A gentle breeze rustled the tall grasses of Verdeland running against the leg of a young man while he was walking. He stopped, closed his eyes, and took deep breaths. The air is fresh and clean and has nothing in common with his smoke-filled village of birth. There, it would be all silent and merely the gentle rustling of grass and birds singing secretly from the hidden places amongst the wildflowers. He knelt, running his fingers in the soft, warm soil, so unlike the harsh ground he had come from.
It had an aura full of the scents of lavender, moist earth, marigold flowers, and rosemary oil along with cool dew in the morning hours. Here the clouds would break as well with their sun so warm across some patches upon hills when their shadows could very delicately sway to and fro. This wasn't his ravaged village. He must be about sixteen, and dust had been rubbed on his face; stained, torn clothes spoke of a tough life. Yet in those weary eyes hope remained that he had dreamed of Verdeland - a free land of open space as compared to his prison in the village.
He took a deep breath. His face spread wide as he stretched into a beam of a smile. He welled his eyes. "Is this it?" he whispered with a cracking voice. "Is this promised Verdeland? This land without war, this land without fear?" Choked, he fell down on his knees and broke into a sob of relief. "I knew it was real. Nobody believed me, but here it is." It faded then, the dream, as the bright fields of Verdeland and all that they held went into memory, cramped the room he knew so well. Alistair's eyes snapped open, and the memory of the dream receded, leaving him only with a faint echo of its beauty.
Back in his small attic room, sloping roof of a rundown house. His back leaned against the cold, rough wooden walls. There was nothing on the mud floor except a thin straw mat for a bed and an iron washbasin placed in one corner of the room. A faint light flickered from the lone candle cast across the room to increase the sensation of poverty and tension. An old worn blanket lay crumpled in a corner beside the chipped wooden stool and, from what had originally been a rather nice collection of coins saved and secreted in a small dust-gathering chest.
Alistair stirred restlessly, the remnants of his dream leaving a bitter aftertaste. Verdeland seemed more realistic, almost a heaven against his cruel village. He got up from the thin straw mat with a sigh and approached one side of the room, where there was a small kitchen. The space where you could barely move your body was close to one person only. Bore no furniture but a massive mud brick stove that took up half the room. Its scarred appearance was due to countless fires that had blackened it over the years—evidence of all the meals made with nothing more than its meager flames. A pot covered in soot was suspended from a blackened iron hook above the stove, while dusty wooden bowls teetered on the edge of a too-narrow ledge beside it. The boots were a symbol of their impoverished life or rather the state of affairs there that made poverty more palpable and painful than anywhere else I have ever been.
He said, "This was a dream; the entire experience represents something; it means freedom calls from far away... The land of endless freedom, no wars, and infinite independence will prevail.. because I still remember the smell that came from that land." Alistair looked at his hand and said, "I should probably tell my mom about this." Alistair woke up and ran through to her mother.
He went in, and his mother was bent over a tiny pot with something that smelled faintly like burnt porridge. When she saw him, his mother relaxed from where the edges of her mouth and forehead were calling so hard up. The home was that same tired smile worn by countless hosts before him. "Good morning, Alistair!"!
"Mother, "he shouted excitedly, his voice bubbling with excitement:
"I had the most wonderful dream! It is a place where everyone is free—no war, no fear!"
His mother stopped her stirring; the smile vanished like light sucked into a dying candle. The look in her eyes, when she gazed at him, was that of a lifetime full of harsh realities, and what had loved those stark truths to wither way or ignore another.
She began in a tone gentle but more serious, taught with the weight of having tiredly carried their world for too long. "Alistair, my boy." "That was just a dream. We have no such place in our world. No single land remains that had a king, or rules of paying taxes, in every colony. We all are a part of this cursed world. We have to live with war; struggle is a universal affliction. We Can't Do Anything... You Better Wash Your Face First, My Boy."
Alistair felt a sinking weight in his chest. But her mother's words were a slap in the face. And this felt so real; how could something that vivid not be true? His mother's words echoed in his head as he hobbled out of the hut.
The village was alive but in a strange, taut way. Worn sheets hung on lines, flapping in the steady wind along deserted streets as people hurried to find shelter. Alistair noticed the worn, sun-bleached tunics and frayed cloaks that most workers wore now. One woman wore a green scarf, bright even under her old cloak, standing out in the otherwise colorless scene. To Alistair, they all looked exhausted and pale as if years had already etched deep lines across each of their faces.
