{{Special thanks to Everlin for the inspiration this scribbler got from Vanimor music during most of the writing of this piece, and to my friend Seregrian for mentioning this performance}}
A wagon full of stable muck, swarming with a cloud of hungrily buzzing flying insects, sweltered under an unexpectedly warm afternoon sun. The bustle inside Bree West Gate was beginning to make the sounds of days-end, but Torry knew his day was merely mid-way. He still had to deliver the richness of the wagon load to the various manure piles sprouting around the Westview estate and its neighboring farm plots, then return to the Watcher cottage outside the Gate for his daily beating, for that is what his weapon training seemed to be with the relentless Chief Watcher.
Leaning against the rail fence next to the wagon, he wiped the sweat from his face onto the sleeve of his farrier robe and slaked his thirst from a water skin hung from the wagon seat. Climbing back onto the wagon, he sat, drew up the reins and ‘tsked’ the horse forward into the final part of the daily route. As the horse already knew where they would be trundling, Torry had time to balefully ponder his brutal sessions with Grimbriar: balance, stance, position of weapon and shield, bash, cover, swing, fail and receive another bruise accompanied with Grimbriar’s rebuke and taunting chuckle. He had stopped counting the number of bruises when he realized that they were merciful, in a cruel way, each indicating a potentially crippling or lethal blow, but delivered with derision, to leave evidence of his own lack of skill.
One thing had changed, however. The Chief no longer called him “boyo” or “boot”. Now it was simply “Greenlake”.
“Keep your shield up, Greenlake.”
“You’re off balance, Greenlake.”
“You’re now a dead man, Greenlake.”
Each phrase was accompanied with another blow, another bruise, another happy chuckle from the Chief Watcher. In the last couple of days, however, fewer bruises bloomed each session as Torry was beginning to sense patterns in the Chief’s tactics. Surprising to Torry, this did not seem to frustrate Grimbriar. Something in the Chief Watcher’s demeanor hinted at a growing appreciation for Torry’s tenacity, discernment, and ability to take the punishment and not give up. The Chief assigned him a day off tomorrow, to rest, but warned him to be all the more ready the day after, as his assigned duties were going to change soon. Torry simply nodded, not biting with a question on the vague statement. Grimbriar then dismissed him wordlessly with a wave.
On a whim, Torry chose a different path to drive the emptied wagon to the Watcher’s cottage, leaving through the North Gate of town, not really knowing why, until it occurred him that he was not only nearing the cottage, but also the graveyard where Uncle Gar was buried. Without halting the wagon, Torry instead turned toward the gravesite, and he stopped the horse just before entering the yard.
Not much had changed since Uncle Gar’s death. The trees were a bit taller, more gravestones had been lovingly placed, and the moss on the yard-keepers house had spread to more of the wall stones. But the same birdsongs drifted from the foliage, the fading afternoon sunlight dappled across the green field of honor the same way it did on the day of his uncle’s service, and the sound of the wagon’s progress had reminded him of his boyhood sadness dealing with his beloved uncle’s mortality as a hearse decorated in black and Watcher crimson carried Uncle Gar to his grave.
Torry stepped down from the wagon and brushed himself off as best as he could before approaching his uncle. He knelt at the headstone, and quietly read the epitaph. “Here Lies a Good Man and Beloved Husband, Grounded in Duty, Forged in Service.” Engraved below was the Greenlake family symbol, a standing sheaf of grain, followed by the Bree-town Watch Crest.
“Yes,”, thought Torry, “forged, an apt word to describe both a metalsmith and a respected Watcher”. Leaning forward, he picked away the few weeds invading Uncle Gar’s memory. He wondered what his uncle would think of his nephew, following a similar, if not difficult path. How alike would the music be in their respective life-songs?
Only time, and service, would tell....
