Vigil - short story.

[Dannaron]

It was twilight, and the clouds were massing over the horizon. The light was muted and purple as it fell over the green lanes. The white, perfectly hexagonal stones that had once marked the road could still be seen in grass in places, though their order had long ago been usurped by roots and lack of care. To either side tall houses with slanted tile roofs stand empty, their open windows and doors like mournful mouths.

Aeschylus made his calm way through it all. His feet knew each bump of the paths, and he had no need to watch his way. Elareth, Canyonhome, was his birthplace and home of old. He knew it like he knew no other place.

To the west and the east the land mounted ever up in rocky slopes until after not too far a walk in either direction it formed Aluvel and Maluvel, the twin peaks. To the south was old father Taruvor with his white beard that would soon be hidden by the approaching clouds. To the north the woods huddled amongst each other beneath the oncoming storm. The wind was picking up gradually: a cool breeze to bring relief as the harsh summer day died. It whipped Aeschylus’ uniform robes around his legs, and his dark hair was thrown into his face. Aeschylus shook his head to move the strands from his eyes and laughed softly. He’d always enjoyed the summer rains.

As per his routine, and because it was on the way, Aeschylus decided to stop by his old house. It was towards the southern edge of the town, not far off from the walls that bridged the gap between the two peaks and thus screened entry from the only real entrance into town that any invading force could take. The walls were the only part of the town that were not being reclaimed by the land: no vines grow over their surface and indeed no tree grew anywhere near them on either side. They were built of the same white-washed stone as the streets and richer residences. The gates were of the same stuff, but they were painted a deep red. Carnelians were studded around the arch, and words of warding and endurance were written right around the frame.

Aeschylus’ earliest memories were coloured with those walls being erected. He remembered how his father and grandfather had been drafted into the work crews, sculpting and carrying the stone under the direction of the masons. He remembered the days constantly full of the sound of chipping stone and the shouts and singing of the workers. He remembered the mage as he stood in the middle of a chalk diagram before the gates, his arms raised towards it, chanting for an entire day as he weaved magic into the stones.

Aeschylus did not pause in front of the gates. They looked the same as they ever did. He had been very young at the time, and could not recall the name of the mage, but clearly he was a true scion of Saphery. His spell had held true over all these centuries, and the foundations of the wall had always stood strong.

Instead he continued on to his house, or rather what had once been his house. Now it had only two walls and the bare remnants of a first storey, all rough along the edges and darkened by a fire from long ago. By the side of the house Aeschylus could still make out the depression in the ground where the bee-hives had been. There were no bees now, though wild flowers grew in abundance. An ivy vine was making slow progress up one wall. Having grown tired of removing it over the years, Aeschylus instead made a point of registering its progress. Fairly soon it was going to bring the wall down.

They had tended the bees for the wax, which they’d used to make candles to sell to the town. Aeschylus was a candle-maker still, during the half the week when he wasn’t here on watch. Aeschylus volunteered more of his hours to the militia than any other that he knew, but then it was an excellent way to fill the time, and allowed him chances to visit his old home.

Aeschylus turned from the ruins and back onto the path, heading towards the one building in Elareth that was still in use: the tower of guard.

The tower was newer then the walls were. In Aeschylus’ earliest youth they hadn’t been needed: the woods and road still used, and there were other watches set further north to guard them. Now that the town was empty, the roads were not used and the tall guard towers had long ago fallen and never been rebuilt. Aeschylus remembered watching from outside the newly-built gates as a fiery-hearted youth of barely a century when his father and grandfather had marched out with Lord Eucalyps, the Ashcrown. Salix of Saphery had figured the cipher to a long-forgotten map buried with the annals of Hoeth indicating the location of the lyre of Finubras, and after years of argument had managed to convince Eucalyps to lead a warhost into the old colonies to reclaim it.
Their banners were many and colourful, showing the three peaks under their crown of stars. Their ithilmar mail had flashed in the sun, their bright helms had glowed and their eyes burned with fire. The tall ash spears that they carried may them appear to be another forest venturing through the forest road, to spread the glory and stamp the fear of Ulthuan upon the distant barbarians.

Aeschylus had eagerly listened for news the long months they were gone, even while busily trying to run the family business with his mother and sister. After a short while (too long) a messenger returned proclaiming victory: the lyre had been found buried deep in ruins underneath a human hovel. The settlement had been burned to the ground and the human resistance crushed, the lyre was reclaimed and the host was journeying back home. The people of Elareth eagerly prepared celebrations for the triumphant return of their families.

