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SUMMARY: Nearing the end of his life an impossibly old man returns home

It was cold and raining, the ground was little more than a river of thick brown mud that sucked at his feet as though it could drag him down into the depths of the world and, he reflected with some disgust the natives called it a road.
A road? He had seen swamps more solid than this mire! Hell, at least the Romans had known how to build roads, straight and solid, and they had maintained them. The one thing they had not done was spotted a couple of tracks left from the last unfortunate to pass the same way and called it a road.
He paused under the overhanging branches of an ancient, dark tree. Water spattered down, making its way through the overhanging branches and falling, at an albeit reduced rate. He looked down at his feet, looking at the rough leather boots, split and stained with mud. His feet were soaked, uncomfortable, and all he wanted was not to be so wet. He was too old for this, should have been somewhere nice and quiet, perhaps with a roaring fire and a glass of mulled wine.
Instead he found himself peering out from under the boughs of an ancient oak, his long white hair plastered to his scalp, mimicking the beard that stuck to his chin. What a way to end a long life, he thought morosely, serving as a slave to the barbarians of the North, then freed to this, England. Wet and that damp cold that seemed to get through the skin and into the very bones. All things considered he would rather have the ice and snow of Scandinavia.
Anything would have been better than standing drenched in the unending rain, in rough clothing, with iron bands around his wrists, a reminder of his days in bondage.
He peered at the world through half closed grey eyes, looking back down the way he had come and then ahead into the distance. In both directions the weather was horrendously consistent, the sky a continuous grey sheet, giving no indication that it was even remotely likely to stop raining. And there was no sign of anywhere that he might find rest, an inn, a house or even a barn, just anything to get out of the downpour, to get some rest for his aching bones.
And they were aching. He had lived so long and had been relatively healthy, he had never really felt as though he was as old as he was, but now, for the first time in his existence he actually felt as though the passing years had finally caught up with him. He could feel the weight of his age, and he found himself wondering whether it was time to consider the fact that the end might be closing in on him.
The idea of a small home somewhere, with a fire and a good roof, perhaps even a little cat, out of the way and quiet seemed to be suddenly more appealing than travelling. It was a daydream that could quite easily have ensnared him, the fantasy was certainly a lot more appealing the reality.
He shook his head and took a deep breath, taking in more than a few drops of water, then leaning heavily on his staff he returned back to his journey, one step after another, plodding through the liquid road and cursing the English weather for all he was worth; an old man.

The dismal grey monotony was broken by a faint orange glow through the drizzle, distant but still promising warmth.