Chapter Five: The Flames of Memory
It had been many years, since Garmorn had felt like this - So shocked, so powerless in the face of events. His younger brother, with emphasis on "younger", had the strength and willpower to offend him, so deeply that he might wonder if this had been some form of curse from Mahal, or a dream - A memory of the past, of his previous pain, and of the dark torture that took place nigh thirteen years ago, relative to the time that this tale is noting.
The darkness seeped into his mind, as he fell silent to our eyes, yet in his - He could see a certainty of the past, he could see an eye. This was no dark eye, of evil, nor the eyes of a friend - This was his eye. His left eye, the true left eye. For, it was, in a brief set of circumstances that I dare not note, to save myself from the gore, that Garmorn had lost his, real, left eye - Which was then replaced with another. That, indeed would explain the reason unto why there were such noticeable differences between his left and right eyes, why one was blue, and the other was green, why one was grim and rough, and the other - perfected and almost non-existent.
In the middle of a warm summer, warm enough to melt the snow caps of the Blue Mountains in the West, where Garmorn and Argmorn had been sent, far away from their home, by their father Harkmorn, this being three years prior to his disappearance, to learn the arts of warfare. How to command, how to be commanded. It was here, that the true rivalries began to set it between brothers, as Garmorn won nigh every battle, save the few that he fell in - In pity of his brother. But, contrary to belief in the surviving books of the Manúr dynasty, and of those who know of Garmorn, he was not much of a fighter. Garmorn, was instead, like his brother, unlike his father, a fair-headed Dwarrow, with a great intellect, a love for the wilderness and a curiosity in delving deep into caves and Dwarrow-Halls, and no short way to an interest in the brewing of ales, as all Dwarves would be "expected" to have. Nor did Garmorn learn to fight, but one could fathom that the only reason Garmorn would win these fights was due to his sheer size. While most Dwarves were five foot tall, Garmorn was nearly 5 and a half, similar to the size of men, this was claimed to have originated from Valantris I, the first of The Clan of Valantris. His hefty weight was also rather un-dwarfly, as he developed a large, muscular body form.
But for all his strength, it seemed Garmorn could never control his curiosity, whether he wanted to or not...
"Gah! Come on Brother!", Garmorn roared out in a fit of laughter, as he wrestled with Argmorn, his younger brother, in the training grounds. These grounds were strange, and for a Dwarf, rather oddly placed - They were above the ground, not under it. A dirt track, and a circle, where grass had been cut, and the ground dried to form a dusty layer, there were rarely any trees to be seen. Garmorn was atop Argmorn, who was now shouting out something, most likely some crude curse, and thus, ran forth the training-master. He was a stout Dwarf, with stunted legs, and a broad chest, and stomach for that matter, his beard - broader, and as grey as the mountains themselves, now scarcely snow-topped; He began roaring out, not in rage, but as a commander would order his troops, with a firm voice that no one could disobey, "Garmorn! Get off the lad, damn it with ye! Ye'rll break his back by the time ye'r done with him! Get off!" - Garmorn complied, chuckling, while Argmorn slowly pushed himself up, standing up even slower; His face ripe with pain. "Right ye lads best get ye'selves a drink or two, or three, or four, or - Bah! Get yerselves drunk, eh! And thank m' in the mornin' when yer heads ache!", Bórgunr jibed, in a strange way, he sounded mocking, yet his face showed a great amount of happiness, just as a father's face would, seeing one of his children succeed at something, and his voice dripped with sarcasm. A strangeness, when put together... I could never understand this, myself - As an author, a biographer, and a story-teller.
And so Garmorn chuckled, nodding his hefty head, and took his leave. Argmorn followed behind, rather slowly, and struggled to keep up, now holding a limp - He did not nod, or bow, it would have given him more pain and grief, his head ached, his back ached, his legs ached, his arms ached. Everything ached. But Bórgunr knew this, and watched with a smile on his face, not a sly one - But a smile that showed even more signs of fatherhood, and care. But as we know, Garmorn and Argmorn were no sons of Bórgunr, or were they? Theoretically, perhaps - There are many ways to define a "father". Be it through blood, or through care, or even through those you admire and look up to.
