Chapter: 1
Renaissance

The sun began the slow, downward trek towards the ends of the earth, bathing the land in dying, blood–red glory. Scarlet trails of its majesty adorned the sprawling plains of grass while pinprick stars appeared in the purple glaze of night on the eastern horizon.

The East Hill Village was an out–of–the–way place, yet not far enough removed to remain untouched by the splendor of the sunset. It was a tightly knit community where everyone knew everyone else and no secrets could be kept. It was a place widely renowned for its prosperity, sturdy horses, superb wine, fertile soil, and the enormous stone walls which surrounded the hardworking community. It was a place where, when one person celebrated, his fellows rejoiced with him.

And this night was certainly worthy of celebration.

For the first time in years, the oncoming darkness was not a thing the people would dread. For the first time in their lifetime, there was no need for night watches, no need to go to bed fearful of what lurked beyond the walls, hidden in the shadows. This night promised not to linger, but in a short time, give way to morning. It was a night of liberation, a night to remember.

Barely five days ago, word of victory had reached the community. A courier from the west had come with news that the siege on Ostorea Fortress had been broken and that the enemy was in full retreat. Details were sparse, but word–of–mouth had it that a confederation of Eastern and Western armies had strategically counterattacked and routed the enemy, driving them across the Great River back eastward. Ragtag bands of marauders were still loose in the countryside and would be gradually rounded up in the coming months, but the majority was in full retreat back north.

At long last, the people of the Realms were free.

There had already been much celebration since the news had arrived. In fact, the people had not slept properly since the courier had departed to spread word to the plains communities. But this night was even more special: tonight, the East Hill volunteers were returning home.

Despite the fact that they were a peace–loving community, the East Hill villagers had not boycotted the war effort. Their sons, fathers, and brothers had departed with the rest of the Plains Militia to join the regulars in chasing the Dark One and his armies back to hell. They had willingly offered their own blood, and that selfless sacrifice was what made them heroes. It had nothing to do with heritage. Now that they were coming home, the townsfolk would see to it that their neighbors, friends, and family would be welcomed back spectacularly. Similar celebrations united communities across the Realms like never before as their men gradually returned home – sometimes in trickles, sometimes waves.

In the East Hill, the effort was headed in particular by their town elder. He was a deceptively frail–looking old man, bent nearly double with age. At the time of the celebration, he was rapidly approaching his one–hundred–and–ninety–third summer, yet he insisted upon continuing his duty of shepherding the people.

Under his direction, the people spent the days leading up to the celebration plucking turkeys and slaughtering the best of the cattle. They decorated the village with colorful paper streamers, and filled every tree surrounding the village with candles in expensive glass jars. They picked every last grape from the expansive vineyards outside the village walls and broke into the stores of wheat to make fresh bread and ale.

The preparations had taken them a full week, and now the night was here. The very dusk seemed alive with the sounds of music and laughter. The streets were full of bustle and commotion. Boys and girls alike chased each other atop the high stone wall that surrounded the village, shouting and waving stick–swords above their heads. Minstrels and bards wandered the streets, keeping up various melodies and singing at the tops of their voices.

It was chaos, but it was organized – united for a common purpose.

Sometime near the point of night where one day ends and the next begins, a cry sounded from the lookouts perched atop the wall. The shout echoed down the streets, carried by many throats and increasing levels of excitement. In previous months, a returning armed force would have filled the people with dread. But those times were past now – for good.

If it was possible, the din in the village seemed to increase. There was a renewed flurry of activity as the people hurried to make sure that everything was ready, and then they all made their way to the north gates to meet their brave young men who had helped to drive the enemy from their soil. The townsfolk flooded the streets and alleys, moving as one eager unit.

At a call from someone outside the wall, the lookouts gave the signal, and the townsfolk below began pulling apart the massive gates. A hushed, almost reverent silence fell upon the crowd as the gates creaked open, splitting to reveal the black fields and the highway beyond.

The stillness was abrupt and stunning.

The first man to enter through the gateway was astride a magnificent chestnut mare. His handsome face was split in a wide grin, accentuated by eyes that were alive and warm – not hardened by horrors of war.

The silence was immediately filled with shouts and cheers.

Cornelious Barada was every bit the image of a hero: tall and strong, still dressed in his armor, carrying himself with dignity. He climbed down from his horse to embrace his wife and two children, all three of whom had pushed their way through the throng to greet him. To the great amusement of the crowd, Barada then proceeded to hoist his two children up onto his shoulders – a small, round–faced boy on one, and a girl whose hair shone like barley on the other.

