The golden bronze sun began to descend low in the late afternoon sky, as long shadows began to stretch across angled plains, stretching from towering trees and the rare wooden and stone structures that dot the steepened landscape. Fertile fields of equally golden wheat & barley wave and set across the hilly plains, creating a pale-yellow ocean of grain that paints itself flowing wherever the eye chooses to land. Amid the golden sea of grain, lies a dusty and beaten dirt road that trails and paths between the prevalent yellow waves.
Trailing alone, walking southeast in direction, seeming to be trekking away from a humble village in the opposing distance, lies a stern yet humble appearing young man. His tanned, bronze skin declared his years of labor in the sun, and his darkened, tousled, umber hair with hints of sunlit highlights, also denoted his extensive time spent on the onerous sunlit day. His face bears an expression of arduous responsibility, fueled by honored obligation. Such a complex demeanor paints itself upon his rigid cheekbones and his sternly crested orbital ridge that holds soft and honest gleaming amber eyes. Even amid his scars, and dirt-flecked pores, his honorable demeanor emanates through every expression and physical movement he enacts.
Over his shoulder, he hefts a leather pack that reeks of reaped crops and vegetation, long past its ripened time. Its fetid stench would drive most to a state of induced illness, yet the young man takes a breath with every step, seeming to be unaffected. He passes the occasional farmer as he makes his journey, greeting each with a sense of respect, and friendliness, greeting them with a smile, and making his way further down the road. Their rugged lives leaving them familiar with the scents and odors of daily farm life, left them to not bat an eye or cover their nose at the passing stench that accompanied the man. In turn, they greet him with a half-earnest smile. The kind of smile that passes on a sense of pity and remorse. What they saw in the man, in his family and his farmstead, was what every farmer feared most. A dying and failed dream.
With each step he strides onwards, momentarily implanting his feet in the loose dusty path, creating a systemic path of footprints that temporarily documented his endurance before the winds would eventually sweep them away to be forgotten. He doesn't mind the half-hearted smiles of his neighbors. He knows that most of them mean no offense. That pity which might offend another man, slipped off of him, unable to keep hold of his state of mind. Where another would be antagonized, he felt a hint of honor, of respect. He felt their smiles were not looking down on him, but that they honored the sacrifice that he and his family had made through the years, even if those sacrifices seemed to be for naught.
Time passes over the next hour, as the sun completes its descent upon the horizon in the backdrop. Shadows fade away under the orange gleam of the setting sun, leaving the light not to bask upon the land, but to be kept amid the painted sky before the last drop of the sun's light fades away to be replaced by that of the moon. Emerging before the young man is an aged and severely kept farmstead. A brown and rotting barn, housing a single bullock lies next to a nearly equally decrepit farmhouse, amid a bevy of dying earth and grain. Evidence of countless repairs marks the lumberwork of both structures, denoting poorly crafted woodwork that has been repeatedly barred from toppling over - even if only barely.
The man, having completed his journey from the village, steps onto the property with a sense of familiarity denoted in his movements and where he set his eyes. He seemed to keep his eyes down towards the ground, keep his thoughts elsewhere, letting his body guide him through the nearly ruined property with a sensibility that illustrated this was his home. He mechanically snaked towards the creaking barn, closing the gate loudly behind him. As the wooden gate came to a knocking shut, the Bullock gave out a loud and groaning "Moo" as it slowly and limpingly made its way instinctively towards the rotting wooden trough.
With barely a grunt of relief, he sloughs the reeking leather pack off of his shoulder and lets it slosh and empty into the trough. He rings as much as he can out into the trough before hanging it to dry out on a nail in the barn wall.
"There you go Clarabelle," the man said softly as the bullock began to slowly gorge itself on the slop. He softly patted and massaged the space between the bovine's ears, comforting the old and senile creature. He gives the bullock a few soft and comforting familiar pats along its hilly spine before turning away from the beast, keeps his eyes down, and makes his way out of the barn toward the farmhouse. With each step resounding, the dirt pounds and scuffs into the ground beneath his leather boots with every foothold. Though his gait fails to waiver, it is apparent that a burden sits foremost upon his mind, keeping his focus nearly entirely.
He finally makes it to the drooping door that hangs on its hinges upon the house of the property. He stops not even a foot from the door, never looking upwards, merely keeping his gaze fixated on the handle that fails to even bear a lock. Moss patchily covers the door as well as the surrounding carpentry that makes up the house. Greyed lightly processed and carpentered wood speckled by green mossy pores fills his vision, eyes fixated & staring at the rusted door handle. His feet were finally fully perched in place.
