Chapter Three: Remembrance Day

Ash greeted the guests at the door with a smile on his face. Aunt Dara would give him a thorough tongue-lashing if he didn’t act like a proper host. The first to enter was, in fact, Rosalia. She was Ash’s age, and his heart quickened when he looked at her.

Her ears poked through her wavy hair, reminding him of a sunset’s dying light. Her ears and lovely, near-perfect heart-shaped features made her an elf. He only thought her features were near perfect because she had a smattering of freckles across her nose.

He liked that most about her; it grounded her beauty and made her more real. Her blue eyes sparkled like stars in the night sky, lighting up when they landed on him.

“Ash!” She hugged him in a tight embrace that he hoped would never end.

She was wearing forest green riding clothes, and they fit rather well, Ash thought, his face heating up yet again.

“Rosalia, it’s good to see you. Here, sir, let me help you with your bags!”

Rosalia’s father, a huge human man with chestnut hair and an impressive beard across his chest, had come in behind his daughter, setting down a few bags.

He grunted, allowing Ash to pick them up and take them to the guest rooms. Rosalia followed him as he did.

“Your Aunt Dara did an excellent job on the decorations! These are beautiful!”

She stopped by a pot of white campion flowers dominating a small table. Reaching out a hand, she caressed the flower with an adoring smile.

“Yeah, we had to go Deharra for them. There’s a script on the pot that preserves them. But, you know how we need white flowers on Remembrance Day, and not many are around the farm.”

Rosalia nodded, looking at the other decorations.

The whole room was decorated in white, with tablecloths, paintings, and even scripted lamps burning like white flames. It was just enough not to be too much.

The next room was the dining room, and the massive table was also decorated with white, down to the silverware. Beyond this room was the living room, and the story would be told there by the fireplace.

“Are you looking forward to the story?” Ash asked as they walked up the stairs to the guest room.

Rosalia shrugged,

“It’s nothing new. It’s the same old boring story. I would much rather hear about the Nythum or the Ir’Aegra.”

Ash pushed open the door, setting the bags down by the closet. He turned to Rosalia,

“But Amalia tells it so well!”

He had to admit that she did have a point. It would be nice to hear something else every once in a while. But it was Remembrance Day, and the story was a part of it. Not hearing it or changing the story that was told seemed…wrong somehow.

Rosalia raised a hand,

“She does, but it’s still the same story, no matter how well it is told.”

They left the room, and she asked,

“Do you still have that rock collection?”

Ash shifted his eyes,

“Umm…”

She giggled,

“It’s okay to have a hobby, you know!”

He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly as she laughed.

“Oh no, what happened?”

He turned to see what she meant and found her looking at the white campion, shock writ on her features. He saw why right away.

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The flowers were dead. Every single one had wilted and turned black

“How?”

He shook his head, bending down to look at the pot base. The script still seemed to be working, and he could not do anything if it were broken. Adventurers knew scripts, not ordinary shepherds like him.

But the faint blue light was still there, so as near as he could tell, it was doing what it should be.

“Let’s go tell my aunt Dara. She’ll want to replace these.”

Voices filtered through the entryway as Rosalia and Ash neared.

“Brought all the sheep back, but there’s somethin’ wrong in that forest. All the animals…they’ve gone wild. Even the sheep didn’t want to mind.”

Uncle Derrick turned to regard Ash and Rosalia as they appeared.

Uncle Derrick grunted,

“See, your Aunt Dara patched you up. That’s good, boy.”

Rosalia looked over, brow furrowing, then her eyes widened,

“You’re hurt! I’m so sorry, Ash, I didn’t even notice.”

He rubbed his face, hoping she wouldn’t see his skin turn red,

“It’s nothing,” he muttered.

Uncle Derrick winked at him, shaking Rosalia’s father’s hand.

“Always a pleasure to see ya, Court. I need to get cleaned up for tonight if you’ll excuse me. Oh, and you’re looking lovely as ever, young lady.”

Uncle Derrick walked past them as the tips of Rosalia’s ears went pink, and she shifted her right boot.

As the day passed, more people began to arrive, many of whom were families from nearby farms and the village of Dahara, a few hours' ride away.

