted. The lessons he took in the arts of music and war. He did not neglect to boast about his once-mighty physique.

He spoke of the comrades in arms he had, and which weapon they each preferred, but explained that these were not true friends. No, his first true friend was the young man he would speak of next. A young man he first met in the place they were walking to now.

That place was a battlefield at the time. The young man was an opposing warrior, and the two had fought briefly before a white flag was raised. He spoke of how the young man had pierced him with a blade at that moment of declared peace, but he spoke with unconcealed mirth.

“Do you know what I said to him then? I said ‘all is forgiven after a stabbing!’ and then ‘please remove the sword, it’s time for lunch’.” The old man laughed heartily in recollection, finding the follies of his own youth as much hilarious as ridiculous.

He went on to explain how the two had found a quiet spot to sit, where they had broken bread and drank from the same cup.

“He asked me ‘do you always bring bread to the battlefield?’ and so I told him ‘of course! Ever since I was a child I knew that I wanted my last meal to be this bread!’ and I handed him the bigger piece.”

The old man explained that the young man was good humoured, and seemed to enjoy his candour. The two spoke for a long time, and the old man (who was a young man himself at the time) had talked at length about his views of the world, of its cycles, of the infinite rebirth that all were a part of. “No one had ever cared so much when I spoke of these things before, you see. They would nod along for a minute or two and then politely ask me to stop. But that young man seemed to completely understand, and would join in rather than just listen.”

And after discussing the workings of the world, they had chatted about their young lives. “I think he liked my stories as much as you do, friend,” the old man said, giving the ox another round of scratches and pats. “That, or he was insulting my abilities from our little skirmish, because he told me ‘the sword suits you well, but you might find more pleasure in the pen’ by way of telling me to write these stories down.”

The two young men had met often after that, and spoke freely. The bonds of men are often fortified through bouts of violence. They would have friendly sparring matches, and discuss the world, and eat bread. They had grown so close, into truly inseparable friends, and the young man asked one day if the other had anything he wanted.

“I was confused at the time, because the question seemed to come from nowhere. I didn't give it much thought, so all I could say was something quite bland: ‘well, I only want what everyone wants: to live a long life’. He had nodded at that but pressed ‘no more?’ and I could only shrug. ‘I rarely want for anything’ I confessed. ‘It’s hard to think of something on the spot. What brought this on?’ but he avoided my question, saying ‘well, if you ever think of anything, just say it. You’ve given me so much: all this bread and friendship, for example. I want to repay you. I’ll give you anything you ask for, it doesn't have to be right now’ and then changed the subject and asked me to spar.”

But he had never been able to ask the young man for anything else. A week later, a new war between their kingdoms broke out, and they found themselves on opposing sides of a battlefield again. It was even the same field. But this time, they would not see each other. Not until one of them was already dead.

The old man didn’t seem to dwell on this section of the story as much as he had with others. He was very brief in recounting how he eventually found his friend’s body, and had given him a burial in the place they first broke bread.

The old man realised they still had a ways to go before they reached their first destination, so started telling other stories to kill the time.

It took some days before they arrived. Over those days, the pair had perfected the art of getting the old man on and off of the ox’s back, though several of his joins still made cracking sounds with the movement.

They did not spend a long time here, for the old man simply wished to pay respects to the grave of his friend. Convinced as he was that the young man must have cycled through many more lives since then, this was as close as the old man could get to his friend without finding a reincarnation. The ox grazed mildly while the old man ate some of the bread he had brought for the journey, which was slightly stale now.

The kingdom the old man had once fought for no longer existed. It had been invaded and taken over some hundred years ago, they learned as they walked around to gather more supplies.

And then they moved on.

Conversing with the ox had become very easy. He was a straightforward creature, and did not need any formal language to respond to the old man. A huff indicated a positive, either affirmation or a pleasure response. When it swatted its tail, this was a negative, either disagreement or displeasure. Finally, the old man noticed that the ox seemed to have given him a name. It would quickly scratch its back foot on the ground three times when trying to get the old man's attention, either to wake him or show some sight to him.

