Our days seem to grow ever darker, even as winter has finally left us and the sun rises up earlier each morn, and stays up until later in the eve. Yet there is still that crude feeling of unrest in the air, paired with the smell of distant black smoke and an ominous mist rolling down the mountains. The worried whispers and watchful eyes among the guardsmen keep speaking of a shared fear, and Denholm does all he can to keep the morale up in these times of turmoil. I see them often patrolling the roads, both day and night, and they train with a ferocity and vigor that would rival the Elfwards. I fear not overmuch for Bancross with these hardy hands and readied shields watching over us, yet I always fear for the Mark as a whole.
I cannot remember how much time has passed since last I just sat down to think upon what is, what was, and what may have been. It is early morning, and as I tend to our horses, I’m also watching Ethel playing with her dog in the dewy, yellow grass that was deeply covered by a white blanket of snow only a month or so ago. A cold, dark winter came and went, as it always does, and the lush, green spring is once again knocking on our door and treading upon our doorstep, as it always does.
She is growing up so fast that it is now impossible to tell that she was once that wide-eyed newborn little tot that I once carried on my arm, crying and afraid of this bright new world she’d been born into. Later as a toddler she’d ride upon my shoulders and point to wherever she wanted us to go. As she started to walk, she’d hold my hand - or rather a few of my fingers - and drag me to all the new discoveries she’d made that day, and to see all the rocks she’d proudly stacked. Now she is near a full-grown woman, tall and headstrong. And oh, how much she looks like Eda in the dim morning light. She takes after her mother in so many ways, despite us losing her early in life. My dear daughter, all grown up. She is my pride, my joy, my everything, and why I keep smiling every day.
I turn back to brush Ealfin, my trusted warhorse, who is also advancing in age. He is many years older than Ethel, and I fear he may not have that many years left in him. Like me, he carries many scars, and one of his ears is split in two. I can only imagine his thoughts and memories, though I believe they are akin to mine as well. The bond of a man and horse, forged through blood, battle and brotherhood.
The she-wolf that used to watch my every step has walked away into the mist and is likely not coming back, even if I wish that things would’ve been different. Such is life, I suppose, always filled with meetings and partings, making history as we walk our paths together or apart.
Slowly turns the wheel, they say, yet I wish it would turn even slower. Time waits for no man, and my tired, aching joints and muscles long for the days of unbridled youth and strength, and the grey hair upon my head grows thinner by the day. I would not say that old age terrifies me, yet I fear what lies ahead, and what the world still has in store for us all. The dreaded darkness in the air creeps in ever closer, and there is not an abundance of ways of comfort in this unrest. I watch the horizon and wonder how many more of these dark, wicked days we will see before these evil times come to an end. What we need is hope, now more than ever.
And in Ethel’s bright, green eyes that is exactly what I see. Hope. Hope for a promising future, where happiness and laughter will mercilessly drown all the sorrows, as the wheel slowly trudges on.
