Fragments Gallery
The Storyteller: Fallen
The old man sat drowsily in his old, comfortable, wooden chair. His long grey hair had fallen in front of his face and with every breath it fluttered lazily. The children, already in their places around the fire, stared at him expectantly; each time one opened their mouth to wake him one of the parents sitting around the outer edge of the group would raise a finger to their lips. Beyond the occasional crackle of the flames silence reigned in the long house.
The half ajar door opened some more as the wind picked up outside. The cool air flowed in through the open portal filling the room with the scent of rain. One of the adults rose to close door but the fresh air had already done its job.
The old Storyteller regained awareness of his surroundings with a splutter. His rheumy eyes stared around the room in surprise.
"My apologies children," he said softly, his deep voice easily filling the room in spite of the fire's noise, "I did not hear you come in."
His eyes rove until they reach one of the older adults, "Have you been here long?"
She shakes her head with a small smile and he heaves a sigh of relief. The Storyteller looks around at his audience. All of the children stare back at him; silent expectation glows in their eyes as they await his story.
"Before we begin, would someone be so kind as to fetch me my..." he trails off as a young man, barely into adulthood, reaches over and gently deposits his customary glass of amber liquid on his armrest. The Storyteller smiles and then says sincerely, "Thank you."
"What tale should I tell?" mused the Storyteller as he brushed back his hair, "What story did I last tell?"
"Eternal life!" called out the children.
"Eternal life eh?" The Storyteller sipped at his drink, "There was a story I heard from a bard in a small town on the Empire's border. This man swore that the tale was true but I had never, and still have never, heard its like again. Perhaps though I should name this tale as it is, it’s a mystery."
"Back in the days of the old Empire there was a knight named Rothburn. He was well regarded as the most noble of the knights in the service of the crown at the time. Eventually this knight had a fall from grace and his name became despised. He came to be hated by the Empire; his actions had the Emperor sentence him to death. Yet somehow he would always escape."
"That bard; he told of how the knight had, while near death upon a battlefield, sold his soul to darkness. He had survived because of the deal he made but at great cost. He could no longer make his own choices; after that deal his every action was to further the goals of that darkness."
The Storyteller paused to take a drink; his eyes glittered in the firelight. The crystalline glass thumped against the chair's arm as he laid it to rest.
"He lost his nobility, his honour and his grace within a month. By the end of the second he was on the run, a fugitive from the Empire's justice. It wasn't long before he disappears from history. Some have speculated that he was killed while others say he escaped into the mountains in the west to live out the rest of his days in harmony. No one knows the truth anymore."
The Storyteller fumbled with a beat up old book he had resting on his lap. The parents and older children looked on in shock. That was his book of notes and stories; never before had they seen him open it. After removing the band that held the book shut he flipped through until he found a particularly beat up piece of parchment.
"That bard… I 'won' this from him later on that night," the Storyteller put emphasis on the word won as he held up the single sheet, "The man claimed it to be proof of his words. But in all truth this could have been written by anyone. The writing certainly matches that which I would expect from a fighting man, but all that proves is that this is a good forgery. It says..."
"I wonder what it would be like to be free. Only at night when sleep takes me do I get any semblance of free will; yet even then my dreams are haunted. During those nights I remember the horrors of what I have done. I remember the helplessness as I watch my hands, my hands, commit those atrocities; and yet I can do nothing about it. There is no way for me to fight."
"During the day I fight an endless war, and at night when I can see the truth I am powerless to act. That is my life. My truth."
"My lie."
"I once swore to uphold the laws of the realm, to be the sword of justice; to be a man of honour. Long ago I broke those vows, and now mother night lays claim to my soul. Ever since I have been her blade in the dark. I am her eternal solider; her assassin."
"I long for freedom, but I remain trapped with no way out."
The Storyteller stared silently into the fire for a moment after he finished reading the sheet.
"To this day I still know not the truth of the story. Maybe he did lose his soul. Maybe he just decided on a different path. Maybe something forced him to act as he did to lose his standing. Or he could have been set up or insane. There is no way to know."