A/Notes:

Posted: 7-24-2013

I stress once again, that this is not my work. All I have done is polished up the English translation for my good friend. If you like it you can thank "kumar LaVoixDuSud" who has the full rights of authorship.

The Man on the Hill.

Chapter One: The First Sighting

This night was dark and cold. It was the middle of the winter and, up here at the north, the light was gone since midday. Even in the morning, one could say that the sun had not risen at all. Dark, leaden clouds covered the dome of the sky, and the raging wind bent the parched trees, as if their lives - frightened by the howling of the north wind - had taken to hiding in the rind, awaiting the spring.

Gales blew across the ears of the workers at the harbor, the few who had dared to venture out; hard at work, caulking their vessels -drawn out of the sea- and tarring the hulls. The foaming waters struck against the rocks of the coast, and crashed into the docks with power and fury that threatened to swallow anyone approaching. And since afternoon, the drizzling drops had started dropping on the sea faring town, doing battle with the salty spray that worked to melt the previous night's snow, and dispersing the freezing droplets, which did their best to turn into ice, covering the roadsides, the wooden balconies and the rooftops of the city.

On a night like that no one was strolling around, unless he was in the most urgent need. And the healer grumbled resentfully when he was called by the older son of the widow to see to the youngest child; the sick one. Why had they disturbed him from his comfort, beside his fireplace? The little one could not be healed. He had told the desperate woman she should not keep any hope. The poor mother wasted her meager money on herbs and remedies in vain. She would do better to take care of her remaining two children. The little one had gone worse during the last few days, and even if a miracle could occur and the fever ceased, there would be an unhealed damage in his chest, in his small lungs forever... Or at least, for as long as he could suffer to survive; the miserable one.

But the healer responded to the call because the oath he had taken committed him, he could not deny any if he was called. So he responded, though the only thing he could do was to change the cool compresses on the flaming forehead, to prepare a boiled herb, the broth of which would bring a certain measure of relief, and to leave some orders, how she could take care of the others. The disease would be contagious for sure, and there was no reason for the widow to lose another child.

From the corner of his vision, he noticed the middle child. The little girl was not yet five years old, sat quietly staring at him with her bright eyes wide-open eyes. And there the flame from the half-melted candle reflected golden sparks in the blue colored orbs; eyes full of entreaty, eyes full of hope, eyes that looked at him and supplicated for the salvation of the younger brother.

The brother who had remained the only ornament in the poor house, ever since the moment that Death had stolen the father's life. Alas, the good-natured sailor had been drown at sea. And now Death was demanding this innocent life too. But he, the doctor, could not permit for this last joy of the family to be lost, the bright eyes to shut down forever! So spoke to him the girl's eyes. She fixed her gaze, pinning them on his hands, and waited for him to work the miracle.

And the older boy, eight years of age at the most, stood silently by their mother's side as she continued her vigil at her sick one's bed, both day and night. And she had no mind anymore, neither to work nor for anything else. And their house had deprived of all the goods.

The healer's earnest attempts paid his debt to his oath. He had done whatever he could, and was ready to leave. Passing by her side, he touched the woman's shoulder to hearten her. On the humble table, two bronze coins of small value -perhaps the last of the house- waited for him as a payment for his trouble and herbs. But he pretended he didn't see them. He smiled at the boy, but he avoided the girl, unable to meet her gaze. Steeling himself against the inevitable, he stepped through the door and out into the cold of the night, biting his lips. He wished he was able to keep the little one alive, and though his art had done whatever was possible, he knew it would not be enough.

As he hurried back up the street towards the more affluent end of town, his head lowered, to avoid the freezing snow, he periodically lifted his face to be sure of his footing and direction. And thus, he was the first in all the city to ever see the stranger, coming from the opposite direction of the empty road. Covered with a long cloak and a hood lowered to the eyes, the dark figure moved purposefully passed, and disappeared into the shadows of the night and the sleet. Shuddering, the healer hurried to return to the warmth of his home, neither noticing the clouds up in the sky acquiring a scarlet tint, red like a fire, like spilled blood, nor did he hear the roar in the night, hidden within the howling of the wind.

And since that night many years have passed, but people still say that a miracle was worked at the poor widow's house that same freezing cold night. Was it the truth? Was it a lie? Were there exaggerations of the mother and of her little children who saw the younger one to come back to life the next morning? Who could possibly know for sure?

