MEMORY
disclaimer: so I dont own RO
For many years I have lived in this little town in the northern regions, on a quiet farm with the old farmer and his wife. They treated me as their own, equal as the rest of their children. Altogether there were four, my two brothers, both older than that of me and help out on the farm everyday, and a younger sister, Sarah. I liked to follow my brothers around, watching them get along with all sorts of work that had to be done on the farm. On rainy days, I stayed in the farmhouse to play with my sister. Years passed in tranquil serenity. Then on that faithful day, I recall.
Late autumn, fourteenth September. The harvesting was safely packed away tightly in the barn, a fortnight before the bad weather would start. It had. Marble-sized droplets of rain pelted at my bedroom window, the quiet little melody of the falling shower ringing in my ears. The state of silent calmness in here was overwhelming, though comfortable, warm, like the crackling logs in the kitchen hearth. Peering out of the window, I could see little. The fog had risen, covering the road completely, though I could still make out several figures. I could see the messenger's post from the window, a little building shaped like a square, built of stone. Outside it were two figures seeking shelter under the extended roof over the front steps. I watched on for several hours, declining Sarah's pleas for me to play with her. The warmth in the room, contrast with the raging rain outside, began affect my consciousness. Soon I fell asleep, oblivious to the quiet little town's impending fate.
At around the same moment, watchman Bill was on duty at the south gate. It wasn't much of a help, since the town had no form of policing crusade, but Bill did it for free, as a hobby. For eight years he lived in a little hut by the gate, keeping a watchful eye for suspicious folk. As usual, Bill was slouching comfortably on his old chair, when…
Through the mist and fog Bill spied spots of flickering light. The rain had subsided a little, and the fog was clearing. With a nasty shock Bill recognized the barbarians' war cries, ringing loud and clear in the evening sky. Rushing outside, Bill tried to remain calm. He had never faced such a situation before, being it its first (and probably the last) time the village was anticipating a determined invasion from the barbaric bandits. Trying hard not to shiver, Bill resorted to the worse, running by foot and yelling the news into each and every household, until he could run no more, legs aching acutely from decades of inactivity, throat hoarse from all the shouting. In a desperate attempt, he managed to reach to chief's cottage, where they strode to and fro uncomfortably, stretching their wits for a plan. But there was nothing that could be done. Steadily, the invading brutes had rammed down the gate, spilling forth into house after house filled with frightened villagers, trembling in fright.
I awoke with a start. The sky was dark, and I was on cold hard ground, on the earth outside my bedroom window. My limbs were aching badly, but I managed to rise shakily, to be greeted by a fearsome sight, so terrible it burnt a mark in my mind which I could not forget. At the crossroads there was a pile of bodies, blood streaming from underneath. Some of them were hacked to pieces, others impaled with pitchforks and sticks. It was t then that I realized what had happened. The barbarians were now raiding the farmhouse, and I could hear Sarah shrieking in terror. I could see from my hiding spot, two topless barbarians donning fur pants dragging the old farmer and his wife from their house, both limp with an axe or two in the head. I couldn't stand it another moment longer. I screamed out loud…
But no scream rang out in the late autumn air. At this point a strong hand had held my jaws tightly together, preventing any sound from escaping at all. I understood my stand, and kept silent. Turning around I was faced by a complete stranger, a hooded man with a staff. From under the hood's shadow I make out purple markings under his eyes, twisting in a queer manner. His looked deeply into my eyes, and told me to follow closely behind him. Together we crept out over the fence and into the dark autumn night.
Fourteenth September, late autumn. Ten autumns had passed in between, and in the next month I would be eighteen. Morris, my master that I have served and learned from the past decade called me into his quarters one windy afternoon and spoke to me, reliving my old horrors of the windy night ten years ago in my hometown. I could feel the difference of myself through the years of hardship and training, from an eight year old child to a fine young man of eighteen, strong and resilient no longer the wimpy little boy in the farm. I walked differently now, carrying myself in new found pride through Morris's teachings. But deep down inside, I knew I could never forget the past, that faithful night on September fourteenth.
Thus my journey begun. Morris expressed that all he could teach, he had already passed on to me, and now it was time for me to live my own life, to chase after my dreams and seek my destiny. The morning I left Morris's cave in the hills I strolled down the back path to a wide clearing, where a pile of stones I had placed there in memory of the old farmer and his wife, Sarah, and my two brothers. I had no sort of memory of whatever happened to them, but by chances are, they were all six feet under, dirt in their eyes and dirt in their nose.
Taking my time, I laid out a fresh daisy for my family, and continued on my way back through the front and down from the hills, a windy, rocky slope closer to the end.