Rōnin

So you had this peculiar cultural situation happening there. After the war had been over, there was a general feeling of pacifism and non-violence hovering around the population. Soildiers who came back were well received by their relatives and could (at least generally) be reintegrated into society as farmers and miners; later, when the economy started to blossom, sun yet shined to these young men and some of them became the managers of a shipyard or a small inn. But the really skilled warriors, the most fierce ones, ended up being largely rejected by others. They left their homes and went to war feeling praised, treated as they were powerful heroes. They had been though hard times, both in psychological and physical terms, just as the little guys. But most of them had been denounced as war criminal, as carrying acts of violence beyond what their people considered 'necessary'. Some even faced trials in those accounts.

So there was no war anymore, and the 'fearsome warrior' could not fit in on pretty much anywhere. People looked to them like some sort of monsters, scrutinize them, denied them jobs and places to rest or live. Even if they did come back, the world had forgotten about them and moved on; they were largely skilled on the battlefield and surely, the war could not be won without their handling of the sword, the bow and arrow, and all the military strategy they gained from their times as fighters.

Then they became hired guns - mercenaries contracted to kill for a living. But as the populations were living through prosperities time (which led to pacifist mentalities) , there were abnormal low rates of crime and deviance. Most of the time, those mercenaries collect depts and spoils, get rid of wild bear and wolf packs - and even rats - but the payment for that kind of job ended up being generally low.

To be a 'fearsome warrior' in the past became a cultural stigma. They became impoverished and starved in a blossomings society. So for them there was only a handful of options: to beg on the streets while part-time working as mercenaries, to rob and to kill and later face time in jail, or to flee.

That was what this young man decided to do, after taking one job as a mercenary that demanded him to travel far, far abroad, just to delivery a letter from a father to a daughter. He thought of himself as competent, capable and still fresh in the arts of war. So maybe someone is carrying a battle somewhere, and he could put his weapons to good use. And then he dreamt of war, even though there was nothing to fight against other than his own grunting belly.

He packed his last possessions on a bag, bought some meals and departed. He walked a long road, no end in sight. Sometimes he hunted a squirrel or hooked little sardines. He watched close by as other travelers walked next to him - he could just struck them at the middle of the night and get some food or some new clothes. There was not even a need of violence; no blood would be spilled... but he ultimately decided against it, as he could not stand more conflict himself.

Was he getting old, at the prime time of his life? Maybe he had all the fighting there was to have. Maybe he could get some sort of job out there. But where's the life on all of that? He then tought of his friend who died in the war as the real lucky ones. They died horrible deaths, but they never lived to see what remains for those who came back, like him. Unfortunately, he still lived.

So the mercenary kept walking, day after day, and over his head there was sun, and clouds, and sometimes bitter rain. He was alone, left in a world that had forgotten all about him. This hurts more than the sharp blade.

But he kept walking any way, as he had the dammed letter to delivery. In a far, distant land.