The two travelled to many places together, and those three simple gestures were enough.

For everything else, the old man would talk. The ox liked to listen. At nights, they would share a blanket. Sometimes the ox would simply stand watch and graze as the old man slept, because the animal did not tire as easily.

The old man didn't dare think about how long they had been travelling, because he did not want to think about his companion ageing and dying, but the ox never showed signs of this at all. It remained strong and gentle.

When times were tough and the old man had no food, he would resort to eating grass or roots with the ox, never once considering butchering the beast to stave his own hunger.

When times were cold, the old man would go to great lengths to find or make shelter for the ox, insisting it be wrapped with all of their blankets first, and take only his old robes for himself. He would never think to sell the ox for shelter or supplies.

Several times people had tried to buy or steal the ox, and in these instances the old man’s cloudy eyes would flash with the light of a former knight as he beat people back with his cane and chastised them in the irate way only the elderly can pull off without consequence.

But likewise, so the ox cared for him.

Times had been tough for food, and the ox seemed to know that the old man should not really be eating grass. Similarly, it knew that the old man was far too small of a creature to hunt anything for himself. The ox was of course herbivorous, but herbivores are just as capable of killing. It stepped on a rabbit, breaking its back, and pierced the creature with one of its horns to bring back for the old man. His rider was delighted with rabbit stew that night.

When there were cold nights, the ox remembered that day the old man had first asked it to travel with him. It had been snowing then, and the old man enjoyed the beast’s warmth. After the old man had piled blankets on its back, it would always lift a corner of the stack for the old man to curl under.

Many times on their travels they had encountered the nefarious sort. The old man had no weapons, but the ox certainly did. Those horns and the rippling muscles made short work of any pests.

The old man knew his goals with travelling, and looked in every place they went for both the souls of his friends and answers to his life. He never found either.

The pair had walked the world over. They had even sailed the seas several times, on crafts large enough for the ox. Somehow, the ox had an easier time on the sea than the old man did, and never experienced motion sickness.

The old man had told all of his stories, and resorted to inventing new ones. The only one who could understand him was the ox. Not because his mind ever faltered or his stories didn't make sense, but because the language the old man spoke had died out by then. They had been travelling for so long, afterall, and languages are evolving things. Thus, the old man, who had not been able to hold a pen in so long, and was unable to write these stories down, could now no longer even tell these stories to people, for no one would understand.

Little did he know, that stories were in fact being written ABOUT him. This pair had been seen the whole world over, and each region made their own legends, so the titles differed slightly, but they would all translate to something like ’The Immortal Ox Rider'.

The old man had not been keeping track of the time, so he didn’t even notice that it had been a thousand years.

Though he did not find what he was initially looking for, the old man had found so much more. And one day it seemed to click for him.

“I have seen this world, now, with these old eyes of mine. I don't need to speculate, for I have all the evidence in these very eyes. The cycles truly are everywhere. Completely inescapable to all. Though, I think I have fallen outside of these cycles somehow. Why, I do not know, but I believe I have a plan. Will you indulge me, my friend?”

The ox huffed.

“You always do.”

Another huff.

“Three more bales of hay for supper.”

A round of excited huffs.

“My plan, then, I will tell you now. My plan is thus: if I, and by association even your good self, have fallen outside of the cycles of nature, then it stands to reason that we can simply manufacture our own cycles! How does that sound?”

The ox was silent.

“Ah, I have not explained well. My first plan is quite simple. Just to test things, really. This journey of ours really has been quite long, hasn't it?”

The ox huffed.

“Indeed. But, longer cycles than this exist in the world. For example, the erosion of cliffs to nourish the sea and form new lands. My plan is to finish the cycle of this journey. I suggest we return to the old town. All good adventures should finish where they started, I think. Maybe this intentional cycle will have some effect! At any rate, we can't know unless we try. Shall we set off after supper?”