The man who immediately followed Barada was immediately recognizable – despite the fact that he’d grown a full beard during his absence. Adam Farwour was smaller in build than his companion and dressed in battle array, but his smile was just as big as Barada’s.

The people parted to let Sheba Farwour reach her husband. She was weeping with joy as she met Adam in a hug – putting her face in his chest before he had even fully dismounted. There was a tender moment where they clung to one another, alone in the midst of the storm of cheering, and then they broke apart to let in their son. Adam stooped and hoisted the boy in his arms, kissing the dirty upturned face repeatedly as Sheba clung to her husband’s arm.

Following Adam and Cornelious came the rest of the party, astride horses of various breeds and colors. Maesro and Seth Tull, the Lionel boys, Russo Eddi and two of his three sons, Juncis Lloyd, Packard and his brother Wynn, and at least a hundred more behind them. All seemed distinctly embarrassed by the type of welcome they were receiving, but none could hide their smiles – even behind their weariness.

It was good to be home.

Despite the fact that so few had returned when so many had departed, the spirit of the festival was not hindered. There were tears, and they had been expected: women and men alike turned away from the arriving company in horror, failing to find their loved ones in the crowd. It would certainly be hard to cope with that grief, especially when their neighbors were celebrating a brother, son, or father’s safe return just next–door. But life would go on, the mourners would be comforted, and the dead would not be forgotten.

The tidal wave of joy overrode the sorrow, and the crowd closed in on the travel–weary individuals, herding them back towards the town center. Squealing children took the lead eagerly, running ahead of the procession to the market. The people had scoured the town for the biggest, widest, longest tables that they could find and arranged them into long rows in the market square. Now they stood groaning under mountains of the village’s best cooking.

The peasants herded the soldiers into the town center. They poured into the clearing from every street and alley, hundreds and more, filling the night air with a never–ending chorus. And then, as the heroes were showed to their places of honor at the headmost tables in the square, a unanimous cry of “Speech!!” arose from the mob.

To quell the uproar, Adam Farwour climbed up and stood on the closest table, raising his hands for silence. Almost instantaneously, the shouting died away and the night was surrendered once again to the breeze and the crickets.

Farwour began somewhat uncertainly, but his voice was strong and full. “My friends, neighbors, and family… Oh, hell, what can I even say? We’re thrilled to return home to such a warm welcome.”

The other soldiers all murmured their sincere agreement. One whistled, eliciting chuckles from the rest and vigorous clapping from the crowd. It was good to be home: a year was far too long a time to be away from their beloved East Hill Village.

“We’ve all gone through so much these past years,” Adam continued. His gaze swept the crowd, but did not linger on any one individual. “You’ve had it just as hard as those of us on the front lines. We’ve all known loss – too many of our friends and relatives have given up their lives for this cause.”

He fell silent, letting the gravity of his words inspire a moment of reverential silence amongst the crowd.

“These next few days, weeks, even months… are going to be hard.” He continued to look out at the people, easily finding the tearful gazes of the loved ones of those who had not returned. “But know this: all who perished fighting the Dark One died honorably. Theirs were righteous deaths, selfless and selfish – because they gave themselves entirely at the same time as they fought to keep what they loved. And through their sacrifice, with their blood, we have bought back our lands and our freedom. This village breeds no cowards!”

The crowd exploded in prideful cheers, filling the night with their jubilee. Their pride was of deep–seated heritage, in no way arrogant: the rustic and primitive East Hill Village was a place that had forever taught her children how to be strong.

Adam waited until the cheers began to subside, and then began again. His voice had thickened with emotion, but he did not allow the tears to fall from his eyes. “You think of us as heroes,” he said matter–of–factly, shrugging beneath his armor. “And, I suppose – for tonight only – we won’t argue.”

A smattering of laughter and clapping followed the comment, and finally Adam smiled widely, displaying a perfect set of white teeth.

“What else can I say? Our children are safe, and we can truly celebrate.” He raised a fist high in the air. “TheDark One has been cast down!”

Before he’d even gotten out the last word, there went up a final cry, a vocal explosion of raw emotion: the release of all kempt anxiety. The screaming continued as Barada, clapping with the rest, got up onto the long bench that stood at the side of the table.

“Good speech, Adam – short and sweet,” he shouted over the cheering. “But please don’t put your foot in the gravy.”

