by Aedan Whatley
It’s been about 500 years since these lands descended into countless wars. I heard once that the nations that now fight were once united into one incredible whole. But that’s nothing but an ancient memory. Now, plentiful kingdoms and fledgling empires attempt to knock each other off the map to expand their borders.
When I was just five, and my older brother was nine, our mother kicked us to the street after our father died in battle, and thus we no longer received any money for his service. I can’t say I blame her exactly; we’d probably have starved together in that shoddy shack. The only reason I didn’t, even out on those streets, was thanks to my brother. I can’t remember too much back then. But I recall that he found us an abandoned hut on the edge of town, and that he’d return each night burned and covered in soot, with one or two coppers in his hand. I think I might have been a bit sick; I didn’t leave the hut often, or really get up, for that matter. I was nothing but a burden, yet he never stopped taking care of me.
Eventually, I managed to build up my strength and move more and more. This was around when my brother would turn 14, an important age for all men in my kingdom, the age of conscription. When the day came, I vividly remember how hard the hug was that he gave me, along with the sight of his tear-soaked face. But I don’t think they were from fear of battle or something like that; I think he was just scared to leave me on my own. After he left, on his recommendation, I went to take over his job at a well-known blacksmith in town. It was tough to say the least; the heat itself almost killed me, let alone the burns and bruises. But each time my mind faltered, I swore I’d see my brothers back, slowly moving farther from me. Each time, that sight would fill me with strength and the drive to work myself to the bone.
About a year later, I began to hear news that our nation was making great waves in war, that our borders were expanding at a staggering speed. Sometimes, injured men would return to town and tell us tales of the battlefront. Apparently, a few bright new commanders were responsible for the recent success. I began to wonder if my brother was under one of their noble commands. The new thoughts of brazen battle and glory began to fill my head, a stark contrast to the life of a blacksmith’s laborer. I even began to wish that my 14th birthday would come as soon as possible.
Not long after, as I arrived at the blacksmith, the owner informed me that my brother had sent a commission by letter, not for himself, but for me. The owner then reached around the corner and pulled something out before placing it in my hands. I was stunned; it was a recurve bow of exceptional craftsmanship. I almost started to jump up and down with excitement.
“That might be one of my best works yet; no idea where yer brother got the coin that he sent for that, but he’s one hell of a man to just give you somethin’ like that. If that thing breaks, I’ll kill ye’ on both of our behalf.” The old owner told me with his craggly old drawl.
I nodded my head repeatedly while I admired every inch of the bow. From then on, after my shifts, the owner would let me use the range out back that he usually used to test his work. Each day I’d stay there till nightfall, letting loose arrow after arrow. I don’t think I’d ever felt so committed to something in a day of my life. So much so that aside from days of rest, I didn’t miss a single day of practice up until the day that I had longed for, my 14th birthday. Every day after a full moon, eligible recruits were collected, sent off to be processed, and then sent to the field. At the time, I clutched my bow hard with a mix of excitement and anxiety.
But what I was feeling then was nothing in comparison to the day we finally arrived on the battlefront. Just after they formed us into squads and lined us up, a man on horseback moved in front of our platoon. The moment my eyes landed on his face, I nearly screamed. Despite the slight changes of hardening, scars, and a new beard, I recognized that this man was my brother. Through my shock, my mind began to race. Next to my brother was a man carrying a banner with two crows facing away from one another, my family’s crest. I was something a bit more than confused, for those not of noble blood had not been allowed to take positions of command. But as my thoughts ran on, my brother's eyes connected with mine briefly, and I could see him flash the same warm smile that I had seen when I was just a bed-ridden runt. My mind immediately calmed, and a rather simple explanation presented itself: he was just that amazing.