The air was full of that feeling of poverty; sounds clanged metallically from the workshops all about. Blacksmiths hammered steadily, beating at the metal and its resonant ring across the village. From one doorway peered a woman. He had soot on his face and sweat on his brow. Alistair was walking down dusty streets, kicking dust into the air with every step. He came upon women curled up on the steps of an old building, shaking silently and crying. She was quiet, but her tremors increased Alistair's curiosity with every step. There Were many people around her seeing her.
The voice of the man made her jump. She slowly raised her head with grief on her face. Those eyes, bloodshot and swollen from crying, were windows to a profound sadness that seemed colder than any winter could be. There was a bit of sorrow in him at the woman's reflection, a tightening within his chest that echoed her sadness. A gruff voice boomed from behind Alistair before she could answer.
The old man appeared to hesitate, his eyes darting nervously from one end of the street and then back at me. At last, he bent down and whispered in a low tone. "King's soldiers raided their farm this morning," he said the word with venom, callused hands bared in fists.
"Eleara is younger, his pride and joy. They claim she will be 'broken in' for the pleasure of a king. " The implication gave Alistair a shiver down his spine.
Alistair's blood ran cold. "The small girl with the twinkle in her eyes and pigtails flying, as she always bounce-rope jumped with the other children laughing? Gone?
"But... her father?" His voice rattled only slightly above a squeak.
The face of the old man twisted with pain. "God bless him. Didn't stand a chance. They left him to die in the field. Four villagers also tried to stop, but King Thassalor did not even spare a second; he cut off all four heads of villagers in one stroke—those who dared defy the king. He looked around once more, his voice even lower. Alistair, they took everything. All of the food, animals, and their currencies, even if it was just a single coin, they had kept apart. Left the wife there wailing on the porch like a banshee."
Alistair's blood boiled, and rage consumed him. "This can't be right!" he bellowed, choking with "And we wonder why we have to live this way? Why can't we be free?"
Fists clenched at his sides, Alistair's eyes burned with resolve. "Somewhere must exist, somewhere as I dreamed it had to be. A space where there is freedom!...."
The man chuckled sadly. "You are Alistair right??.. Listen, Alistair, there's no place like that. This world is ruled by kings and their iron fists. I know you and your family well. You are the son of a great person. Please don't talk about these things about the dream—the place that never exists. Not even in books that I read...There is the rule of kings all over every part of the land...You better go and play...!!"
News of Eleara and the dead villager had weighed heavy on his heart as Alistair hiked to Willard's workshop. A newly found image of freedom, Verdelands slightly wavered. As he arrived at the familiar, chaotic area and listened to the pleasant thump of a hammer on steel with definitive percussion, His father worked beside him, a giant of a man with knotted muscles and worry-lined features leaning over an open flame while his skilled hands shaped the iron into the title.
For a long moment, Alistair watched in fascination, the heat emanating from the forge warming his face. And then, the burning query that had lingered on him spoke out loud in his heart. Father, I dreamt of a location in an area with no warfare nor worry, only freedom for everyone. Is it real? Can a place like that exist?"
His father stopped hammering, a clang reverberating in the silence that resulted from its abrupt absence. His face was inscrutable, and he rotated to look at me. It was a long breath that followed, and it sounded as if words were supposed to fail. "Son," he whispered, gruffly but with a whisper of tenderness in his voice. "Dreams can change the world. They can flame your heart for something good‑ recess."
His father grunted a vague acknowledgment without looking up from his work. Alistair wasn't fazed; he was used to his father being a bit rough around the edges. Nate turned one up from the pile and tried to pick it up, grinning as he swayed beneath its weight. "Very soon," he said in a child's boastful tone, "I'll be too powerful, and then I will fight and save everybody from the bad guys!"
Alistair's father sat up, eyes welling with a new fierceness. "Swords are more than things of boys' games, Alistair," he remarked in a low and serious voice. They are tools of sorrow, bearing a price for their employment. They murder the innocent and the guilty. Remember that."
