Children beg me for stories every night, yet all my tales were not for young ears to hear, nor young eyes to see. My name is Loran Aelond, a friend of the late king Orevian Ballister... my old friend. I still recall all of what we had been through- the great battles, the diplomatic missions, and our reckless escapes from danger.
Many of my kids would think of my tales as a fantasy, a fictional tale, and just a mere story made up on the spot just to get them to close their eyes and sleep. Wait until they study history. How great he was when he led those men to battle for the first time, atop a horse of brown and gold, with me left behind to be taken care of by the hospitable people of the west.
Now that he is no longer with us... who will tell children these stories? Who will remind them the consequences of war and the results of raising your banners and diving into the game of blades and blood?
"You grieve too much." a voice called.
Only one name came to mind, Forien. I turn to see him standing tall, just as he did all those decades ago. "My friend!" I exclaimed, rushing to him to embrace him. And so, we did embrace, as friends of a bond forged in blood. "When did you arrive?" I ask him gladly.
"The travel was long. You do not want to imagine how sick you can be- travelling across the marshes of The Choke." he exclaimed with a laugh.
I hold him by the arm and pulled him aside. "Come in! Let us make the most of your visit-"
"Oh, my friend..." he pulled back. "...may I change into my clothes to grieve?" he asked me.
"It is not expected of you to do such customs. You are a man of the faith for The Winged God remember?" I remind him. He was an eastern folk, not a northern one; both worship different gods.
"I care not." he said. "Same to you, Orevian was a good friend. I could not imagine the four regions being in peace without him. I still remember when we met at that courtyard. He was only a mere seventeen-year-old. I was already nineteen." he explained.
"It pains me to think of him..." I tell him. "...who will teach our children, and our grandchildren our stories? How will they ever learn?" I ask him.
He looked at me with a confused stare, then he looked away. "Many people know the story of us four- You, Orevian, Norien, and Me." he reminded me. "Worry not for many remember the great war between my father and his legions. It cannot be forgotten."
"What if it turns to myth, then to legend, then burned and forgotten in history?" I ask. "Many tales of the old kings are now myths. Ororer's arrival with his five hundred ships are now considered senseless legends-"
"I would cut the throat of whoever said that one!" he jokingly exclaimed.
"I just don't want another war like we had to be bestowed to our children. Oh, how awful that would be!" I exclaimed.
He rests his heavy hand on my shoulder. "Nobody else knows just as much as you do, Loran. You were a peasant at the start of the war and ended as Hand to the King. Tell them our stories if you wish; spread the word." he tells me.
That was true. I was once a lowly peasant, being a stable boy at Northrest Keep, the home of Norien's family: Ravenhan. I would never forget the ceremony of his coronation, and him having chosen me as his hand. Perhaps my friend is right. I must spread word of our tales. May the world never forget what we have gone through.
A Tale of Blades and Blood.