He stops not out of fear, or due to anxious preemptions, but to listen. Apart from the slopping of bovine lips, and the dying chirps of birds heading to bed, a rasp could be heard soft and slowly but like clockwork. On the other side of the door bemoaned a quiet and consistent rasp of breathing, the breath of a dying man. The younger man, outside of the house and staring at the door's handle, finally closes his eyes after countless hours of staring at the ground trapped within his thoughts. His thoughts have finally quieted to a single voice of thought after a cacophony of voices had previously led amid the forum of tangents that made up his mind. The voice amidst his mental forum gathered focus, centered on the sound of the cracked breathing coming from the other side. It isn't a focus on survival, but on inevitability. He isn't scared of what lies on the other side of the door. He pities it.
Like that of the farmers that smiled at him melancholically, he now bore the pity. And again, it isn't wielded out of malice or out of a sense of superiority. It stems from respect, honor, and a complicated sense of love. The young man gives out a quiet exhale before gripping the handle firmly. He hefts the door to the side before being able to push it open, as a result of the door's hanging state on the rusting hinges. As he entered the house, it was apparent that the space had been originally built with grander upkeep in mind with multiple rooms, but had been run down to a state of only being able to maintain the primary living space as well as the kitchen adjacent to it.
Lying in the center of the main room underneath a hole-ridden roof, was an older middle-aged man lying in a bed, beneath a sea of warm yet aged blankets. His slow and creaking breaths take dominance audibly throughout the somber space. His breaths take a sudden change in utterance, giving a sharp gasp as his eyes dart open and he falls into a short fit of coughing. The young man instantly reached for his waterskin which he instinctively pours into the older man's dry and mucus-cracked mouth. The older man takes a breath of relief before slowly and solemnly placing his aged hand upon the younger man's shoulder.
"Thank you, my son" he wheezed softer than before but now with a sense of calm. His complexion, weight, and appearance all give way to his diseased status. For a man who should be middle-aged, he appears nearly elderly in his decrepit state. The younger man heads towards the kitchen where he procures some small loaves of bread before heading back next to his father. He begins to break one of the loaves and attempts to feed his father, but unexpectedly the dying man takes his hand and pushes away the offered meal.
"Thank you Aldric, but no. I've been declining for some time now, and I can feel my time is beginning to-"
"No Father, stop it" the young man Aldric was immediately upset at the refusal.
"You're going to get better, don't start about depriving me of food or water again, I can take care of you" Aldric spewed the words but knew how gilded they were as soon as they came out.
"Enough Aldric," his father said sternly, but in doing so immediately fell into a coughing fit once more. Aldric lifted his waterskin once more to parch his father's throat.
"This has been a long time coming, Aldric. I appreciate everything you have done for me, my son. But my dream has brought me nothing but ruin, with you as the only exception" he rasped but Aldric attempted to intervene once more.
"Father, please do not start-"
"If you respect me as your Father, you will allow me my final words." He quietly but sternly spoke, staring meaningfully into Aldric eyes. The look his father held as he stared into Aldric's amber eyes was unlike nearly any look his father had ever given him- at least since his mother had died. Aldric exhaled a sigh of submission before giving his father a nod to continue.
"I haven't the strength to go on much longer. I can feel it, my son. This place-" The dying man veers his eyes and head, peering all over the room.
"It is the ruins of what is left of my dreams. I'm proud, that out of all of the hardship that befell me, you still yet stand. I am not so naive as to push my dreams upon you boy, I have mourned and accepted what has become of my life. I... have come to terms with it" he exhales deeply, staring into nothingness for a brief moment, before coughing again, spattering small droplets of blood into the cup of his hand. Again, Aldric wets his father's throat with a drink of water, all the while biting his lip and allowing the dying man to continue.
"I have but one dying wish for you Aldric" he takes the last of his strength to grip the sleeve of Aldric's upper arm, craning his neck to make direct eye contact once more.
"Leave this place, forever, and never return" he whispers hoarsely. "Let it rest as it so woefully wishes to do, and let me rest here with it. Bury it in ash, and live a fuller life than I could ever have dreamed. Please" his eyes stern, burn with a last dying breath of ferocity, leaving Aldric more than speechless.
The older man's head slinks back upon the bed, exhausted and breath waning. Aldric's lowered jaw closes and tightens as tears begin to well in his eyes for the first time in years. His jowls quiver silently as the tears drive dirt to streak down his cheek. Using the sleeve of his shirt, he wipes his face and gives another coarse exhaled breath. He brings his face down before his father's forehead and bares him a single firm kiss upon it. His father quieted, staring at the ceiling idly, as though he was beginning to slip away. His breath was more hoarse and began to wheeze longer and longer with each dying breath.
"Very well father. I will honor this dying wish" Aldric sniffles, and gives a deep breath before continuing.
