Anne’s POV

I can already see the life leaving him.

I urge Heith to go faster hoping the fairy would grant us audience.

I try to stop the bleeding as best I can, but it’s hopeless.

“Why would you stop him?” He has the gall to ask.

My vision blurs as tears begin to overflow.

“Your family may not see you as their own, but I raised you. I know you, and I’ll always be with you,” I reply.

He tries to say something, but I can tell. There’s nothing more he can do. His eyes have already started glazing over.

I’m sorry…

‘Huh?’ Startled I look back at him, but his eyes are already closed. His labored breathing stopped.

I scream at the injustice. I scream at the gods. I scream at the loss of what can only be called my son.

A few days have passed since Arshavir’s death. The funeral procession is currently headed towards the cliff that overlooks the villa. I remember when he would lay here in the grass.

Always relaxed and uncaring of the world around him. Leading an easy life as if enjoying every one as his last...

The tears haven’t stopped falling since the beginning. There aren’t many of us here.

Just Heith, Sylvia, Celene, and myself. His true family. We all stand in silence as Heith lowers the coffin into the earth. We bury him with his journal that he was always pouring over.

We each take turns saying our farewells before covering him with dirt. As custom we all plant something over his grave.

I chose a lily of lent. ‘I hope for you only the best.’ The others leave, and I’m alone on this hill. I sing a few hymns as a final lullaby before setting off towards the town.

As I stumble back into my humble home, I fall onto my bed, limp. I reach over to grab the tankard of mead, and begin drowning myself in the bittersweet brew.

He was the only family I ever had. Being his head caretaker, I had no time for anything else. How could I? If I looked away from him for one second he’d be tossing and turning in a fit of pain.

Just one day alone, and you’d find him coughing up his own blood.

It had its merits though. Watching him day and night. I quickly came to love the child.

Alone and forsaken by his parents. The pain that wrenched my heart each time he would bury a brother in the cold hard earth.

He never complained. Not about the lack of love, not about the burdens he shouldered. 

He would suffer in silence. Crying himself to sleep each night to console himself.

Every time I tried to hold him he’d push me away before squaring his frail shoulders, and like that he would continue to forge on.

He was an inquisitive child. A strong child.

The only times he acted his age was when I would tell him stories of his family. He especially loved the story of Bertrand.

I can still see him snuggling into his bed as I sat beside him.

“Long ago, on Ocranian soil, was the birth of a noble soul marked by the eighteenth star,” I’d begin.

His grin would get wider as his beautiful gold eyes would sparkle.

Loved by the heavens and blessed by nature. Unknown yet to those around him. Abandoned by a mortal family, and raised by one divine. 

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

The silver pelt of the sterling wolf kept him warm at night. The owl’s golden gaze ever vigilant to keep from harm. 

Then one day the owl’s hoots could be heard no more. The wolf’s howling absent at night. 

The babe now child came home to a land bathed in fire and blood. 

The bodies of his parents lay butchered. In sadness and rage, he took upon himself their traits and left upon his journey.

At this point little Arsh would look at me with tear welling up in his eyes.

“Hush, hush,” I’d say before continuing.

A few years passed as our hero’s strength grows. Behind him the corpses of all past foes. 

Coming to a distant land. He finds the one to take his hand. Vows of love eternal sworn. A healthy heir to their joy is born. 

Yet happiness seems a crime. As darkness grows and bides its time. Far away a war takes place. Consuming lands at a rapid pace. 

Warned by a wizened crow. He knows he must face this foe. They number over a million strong.

“Why is it all in ryhmes? It hurts my head.” He’d interrupt.

I’d laugh and humor him before I resumed. 

Outnumbered and fearing for his family he took a stand. He set out and stood stubbornly in Wyvern Valley where they would march. 

Seeing him, they laughed. A single man to stop the march of Sentoria. At first amused they sent four men. Each cut down by blades of wind. 

Enraged they sent a hundred more. All fell prey as the earth swallowed them whole. 

Starting to worry, they sent at him a thousand. This time consumed by raging fire. 

Finally fed up with this man’s arrogance they set upon him with all their might, but try as they could, not one blade or arrow reached him. 

Each time his body would shimmer as if it were mist before thousands fell with a single strike. 

They made to run, but walls of earth cut off their escape, and all fell prey to his mighty blade. 

Before disappearing from the world. To this the tales of his might was spread. Of Bertrand the Herald of Death, but to his family he was always known… as loving father and husband of home.

“What happened to him, Anne?”

“To Bertrand? Nobody knows. Some say he was invited to the realm of gods, and others that he perished as payment for his feats.”

“What do you believe Anne?”

“I’m not sure young master, but all I know is that if he could, he’d be warm at hime with wife and child.”

At this he would fall silent, but then he’d cheer right back up and say, “that must mean I’m loved by the heavens, and you too Anne.” Which would bring a small tear to my eye.

“Always my love, always…” I say before drifting off.

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Starting next chapter this story will finally start going somewhere. If you've managed to keep up, you're a trooper!