There were four days left before Mestefi's graduation ceremonies were to be held.
It was a new day. Raoul stepped out of the train gingerly. His hand brought itself up to shield his drowsy complexion from Pneficus' early morning radiance. With a sluggish motion characteristic of an exhausted teenager who had only gotten half of his expected hours of sleep, he inched away from the train doors and paced farther along the platform, eventually finding a set of stairs that led to the streets below.
His first change of clothes—casual beyond much description—were now firmly on his self. To explore Cias Buril in broad daylight while wearing the uniform of one of its most prestigious academic institutions was to invite the ire of any police officers who were making their rounds.
Last night's accommodations came in the form of a comfy mattress from a motel a few bus rides from Destagt. It took some convincing, but Raoul had managed to secure for himself a room at a marginally lower price than normal thanks to his status as a student. It still ate a gaping hole into his already meager savings, but it was worth it for the peace of mind it gave him. That was to be the end of it, however.
Westjir as part of the sixteen districts of Cias Buril had a special reputation as being one of the more "detached" from the modern comforts of the cycle of Synthesis. Most Burilans regarded said district for being unique, in the sense that much of its perimeter remained natural. The parks, ponds, and gardens were all kept free from human pestering and allowed to thrive freely.
And that same sentiment held true for Raoul as he entered the district proper. The persistent, monochrome look he had long expected from Cias Buril was completely gone, replaced by wide, sprawling eco-friendly buildings of oak and birch crafted with the existence of the Living Trees that made residence there. Long stretches of delicate beds of green grass were aplenty, stretching across where the concrete roads should've been. On said stretches, dozens of people walked past, many simply enjoying the clean and genuine air. Noise pollution was not an issue in Wesjir. People were content with touring the walkable district with nothing more than their dress shoes.
Much of modernity remained present, of course. Some comforts could never truly be let go, like smartphones and high-end water sprinklers that constantly bathed the sidewalks in gentle rain.
Raoul nodded in satisfaction at the sights. He had only been to Westjir once, and it was during an academy-sponsored field trip that mostly consisted of the students getting to know what made the district different from the other fifteen. Oddly enough, Westjir wasn't to the west of Cias Buril, but rather to its southern quadrant. That was one piece of fun trivia that he still retained to the present; apparently the forefathers that named it as such had quite the sense of humor.
The GPS in his phone led his steps forward. Krocko hadn't directed him to any particular park in the district, so he trusted in his personal decision-making more than anything (and the reviews online) in choosing the best spot to meditate. One caught his interests in particular: Sestine Memorial Park. Unlike the others, it was built around the statue of a deceased Driver of great renown. Memorial parks weren't usually where Raoul's mind traveled to when it asked for respite, but the current agenda wasn't that. Plus, the silence would undoubtedly be helpful in his meditation.
Being in the presence of someone in my line might help with producing insights. He thought to himself. Perhaps it'll highlight some new horizons.
He landed at the entrance to Sestine half an hour later. Contrary to the plant-ridden appearance of Westjir, it was relatively easy to navigate. The twists and turns ended up being mild detours that led him to shortcuts that managed to cut the expected travel time almost completely in half. It helped as well that he was fortunate enough to ask the correct people for directions; they were all long-time residents who knew every corner of the place like the back of their hands.
He was allowed to waltz in without any resistance. The lone senior-aged security guard that was stationed at the wrought iron gate jumped up at his arrival, having clearly not expected anyone to actually visit. Said senior eagerly nudged him inside, citing mild ramblings about how it was good that the youth were beginning to take interest in the past.
It wasn't too odd to say the entire atmosphere of his surroundings changed once he passed the gate's threshold. The warm, gentle heat of sun-kissed Westjir quickly faded away, replaced by a cold and foreboding aura that nonetheless still seemed comforting to Raoul. It was different from the chilling freeze his mother displayed frequently, and was more akin to being atop a steep hill in windy spring.
Despite the word 'memorial' attached to Sestine, it wasn't filled with any gravestones. Much of the three hectares of land owed to the property was empty, only kept company by ankle-high beds of grass that swayed along gently with the wind. The real attraction was towards the center. Raoul had to crane his head slightly upward to fully intake the full size of the thing.
Placed neatly atop a wide three-stepped pedestal of limestone there stood a statue of respectable height—twelve feet, to be exact. Its carved features depicted the perfect frame of a muscular man donning lengthy robes that reached all the way down to his feet. In his hand he gripped tightly a sword the length of Raoul, and that same sword was pointed to the sky, where the sun was currently shining. The man's facial expression—wide-open mouth, furrowed brows, and visible veins of anger—was of either clear anger or fierce determination. Raoul couldn't figure out which. A sense of calm entered him at the ambiguity. Finally, by the man's feet there was a bronze bowl with the faint waft of incense permeating from the center.
He shifted to eye the entire area in a few seconds. No spots for meditation caught his attention in particular. Everywhere which was empty grass seemed just as welcoming as any other patch. His shoulders lifted in a shrug, and he quickly made himself comfortable about thirteen steps away from the front of the statue, enough that he was able to behold its torso and higher while cross-legged.
Meditating as a practice was entirely new to the normally logical Raoul. Physical exercises were commonplace in school, but rarely if ever did they have students wade into the aforementioned spiritual, with the exception for breathing exercises as a way of cooldown after workouts. Which, to be fair, meditating was often regarded as. He had spent a chunk of time before sleeping yesterday reviewing the requirements to begin on his phone.
The grass was as good as he was going to find in regards to an appealing venue. The whistling of the wind was the only accompaniment in his tranquility, and it hummed sweet musings in his ears. That, too, would have to go. He rested his hands on the sides of his knees.
Alright… closed eyes. He pondered in his thoughts. Slowly, he let his eyelids slide beneath his pupils, quickly shielding them from the light. Next… relaxed shoulders. Then, he pulled all of the remaining weight left in his arms, receding everything into his inner self. Now, control my breathing. He steadied his draws, ensuring he had full control of what came in and out of his nostrils.
Finally… clear my thoughts.
He sighed. All that was plaguing his mind suddenly weighed on him heavily like an anvil dropped from the sky. His close encounter with death. His recent awakening of Driving. His first rebellion against the changed woman that was his mother. The death of his father, the one person who he respected above all.
It was far too difficult. His breathing began to sway, turning from calm to uncontrolled rasps. A stray mote of dust entered his mouth, trapping itself within his throat, causing full on coughing as he bent over.
When his fit ended itself, he wiped his mouth. He wasn't getting anywhere.
"You're letting your mind control you, not the other way around."
He turned, having not noticed the person who was standing behind him since he first sat down.
A suited woman a few feet taller than him standing eyed his failed meditation with a pitying look. Her face striking the line between chiseled and supple, frowned. She shook her head, and the long curtain of midnight locks that hung loosely behind her followed like the grass in the wind. She reached a hand to her neck, adjusting the long, matte black tie to loosen. Her speech cadence gave it completely away: she was much older than Raoul despite looking only in her early twenties.
"I'm sorry?" Raoul replied.
"Your meditation," she repeated. "It's not working because you've got too many worries. I know the practice is labeled as a way to calm your nerves and distance yourself from the world, but it won't be easy that way. Do you want me to show you an easier way?"
"I… um…"
She retreated back, chuckling, before placing a hand to her chest in an introduction. "I'm sorry. I don't like it when people try to the point it hurts them. My name's Jhestine Marrow. Corporate Driver." She gave a favored look to the statue. "I come here regularly to pay my respects to the person this was made in honor of. He was a friend and a comrade."