"I swear upon your last words, that I will see them kept. I will lay this home to ash, and I shall leave, never to return" he speaks with a cutting sense of honor and responsibility that seems to come from somewhere else entirely. It is a drastic switch from the denial he had just been clinging to, yet it comes almost supernaturally to him. The last wishes of his father spark a sense of authority he couldn't deny. It was a slight and sudden change in the quick unfolding of events that were just now occurring, but it was powerful. And though he wishes more than anything at this moment for his father to live, the request made unto him had to be honored. There was no questioning the request. The order of the father must be honored by the son. It was as simple and as resolute as that, at least in Aldric's mind.
He grabs a wooden stool from across the room and plants it next to his withering father. Aldric sits himself and watches over his father throughout the night, until his last breath falters, and Eldric Varnhold is finally no more.
The sun shines morning rays of golden light that jut and gleam through every window and crevice in the eastern wooden wall of the farmstead, leaving Aldric's father highlighted in an ethereal-looking state of rest. Aldric sits as he has for hours now, motionless and emotionless, staring blankly at his father's now lifeless, yet peaceful husk.
Aldric had never fully thought this moment through, though he knew it to be an inevitable, he thought he would have had more time. He was lost, as he knew he truly would be at this moment. But his father had illuminated a path for him. Aldric had never imagined truly ever leaving the farm, let alone honoring a future where he would never return, but he would be damned if he did not honor his fathers wishes.
His voice rasps as he inhales deeply and properly for the first time in hours, places his hands on his knees and props himself upright from the stool onto his feet. He peers around, avoiding his fathers visage of which he had already etched permanently into his mind. His vision paints every corner of the stead, hoping to cement it all into his memory. Golden light illuminated still dust in the air, further painting the rays of sunlight that illuminated the space. This is how he wants to remember it.
As Aldric slowly and steadily paces around the home, he arrives in front of the hearth which hasn't been tended in over a fortnight, ash strewn out from the burnt out coals at its base. However that was not what had caught his eye - a large and weathered kite shield, and behind it angled on the wall it's accompanying long sword. Two heirlooms, like many things, his father had spoken very little of. Aldric had spent many nights as a young boy sitting below the hearth, as his mother made dinner, staring up at the two articles in all their worn glory.
For the first time in his life, he dared to hold them. He started with the shield, gently pulling it off the nails that held it propped amid the stone of the fireplace. Dust that had gathered for years expelled in force as Aldric fully pulled the shield from its place. He took a moment to hold it and admire it.
It was of notable size, when held with its bottom point propped on the floor, the kite shield rose to nearly his mid torso. Entirely crafted out of metal aside from the leather straps, Aldric couldn't immediately denote the metal used, only that it was much lighter than it seemed it should have been. It still demanded a level of heft to properly wield it, but it seemed to almost move with his arm as he naively attempted to practice maneuvering it. Upon taking another moment to acknowledge its exterior once more, he was struck with a feint memory, of a time when he could vaguely recall an insignia painted on the front. Using his sleeve, Aldric buffed away the dust and dirt of time to reveal a faded yet still remaining image. Upon further inspection, depicted upon the shield was a sigil of a golden yellow balanced scale, encircled by a ebony serpent biting its own tail. Aldric immediately recalls the familiar yet foreign image from his memory, yet he has no clue as to what it means.
Feeling satisfied with his inspection of the shield, he leans it against the brick of the hearth before returning his gaze toward the sword still hung upon the wall. It is a longsword, of a seemingly ancient make that Aldric had only ever seen the hilt of, the actual blade having been obscured by the Scabbard that sheathed it. He gentle pulls it too from the wall, and for the first time in his life he unsheaths it slowly admiring the gleaming yet worn metal that revealed itself from within the scabbard.
Aldric had certainly never seen any other weapon crafted in a similar make. Even in its vaguely antique state, it is a weapon of remarkable craftsmanship. It seems to be made out of steel, but there were elements to the metal that Aldric could not quite recognize or identify. The surface of the blade is marked by a faint, shifting pattern of interlocking circles and lines that Aldric had never seen before aside from on the blade. He took his fingertip gently across the blade only for a moments notice for him to give out a wince of pain as his ever so slightly cut himself. He flung the blade away from his finger, maintaining his grip on in, and watched as beads of blood quickly trickled from his forefinger. He pressed it against his shirt to create a pressure to relieve the bleeding before returning his view attention to the sword. At the base of the blade, near towards the hilt, he read an inscription in Olde Albion script that he had never noticed before. It reads "Justice is not the blade. Justice is the hand that wields it".
Aldric, while not being familiar with the phrase, grips the hilt of the sword firmly as he allows the sentiment to set upon his mind. While contemplating the phrase, he sheaths and sets the scabbard and blade next to the shield leaning against the hearth.
He stared at the two items that he had never touched before now as he pondered the phrase over and over, much like a mantra. He did not have plan as to what to do next until just now. Sworn to his fathers words, yet overcome by a loaming sense of petrification, he had sat for hours almost frozen in place, his thoughts on a constant loop until the mornings rays had infiltrated the space begging for him to stir. And now that he had, he finally felt a sense of direction that he had not quite possessed beforehand.
