((Open))

Two days.

He was beginning to lose hope. Beginning to lose hope that he would ever find his way home.

Home.

The long and rolling hills of home. With three foot high fields of barley and grain, corn and wheat. His wife and son. His father and mother. Cousins, brothers and sisters. The small manor that he and his small family had been staying at before he left for the army. The Legion Barracks where he had first been trained. His first campaign and his first kill. His life, right up until the point where he was struck down by the fury of the gods.

Memories and images flashed through his mind and he could feel tears forming on the edges of his eyes. He didn't try to stop them this time. It was of no use, they always came. At the end of the day when he was resting beside a small fire, a fresh caught rabbit roasting over it on a stick, or when he was walking at mid-day, stepping up over a small ridge in the ground only to fall to his knees on the other side, sobs wracking his body and shaking him uncontrollably.

"Quamobrem," he mumbled as he wiped his grime cursted hands across his face, trying to wipe away tears. "Quamobrem!?" He screamed toward the heavens, his head thrown back, his eyes squeezed shut, his hands clenched into fists and his body arched backwards. His mouth stayed open, a gaping black hole surrounded by brown and yellow teeth, long after sound ceased to poor from it, and sobs once again shook his body and filled his closed eyes with salty tears. "Volo praecessi domus," he mumbled thickly around another sob. "Volo praecessi domus!" A second scream and he throws his body backwards forcibly, collapsing onto his back as new sobs shake his body until his gear begins to shake and rattle loudly. He cries loudly for a few minutes, his tears running freely as he shouts incoherent words about his lost home, family and life. He hammers the ground with his fists, hits himself in the head with the heel of his palm, kicks wildly at the ground beneath him. Finally, after crying for what seems hours but was really only the merest of minutes, he falls back into weeping and curls himself into a fetal position as best he can around his armor. A few minutes pass, and he finally uncurls himself.

He inhales sharply, a squeak issuing from his mouth as his sobs cut short, and works to stretch himself straight. His body quivers with the effort, his armor straining his chest and back. His shield, half beneath and half over him from when he first fell back, twists beneath him then falls away with a loud clatter. His helm, still strapped to his waist, unhinges itself from his belt and lands with a hollow metallic clunk on the dirt beneath him. His body shakes as it finally straightens, his sobs slowly subsiding and his quivering gradually dissipating. Eventually he is still, his face red from his sobbing and his body tight from trying to prevent himself from quivering anew. He lays in this position, straight backed and wound tight, for a full five minutes before finally relaxing with a sigh.

The sobs weren't coming back. At least, not for now.

Sniffling the last remnants of his sob induced nose, he stands and gathers his gear. Propping his two Pila against his shoulder, he leans over to retrieve his helm, placing it onto his head so as not to stand and try and juggle it onto his belt along with his pila. The helm fit snuggly onto his head, but so snuggly that when a weapon were to hit it, it would go straight into his skull. There was a small amount of space between to top his his head, and the inside bottom of his helm. Allowed for greater protection, as well as some swivel room. He whipped his still slightly running nose as he bent to pick up his shield, and that he draped over his left shoulder by a strap located on one of the inside corners. Took the pressure off his arms and left most of his body free to move quickly if need be. It also placed it in a position to where he only had to twist his arm slightly in order to put his hand through the sling straps and then swing it out in front of him. It could be a confusing process, but sixteen years of constant practice had made it seem second nature to him.

He settled the shield more comfortably onto his shoulder and then glanced around at his surroundings. Still flowing fields of barley and wheat, so much like home but nothing at all like it. He could feel tears forming at his eyes and he slammed the emotion down with a deep breath. He had to stop crying, because it accomplished nothing and only made him feel worse about himself and his predicament. Taking a second deep breath he plots a course through the hills. He might be able to find something there, over that next crop of low laying hills full of what looked like corn.

Worth the walk.

Sighing deeply, and readjusting his shield, the Lost Legionary starts down the hill toward the place where he hopes he can find some answers to his questions, and perhaps find a way home.