Aeschylus remembered how, standing once more before the red city gates, the songs and cheers had died in his throat. He remembered the shocked silence that fell on the townsfolk as Elareth’s sons returned home: only half the number that had set out. Their proud spears were broken, their banners rent and torn, their faces weary and in many cases even their fair bodies had been marred. Aeschylus’ father had returned with half of his face horribly burned by some mischance he never explained, and right til the hour of his death he was a different man, who spoke seldom and smiled less.

It was the first, and last, memory that Aeschylus had of a host ever leaving Ulthuan’s borders.

At every festival from then on, the lyre of Finubras would be played and it would set a joy within the hearts of all who heard it. The maidens, even the most weathered oaks amongst them, would laugh and dance like new-born saplings and a fire would be woken in the elf-men who watched them. But the music could only ever go on for so long, and whenever it stopped all would remember the friends and family that could now never enjoy the song with them.

Aeschylus walked to the crystal bridge, the last object before the tower. It crossed the singing stream at its narrowest stretch, only a few yards across, and was carved all in one piece (or so it appeared) out of rock crystal in the shape of flowing waves made solid. There was no guard-rail, as elves didn’t need one, but in the middle it was broken as though a giant rock had been dropped through it. The bridge was older than the town, and had been broken since before the houses had grown around it. Not in all of Aeschylus’ years had an artisan with sufficient skill to remake it. There had once been another ford, plainer, made from wood in the same shapes, but it had long ago rotted and fallen in. There were not enough people here any more to make another crossing worthwhile. Aeschylus threw his spear over the gap, paused for a moment while gathering himself, and then with one swift spring leapt over the gap to the other side. He landed with his heels on the edge and very nearly fell over backwards. Aeschylus smiled, both wry and sad. He was getting old.

Leda was waiting for him at the top of the tower, her spear resting lightly against her shoulder, gazing out over the endless forest. The mountain air was clear and the tower very tall: from here you could see almost all the way to the ocean far off in the distance.
The girl could not even remember the less recent incursion of chaos, when those few people living in this town had at the last abandoned it for the ghosts, being unable to defend it. She had barely seen past her first century, and yet was already counted as able to join the duty rosters. Aeschylus considered her a remarkable girl for the way she managed to both keep up her shifts here by the watch tower and help support her mother by basket-weaving, but he knew in his heart she should not be out here.

She started on hearing Aeschylus’ approach and had grabbed the haft of her spear as she turned to face him. Seeing who it was, she sighed. “Oh Aeschylus, I nearly speared you! A fine end that would have made to a long life.”
Aeschylus laughed, “Please. I could have had a whole evening meal before you stood up, let alone set upon me! I thought that you were supposed to be the fire-blood here, and I old and slow.”
Leda smiled her smile, full of pity. Aeschylus could not stand to be so coddled by her, but did not bother to resist. She was a child, with a child’s simple heart and the perceived invulnerability of youth.

“I have brought a meal for you for the night.” She said, fussing over the older elf as he went to sit down. “And am not expected back home for a while yet, if you are in want of company.”
“I will be fine, I assure you.” Aeschylus said patiently, “At my age there are far worse fates than having an opportunity to sit and think. Watch yourself on the roads. The mountains aren’t always reliable at night, especially when it rains, and as I have told you before I never want to explain your absence to your mother.”
“I am well aware.” Leda said with a faint smirk, “You remind me every night.” She leaned in and kissed Aeschylus softly on the cheek. “Until next time. Do not get too lost in your memories! You have a job to do here.”

As the girl took her spear and marched proudly from the room, Aeschylus looked out at the encroaching clouds and set his spear at his feet. For a moment he was stung with the thought of that girl walking proudly along the long road home through the rain, and prayed to Asuryan that she would grow to see the houses occupied again, and raise her family in a town whose streets echoed with the laughter of living children, rather than ghosts.

The rumble of thunder heralded the coming storm, and Aeschylus suddenly felt very tired.

[Si'anelle of Avelorn]

Ah, thou do own the knack of crafting worlds with but thy pen alone. Well scrivened sir, well scrivened indeed.

[Dannaron]

*bows* Thankyou much my lady, both for the kind words and taking the time to read through my stuff here.