From that point on, I followed him into battle more times than I can count. My skills weren’t nearly as much of an eye-catcher as his, but even so I distinguished myself from the other archers. I almost felt that I had to, lest I be left behind as my brother racked up even more accomplishments, the number of men he commanded growing year by year. Thanks to his influence, I was even allowed to command 100 archers. I felt that my brother was influencing not just me, his soldiers, or the battlefield. I also felt the very standards of our kingdom as I began to hear news of even more commoners attaining higher roles after achieving fitting levels of merit. And as he won more battles, slayed more generals, captured more cities, it became obvious to all that he was truly someone generational. When he led us into battle, his back was like a sun filling us with courage. Not a single soul amongst us had any qualms with dying if it meant he would succeed.
But as we swept across the continent, another nation to our north also grew with a great general at its head, a man not much older than my brother. Our nation eventually united the southern kingdoms, while they united the north. And inevitably, we met them in battle as we attempted to bring them under our banners as well, a feat that would unify the entire continent.
I can recall everything I did on that day as if it were no more than five minutes ago. What I ate that morning, the small speech I gave to my men, the even bigger one that my brother gave, and the shake of the ground as our grand armies charged at each other. As well as the fight that could be said to decide the war. My brother and the great general of the North met in the center of the battle after they led their charges on horseback. Both of their elite guards formed a ring at the mutual order of the two men. I was the head of my brother’s elite archers within his personal guard, and as such I was more than close enough to witness their duel from start to finish. My brother charged the man with his glaive, while the great general, a man of towering stature, wielded a mace that could more accurately be described as a boulder of metal. At first, they went even; then the man landed a great blow on my brother that would have shattered any normal man. Then my brother managed to carve into the general from his left shoulder down to his right hip. My heart flared when I saw the general begin to crumble from the cut, only for him to shoot back to life as if possessed by a savage demon. His mace cratered through the air, shattering the shaft of my brother’s glaive as he attempted to block it. The general reared back again and took what would be his final swing of their match; my brother grabbed the blade of his broken weapon with both hands and slammed it towards the general. In that moment, the cheers from both sides ceased as they bore witness. But the next thing I saw, my brother, along with his horse, crumbled to the ground, and I felt the enemies’ cheers overtake the air like a thick smog. The man that had given hundreds of thousands hope, a future, courage…gone. A merciful, kind, heroic man that had won the hearts of even those whose lands he had conquered, who protected them as if they had been born his kin. At that moment, our sun was extinguished.
So then why is it… why is it that when the man who took my hero away from me sits at the will of my arrow, can I not fire!? I survived that day as our morale-less men were trampled, all so that I could avenge him. And after so long, at long last I sit here, looking down at him over his mansion’s walls from the trees as he sits on his back terrace. He sits there, sipping from a jug of wine while chatting with his little daughter just feet away. The shot would be easy, trivial child’s play to me. So then why!? Why does it feel as if my arms have turned to brick, unable to complete the mere task of losing my arrow? Almost as if someone, someone far stronger than I, is restraining my movement. Is what I’m doing not justice? Is this not how he shall atone for his deeds?! But then, what exactly has he done wrong? It’s not as if he reigned victorious due to some foul trick. I saw it myself; if anything, it was a brilliant match. Is this really what my brother would want? Their kingdom has taken our lands; he still holds great political power, yet our people thrive. But is that really it? Am I just supposed to forgive what he’s done, forgive the man who destroyed my sun?
I felt my arms relax, the bow’s string slowly returning to rest. The sun slowly began to roll below the horizon. I could hear the general’s daughter’s laughter even all the way from my perch.
He opened his arms, and she ran straight in to hug him before he directed her inside for the night. The gigantic man stood, his eyes slowly landing on the area of the trees in which I sat, but just for the smallest of moments. Yet I could’ve sworn that within that time, I saw him drop his head in a nod before he turned and entered his mansion.
I felt my shoulders fall limp and my eyes grow heavy. I shook my head as tears slowly rolled down my cheeks. Yet, despite what my conscious thoughts tried to tell me, I felt no regret. And even as the cold of the night rolled in, I only felt warm, that same familiar warmth that I had longed to feel again.
Aedan Whatley is a new author from the US. He’s a big fan of competitive games and got his start in writing with D&D. There is nothing that brings him more joy than seeing his work read and enjoyed.