He nodded at the glowing red metal in front of him, pointing towards the sword he was forging. Swords are not toys, Alistair. Tools... things are what these are, tools that can both destroy and save us. They murder, but they also protect.
And for a long moment, Alistair looked at the practice sword in his hand and realized that it was so very heavy. There was something very deep in the words of his father, and it shattered a naive dream that he never even knew he had—dreams of a world without conflict. But amongst the harsh reality, a small seed of hope sprouted.
"Then, even if the space is not really freedom," his voice had become resilient now, "we can still do all we can for a better tomorrow. But We can still do this alone. We will fight for our village, our family, and who knows, maybe carve out a scrap of freedom from the world.
His father's face broke into a slow smile, and his eyes sparkled with pride.
"That's the spirit, son," he boomed, a hint of his gruffness melting away. "Alright, drop that toy, and I will show you how to hold a real sword. So even if the concept of Verdeland is a dream, the struggle for food security around the country cannot be denied, and one way or another we all have to contribute.
The sound of the hammer striking metal resumed a loud repetitive beat looping in time with something brand new being formed inside Alistair's chest. That is what Verdeland represented—the dream of Verdeland but also evidence that the light was still very much alive, and in fact, it flashed more vibrantly than when last encountered.
Alistair dropped the sword from my neck, and his smile vanished. When freed, his father's words left a deep impression on him, darkening all thoughts of the dreamy future he hoped to spend among warriors. It was realism, and the weight of his practice sword felt heavy in his hand.
Alistair walked out of the workshop, lost in thought, and moved toward the cool embrace of the gold-green forest that encircled the village. These recorded patterns As alternating sunlight filtered through the leaflets and leaf patterns painted on the forest's floor.
Further, he walked, and a spooky hoot resonated among the still trees. Finally, Alistair paused and scanned the branches above him. He looked up at the sound of leaves rustling nearby and spotted an owl on a thick branch. The amber eyes that appeared carried his wise and unwavering gaze.
Inexplicably, Alistair felt like the animal was a kindred spirit. He raised a hand in greeting. Alistair greeted cautiously. How come you are out in daylight?
The distance was followed by a hoot from an owl, its call distinct across the quiet. He chuckled, a nervous sound. Most likely just a smart old bird," he muttered, feeling slightly ridiculous.
Further into the bushes, Alistair passed to the woods, and from behind a massive oak tree emerged an ominous figure: Long-legged in a sable robe with the hood drawn low over its face, revealing only a glint of an azure eye.
From up on high, there was that familiar hoot. The owl from earlier came fast, landing gently on an extended arm of the one cloaked. It hooted again, its amber eyes fixing on Alistair and baring into him with an unnerving intensity.
Alistair pressed on; now, where he stepped, the ground below softened into a blanket of moss and flowers. The soft chime of a hidden stream nearby, smooth and entrancing Following the noise, Alistair forced his way through a ropey veil and into an open area washed golden with sat sunlight.
He lowered himself to the ground beneath the oak tree, resting his ass on a large stone that smelled of wet earth and wildflowers. He closed his eyes, listening to the stream gurgle and birds chirp. The trees opened onto the rolling vista of a sweeping meadow, drenched in the golden autumn light, and as Alistair stepped into view, it was like walking right inside an impressionistic painting—tranquil and fantastically serene, unbounded by soil or sky, quilted with fluffy white sheep that grazed away on all sides. He perched upon the top of a widely spread oak, and he found that spacious enough to sit him clearly on a smooth, flat stone under it.
It felt like a tiny rodent was chewing away at his bravery. The dream of Verdeland, the dawn mist that would dissipate every time he tried circulating it. The reality of King Thassalor's rule pressed down on him, the productivity he had glimpsed was now written in stone. The king had an icy reputation as a harsh tyrant who stamped out any sign of rebellion with his iron grasp on the race of men.
One of the sheep meandered closer, bolder than its siblings, and while it spread itself out on rare patches of green sod that grew through some fresh compost, Alistair's mood darkened. His hand darted out at first, then more slowly to touch the soft head of it curiously, still finding a kind of odd comfort in its gentle presence.
"Wish it was that simple," he said, almost to himself. "No red menace or heartless dictator, huh?? All day just fields on top of grass.."
The sheep softly bleated, as though in reply, then resumed eating grass. Alistair stared at it for a moment before something new sparked in his eye. Maybe there was another way.