“Come now – enough talking!” the Elder said loudly as laughter erupted from the villagers, raising his hands for attention. Age had shrunken him so much that he was barely visible in the throng. “I’m hungry, and these men haven’t had a decent meal in almost a year. Let us eat!”

“Well said, ‘Father’!” a man in the crowd shouted, and the rest of the people readily agreed.

Suddenly everyone was hurrying to find a seat at one of the numerous tables as plates and cloth napkins were distributed down the rows of benches. Adam Farwour took his friend’s proffered hand and got down off the table. He saw to it that his wife and son were seated before sitting down himself, between them and Cornelious. Barada had already seated his two children on his lap and was spooning generous helpings of spiced applesauce onto their plates. Talk and laughter were light, omnipresent, and full of cheer – a continuous burble that filled the old streets and brought the candlelit night to life.

It was certainly a feast worthy of remembrance. Three courses of tender roast and turkey were followed by desserts previously unheard of in the East Hill Village: mountainous platters of sweet breads and pastries, and sugar candies for the children. Throughout the feast, various companies of minstrels kept up tunes – mostly popular songs requested by the villagers – and about halfway through the celebration, the Elder brought out a barrel of ale procured from his own cellar.

“My dear ‘Father’,” Cornelious laughed accusatorily. “Have you been holding out on us?”

The old man – with the help of two middle–aged grandchildren – set the barrel atop a large stool and removed the cork so that the men already gathered around him could fill their mugs. “Just saving the best for last, Cornelious,” he said with a smile.

The food never stopped coming. Fresh plates piled high with edible mountains were brought out as each previous helping was consumed. Finally, even little Drew Barada, whose stomach had previously seemed to possess no bottom, was filled.

Then, as the grape cider was passed around, the minstrels struck up a lively tune. For a while, everyone merely listened as they chatted amiably and finished their meals. Then, one of the soldiers got up and began a humorous sort of jig. Gradually the villagers began to join in, until finally everyone was on his or her feet. The dancing lasted for some time, until the villagers, panting from exertion and sweating profusely, finally had one last cup of cider and then began to retire for the remaining few hours of night. The next day would not be unlike the previous: in the East Hill, rest and pleasure only came after a full day’s work.

“Cornelious, won’t you stay for another round?” a heavyset man called above the murmur of the dissolving crowd. Gray Bagham was commonly known as a drunkard, yet he was a friend to everyone – especially the children, who delighted in his tales and coarse jesting. He waved his mug of ale in the air, slopping the contents onto the ground. “Jus’ one more – for old times’ sake.”

“Sorry, friend,” Cornelious called back. “Got to get the young ones in bed.” He was carrying little Esther under one arm, Drew under the other, both of whom were giggling and struggling to free themselves. His wife had her arms entwined around his chest with her head resting on his back.

“How ’bout you then, Adam?” Bagham called as Cornelious and his family made their way down the street amidst the crowd.

The bearded man merely laughed, waving over his shoulder. “Some other time, Gray,” he promised. “I haven’t quite had time to… ah, socialize with my wife for quite some time.”

The risqué remark sparked uproarious laughter from Gray and his drunken companions and painted a furious blush on Sheba Farwour’s beautiful face – which she hid in Adam’s shoulder. She was carrying their sleeping son in her arms.

It took a long time for the commotion to die down and the peasants to disentangle themselves from the crowd in the market. Offering final farewells and goodnights, they slowly retired to their homes with their exhausted children in tow. Cleanup after the celebration would commence in the morning and most likely become a weeklong process. But now it was time to rest.

Almost as suddenly as they had started, the noises of celebration stopped. It was silent in the old town on the hill, tranquil to suit the still night. The wind whispered gently through the treetops, bringing with it a calming spirit of peace.

The East Hill celebration was nothing compared to some of those echoed across the Realms. Eastern and Western capitals were unparalleled in their parades, revelries, and fanfare, and the smaller villages and cities were no less silent. Now, the whole world seemed to be resting, releasing the deep breath that it had been holding for so long. It was as if the earth itself realized that the danger had passed, that good had once again been victorious, and that the people were truly free.

Adam lay on his back in the bed, buried in a goatskin blanket, home.

The little hut was dark and the utter blackness of deep night had settled over the village. In the bedroom, the only light came from the single candle burning drowsily on Sheba’s dressing table. The tiny flame wavered in the breeze wafting in the open window, sending shadows skittering across the room.