He walks towards the front door which barely hung upon its hinges and grabbed his pack off the wall before quickly realizing that it wasn't going to be large enough for the trek that lied ahead. He hung it back upon the wall before remembering that there was a much larger pack out in Clarabelle's barn that would facilitate his needs much better.
He exits the stead for a brief moment, leaving the rickety door wide open and allowing his tanned calloused skin become assaulted by the full embrace of the morning sun as he made his way toward the barn. As he retrieves the old but large and steady pack, his gaze fixates on Clarabelle for a moment as he freezes in place. None of the other farmers would want her as she was long past her days of producing milk and she was much too old to be considered fresh for slaughter. Aldric gave a large exhale as more burdens weighed upon him.
He looked towards a rusty sickle that hung along the wall before shuddering and dismissing the thought. As he looks down to dismiss the thought however, he looks down at his finger and remembers how unnaturally sharp his sword is. He did not want her to suffer, and he would do his best to ensure she would be put down mercifully.
He returns to the house, and his vision is immediately greeted by his deceased father. Aldric sets the pack down next to the sword and the shield, before returning to his fathers side. He takes one last look upon the tiresome visage of his father before slowly draping a long since yellowed sheet across his body on the bed.
Aldric retrieves the last of his belongings; the few changes of clothes to his name, a set of old farm leathers that he could fashion into some basic protective armor, the last of their rations, 3 waterskins, a thin and folded blanket, and lastly his mother's locket. He secures the shield to his pack so that it will hang of the backside, and secures the scabbard to his waistline.
Using the last of the coals in their possession, Aldric starts one last fire in the hearth. He takes his time to stir and kindle the fire with the poker, staring deeply into the flames as he knows this is the last time he will ever do so in his childhood home. The fire eventually burns to a healthy and steady flame, emitting more than enough heat on this late summer morning. Aldric rips a strip of cloth from one of the blankets on the bed and wraps it tightly around a wooden spoon that he fetches from the kitchen space. He raises it to the fire, letting it burn. Before it can fully be consumed, he slowly treads towards the end of the bed of his father, where he uses the poorly constructed torch to ignite the bed.
Slowly but steadily, the fire spreads before all of the bed is alit in flame. Before too much smoke can form, Aldric stares into the flame cementing this image into his mind as well. If he wouldn't allow the memory of the farm to die, he wouldn't let the memory of it's death die either. He also wanted to take one last look at his father as the flames consumed him- just as he had with his mother.
Aldric exits the home, leaving the door open, and walks a few meters away towards the barn where he rests upon the fence and watches as the flames slowly consume the home entirely. It would not be long before swaths of neighboring farmers as well as villagers would come to investigate the smoke up on the hill. By then he intended to be long gone from this place. He turned his gaze backwards toward Clarabelle who remained as innocent as she ever did.
He exhales before making way into the gate and further into the barn. Aldric takes a moment to pet the bovine, caressing her back and comforting the somewhat elderly creature. He pulls the blade from its sheath as Clarabelle gives out a friendly and familiar moo. Aldric gives out a defeated sigh and walks to the side of the beast, giving an embrace from behind, wrapping his arms around its neck, giving it a hug of comfort.
"Sleep well Clarabelle" Aldric whispers in the creatures ear as his arms pull back swiftly from Clarabelle's neck, blade meeting flesh, cleanly swiping across the throat, killing her in an instant. In barely a moment, Clarabelle's legs give way as she meets the ground and blood begins to pool from her cleanly sliced neck. Aldric stumbles backwards, covering his face, and began to momentarily hyperventilate. He is saddened, nauseated, and adrenalized all at once. He takes a moment to let the feeling pass as he picks himself up from against the barn wall.
Regathering his composure as well as his breath, he steadies his stance and brings himself back to a suitable state.
"May Rhea take you back in her sweet embrace, Clarabelle" he chokes through cutting breath and welling eyes.
And while he realizes the pain of having to take Clarabelle's life, he knows that he is actually dealing with the emotional recoil of watching his father die before his eyes as well. He slowly treads back toward the fence and peers out towards the burning pyre that was once his home.
He gazes into the fire and speaks aloud.
"And may the Four Pillars guide you back into their embrace, father. Iapetus to the west, Hyperion to the east, Coeus to the north, and Crius to the south. May the Four Pillars guide you to the heavens where you may enjoy a heaven to your liking before returning to this world anew. You have earned it, father, after everything, and if nothing else, go and be at peace, rest now with mother".
Aldric closes his eyes one final time as he finalized his prayer, and final message to his father. Upon reopening them, he begins to walk. Out of the gate, past the engulfed farmstead, off the road, and through the fields, he begins to make his way northeast, nearly in the direction of the rising sun and does not look back.
