Kylan's heart weighed heavy as he knelt beside his father's divan, overcome with a rush of memories from his childhood as he watched Aldric Oberon, his father, lying there wounded yet peaceful in his sleep.
Tears welled up in his eyes as he traced his fingers over the intricate carvings on the wooden frame, each etch reminding him of days long gone by.
The room seemed to echo with the faint memories of their childhood escapades. He reminisced about the countless hours he and his brother spent playing hide and seek, their innocent giggles reverberating off the walls.
In a soft, trembling voice, Kylan whispered, "Do you remember, father? The days when Ronan and I would chase each other around the halls, laughing and teasing each other endlessly? This lair was our sanctuary, our playground... our world. This was where you hid us from danger."
As Kylan recalled the moments of brotherly mischief, a faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips, mingling with the sorrow etched across his face.
His father's divan, a symbol of comfort and protection, now cradled his pain and longing for those simpler times.
"And here," Kylan's voice faltered, his breath catching in his throat, "Here is where you and Mother would tuck us in, promising us safety and warmth while the storm raged outside.
These walls witnessed the bond that held us together when darkness loomed and the attacks on Emberfall wouldn't cease."
Sobs wracked Kylan's body as he buried his face in the familiar fabric, the scent of old leather and memories enveloping him in a bittersweet embrace.
"You are our guardian, our rock," he murmured, his voice filled with a mix of sorrow and gratitude. "The clan head that defended us with unwavering courage, even when danger lurked at our doorstep. You cannot leave us now, Father."
Amidst his tears, Kylan felt a surge of determination rising within him, a flicker of his father's resilience igniting in his spirit.
As he gazed around the silent lair, his father's presence lingering in the air, Kylan vowed to honour the legacy of strength and protection that Aldric Oberon had bestowed upon their family and clan.
There are no cowards in the lineage of Oberon!
And in that moment of raw vulnerability and remembrance, Kylan found solace in the memories that connected him to his past, his present, and the unwritten future that awaited him.
He gently touched his father's hand, the same hand that had once lifted him up in play and protected him from harm.
Chief Aldric, once a strong and formidable clan head, now lay vulnerable before him, a stark reminder of the passage of time.
As Kylan's tears fell freely, a soft shuffling sound indicated the entrance of his mother. Her presence brought a sense of solace to the sombre atmosphere of the room.
"Kylan, my dear," his mother spoke softly, her voice a soothing melody amidst his turmoil,
"it's time to take a moment for yourself. Come have some chicken soup and take your bath so you can rest for the night. You have come a long way. Your father too needs his sleep to heal."
With her usual tenderness, she guided Kylan away from his father's side, leading him to the bowl of chicken soup she had made with the aroma of the simmering soup filling the air.
The familiar scent wrapped around him like a comforting embrace, momentarily easing the ache in his heart. He felt like a child again.
As he sat down to have his meal, the warmth of the soup seeped into his bones, offering a sense of rejuvenation amidst the melancholy that hung in the air. The simple act of eating brought back a flood of memories of shared laughter and familial bonds.
His mother sat closer to the hearth in her rocking chair as she continued knitting and looking toward the window she had peeped out from earlier.
He hadn't had a good meal throughout his years of being in the war front. The food rations were damn shitty and even prisoners of war in other places had better.
After he finished his meal, his mother smiled at him and said, "You are no visitor. You know the way to your room."
Kylan smiled back and stood up to make his way to the room where he and his brother had once shared. This was where they had pillow and wooden sword fights while role-playing war folklores late into the night.
The room felt like a time capsule, preserving the memories of their childhood adventures within its walls. Beds that looked so big to them as children were now looking like tiny baby cots to him.
As he entered the dimly lit room with a weary sigh, he unfastened the straps of his back scabbard, the leather creaking softly as he gently set it down by the head of the bed.
The battle axe and sword nestled within the scabbard, now relieved of their burden, seemed to rest more peacefully in the quiet of the room. They'd become a part of him and he vowed to never lose them except they're pried from his dead hands.