Lifting his vision with it, he moved them across the endless sky. A falcon higher in the atmosphere sailed through, its mightier wings chiseling lurid zigzags into infinity. He watched in awe as the bird ebbed and flowed, threadless constellations cutting and steering through invisible universes of air. A fire of hope, small and dim in his chest. He whispered, "Free as a bird," and the words sounded weary.
"It's a bird who is free, "he gasped, and hope began to return in his heart.
"That's what I want—to become free."
The resolve he found in his eyes was clear, standing up with a hardened gaze. "I'll take you to the place with no war, no freedom. I will prove it exists. No one else may believe me, but I know it's true."
He heard his stomach announce he'd skipped lunch. He realized he'd gone without eating because he had been thinking about Verdeland. He was hungry before, but it throbbed in him a mere tickle compared to the ice-cold dread that had surged up when he realized what would happen if I was taken down. Anyway, from the long run of a long walk to his house, he was the lightened man no more; the owl, huge in size, was there, and it remained, while Alistair observed but loathed, so he started running. He still felt pangs.
He hurried on, eyes ever looking back to the smoke that billowed in his heart. It was probably just a fire caused by the chimney, he thought and saw his foolish hope burst into flames as he approached. The sounds of shouting, shrieking, and metal striking met his ears as he grew closer.
"What's going on?" Dread coiled in his gut as he muttered. He tore off into the darkness, driving his legs like pistons. And then he caught his breath as he saw the village from behind a small hill.
The soldiers of the king in their crimson livery poured into the hapless village from weaving alleyways like so many angry hornets and through hollowed doorways blown open by force; cruel laughter spilled across them on a gusting wind. That led to huge plumes of smoke rising from several buildings, dark against the clear blue sky. Alistair saw his parents in the throng, their faces white with fear as they were led by musket points to stand at the center of town. His blood ran cold. This was no get—this was a genuine, full onslaught.
He swirled about, staring out at the faraway smoke pouring from his house. Terror wracked him, frigid and fierce. Foul laughter scoured the wind while soldiers in the crimson of their king swarmed through that wretched village.
Through the throng, Alistair finally saw his parents, faces filled with horror as soldiers shunted them toward the village center. His blood ran cold. It was not simply a raid—it felt more like an all-out assault.
As the soldiers ripped off from his humble abode, he stood there watching in shocked disbelief. He let out a sob. For the thousandth time in two weeks, Spike felt a pang of deep-hating uselessness—and this ache was unlike any other—his weaponized frustration.
"They took my family!" The screaming tore out of his throat as he roared. The sound was drowned out by the increasing clamor. Alistair realized he needed to do something and was in a hurry. But how can one boy hope to stand in the way of a battalion after a ruthless battalion?
Alistair was torn. Running away was cowardice, leaving his own family to struggle during their darkest hour. But entering the enemy gun line waterside would have been suicide. He was but a small lad, mud in his nails and dreams larger than the place where he grew up. He would not stand a chance against their enchanted armor and well-sharpened swords.
But then a memory surfaced deep within his mind—the gruff voice of his father echoing in the workshop. "Swords are not playthings; they are weapons." and while weapons can kill, sometimes a sword is meant to save."
He still wasn't used to it, even though this decision was his responsibility—he knew that. His shoulders slumped with the weight of it as he sucked in a deep and shaky breath. He blinked back tears, and his vision blurred, but he forced himself to focus. Alistair clenched his jaw with a fresh resolve before he kneeled and picked up the practice sword. Inexperienced fingers held it like the weight of all his fear and new determination.
Once more, he took one last peep through the leaves back in the bush hidden watched. The soldiers were driving the villagers to the village center; his parents had vanished in terror amongst them. Alistair was aware of this tactic of desperation, as well as the idea that in a battle against impossible odds. But in that moment beneath the endless blue and under the eye of an ancient oak, Alistair decided. No longer would he be an innocent boy. He will guard; he will defend. He might defend his family, his village—and perhaps a fragment of freedom against the all-encompassing guile.
"What should I do?" He began yelping, his voice clogged with emotion. He went on to say, "I know I cannot wield swords; swords also fight. Except for the cruel King Thassalor Waith. He will show no mercy. What should I do now?? "
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