As they walked along, Garmorn now slowing down for his brother, they spoke. Garmorn began, "Come now, it couldn't have been that bad!", he choked, out of laughter, his brother then replied: "No... Not that bad. Worse.", he tried to show a smile, but his face cringed as he felt another pulse of pain go through his body, like the waves on the coasts of the West, it just kept flowing, coming, it couldn't be stopped. Not by a Dwarf. Along the way, they were met with a surprise, but a decent one, a good friend, one that both Garmorn and Argmorn had made it a note that they would try their best to befriend, the son of Bórgunr, their training master: Tórunr. Tórunr, at this time, was a stout Dwarf, large and hefty, he was a trained warrior and knew just as much about getting drunk as his father did, he had a rugged beard, not as large as his father's, out of respect, but equally as rough, nonetheless - As rough as his hair, and a color of brown, a light-chestnut shade. "So! How was the trainin' eh?", shouted out a voice from behind a wall of bushes, at first this shook both Garmorn's and Argmorn's senses, yet after a brief moment of wonder, they realised it was Tórunr, so Garmorn replied - Argmorn not being able to in his current state, "Grand! I'm sure Argmorn had quite a lot of fun, to be honest. He'll never have to fight again!", Garmorn burst into a heavy laughter, as Argmorn stated, with great difficulty, "Because I wont be able to.. Damn it, brother!", then he broke into laughter aswel, that is - before the pain gripped him seconds later. By this point, Tórunr had already crawled through the bushes, his beard, as bushy as the hedge, looked like the very wall of leaves he had walked through, rough, solid and green with leaf - He stared at the two, a grin on his face.
"Well, well! That's good indeed! I'm sure yer both learnt somethin' useful! Garmorn, to avoid beatin' his brother to a pulp, and Argmorn - You learnt that yer should never fight with someone nearly twice yer size!", Tórunr said, with the same grin on his face - Argmorn shortly answered, "That’s what old Laegrem's father said, before he got one of legs hacked off... What was his -- Ugh... Damn this back!", he paused for a moment, "… What was his name?", he looked towards Garmorn.
"Oh aye, Vindcott Petyr...", Garmorn looked confused for a moment, "Strange name eh? Vindcott? Petyr? Neither sound well, together or no.", it was at this that Tórunr began speaking - Gesturing for the other two Dwarrows to walk with him, he walked slow knowing that Argmorn would not be able to keep up, or atleast - He thought he wouldn’t. Argmorn wasn't the Dwarf that everyone expected to do great things, or anything for that matter. "So how's m'father? Word is he's been actin' strange!", Tórunr sounded grim, very, very grim indeed... But perhaps this was a question not to be answered, as he quickly spoke - Not letting it be answered, "But anyway. I've found somethin' yer will want to look at... A great stash of sorts... There's ---", Tórunr realised he should be a bit quieter, so he said in a low voice: "Gold. Ale. Weapons and armor too...! There's all sorts, ye' Morns best come wit' m', and we'll see what more can be found!" - Tórunr would refer to Argmorn and Garmorn as "Morns", sometimes, a crude nickname. Arg-morn, Gar-morn, Hark-morn.
Garmorn said slowly and softly, "Well yer father's paying for some drinks... So.. Maybe tomorrow?", he stared at Argmorn for a moment, and then looked back to Tórunr, "And Argmorn doesn’t look in much of a state to go searching for trinkets in this.. Ahem. 'Stash' of yours."
Tórunr then said, after showing a sad expression on his face, "As yer say, as yer say. Here, follow me and we'll get to the inn t'en."
And so, they went to the local inn, Garmorn and Argmorn being led by their training master's son, their friend and brother - Atleast, brother, in how they felt he would be.
They began drinking into the night, yet Argmorn did not - Something darkened his mind that could not be seen by the others, his face was stern as he looked off into the, very close, distance - Pain pulsing through his body, his senses lost as the world around him became an emptiness of space, he looked around - Faces were confused, the voices in his head were not comprehendible, and for a moment, a small moment.
A brief second.
He felt death.