At the next day, the widow told her incredible tale, insisting that in the middle of the previous night her door was stretched open. And at first they had thought that the northern wind had caught the door, for the latch was broken and didn't close well. But when they looked up, there the stranger stood at the opening, and all were stricken speechless. Surely this was the terrifying one, the one who comes in the night and takes the souls. And now he had come for the little one. The stranger's face was hidden beneath the dark hood, all his body as well within his cape. No one could even guess at his features; eyes, nose, mouth, all were shrouded in the shadows. The closing of the door behind him awakened the silent room, and the widow, suddenly filled with foreboding, rushed between them, falling to her knees in front of him.

"Take me, Lord Death. Take me and let this young one live" she pleaded with tears in her eyes; desperate, in spite of knowing there were no such exchanges in the world of humans...

Without even a glance, the stranger brushed past her and approached the wooden bed to lean over the sick boy. With his hand, he touched the small pained chest, ravaged by coughing and fever, and he began to chant strange words, of some unknown language that the widow had never before heard. Though the mother's fear was great, some part of her came to realize that her child was not being harmed. Slowly she sat back on the stool next to the bed, staring helplessly at the little feverish face, and letting the cloaked figure do as he knew.

As the hours passed, the stranger continued chanting incomprehensible words, and the older sibling moved in closer. Candle-light flickered and faded, light dimming as the candle dwindled. Though the boy thought he saw the man's palm shining with a silver glow. Still, he couldn't be sure. As tired as he was, it might have been his imagination.

The quiet chanting finally came to an end, creating a thick silence. All gazes were drawn to the the sickbed, and finally without warning, the little one opened his eyes and smiled at his mother. He smiled; this same child who for many days now could do more than cough. Sweeping the little one up in her arms, the widow felt his cool brow. The miracle had been done, the fever was gone! And standing, the stranger headed towards the door, dismal, and silent, without even a backward glance. Thrusting the child in his sister's arms, the mother tried to grasp the hand of the healer, intending to kiss it. But he hurriedly retreated. The door to the poor dwelling opened and closed again, and the stranger in the dark cloak disappeared in the black of the night.

That morning, many people gathered at the widow's house to see the miracle for themselves. Indeed, the youngest child was healthy and robust, running and playing with the other children. It was as if the illness had never touched him, as if Death had never approached him.

And many of those that witnessed the sight, marveled and rejoiced with the family; though not all. There were others who accused them of deception, claiming that the story of a heavy illness was a lie. But the testimony of the doctor supported the widow's claim, asserting that the previous day he had seen the child, and he could not be saved. He also said that he had once heard tales about powerful magicians. If one had enough gold to pay, such men could heal even the very ill. But the doctor admitted he had never heard about one so powerful as this. Even the king himself, the one who was said to have held his power for over a hundred years, the one who, only a few months before had lost his life and his throne, he had gathered all the magicians under his control, to use them for his own benefit.

And as the day was passing and the widow's youngest child was playing and laughing, the joy was raising in the cold city; and no one thought about seeking the stranger. Nor they believed the girl when she said that she had managed to see 'his' eyes for a moment, and they were red, like the spilled blood. And when they finally remembered him, and thought to seek him out, it was already afternoon. And no matter how long they looked for him, or how much they asked about him, no one could find out where he went.

But several sailors insisted that in the dim morning light, they had seen a stranger, much like the one described by the widow, nearing the hillside just north of the city. It was probable that he had sought refugee in a cave. Curious, people headed towards the place, to seek the enchanter who had saved the poor doomed child. Little by little, many gathered at the base of the hill. Some of them even brought their sick, and for those who came, the man on the hill healed them too.

And people say all started like that. But no one has ever seen his face.

A/Notes: Posted on 7-24-2013

I do not own, or claim, or profit from, or covet the "Inheritance Cycle" in any way. I don't even have the right to receive acclaim for this fanfiction. This is not my story. It was written by "kumar LaVoixDuSud" who has the full rights of authorship. He has graciously asked me to take the English version of his story, and smooth it out a bit, and I am honored that he thinks me capable of improving on his works. Though I fear that some of his natural poetic aesthetics may be lost in my translation. Still, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did.

And if you do enjoy it, please feel free to check out Kumar's other works. There will be a link to his account on my Profile Page.

{For anyone who just can't wait to see the end of this story, "The Man on the Hill" is currently posted -in completion- in the Greek language. You will likely need a translator -and those are never perfect- but if you do choose to do so, you will better sense Kumar's poetic flare.}

Once again, feel free to leave a review and let us know what you think...