Cyclic Lives

Cyclic Lives

The world. Some see it as a gift, a blessing from the deity of their faith. Others see it as a curse, and feel pressured and depressed at the thought of it. These two extremes do not, of course, have anything to do with what I am about to tell you. Or do they? You will decide for yourself, I have decided, as all I can do is recite to you what I saw, and hope that the judgment you make is one that would justify the story upon which the opinion is based.

There are certain words, certain phrases that spring to mind when certain things are said, and these phrases bring more phrases, and those bring even more phrases, until all I can see are phrases and words, seeking my head. For it is within these words and phrases that the story began, yet now this story is entangled in a web of those thoughts, with no escape. Slowly, the corrosive nature of time has worn away these thoughts, until all I can remember of them are the emotions that time may not pass a hand over, wiping them from my mind. Or so it would have been, had it not been for Faith’s insight to get them written, and then hidden for what I decreed should be a long period of time. So then, now I sit here, scribing this story once again. Yet I know now things I did not before, things that I could not have seen before. Now then, I believe it is time for you all to know of my childhood, my rise to manhood, and my fall to absolute despair.

I let the old scroll roll up into a neat cylinder in my hand. I tie it with a ribbon, red for new beginnings, before looking up. For if you had followed my gaze you would have seen rows of the scrolls. Ah yes, the scrolls. I suppose I should explain to you what the scrolls mean. These have been kept in a small hole in the corner of the map for a long time. So long a time, in fact, that it was quite by chance that I stumbled upon them while on an expedition to find my brother. They are the scrolls of the FirstKing Aérlon, and they tell of his thrilling expedition through the hills of the Elderwood, and the long journey he made to free his people from the terrors of the Yhari. Yet I feel a cold, long spike of doubt creep into down my back as I reflect upon what I have just read. These words are not one of a warrior famed with Redeye Fury, the curse of the battlefield. Rather, of a wise man that spent his time caring for his people, and ensuring that his kingdom was prosperous and lively. I realise my hand is shaking as I reach up for the second scroll.

‘Twas almost thirty years ago that I allegedly came to be at the Keep. Born to parents I would never know, born from a place I would never find. As it does for all young people, my early life flashed by. Before I knew it I was sixteen years old, with a fair amount of muscle and an odd face that was, apparently quite alluring. I was now a man-at-arms, sworn to protect my king and country with all my heart. I had started to train at twelve, and had displayed a natural efficiency with all weapons, although I was most drawn to the quickness of the short sword. Because of my effectiveness with it, I was quickly promoted to man-at-arms, the youngest ever. This had, of course, brought me some grief from the others who had trained for years to make it, and were twice my age. It didn’t help that all the young women of the keep thought I was attractive. To me though, it seemed strange that lots of the girls seemed to want to sit next to me at the table. However, it was at one of these tedious meals that something happened to me, something that would change my outlook on life completely. For better or for worse, I too this day cannot decide. This sudden change came of one thing: my first sighting of Faithclarity, later to rename herself Faith. For me, I felt a shifting of something inside me, something primitive calling out to me to claim her as my own. It took almost all my strength not to get up and throw myself at her across the room. Instead, I found slight contentment in meeting her eyes, and smiling, not too much, but enough to show I liked her. From there, the whirlwind of love took me into its ferocious and erratic arms, and shook me like nothing else could ever manage.

A knock on the door awakens me from the reverie that I have fallen into while reading these scriptures. The door swings open, showing a young girl. It is my youngest daughter, Jarén. She has asked me to join the family for supper. I say to her, not tonight, for there is something special that Daddy must do. She understands, and goes downstairs. However, the inevitable happens, and my wife comes trampling up. After enduring endless screaming, I eventually go downstairs. I find I cannot contain myself, and feel the seconds that I am downstairs go by like hours. Eventually we finish our meal, and like a child I race back up to the study, and lightly take down the third scroll.