In the middle of a grayish-brown wasteland of dry cracked earth and craggy rocks, at the base of a sharp-peaked mountain, there was a small but verdant farm. A single house, a small barn, a tool shed, and a chicken coop, surrounded by vegetable patches and a small orchard. From this almost utopian little plot of land, green grass spread out over the nearby hills, before dipping down into valleys where the grass abruptly stopped.
No one came out so far as to visit Arvel’s little slice of heaven. That’s why it was so strange to Arvel to see a carriage rolling along the bumpy path that wound its way through the foothills toward his farm.
“Well that’s new,” Arvel said, chewing on a straw of grass, “What do you make of that, Tim?”
In lieu of a response, he felt a tug at the back of his overalls. He looked over his shoulder to see his dear billy goat, Tim, gnawing on his back pocket.
“You know I feel like I’m always carrying the weight of the conversation,” Arvel said with a soft sigh.
The carriage followed a winding path up the hillside, past large gray rocks, and over gravelly dirt tinged the shade of fallen ash, before sprigs of grass began to appear. The terrain around the farm was a desolate wasteland for as far as the eye could see, sharply contrasting the few acres of rolling green hills that surrounded Arvel’s home.
When the carriage finally came to a stop in front of the farm, Arvel moseyed along the path with his thumbs hanging from his overalls’ straps, until he came to a stop by the gate. He took a moment to appraise the ornate carriage and its escort, composed of four men in armor on horseback. Though their adornments were finely polished, the quartet looked skinny inside them, like they could’ve run laps in their own suits.
“Who’zat?” Arvel asked, leaning on a fence post.
The carriage driver leapt off the front bench and raced around to the side to lower a small set of metal stairs beneath the door, before announcing, “This is the Marchioness, Lady Deleraine!”
“What’s she doing all the way out here?” Arvel asked, rubbing the back of his neck.
The carriage driver’s eye twitched, and he said, “You, young man, are a resident of the east marches, a citizen of the province of Nathulan and as such, you are not to question when the marchioness goes where she pleases.”
As the driver turned to open the door, Arvel waved his hand and mockingly jabbered behind his back, but he fell still when the door opened, and a young woman stepped out onto the metal steps, slowly descending to the gravel road beneath her. Her skin was fair, and her shoulders were brushed with soft lilac curls that fell from her intricately pinned-up hair. Her long, sapphire-blue gown matched the color of her eyes, which squinted faintly beneath the beating midday sun. Though she was beautiful, there was something else that drew the eye in an uncanny way; she bore the elegant countenance of one born under the blessing of the Noble Star, or perhaps the Mender Star.
“Uh,” Arvel stuttered before taking a small bow and saying awkwardly, “You’re the marchioness? I was uh… expecting…”
“My late mother, I presume,” she replied. She then paused, staring at him for a long, quiet moment, a small flush rising to her cheeks. Arvel hadn’t bothered donning a shirt beneath his overalls that day, and his muscular, sun-kissed shoulders gleamed with a faint sheen of sweat that had caught her eye. Clearing her throat softly, the fair Marchioness Deleraine said, “Young man, I must see the Immortal Knight, Sir Elediah.”
Arvel looked at her a moment, his brow furrowed as he appraised his title of ‘young man’, being tossed around by a young lady who could not have been any older than him. But, he let it roll off his back before gesturing over his shoulder with a thumb and saying, “Alright. I’ll take you there.”
The walk from the carriage wasn’t an easy jaunt for a lady in a dress and wooden-heeled slippers. Arvel led Marchioness Deleraine past the compost bin, between the garden plots, over gravel and grass, and up and down the small hills beside the farm toward a large oak tree that grew at the foot of the mountain. He had expected her to complain, or to demand that her carriage take her, but she spoke not one word of protest as she lifted her hem and carefully found her uneasy footing.
Once they arrived beneath the shade of the ancient oak, Arvel stopped, and wiped the sweat from his brow before saying, “We’re here.”
“Where is here?” Deleraine asked, looking around, “Where is Sir Elediah?”
Arvel gestured forward, and Deleraine froze.
Nestled between the roots of the oak was a headstone, surrounded by a plot of small wildflowers, and stained with dirt and moss. The marchioness slowly approached it and sank to her knees in the flowers as her white-gloved hands lifted to run her fingers over the dirt-caked letters etched in the stone.
“N-No,” she stammered, “It can’t be… Sir Elediah was…”
“He always came back from a fight,” Arvel said, “But he wasn’t immortal. Time still caught up with him.”
Deleraine bursts into sobs, gripping the headstone as she bowed her head. Arvel fell quiet, awkwardly digging his toe into the grass as he looked on.
“He can’t!” Deleraine sobbed, “It can’t be! Sir Elediah… It wasn’t just that he always came back. Every soul born beneath the Warrior Star comes back. But no one but him came back stronger every time.”
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Arvel fished in his pockets for a handkerchief but found only a threadbare and dirt-stained square of gingham, which he stuffed into his back pocket before saying, “Hey, now, don’t you fret over it. My pa lived a real good long life and he went peacefully.”
“Don’t fret?!” she asked between choked sobs, “How do I not fret? Sir Elediah was my last hope for the people of Nathulan… My people… Our province has suffered for so long, and when I heard he’d been found, I thought I… I thought I could convince him to help us.”