The ox looked at the old man for a long time, apparently mulling over the plan. At last, there was a very quiet huff.

The old man realised that he had been an old man for much longer than he had been a young man. He had even been an old man for much longer than most people had been alive…

The wrinkles increased slowly, the eyes clouded slowly, the joints ached slowly… marching onward and worsening over the years. One day he had at last said aloud, “I hope my body doesn't keep aging like this. Soon, I won't be able to see at all.”

The habit of speaking to himself was recent. After passing so many years with not a friend left alive, he had missed the sound of voices too much, and resorted to this.

His lament was brief, and he had brushed it to the back of his mind shortly thereafter and instead chattered to himself about all of the lovely things he had seen in his time. This cheered him up.

It took many more years for him to notice that, after that day, his body really didn't age any further. His sight never diminished again. It was still quite poor, but no worse.

He was so thankful.

If only he could see his friends again, with those eyes. But he did not voice that wish. He knew in his heart that he would see them again, once this rather excessively long life had run its course.

It really was taking quite a while, but he was a patient man. Most old men learn patience, and he was no exception. You had to be patient to interact with younger people, after all, and the older you got the more people were younger than you.

He often told stories to the young people of this town. He did not make any more friends, and the young people would forget about him after meeting once or twice. Or so he thought. But, once a plague hit the town, those very same young people took diligent turns to visit the old man and care for him. The elderly were hit much harder by such things, and he was so very old that no one knew how old he was anymore, and the people worried.

He was warmed by that worry, but also a little saddened by it. He didn't mean to dismiss those young people and assume their interactions to be merely that of storyteller and audience, but he didn't want to be presumptuous either. Every person that had heard one of his stories felt fond of him. Even if they never visited for another story, they all visited now.

He had been getting by on his own for so long now that even the difficult tasks of life had some routine to him now, but he didn't turn down the generosity.

He never fell to the plague.

But everyone else did.

He was used to the gradual call of death that took those around him slowly, but this has been so fast. A matter of months. The old went first, and then the young. There was no time for funerals. No time to mourn one before ten more had succumbed. Holed up in his ancient little house with no doors, it took three days without visitors for him to realise.

What was once a full and bustling town, packed with people who cared for him, now had not a single soul to knock on his door and offer soup.

There was no one left.

The old man took his cane and made his way, painfully, slowly, achingly, out of that house and into the streets. There were so many bodies.

The old man closed his eyes and bowed his head. He knew this was the cycle. He knew those kind, warm, wonderful people would all be back in some form at some point.

But, even knowing that, he couldn't help missing them in the meantime.

He was one lone, old, soul in a town of the dead, and his body was so frail now, but there was no one else to do what needed to be done. He had to bury them.

Many animals were unaffected by the plague, and found themselves without masters, so the old man softly requested their support. A large black ox, sturdy as an oak, assisted in pulling a cart for the bodies. Even with this assistance, he had to lift the people himself. Had to dig the graves himself.

He placed each body solemnly in the cart. The hardest ones were the smallest. They were lighter to lift in the arms, but so much heavier in the heart.

It took a long time.

Seasons changed during this.

Snow was falling now, and the old man felt it in his old bones. He had been moving bodies and cleaning streets for months. He had placed the last person under the earth the day before, and he didn't flinch at the rotten flesh at all. It would all nourish the soil, bring yet more life. He knew this to be correct, yet it was not beautiful.

The old man was trying to light a fire to heat himself with, but the shake in his hands (which never seemed to stop these days) was only worsened by the cold. The flint fell from his hands more times than not. He shuddered. “If only there was a fire…” he whispered, dropping the flint again and rubbing his hands together instead, hoping for some sliver of warmth to come from the friction, but they had already gone numb a long time ago.

And then lightning struck one of the straw huts in the town, on the opposite side of the street.

