Not a sound, not a smell. Nothing to see, that you could tell.
Only water; water that extends in every direction, as far as eye can see and mind immagine. No waves, no currents, no fishes; no life. Just water.
And only clouds, still and perfect and high in the sky. But colourless. No, not the clouds, but the whole sky is... colourless; no black no white, not even some gray.
But the water is deep blue and the reflection of the clouds is vivid with shades of different pigments. The sky itself through the reflection on the surface of the water is... a flat deep blue.
There is no sun but one could clearly see; there is no wind but one could certainly sense the coldness; there is no one, and one could surely feel the loneliness.
There is nothing. Nothing apart from the water, the clouds... and two beings.
Standing next to each other, close, but in complete silence.
Suddenly, without a word, one of the two moves forward. The second follows without a sound.
They move steadily across the emptiness that surrounds them, in what can be described only as a sonic black hole.
On the water beneath them countless ripples are formed; they expand, as if they are on a pond, an infinite pond. They propagate quickly and soon they are so far off in the distance that they are unrecognisable; in the vastness of the water, under the infinity of the sky.
The oppressing sound of silence resonates ever strongly; as the two travel, gently, just above the surface of the water; making not a single noise, as the ripples on the water, as the clouds in the sky. They keep moving for a while: Is it a minute? or an hour? Who knows, maybe an eternity, maybe an instant. Time flows at its own accord and they don't seem to be in a hurry. Silence, nevertheless, is the only thing you could hear.
If observed from the distance, there is a fine line that divides the drab sky from the lifeless water, and, on that line two silhouettes appear like small dots, contrasting with the vastness of the background skies and the infinity of the foreground waters. They keep moving.
As suddenly as the first being started to move, it stopped. The second now stands next to it. If one didn't see them moving, it would have guessed that they didn't move at all; for the scenery seemed to not have changed in the slightest. The clouds are still spotless, identical, unchanged: they might have shifted but the clouds seemingly did not.
« This is the spot »
A sound or maybe a voice, perhaps a thought emanates from the first figure.
« I know that this isn't exactly why we are here, but, since there is time; can I see it? I mean, the whole story? »
After this quick exchange an eerie quietness crashes in.
« I suppose yes, we have time »
« Then, I want to see it from the very beginning »
« The very beginning? Are you sure? It's quite the long story and I don't kno... »
It does not even have the time to finish the sentence that the answer is already provided.
« Yes. Please show me the whole thing. From the start, skipping only the least relevant bits. Please... »
Silence arises once again; the two are not side by side, they are now facing each other. There is no challenge in their attitude, no conflict in their interactions. No need for sweet words of persuasion, nor harsh reprimands for arrogance. All that is needed was already spoken.
« So be it. Then allow me to be your personal narrator, I will explain whatever you desire whenever doubts might fog your mind »
It replied. In it's answer there is no frustration or anger, nor is there any surprise, as if it already predicted the question and the outcome.
« Thank you very much »
Another moment of silence; but this, this has a different tune, a different feeling. This moment has feelings.
« Well, if I am to be your personal narrator, I would start from what I consider, not exactly the beginning, but surely a crucial part in understanding this whole tale! »
It's statement seemingly filled with excitement and a bit of melancholy, just like a grandfather who is about to tell his granddaughter the stories and adventures of his youth. The moment when the memories of what he did, of who he met, of the things he saw; resurge and wet his dry cheek with a light tear.
« Now, let us take a seat and watch this play. If you happen to have any comment, please, don't hesitate to speak »
Now calm and it's excitement contained.
« Thank you, I will »
As the two beings finish their talk the water surface becomes restless, the clouds in the sky begin to move, initially slowly but in mere istants they accelerate; they shift, contract, deform; they gain colours. Not just the reflection on the water, but indeed the clouds are now of many different colours: white, gray, and some even light blue with a touch of pink. Now the skies also have shades and textures; and the light radiating from the sun that was not there fades away and leaves place for the darkness. But this light-less night is not forever; like fireflies at sun set, a myriad of dots appear one after the other adorning the elegant black sky. Drawing lines, curves and spirals, like strokes of a brush on an empty undefined canvas. At the same time the water drains, quickly revealing directly beneath the surface a seabed that extends as far as the water did itself.
