The Girl’s haunting melody filled the silence and for once Ryven did not object to it. The ancient words his Daughter sang had not been heard since he buried her mother in the hole that he had dug. And for that reason he did not have the heart to interrupt that ancient ritual of mourning. Those ancient words a strange comfort compared to the usual silence. The lyrics distracted him, though only intermittently, from the reality of the situation - his Father.
He had always expected to know when the time would come, like a mother would when her son died while on campaign. He in fact heard of his Father’s death in the middle of a game of ‘five man’s roll’ . The news spilled out by a drunk cobbler whose smirk and drunken crackle lasted as long as it took for Ryven to impale the man’s wrist to the wooden table by dagger strapped to his forearm.
“Papa, why you?”
The singing stopped. The silence came. No birds, no wind, not even the crunch of their footsteps against the forest floor. Her hand grabbed his own and held it as tight as a ten year old could.
Why me?
He was just a boy, not even five. Running. Running as fast as a four year old could; the shouts of his father spurring him deeper into the woods. And there Brand found him.
Without meeting her gaze he replied “I don’t know.”
And that was the truth; he had no hidden potential, no innate talent or special destiny. All he was was a scared lost boy running away from home. Brand adopted him and molded him into the man he is today; a man of the forest.
Athalia, his daughter went back to her melody, as Ryven continued to follow the path through the familiar forest. Slowly the trees became more and more familiar, with each distinct landmark bringing back a flood of old memories; both good and bad. His daughter’s hand’s tightened their grip as they rounded the bend and saw the runes.
I am home.
He had always expected to know when the time would come, like a mother would when her son died while on campaign. He in fact heard of his Father’s death in the middle of a game of ‘five man’s roll’ . The news spilled out by a drunk cobbler whose smirk and drunken crackle lasted as long as it took for Ryven to impale the man’s wrist to the wooden table by dagger strapped to his forearm.
“Papa, why you?”
The singing stopped. The silence came. No birds, no wind, not even the crunch of their footsteps against the forest floor. Her hand grabbed his own and held it as tight as a ten year old could.
Why me?
He was just a boy, not even five. Running. Running as fast as a four year old could; the shouts of his father spurring him deeper into the woods. And there Brand found him.
Without meeting her gaze he replied “I don’t know.”
And that was the truth; he had no hidden potential, no innate talent or special destiny. All he was was a scared lost boy running away from home. Brand adopted him and molded him into the man he is today; a man of the forest.
Athalia, his daughter went back to her melody, as Ryven continued to follow the path through the familiar forest. Slowly the trees became more and more familiar, with each distinct landmark bringing back a flood of old memories; both good and bad. His daughter’s hand’s tightened their grip as they rounded the bend and saw the runes.
I am home.