He settled in, enveloped by the familiar scents and sights of his childhood, he felt a sense of peace wash over him. The weight of his emotions gradually lifted, leaving behind a profound gratitude for the memories that had shaped him.
The room hadn't looked any different from when he had set out to leave home for the first time for war. He remembered the night his brother had to leave for the front. He became restless and couldn't sleep.
The flickering lamp cast dancing shadows against the walls as Kylan turned his attention to the damp clothes that clung uncomfortably to his skin.
With practised ease, he began to unfasten his armour and shed each piece, the sound of metal clanking against the wooden floor echoing in the room. As he removed the last of his gear, a sense of relief washed over him, leaving him feeling lighter and more at ease.
Just as he finished divesting himself of his armour, a gentle voice interrupted his quiet reverie. Lady Elowen stood in the doorway, her expression soft as always as she called on him.
"Ky," she called out, her voice warm and inviting, "I've prepared your bath water. It's warm, and it will soothe your weary body before you retire for the night."
He turned slightly to face his mother, gratitude shining in his eyes at her thoughtful gesture. The day's events had left him physically and mentally exhausted, and the prospect of a warm bath was a welcome respite.
"Thank you, Mother," Kylan replied, his voice tinged with appreciation while hiding his scarred torso. "I can't wait to make good use of the warm water you've prepared."
Lady Elowen smiled softly before retreating from the room, leaving him to prepare for his bath. As he made his way to the steaming wooden tub, the scent of lavender, mint herbs and oils wafted through the air, enveloping him in a cocoon of comfort and relaxation.
With each step closer to the inviting water, he felt the tension in his muscles begin to melt away.
His lean figure bearing battle scars walked across the room into the adjacent to the one he had just come out from with nothing but breeches as his left hand caressed the raised scar across his chest.
As he gazed through the only window in the room streaked with rivulets of water looking out into the garden, his mind wandered back to the war – a stark contrast to the serene surrounding he now found himself in.
He couldn't shake the memories of the sights, scenes, and smells that defined his time in battle.
The war front was a place of harsh realities, where the stench of blood and sweat mingled with the rotten smell of unhealed infected wounds. The cacophony of warfare echoed in his mind, a constant reminder of the chaos and violence days his eyes have witnessed.
The rations provided to soldiers were meagre and oftentimes unappetizing, far removed from the hearty and rich chicken he just enjoyed at his family table.
Mud-splattered trenches, makeshift medical tents bustling with wounded comrades, and the ever-present threat of disease loomed large in his memories. The basic necessities that many took for granted - clean water, fresh clothes, a warm bed - were scarce commodities in the unforgiving environment of war.
Amidst the horrors of the war front, Kylan had witnessed the ultimate sacrifice made by his fellow soldiers. The deaths that had become all too common were etched in his mind, a sobering reminder of the price of conflict.
Each loss weighed heavily on his heart, a burden he carried with him even in moments of respite.
In this moment of temporary peace, Kylan couldn't help but reflect on the stark disparities between the war front and the sanctuary of his home.
The contrast between the hardship and suffering of battle and the warmth and care he experienced now left him with a profound sense of gratitude for the comfort that surrounded him.
The memories of war would always linger, but in the embrace of his family, he found solace and a renewed appreciation for the simple joys of home.
He took of his breeches and threw it aside, lowered himself into the soothing bubbled tub of scented water, closed his eyes and let out a contented sigh.
As he snuggled in the tub of warm water, feeling the relaxing warmth envelop his body, he suddenly felt something hard beneath him. Puzzled, he reached down and pulled out a black glinting wrist amulet.
Recognition dawned on him as he studied it closely – it was his brother's amulet! Surprised and touched by the discovery, Kylan's mind flooded with memories of his brother.
The worries of life gradually slowly slipped away, replaced by a sense of calm and tranquillity as he stroked the amulet.
As he settled into the embrace of the warm bath, surrounded by the gentle flicker of lard lamp, he felt a deep sense of gratitude for his mother's loving care, his father's life, his safety in the quiet of the night, Swifty, and the blessing of rain.
He drifted away in thoughts as the night rain continued to drizzle and wash away the grime and weariness that once hung over him...