The old man hobbled over to take a look, but his hands were too numb to hold his cane. He slipped on the snow several times, and each time he lifted his head to stand again he saw a growing orange on that straw house. The fire raged, but didn't spread to any other houses.

The old man finally made it closer just as the roof collapsed in on itself.

“Ah…” he said, falling to his knees again, though intentionally this time. He held out his shivering arms to the blaze. “It’s warm.”

The old man was once a young man.

Before he was a young man, he had been a child. As a child, he had been sad. Then, as a young man, he found some happiness. So, as an old man, he thought it was time to be sad again.

The idea of linear progression was an alien one to him. He only understood the cyclic nature of the seasons, of the days, of the flowering plants. It comes, it grows, it goes. It comes back, it grows back, it goes back. And back again, forever looping in an endless rebirth. It wasn't so much beautiful, as it was correct.

However, when the old man found himself to be very old indeed, his cycle did not return to sadness. As days looped past him, the happiness grew, much like anticipation.

Being an old man, anyone he had met as a young man, much less as a child, was either also old or long dead. More and more of his friends died as the years circled around, the sun and moon making their own rounds dutifully until he was the only one around to watch them. The people by his side kept thinning out, more funerals were held, and now the very old man stood alone with his equally-aging house.

But still, he was happy.

Soon, it would be his turn as well.

His turn to join his friends in their cycle of rebirth. Death was but a point on a wheel, afterall, turning endlessly from birth at 12, death at 6, and every stage betwixt along that circle's circumference.

Oh, how eager he was to join his friends. It was just taking him a little longer, is all. Soon... Soon...

One friend in particular, he missed so dearly. They met when he had been a young man, and that friend had died when he was still in that stage prime, having never lived to be an old man himself. The old man would spend his solitary days wondering what he would like to say to that friend, when they eventually met again in some other life. Thinking about it was exciting, and pleasant, so he wasn't sad.

As his body aged, it often hurt. The little things he had done without thinking for much of his life became increasingly difficult tasks. Often his hands, which had been so dexterous and confident, so practiced in instruments and weaponry alike, would shake and ache now. Most days, he couldn't hold a pencil, and even doors became a challenge.

No matter, just remove the doors.

His legs, too, had been so fleet footed and strong before, and he enjoyed running through flowering fields so much, but now they struggled to bear even his own weight unless assisted with a cane.

No matter, he had a good collection of canes.

His eyes, once bright and cunning, charming and pleasant, grew cloudier now. Wrinkles framed them, and skin drooped enough to almost totally obscure those once-clear windows of his soul.

No matter, he had already seen so much. Really, he was glad to have seen as much as he did.

His mind stayed clear, at least. His memory still vibrant with all those he had known, and all the meals they had shared and hardships shouldered.

Not long now…

The days kept coming around and leaving, the sun rising and falling, the tide pushing and pulling, yet none would take him with them in their retreat.

It had been so long already, the very old man now was very very old and very very eager to go. How long could a human possibly live, after all? Even the oldest of his friends had died shortly after 100.

But the very very VERY old man was by now much older than 200…

What if I told you how much I like it when we kiss?

If I expressed that to you,

Properly,

Can't you see how it would taint every new kiss we share?

How they would never be natural?

If you know I like it, and you do it, then you are doing it simply because you want to make me happy.

And not because you want to.

Do you understand?

If my preferences start to dictate your actions

Then I will never again get to kiss

The lips that simply wanted mine

For selfish reasons.

Our eyes met

At least four or five times

Before we ever did.

And yet,

It was that last time,

That they failed to find each other

Cast to the floor,

Adoring your lips,

Or vigilant of what was happening with my hands-

Their hands too full, it seems, to greet a gaze which was equally occupied.

An eye

Can grow shy,

After all.

And the bloodshot blush that lingered the next morning

Was all the reminder I needed

That I stared at the sun for too long