Dietrich der Grief, twenty years from revelations
1252 AD (sound track theme to the day after tomorrow)
An old man dressed as a simple friar sits at a desk carefully writing in a book, his hands spotted and arthritic shake as he carefully pens the words. He reaches out to dab the quill in an inkpot but instead knocks it over spilling ink onto a piece of parchment. For a few moments he simply stares as the black ink begins to spread and soak into the surface, a tiny tear appears in the corner of his eye.
A woman dressed in black robes enters the tiny study, he hair once raven black now touched with grey and her ice blue eyes softened slightly with the touch of time, yet she still seems to have the glow and strength of youth.
“Dietrich, perhaps you should rest, you have been hard at work all day,” she says with a smile, taking the quill from his shaking hand. Dietrich drops his hood revealing his shaggy white hair merely nods. Bianca places her hand on his shoulder feeling the bones beneath the robe. He watched her go feeling again the adoration and love he felt her when she once more took him back into service and laboured for his soul. They had been good years; he regretted that he had too grown old and infirm to serve her as he once did.
He sits still for while after she leaves him, staring at the half finished page. A shaft of sunlight comes through the lead lined window and lands upon the page. He turns to face the light feeling the warmth touch his wrinkled face, he watches as it moves across the book to settle on an old chest set against the wall. He rises stiffly his knees burning, and opens it knowing that it contains his memories, his wanted poster his small silver crucifix, a pressed flower the one he had hoped to give Adara but never found the courage to do so, a stake with ten notches carved into one side, a pair of swords, a dagger and a set of black clothing. The crucifix sparkles with the light as he holds it up. Dietrich turns back to look up at the window and the sun, outside he sees the mountain at whose foot he made his home, the light glowing over the trail that leads to the summit calling out to him to come climb.
Some time later, he walks outside dressed as he once did years ago, clad in black, his swords upon his back and his stake thrust into his belt, the dagger strapped to his leg. The weight digging into his shoulders and making each step a burning fire for his knees. Slowly he begins his climb but as time passes he seems to find his strength again, about him he hears distant whispers of voices, calling out to him to come join them at the fire, he recognises them, great Olaf the bear once more telling jokes, Luther the lion hearted warrior bold and brave, Roland too the sly one quick as a fox, and the young boy Evona playing his flute, his music soaring like a falcon in the sky, onward they urged him, louder now, calling him again to join them. The old German forces himself onward each step somehow becoming easier, slow at first yet with more strength and vigour, his infirmity dropping away like leaves in autumn.
The path flies past him now, his old body somehow finding the will and speed it once possessed in his youth. And for the first time in twenty years he laughed with joy.
Bianca returned to the study to see if Dietrich had retired as she suggested. She found him beside the old chest he had kept his things locked away in, the lid was open and the contents rummaged through. He was leant as if asleep against the wall his hand clutching a little crucifix and a smile of peace on his face.
An old man dressed as a simple friar sits at a desk carefully writing in a book, his hands spotted and arthritic shake as he carefully pens the words. He reaches out to dab the quill in an inkpot but instead knocks it over spilling ink onto a piece of parchment. For a few moments he simply stares as the black ink begins to spread and soak into the surface, a tiny tear appears in the corner of his eye.
A woman dressed in black robes enters the tiny study, he hair once raven black now touched with grey and her ice blue eyes softened slightly with the touch of time, yet she still seems to have the glow and strength of youth.
“Dietrich, perhaps you should rest, you have been hard at work all day,” she says with a smile, taking the quill from his shaking hand. Dietrich drops his hood revealing his shaggy white hair merely nods. Bianca places her hand on his shoulder feeling the bones beneath the robe. He watched her go feeling again the adoration and love he felt her when she once more took him back into service and laboured for his soul. They had been good years; he regretted that he had too grown old and infirm to serve her as he once did.
He sits still for while after she leaves him, staring at the half finished page. A shaft of sunlight comes through the lead lined window and lands upon the page. He turns to face the light feeling the warmth touch his wrinkled face, he watches as it moves across the book to settle on an old chest set against the wall. He rises stiffly his knees burning, and opens it knowing that it contains his memories, his wanted poster his small silver crucifix, a pressed flower the one he had hoped to give Adara but never found the courage to do so, a stake with ten notches carved into one side, a pair of swords, a dagger and a set of black clothing. The crucifix sparkles with the light as he holds it up. Dietrich turns back to look up at the window and the sun, outside he sees the mountain at whose foot he made his home, the light glowing over the trail that leads to the summit calling out to him to come climb.
Some time later, he walks outside dressed as he once did years ago, clad in black, his swords upon his back and his stake thrust into his belt, the dagger strapped to his leg. The weight digging into his shoulders and making each step a burning fire for his knees. Slowly he begins his climb but as time passes he seems to find his strength again, about him he hears distant whispers of voices, calling out to him to come join them at the fire, he recognises them, great Olaf the bear once more telling jokes, Luther the lion hearted warrior bold and brave, Roland too the sly one quick as a fox, and the young boy Evona playing his flute, his music soaring like a falcon in the sky, onward they urged him, louder now, calling him again to join them. The old German forces himself onward each step somehow becoming easier, slow at first yet with more strength and vigour, his infirmity dropping away like leaves in autumn.
The path flies past him now, his old body somehow finding the will and speed it once possessed in his youth. And for the first time in twenty years he laughed with joy.
Bianca returned to the study to see if Dietrich had retired as she suggested. She found him beside the old chest he had kept his things locked away in, the lid was open and the contents rummaged through. He was leant as if asleep against the wall his hand clutching a little crucifix and a smile of peace on his face.
Click to view