Children began to skip, play, and sing a rhyme outside.

“Oh, twelve dark lords on dragons ride,

With purple smoke and spooky pride.

Their dragons twist, their hearts gone bad,

They make the flowers droop and sad.

Where wild light flashes and skies turn gray,

They laugh and chase the sun away.

Dead flowers fall, and trees don’t play,

The Ir’Aegra’s near—don’t stay!

They hum a tune, a creeping sound,

Their shadow crawls along the ground.

So run, run fast, don’t stay too long,

Or you’ll join their scary song!

So sing and skip, but watch the night,

The Ir’Aegra hide from lantern light.

When purple smoke begins to swirl,

Stay inside, good girl or boy!”

He had heard the rhyme before, long ago. Something about it nagged at him, and he stared for a few long moments at the children as they skipped and sang it again.

“Always found that light-cursed rhyme to be creepy.”

The baritone was deep, with an accent he never could place.

He turned, finding exactly who he expected to find to have come up beside him.

Nicholas Al’Smith was a short, stocky dwarf with skin like polished ebony and hair as dark as painted twilight. Despite his mother's prodding to dress appropriately on Remembrance Day, he always wore the same clothing, no matter the occasion.

A dark shirt tucked into dark jeans and a white smith’s smock over it. At his side was a large hammer he never left home without. His father always liked to say that his boy was born with a hammer in his hand.

With how Nicholas treated the tool, Ash didn’t doubt the story's validity.

“Good to see you, Nick.”

Nick waved a hand,

“If Pa didn’t give me so much Hero-cursed work, I’d visit more often.”

Ash winced slightly,

“Far be it for me to judge, Nick, but do you have to blaspheme?”

Nick laughed, looking up and spreading his hands.

“Why? Do you think the Light will smite me? Come on then, smite me down, o’great Light!”

Ash’s mouth fell open halfway, expecting the Light to do just that.

No bolt of lightning struck his friend.

“It’s a bad idea to mock the Light, Nick.”

“Bah! What has the Light ever done for us, eh Ash?”

“The Bore…”

“Ha! The Bore! Who even knows if the Light made that eyesore, hmm?”

Ash flicked his gaze to the north. Hanging there, as it always did, and Light willing, always would, was what looked like a giant black line in the sky. He had always thought it was like a cosmic zipper.

Nick sighed,

“Never mind. I’m sorry I argued. We don’t see each other much, and the first thing I do is argue with you. I’m a Lighting fool.”

Ash put a hand on his friend’s shoulder,

“No, you aren’t. I’m the one who made a big deal out of it. Hey, let’s go inside; Amalia should be here soon.”

Nick grunted, and they went inside.

_________

When Amalia Vane arrived, everyone knew it.

She was the storyteller and lived just outside the village of Dahara. Dressed in fine black and violet robes, her face was as pale as moonlight, and her eyes shone like amethysts on a clear day.

She was slender but walked with the confidence and strength of an adventurer. Her hood was pulled up, but the one time he had seen her with it down, her hair was like dark ocean waves.

She always had eyes for Ash when she visited, as if her violet eyes could read every thought that popped into his mind. When he was younger, he had tested the theory once, looking at her and thinking she was beautiful.

She had smiled at him!

He was embarrassed to admit that he had quickly retreated to his room after that.

Now, as she had every Remembrance Day past, she was here again. In her hands was a staff of purest light, with strange engravings etched into the wood.

At one point, he had asked her what the engravings were, as they didn’t look like any script he had ever seen.

All she would say was that they were,

“A gift.”

Amalia talked for a while, and then everyone sat down for the evening's meal, filling the table to bursting with foods of all kinds. Aunt Dara had cooked it all; however, everyone helped set it on the table.

After the meal, everyone packed into the living room, some having to stand at the farthest edges.

Amalia stood before the fire, reaching up and slowly pulling down her hood, her black hair spilling. The firelight made her silken hair shine like polished obsidian, a rock he had read about in one of his books and hoped to see in person one day.

She lifted her white staff, and the fire dimmed, dark shadows engulfed the room.

It was time for her to deliver the story of Remembrance.