« Almost ready »
The calm declaration acts like a comand. Up, directly above them a timid moon has appeared and is now casting a shy but persistent ivory light on what is now a grassy plain. Illuminated by this glare, sprouts start to emerge, then flowers and plants, and then trees and forests; the ground rises and forms hills, then cliffs and gorges, and then mountains and ranges. Animals start to roam the woods and fly in the blue that is the sky. The two beings are now in the middle of a valley, surrounded by nature by all sides.
Many sounds, many smells. Much to see, that you could tell.
« This is the right place, just not the right time »
With this sentence the world around them stops; frozen in time. Then suddenly the immobile moon slowly moves towards the horizon, while on the opposite side of the sky a bright light radiates with glory all that it touches; it's dawn and the sun is about to take the place of the moon.
But it does not stop and keeps going until it passes from sight over the horizon, no time to admire the sun set as the silvery satellite takes back its rightful place on the celestial vault; for a brief moment. The cycle goes on but for each term the pace is accelerating, slowly but surely, gaining so much speed that the day becomes indistinguishable from the night. The seasons change and the landscape with them.
Then, like an ink drop on a white paper sheet, the abrupt appearance of a small shack disrupts the seemingly never ending nature of the scenery. It's made out of animal fur and some robust looking wooden sticks, a very rudimental structure but one that someone would call home. A Fire is lit in front of it and is lovingly kept alive in spite of winds, rains and snows; it's weak flame is like a candle lit in a forest, small and unimpressive, nonetheless a beacon of safety.
As time passes new sheds and tents are put up around the small Fire, then a few more, and so on. It comes to a point where there's no more room around it, so another one is lit, even smaller and weaker than the first one, and around it new huts materialise. With time passing many little fires are lit up all around the original one that in contrast each time increases in size and prestige; but it's not the only thing that is changing.
Wooden houses with stone foundations now stand firm and mighty, roads are paved and walls are raised. As time moves on many events happen around the Fire: new buildings are constructed, some destroyed, other replaced; fightings ravage in what now is a town and catastrophes strike the populous; civilisations rise and fall; some persist but the inexorable march of time sweeps all aside, like a gust of wind with grains of sand.
The only entity that remains as testimony of their existence is the Fire, the Fire that has persisted for eons, the Fire that has changed, the Fire that has witnessed.
Time stops once again. After observing what are ages in mere moments, the scene finally sets, for this is the right place and the right time.
« Where are we now? When, are we now? »
« It's the 20th of January, 32 BHU; still the 20th of January 1268 a.r. if you use the old Tullivan's calendar. »
« Don't worry, almost nobody uses the old calendar system; did you know that it commemorates so many saints and historical events that, except for the main ones, all the holidays are celebrated once every two years? »
« ... I was the one to inspire the archbishop to change it ... >
An awkward lack of words divides the two.
« Just say'n ... Anyways, where are we again? »
Resigned but somewhat used to this, it continues.
« This is Antaria, the capital city of the Sacred Kuraurean Empire, as of now all of the nobles from the main and lesser houses are here, reunited in the Marbles Palace, to attend the so called Unswerving Council that takes place each 5 years »
The two are now in an bare but well kept courtyard surrounded by all sides by majestic walls and towering rooks, snow is softly falling from the sour greyish sky with a fine breath of wind that runs through the hallways and archways carrying cold flakes; a gentle smell of burnt purple oak imbues even the hardest of marbles; and in the centre of this yard, there stands proud, the Fire.
A man quietly stands before the ancient fireplace, he does not care for the soft breeze nor for the wet snow; his long elegant and elaborate dress lightly drifting in the wind and his ashen hair slightly soaked as the snowflakes melt. His expression is worn out after a lifetime of struggles but his pride and honour keep his back up right; His body is frail after years of work but his duty and devotion keep his bones together; His mind is tired knowing the belak future and nothing keeps him from falling into sorrow.
This man is the old count of Hilde, Gholan cui Wartner of the Wartner household; single handedly responsible for saving the Wartners and the county of Hilde from certain ruin. He fought with the sword and the pen for all his life, defending his fief from external and internal threats. Now what he fears the most is his death, not for himself, but for what will be, for his old wife and the inexperienced son, for the ones he will leave behind without a guide; he is certain that as soon as he's declared deceased the vicious count of Freim or the scheming marquis of Truan, two of his worst neighbours, like hyenas on the watch, will greedily strike at what he dedicated his existence for.
« This is where the story begins »
And so, the count fears, in a prideful quietness.