matheric

Bree-land, a long time ago…

It was a quiet summer evening in Middleham, the southernmost part of the Bree-fields. The atmosphere matched all the customs expected of such a night. The scent of flowers hung heavily in the air accompanied by the chirping of insects and minor twittering of birds in the trees. This silence was soon to be broken by the trotting of hooves upon the road, a horse being led by Remis Locke; upon which his wife, Ofelie Whitesage, sat astride.

"He is not going to welcome you, you know."
The woman kept her eyes on the river as she spoke, steering the boat with sure, quick strokes of rudder and stake. Despite the current, she kept the small vessel surehandedly in the middle of the stream, sparing her passenger any vexing movements.
Her passenger did not indicate that she had heard her save by the slightest nod. She sat erect on the only bench, quietly watching the stream.

I am not a hero whose song will be sung
in the courts of the kings or the common.
No horn will recall me, no bell will be rung
To remember the name or the deeds done.
Me, I shall not call who forgets me unkind,
Still not void were my deeds of some glory;
But the skalds sing of names, feats more glorious than mine,
and of men more deserving a story.

Nor am I a hero whose tale will be told
As a captain of men and a leader;
Though I was no traitor, nor was I less bold
Than the least of my company's soldiers.

His vision was blurred, drifting on the edge of consciousness he heard sounds, Voices, he told himself.
There were too many, making what seemed to be an enourmous effort he tried to recall, he could vaguely picture the face of the healer, he remembered the voice, but most of all he remembered her treatments, which brought him some small measure of relief.

Yet the voice that had just spoken was not that of the healer, it was a different voice, the tones and manners of speech were known to him, but more, he could not tell.