Legends' Lament
I have heard the morning song of a thousand birds and seen the dawn of a thousand suns. I have slipped through the cracks of times great weaves and float adrift on the waves of history. - Darren Stewart, 1869
Atop the Tower of London sat a lone figure, gazing down at the lights of the city. So many times he had sat here, not alone, and watched as the city grew from a stinking collection of huts and mat lean-tos into the thriving metropolis that it was today. He had seen kings, queens, lords and ladies all pass below the gate, their faces grim with the knowledge that they went to meet certain doom.
Would that he were as certain.
A prickling in the hairs on his neck was all it took, and he knew that his companion had arrived.
The man on the rooftop was a fearsome figure to behold. He boasted a thick, sturdy frame of hard muscle and a long mane of blue-black hair. His eyes were a keen blue, but the spark that had once brought fire to half the world was gone from them. Despite all this, his companion stood, unafraid. They were warriors, these men, warriors without a war, and warriors out of time.
"Its funny, isn't it, old friend, how time forgets?"
"We are not forgotten. We are merely. misremembered."
A bitter edge took hold of the broad man's voice. It was a voice that bespoke the unthinkable dangers he had faced, the obstacles he had conquered, and the tragedies that he had suffered.
"Perhaps. But this world is not ours, not any more. Our gods are antiquities, our stories little more than a child's fairy tale. Oft times I even find myself forgetting who I am when I read those stories, forgetting the bloodshed, forgetting the pain."
"Some might say that you have earned a bit of forgetfulness by now."
"I can never forget. They will not let me."
"Do you still think this a curse that the gods have laid upon you?"
"What else can it be? Do you think it otherwise? Do you think it is a blessing, this "gift" we have? Were we so just in our deeds that the gods deemed us worthy of this priceless boon?"
"You and I both know that I have little use for gods."
That brought a moment of silence. Both men knew what it meant to defy the powers that be. They had both done so, and paid dearly for it. These were no ordinary men, you see, nor even ordinary immortals. These were titans who had bestrode the world in their respective times, men whose deeds were writ large on the pages of history. Now, they were empty, bereft of the vigor that had given them the courage to challenge the gods. They were tired.
"When will you stop this, my friend?"
"Some day. Some day the sun shall not rise and on that day I will have no place here. Until then, I will keep on."
The other man put a hand on his friend's shoulder and stood, silent, for a moment.
"I do not think that she would wish this for you. If she loved you as you say, she would not want this."
And with that, Odysseus of Ithaka, the warrior king who had sacked Troy and fought side by side with the legendary Achilles, wept. An early-rising citizen of London that morning might have heard the wail of anguish that floated out over the city, but it lasted for just a moment, and then was gone.
Atop the tower of London, two men stood, living legends but, all at once, just men.
As the sun broke the horizon, the two men watched in silence until the light began to come in earnest.
"Thank you, Julius."
"Happy birthday."
"And many more to come." There was no joy in his voice as he clasped hands with his friend and then walked away.
I have heard the morning song of a thousand birds and seen the dawn of a thousand suns. I have slipped through the cracks of times great weaves and float adrift on the waves of history. - Darren Stewart, 1869
Atop the Tower of London sat a lone figure, gazing down at the lights of the city. So many times he had sat here, not alone, and watched as the city grew from a stinking collection of huts and mat lean-tos into the thriving metropolis that it was today. He had seen kings, queens, lords and ladies all pass below the gate, their faces grim with the knowledge that they went to meet certain doom.
Would that he were as certain.
A prickling in the hairs on his neck was all it took, and he knew that his companion had arrived.
The man on the rooftop was a fearsome figure to behold. He boasted a thick, sturdy frame of hard muscle and a long mane of blue-black hair. His eyes were a keen blue, but the spark that had once brought fire to half the world was gone from them. Despite all this, his companion stood, unafraid. They were warriors, these men, warriors without a war, and warriors out of time.
"Its funny, isn't it, old friend, how time forgets?"
"We are not forgotten. We are merely. misremembered."
A bitter edge took hold of the broad man's voice. It was a voice that bespoke the unthinkable dangers he had faced, the obstacles he had conquered, and the tragedies that he had suffered.
"Perhaps. But this world is not ours, not any more. Our gods are antiquities, our stories little more than a child's fairy tale. Oft times I even find myself forgetting who I am when I read those stories, forgetting the bloodshed, forgetting the pain."
"Some might say that you have earned a bit of forgetfulness by now."
"I can never forget. They will not let me."
"Do you still think this a curse that the gods have laid upon you?"
"What else can it be? Do you think it otherwise? Do you think it is a blessing, this "gift" we have? Were we so just in our deeds that the gods deemed us worthy of this priceless boon?"
"You and I both know that I have little use for gods."
That brought a moment of silence. Both men knew what it meant to defy the powers that be. They had both done so, and paid dearly for it. These were no ordinary men, you see, nor even ordinary immortals. These were titans who had bestrode the world in their respective times, men whose deeds were writ large on the pages of history. Now, they were empty, bereft of the vigor that had given them the courage to challenge the gods. They were tired.
"When will you stop this, my friend?"
"Some day. Some day the sun shall not rise and on that day I will have no place here. Until then, I will keep on."
The other man put a hand on his friend's shoulder and stood, silent, for a moment.
"I do not think that she would wish this for you. If she loved you as you say, she would not want this."
And with that, Odysseus of Ithaka, the warrior king who had sacked Troy and fought side by side with the legendary Achilles, wept. An early-rising citizen of London that morning might have heard the wail of anguish that floated out over the city, but it lasted for just a moment, and then was gone.
Atop the tower of London, two men stood, living legends but, all at once, just men.
As the sun broke the horizon, the two men watched in silence until the light began to come in earnest.
"Thank you, Julius."
"Happy birthday."
"And many more to come." There was no joy in his voice as he clasped hands with his friend and then walked away.