But then, Deleraine fell quiet, her head bowed in front of the grave marker. She slowly stood up, dusting her gloved hands off and brushing away the dirt and moss. She had stopped crying with a suddenness that surprised Arvel, but he was further shocked when she spun around and ran up to him, grabbing one of his hands and clutching it tightly between hers.
“Y-You!” she said, “You’re the son of Sir Elediah!”
“Well… yep,” Arvel said quietly.
“You’re the son of the Immortal Knight!”
“That’d be me alright.”
“Then you can help me!”
He said nothing.
“Were you born under the Warrior Star too?” Deleraine asked, “I can sense it, you have a strength about you. You can help me save my people!”
Arvel looked away, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand.
“What?” Marchioness Deleraine asked, her brow knitting, “Why aren’t you saying anything?”
“Well, y’see,” Arvel said, “I’ve got a lot of chores that need doing around here. The chickens need their coop cleaned out and the broad beans are coming in real good, and they’ll need to be picked soon. Plus if I leave Tim alone too long he gets into all sorts of trouble…”
“What are you saying?” the marchioness asked, gripping Arvel’s hand tighter.
“Well uh… I guess what I’m saying is… my answer is—” he stammered. Arvel looked at Deleraine for a moment, seeing her eyes full of hope, pleading for his assistance. She clung to his hand like it was her last lifeline. Arvel took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and said to her firmly, “Nope.”
Marchioness Deleraine stared at him for a moment in disbelief, still holding his hand.
“No?” she asked, “What do you mean no?”
“I mean nope,” Arvel said with a firm nod to punctuate his statement. “No. Nah. Not gonna happen. Nuh-uh. No way in hells— and I mean all nine of them— no way in all hells am I gonna do that.”
Deleraine threw Arvel’s hand down like it were garbage, and took a quick step back.
“How could you be so callous?” she asked, her lip curling in disgust.
“It ain’t about being callous,” Arvel said, “There’s just a whole lot of things I’d rather do than fight for a lost cause. Like… farming turnips, for instance. And I don’t even like turnips.”
“Nathulan is not a lost cause!” Deleraine shouted, balling up her fists at her sides, “This is the land of my mother, and my grandmother, and her mother before her! We have been stewards of the east marches for generations, holding back the threats from the mountains, and I will not simply give up on my peoples’ futures!”
“That right there,” he said, pointing at her, “You’re being stubborn. My pa fought long and hard for Nathulan, against demons and ogres and all that, but there was no winning. We lost. You being stubborn and trying to hold onto Nathulan because it was your grandmama’s is gonna get your people killed.”
Deleraine gasped, her eyes wide, flinching away as if Arvel had physically struck her. She fell quiet, looking down at the grass between them.
“So that’s it then,” she said quietly, “So it’s a no.”
“That’s right,” Arvel said firmly, “I ain’t no immortal knight.”
Without saying another word, Deleraine walked past Arvel and started down the hill to walk back toward the farm.
The marchioness was silent, through the garden patch, past the compost bin, through the front gate of the farm, and back to her carriage. She climbed inside with the assistance of her driver, and took a seat, staring forward coldly with her jaw firmly set.
Arvel followed her, and waved from the gate, saying, “You take care on your ride back.”
The door shut, and she did not deign to cast a glance out the window before the driver climbed back up on his bench and the carriage and its escort made their turn to go back along the winding path again.
For a moment, Arvel regretted the harshness of his words. But he soon let that roll off his back as well, relaxing on the fencepost as he watched the carriage and guards follow the winding road into the distance, enjoying the rare change in the scenery before it was gone.
Just as Arvel was about to turn to go back inside, he paused, catching a glimpse of something strange out of the corner of his eye. Off in the distance, a net was flung from behind a boulder, entangling one of the armored riders and yanking him off of his horse. Like a kicked anthill, a band of goblin raiders leapt out from behind the craggy rocks and swept over the carriage.
“I told ya, we lost,” Arvel muttered, pushing off the fence post and turning to head back inside.
In the shade of the quiet house, without any lanterns lit during the day, Arvel took off his straw hat and hung it on a hook on the wall. Beside it hung a familiar piece of metalwork; his father’s sword. He’d watched his father, once a legendary knight, chase off goblin raiders and far worse with that sword in his hand. Arvel’s eyes traveled over the ornate hilt caked with a thin sheet of dust, and the worn leather scabbard marred by decades of use.
Arvel heaved a heavy sigh, put his hat back on, and pulled a shovel off the hook on the wall beside the sword, before stepping back outside.
Deleraine screamed as her carriage rattled, clinging to the cushion of her bench seat, being shaken by a pack of short, knobby green goblins that had surrounded her.
“Help!” she shouted, “Guards!”
The wood of the carriage door cracked as a knapped stone ax head was driven into it, and the ruined latch came open, the door swung wide. A wiry goblin scrambled up the mangled metal steps and into the carriage, his clawed hand reaching for Deleraine’s kicking feet and grabbing a handful of her skirt’s hem.
“We got us a fancy one!” the goblin hissed, “Big payday!”
Deleraine shrieked as she fell off of the bench and kicked at the goblin, who only laughed at her feeble struggle and lifted his stone hatchet above his head.
“Quit struggling!” the goblin threatened, “You don’t need your legs to fetch a ransom!”
The marchioness shut her eyes tight, fearing the worst. But she heard a squeaky yelp and a dull thud before a splash of something warm hit her cheek. When she opened her eyes, she saw a familiar silhouette standing in the open doorway.
Arvel slung the blood off of the head of his shovel and said, “I told ya to take care.”