MARCELUS THE GRAVE
(by David DeLane Snow)
In those days they were like any other, but in time we saw that the world had changed so much, and we with them. I was a young man when the war broke. Many stayed home, many fled the call, and then conscription was demanded of all that remained. I was a young newlywed, and it made no difference when I stood alongside the seasoned old and frighten, inexperienced young men. Fear, stench, and hungry bellies hit us all the same as the maddening, crushing waves of war covered the land. When the high walls toppled even soldiers ran in fear, no matter the weapon in hand. My wife and two sons were killed, only later did I learn like so many others. My shock, tears and grief went unnoticed as none escaped the losses of home, hearth, or family. Like them I stayed and buried my dead, aided in rebuilding the be shuffled White City, and aided as I could. All were numb and dazed. But when the months spread into years I left after two, daring not to endure anymore and so sought another path, by the King’s leave.
With not even a horse to my name I set out for the western road; all I claimed was a cloak and sword. Citizens, farm-peasants, and spent-soldiers alike, eager for better days. I became just another lost face among so many others who traveled alone in the midst of the growing crowds. I was a wanderer, recounting the horrors of the battlefield and of experiences best left behind. The one lesson fate taught us was that life teaches that we are all the same, endure and press on. We grieve in our way; I kept my mine to myself as others had worse stories than mine.
After a day’s walk beyond the great woods, I left the road, people, and house-wagons behind. Being alone and hungry, having trapped and dress three rabbits I made camp, a stone’s throw from the King’s Road. I sat to eat when two others came along, who were not unlike myself, though far from being silent, I offered a shared of my feast. They had been exchanging crude jests and laughter with one another. I could see it was how they put their experiences behind them as the tall one concluded with, “That’s how I lost my eye, but not before I slew the creature who spike it out!” He then handed over his flask to the other who extolled his bravery against an orc that had taken his right leg, “There I was, bleeding out on the ground, screaming my fool head off, but I was still able to shave that goblin’s head off its shoulders. It was the same creature had killed three of my closest friends’ moments before, right in front of me and by all the gods I refused to be its fourth victim!”
With shared flask in hand, I drank to their courage and still they wanted to hear tales of my own valor, “Like you, I am glad not to be there, we saw terrible things and did what had to be done. For me, they are all best left behind.” By my silence they could tell no amount of pressing would have me give up more than the rest of my roasted meal as I again took to the road alone. They called after me to stay but I gave them no heed, leaving both fire and meat into their care.
Heading west as the Blue Mountains continued on my left, I traversed its dry, rocky foothills, desiring rather my own council. In such times it was difficult not to think of my wife’s smile or wanting to embrace my children again. Then, on the second day my solitude was broken. For by some strange chance the sky overhead became a raging thunderstorm that fell over those razor cliffs. With its sudden downpour of beating hail, I sought shelter in a cave only to find it was occupied by three old Crones who named it home. Those angry Witches fiercely protested my intrusion into their hidden den. To my own shock and theirs, they hissed and clawed at the air with demanding curses for me to be banished back out into the storm I had fled.
I exclaimed, “Ladies, I mean you no harm only to be out of the weather.”
A single firepit blazed in the middle of that small cave. As my eyes grew accustomed to its sudden darkness, the fire’s dim light caused the wall’s painted sigils and strange designs to dance with movement of their own. At that moment the three women stopped berating me as one gasped, “Ah! Sisters, see here, this is the very Guardian of Gondor of which the bones spoke.” It was then I noticed several white animal bones scattered across a leather mat that laid at their collective feet.
Another intoned, “Indeed, he is one from among the White City’s fair knights who has fled its crumbled walls, I see.”
None spoke to me but among themselves as the third’s voice cracked, “Here now for many a day has he labored alone in search of peace from tears.”
The gray haired one agreed, “Look, Cindra!” She pointed at the cave walls, “He will learn of the beheaded Prophet soon enough, and in his own right shall rise to fame.”
Her sister answered, “Even so, Mierah, this is the one who shall cleave the fifth raven in the same manner, but in hiding will remain unfound.”
The younger black-haired woman dressed in tattered rages injected, “Indeed a hero to some, but shall be called a villain by the nesting ones, Cindra, and they shall clammer for his own head on a platter as well.”
At that I spoke up, “You foresee all these things and yet speak to one another as though I am not here listening.”
“Look, Aleen, he hears with panicked ears.”
“Mierah, the deaf understand nothing,” said dismissively, then looked directly at me, stepping forward added, “Be of good courage Knight for all harm shall flee from thee, but the fearful fools will lie hastefully in wait.”
Cindra whispered to me, “His second son’s death shall quake him harshly to the core.”
“Tell him nothing of such things,” Mierah cried out, “For speaking too early may stray them from their fate.”
Feeling stumbled in my thoughts with still more sorrows to befall me, I drew aside to puzzle out their words. Gazing from the cave’s mouth, I saw the storm had left a clear blue sky in its wake. “I will face whatever must be endured,” I said, turning back only to be utterly astonished! The darkened chamber was vacant of the women, their fire, and wall-incantations. There was no sign that any had ever resided there throughout the long-night’s passing storm, but me alone. Out, into the breaking dawn I resumed my journey west, back out upon the rocky slopes where the ground was as dry as the day before.
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(c) 2024 The Eclectic SNOWber Productions
All rights reserved, the logo, scarfed, pipe-smoking polar bear, maps,
and images are all the works of the author.
No "AI" was used in the story conception!
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