A full year had passed since Adam had been home, and to finally be there again felt so good, yet almost alien to him. For the past ten months he had known all types of beds, had slept in all types of weather and locations. The ache of war–weariness had not yet begun to depart from his bones, but just lying in the comfort of his own bed worked wonders for his soul. Being warm and dry at night was an unattainable luxury in the army – even for an officer with a tent over his head.

Adam put his his arms behind the down pillow and gazed at the uneven ceiling of hard clay above him, watching the dancing shadows with mild interest. In the dim lighting, he could pick out all the familiar blemishes of the roof he had shaped with his own hands. He could remember acutely the work that had gone into building the hut, the team effort of friends and neighbors lending their hands, and despite the amateur workmanship, he found that he was still proud of the house he’d built.

He and Sheba had been married very young in Kilahaza, the capital city of the Eastern Realms, located several hundred miles southeast of the East Hill Village. They’d lived there for several years on Sheba’s dowry and his meager wages from the blacksmith shop before emigrating in search of a quieter, less crowded place to call home. Sheba especially had always felt claustrophobic in Kilahaza, where the houses were built so close together, one on top of the other, with their paper–thin walls of plaster and tiny rooms with low ceilings.

And so they’d left.

Adam had made the executive decision that they should go north to the East Hill Village – to be near his lifetime friend and adopted brother, Cornelious. Barada had left Kilahaza years before with his wife after leaving the military, and it had always been Adam’s desire to do the same. So the East Hill was where he and Sheba had settled – almost ten years ago now. For a newly wedded couple, both of whom loved peace and quiet, it was heaven on earth to rise in the silent splendor of each new morning, work to the tune of sparrows all afternoon with friends and neighbors beside, and retire with the sun to the symphony of crickets and the blissfulness of solitude with each other. Sheba’s pregnancy had been miraculously smooth, and little Seigi had been born to them in their fifth year in the East Hill. Life had somehow gotten even better. Everything had been going right, everything was as it should be. Their son was healthy and strong, Sheba was a glowing mother, more beautiful than ever, and Adam loved them both so much it was inexpressible.

And then, around the time of Seigi’s fourth birthday, the Dark Armies had crossed the North Mountains. Even as he lay there in the bed, Adam failed to repress a shiver, remembering the terror of the day.

Cornelious had been the one to organize the party of East Hill men to go join with the regular army of the Eastern Realms. He had persuaded a reluctant Adam to come along, and so their little band of one hundred and seventy-seven friends, neighbors, and relatives had departed for Kilahaza to join with the army forming there. The fighting in the West had been long – too long – and of those good men the East Hill had sent out to war, only one hundred and thirteen had returned. Adam’s guts tightened as again he recounted each one of his neighbors’ deaths in his mind. He felt guilty – as though he should have been the one to die while the others should have lived.

He swept the room with his gaze, lingering on the haunting dance of the candle flame. Survivor’s Guilt was what the grizzled veterans of the army had called it: the inexplicable feeling of responsibility for fellows’ deaths. It was a conviction, they said, one would carry for life.

Adam shook his head slowly, but was unconscious to the action. How can I blame myself for something I could have done nothing to stop?

According to Cornelious, it was always worse for new officers. Adam, having very little military experience, had nevertheless distinguished himself as possessing invaluable leadership capabilities. As a result, he’d been quickly promoted, thanks primarily to Cornelious’ prominent voice. Barada had been honorably discharged after serving his time with the Eastern Army, which had provided him with the opportunity to escape Kilahaza and settle in the East Hill. With the new threat from the Dark One’s forces, King Cyrannus had immediately given him a new command, and barely a week into the conflict, had promoted Cornelious to the rank of General for the second time in his life.

Cornelious trusted my judgment. That’s why he put me high in his chain of command. Adam smiled faintly. He knew I’d pay attention, obey orders, and be a helpful member of the staff.

At first, he hadn’t been comfortable with his promotion. Surrounded by officers who had served for decades, he’d felt severely inexperienced. But as the war had unfolded over weeks and then months, Adam had come to accept his position and responsibility with honor, vowing to serve King Cyrannus’ army well and keep his men alive. And he’d done so to the best of his abilities.

But now I’m home again and the Dark One is defeated, so there’s no reason to keep dwelling on it.

Adam let his gaze continue to wander around the room, his sense of familiarity twisted with that persisting feeling of strangeness. It felt almost like a different place, his home. Not much had changed since he’d left – Sheba hadn’t even moved around any furniture – but after such a long absence…

The floorboards creaked and he looked up, distracted.

