Fragments Gallery
Remembering the Past
The tavern was lively this night. Servers sifted slowly through the boisterous crowd; only the older more experienced of them managed any kind of speed as their made their way through the press of bodies. Fires crackled merrily at either end of the long room, their sweet music punctuated by the fiddler standing on a raised platform in a corner. She danced as she played; her red skirts swirled around her and her jewellery flashed in the firelight. The fiddle's voice soared over that of the crowd, the fiddler’s expression one of rapt attention as she lived the music.
Orange light flickered from the twin fires and the various lanterns strung out in between. The warm Illumination fell across the crowd and it revealed and heightened the laughter lurking there. So laugh the people did as they enjoyed their evening.
Most of the people there were enjoying themselves anyways.
Sitting in a back corner, one barely touched by the light filling the rest of the room, was a middle aged scarred man. In spite of the heat he pulled his cloak more firmly around himself. His homespun woollens were well cared for if a bit worn.
The people all around paid him no notice. This suited the man just fine. He was in no mood to join in the merrymaking. However even with his sour mood he did not begrudge the others of their joyous evening and so he stayed in this lively little tavern.
He slammed another empty mug onto the table as a server walked past; wordlessly he caught her eye and gestured for another. She nodded, her observant eyes taking in the small forest of mugs already inhabiting his table. She looked as though to say something but when she caught his eye again she decided against it.
She moved off through the crowd, weaving her way through the tables, chairs and people with the wearied ease of someone who had already made the same journey far too many times that night.
The man waited quietly for her to return. While he waited his eyes swept the crowd, idly taking in their faces.
A chair slid over to stop next to his table. A young man, no older than twenty, fell into the chair. He placed his mug on the smooth wood in front of him and then glanced at the man he was now sharing a table with. His eyes widened as recognition dawned.
The scarred man turned away from his unwanted company. He didn't mind the crowded tavern so long as they more or less left him alone.
He could feel the boy's eyes on him as he stared idly into the crowd.
"Are you Orland? Orland Kingsbane?" his tenor voice, questioning and tentative, quivered slightly as he spoke.
The man ignored him. He certainly didn't come here to remember his past. Something on his face, or maybe his lack of response, must have scared the boy for it took him several minutes to once again muster the courage to speak. When he spoke again it was clear that he had not been dissuaded.
"You are him, aren't you?"
"Impossible," the man replied gruffly once he had decided the boy wasn't going to leave him alone, "That man is dead. He died a long time ago."
"Oh," the boy looked crestfallen, and then he looked suspicious, "He's not dead. He can't die; the stories say he made a pact with the god of the dead. He can only die when the world does, because he has to be the last man standing."
The scarred man made a non-committal sound. He'd heard the stories they told of him.
"He might as well be dead," he growled softly, his hands playing with a mug on the table in front of him.
"But he's not is he?” persisted the boy, “You are Orland."
The man sighed; he refused to lie, even to get this kid off his back.
"I could be," he assented meeting the boy's eyes.
The boy’s mouth dropped open as his suspicions were, almost, confirmed.
"I saw you the morning you were first given the name Kingsbane," he said excitedly, "I was in the crowd as they brought you in, still coated with the old king's blood I saw you when they brought you in to see the man you helped put on the throne. It was ten years ago but I will never forget."
Orland frowned as the memory came back to him. He had been trying to block it out for a very long time.
"Why are you hiding in a backwater town like this? You are a hero!" asked the boy, his face aglow.
A mug full of cider slammed down onto the table near his hand giving him a chance to put off answering the question.
"Thank you," he said as he met the server’s eyes. She gave him a harried smile and quick nod before she was again on her way.
Orland took a swig from the mug. He sloshed the liquid around in his mouth, savouring its flavour, as he considered the question.
"Sometimes..." he began carefully, not really wanting to answer but feeling he had to say something, "Things aren't always as they seem. What now may seem black and white... back then things were more grey. I'm no hero. I only did what had to be done."
The boy asked another question after but Orland didn't hear it. Now that he had allowed himself to remember he found himself trapped in the past once more. In vivid detail he remembered the war. He had done all he could to end it... Hadn't he? He walked the paths of his memories again, searching for something that he could have done differently. Searching for something that could have ended the war better; he was sure that a perfect ending existed. He had done his best hadn’t he? He had followed orders; he had tried to protect people. He had tried to measure every decision against his code of honour.
"I was a soldier once." He said, thinking out loud, "I was one of the best. I have always done what is best, haven't I?"
He stared moodily at his drink as the boy looked on in awe. The boy had not expected that his hero would act this this. He would have never thought that he could sound so… uncertain.
Abruptly Orland tossed back his head to drain what remained of his cider, stood, and tossed some coins to a passing server. Without looking back he left the tavern, leaving in his wake a bewildered young man sitting alone at a table.