Letters to Auell: An actual letter this time.
No one would be foolish enough to choose war over peace--in peace sons bury their fathers, but in war fathers bury their sons.
-Croesus.
Dear Auell,
I was only a small child when my father first took me to the family memorial.
I was the seventh of his children, and had two younger siblings already. Diachen was only five years younger than me. Liashe was barely ten and Mother was already pregnant again. I only really remember Vethnor and Naisissa's births, the way Mother's belly swelled, the presentation of each new face. I couldn't help but think of them as tiny mechanical things, the way their limbs moved, their eyes tracked anything they could latch onto. I was fascinated by them, at least until they showed me how strong their lungs were. To this day I don't know how Mother, or any woman for that matter, could deal with that high pitched shriek and not want to run in terror.
Each new child entering the family had his or her immediate place in the pecking order. I suppose that's why those of us in the middle were such handfuls. The eldest had to be responsible, the youngest could ride through, spoiled by everyone else. The middle children had to fight their way in or risk falling right through the familial cracks.
I should have fallen through the cracks, too.
Father only took me to the family memorial that day. He never said where we were going. Mother asked and father ignored her. Riallath tried to follow us, to spy, but Father evaded her. His hand was heavy on my shoulder and when he gripped my arm to pull me down a side alley, he left a bruise. I never did complain. He was the reason why I stopped caring if I'd been hurt. Bruises were all too common, not just because he used corporeal punishment on us when we angered him, but because they just weren't a big deal to anyone. You got a scratch, you got up, slapped a bandage on it and went on with life.
I'm digressing again.
He was already an old man, then. Old in spirit more than body. I don't think I remember ever seeing him smile at me, or anyone, with any real warmth. That's not entirely true. I think he smiled that way at Mother sometimes. Then I wonder if maybe I imagined it. It's been too long. Most of the time, when I do see him, he's already drunk and content live in that haze. Maybe the monsters in his head can't find him there. Whatever he had faced when his Farstrider career ended abruptly and left him crippled in one leg. Even with that limp, he moved so fast that day and before I knew it, he had whisked me to the other side of town and we were headed down dappled paths, alone and unhindered by family.
I didn't understand the writing on the monument. I wasn't old enough to read it, or assign significance to it. Father took my hand and ran my fingers over the metal engravings. It was cool to the touch, faintly grimy as we hadn't had any rain to clean off the dust in several weeks. Most of the writing had aged, turning a dark bronze color. Only a few shinier, coppery ones indicated anyone had added on to it recently, an uncle who had passed away two years ago.
These names, he told me, are the men and women who have given their lives for the Quel'dorei. From our family, in particular.
Are they Farstriders like you were? I asked.
They were, of course. How was I to know that a simple question out of my mouth would trigger anything? How was I to know that Tunariel, the last of my father's remaining cousins from those long ago days, had been killed in battle only a week prior? Or that my father hadn't even gone to the funeral rites. I felt his hand tighten over mine, the other curling around my shoulders and pulling me back against him, his forehead settling at the back of my head as he shuddered.
I've never seen my father cry since then. In fact, it's rare I see my father sober since then.
I was home today after visiting Miss Lucrezia, while also trying to avoid running into Riallath the Matchmaker. My father's ghost likes to haunt the hallways, bent and crooked as age slowly claims his body. Mother tries to keep an eye on him, now that all her ducklings have fled the nest. But her hair is just as gray, and sometimes I think she's a little more frail. So I stopped him, today, guiding him back to his chair in the front room. I gave him a mug of his favorite spirits, since he's long past the age that one can really get him to stop. He asked me to sit for a moment and I crouched down beside him. He didn't say anything for awhile, just searching my face, brushing my hair away from my face, lifting my chin. I didn't question him on it, just let him do it.
I'm proud of you, son, he said to me. Now get out of here and go home.
Someday, Auell, I will find you.
Faithfully yours,
Paeorth
-Croesus.
Dear Auell,
I was only a small child when my father first took me to the family memorial.
I was the seventh of his children, and had two younger siblings already. Diachen was only five years younger than me. Liashe was barely ten and Mother was already pregnant again. I only really remember Vethnor and Naisissa's births, the way Mother's belly swelled, the presentation of each new face. I couldn't help but think of them as tiny mechanical things, the way their limbs moved, their eyes tracked anything they could latch onto. I was fascinated by them, at least until they showed me how strong their lungs were. To this day I don't know how Mother, or any woman for that matter, could deal with that high pitched shriek and not want to run in terror.
Each new child entering the family had his or her immediate place in the pecking order. I suppose that's why those of us in the middle were such handfuls. The eldest had to be responsible, the youngest could ride through, spoiled by everyone else. The middle children had to fight their way in or risk falling right through the familial cracks.
I should have fallen through the cracks, too.
Father only took me to the family memorial that day. He never said where we were going. Mother asked and father ignored her. Riallath tried to follow us, to spy, but Father evaded her. His hand was heavy on my shoulder and when he gripped my arm to pull me down a side alley, he left a bruise. I never did complain. He was the reason why I stopped caring if I'd been hurt. Bruises were all too common, not just because he used corporeal punishment on us when we angered him, but because they just weren't a big deal to anyone. You got a scratch, you got up, slapped a bandage on it and went on with life.
I'm digressing again.
He was already an old man, then. Old in spirit more than body. I don't think I remember ever seeing him smile at me, or anyone, with any real warmth. That's not entirely true. I think he smiled that way at Mother sometimes. Then I wonder if maybe I imagined it. It's been too long. Most of the time, when I do see him, he's already drunk and content live in that haze. Maybe the monsters in his head can't find him there. Whatever he had faced when his Farstrider career ended abruptly and left him crippled in one leg. Even with that limp, he moved so fast that day and before I knew it, he had whisked me to the other side of town and we were headed down dappled paths, alone and unhindered by family.
I didn't understand the writing on the monument. I wasn't old enough to read it, or assign significance to it. Father took my hand and ran my fingers over the metal engravings. It was cool to the touch, faintly grimy as we hadn't had any rain to clean off the dust in several weeks. Most of the writing had aged, turning a dark bronze color. Only a few shinier, coppery ones indicated anyone had added on to it recently, an uncle who had passed away two years ago.
These names, he told me, are the men and women who have given their lives for the Quel'dorei. From our family, in particular.
Are they Farstriders like you were? I asked.
They were, of course. How was I to know that a simple question out of my mouth would trigger anything? How was I to know that Tunariel, the last of my father's remaining cousins from those long ago days, had been killed in battle only a week prior? Or that my father hadn't even gone to the funeral rites. I felt his hand tighten over mine, the other curling around my shoulders and pulling me back against him, his forehead settling at the back of my head as he shuddered.
I've never seen my father cry since then. In fact, it's rare I see my father sober since then.
I was home today after visiting Miss Lucrezia, while also trying to avoid running into Riallath the Matchmaker. My father's ghost likes to haunt the hallways, bent and crooked as age slowly claims his body. Mother tries to keep an eye on him, now that all her ducklings have fled the nest. But her hair is just as gray, and sometimes I think she's a little more frail. So I stopped him, today, guiding him back to his chair in the front room. I gave him a mug of his favorite spirits, since he's long past the age that one can really get him to stop. He asked me to sit for a moment and I crouched down beside him. He didn't say anything for awhile, just searching my face, brushing my hair away from my face, lifting my chin. I didn't question him on it, just let him do it.
I'm proud of you, son, he said to me. Now get out of here and go home.
Someday, Auell, I will find you.
Faithfully yours,
Paeorth