Sheba had entered the room and now stood with her back to him, silhouetted by the candlelight as she brushed her long hair in the mirror. The nightgown she wore fell a little past her knees and was woven with a gauzy, see–through material which revealed the beauty of her naked flesh beneath.

For a moment Adam lay still, propped on one elbow, watching his wife. There was a strange, awkward tension between them, spawning from such a long period of separation with no contact. Adam thought that perhaps he felt it more acutely, so he opened his mouth to break the ice.

“I hadn’t forgotten that you do that every night.” His voice was barely a murmur – so as not to disturb Seigi, who was sleeping lightly in the next room. Since birth, their son had never slept easily. “And not until just now do I realize just how much I’ve missed it.”

He saw Sheba smile faintly in the spotted mirror, but she kept brushing in silence.

Adam smiled too, and the room lost focus as he thought back. “Every time we went into battle… I thought that I would pray for you. I thought that I should be like the storybook heroes who cry for their mothers and wives, because they’re already dead.”

She was still brushing, still facing the mirror, but her movements had slowed and her gaze was distant.

Adam licked his lips. “But I didn’t. Sure, I prayed for you – you and Seigi both. But… it wasn’t for comfort for you, and it wasn’t because I was afraid to die either.” He paused, trying to pinpoint the words he wanted. “I prayed the gods would keep you safe and that you would know that I would always come home to you – no matter what.”

He studied the goatskin blanket, absently picking at an uneven spot with his fingers. “But more often than not, I didn’t even pray at all – because I knew I wasn’t going to die. I don’t know how that is, or what it means… But I just went into each fight with the knowledge that you were thinking of me… and that was what gave me strength when all my courage was gone. It gave me perfect peace.”

Sheba finally turned to face him and there were tears in her eyes. Adam had only seen her cry once before and that had been on their wedding day. But she was smiling too. “Seigi has prayed for you every night since you’ve been gone, Adam. He’s been such a good boy.”

Adam felt his heart clench, his throat tighten. “I’ve missed you both,” he said softly.

Sheba inhaled deeply to calm herself, then placed the brush gently atop the bureau. For a long moment, she watched him from across the room, chewing her lower lip. Then she said, “I can’t believe you’re finally home.”

“I am,” Adam replied softly. “For good.”

She let the robe puddle at her feet, then climbed naked into the bed beside him. Adam drew the blanket up to her shoulders, pulled her close to him. She put her head on his chest and wrapped an arm tightly around him.

The ice was gone. They were one again.

“Tell me what it’s like,” she murmured. Her lips grazed the naked flesh of his neck.

Adam stroked her freckled shoulder, considering the request. Sheba was a strong woman, and perhaps that was what had attracted him to her in the first place. He knew she wanted a genuine answer, not a censored version of what he’d seen and done. Details weren’t necessary, but neither was masking the truth. And so he summed up his experiences in one word.

“It’s horrible.” His voice cracked, and he sucked in a breath. “It’s awful loneliness – impersonality. It’s… a chaotic mess where you could easily mistake a friend for a foe. You see your friends getting killed all around you and can’t do anything about it… You’re terrified, disoriented, and you’ll do anything to stay alive. Anything. Even murder.”

And he had certainly done his share. Killing monsters was one thing, but the humans in service to the Dark One had still been… human.

Sheba was staring past the mound of his chest, listening intently.

Adam licked his lips and continued. “There’s nothing glorious about it – there’s no heroism, nothing worthy of praise or remembrance. It’s just slaughter and there’s nothing honorable about it.” He rolled his head back and forth on the pillow, allowing his disgust to bleed into his voice and show on his face. “That damn speech I made… all of that is just fluff – to make the people all squeal and praise, and this… festival we had tonight… None of us did anything to deserve it but stay alive.”

He fell silent, clenching his teeth.

Sheba propped herself up on one elbow and studied his face with compassion. “You did it because you had to,” she said softly, reaching out to gently stroke his beard. When the militia had departed for the war a year ago, Adam had been clean–shaven, and he could tell she was trying to decide whether or not she liked the facial hair. “You had to kill them before they killed all of us, Adam. You’re heroes because you were willing to sacrifice yourselves to save us.”

Her hazel eyes were wide, bright with admiration. And then she smiled like a little girl, nearly choking on her own mirth. “You’re my hero, Adam,” she teased huskily, tickling his ear with her lips.

He reached beneath the covers and grabbed her naked belly. “Stop it.”

She buried her laughter in his chest as he continued to tickle her.

It was good to be home.