Haerthorne Family/Myths and Stories

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Aerywyn's Funeral

Rickhart's Dream of the Lady

The drums shook him again. Overhead a shiver of light coursed through the cloud veins of the sky. Beneath him the ground seemed to surge with anger, trying to force his steps away from where he walked and push him into walking back. The desert sands melted from their golden radiance to the dull, green-brown squelching marshes of Kazan and he turned round and round to survey the situation. Fear grasped his spine like it had done so many times before, like his entire life had been lived, yet there was a strange purpose surrounding him. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of an old friend, standing not three feet away from him. His hair was a mix between gold and red, and was long, down almost to the waist, held back from his gaunt face and heavy-lidded eyes by two long braids hanging from behind his ears. There was a thoughtful look burned into those eyes. Oran. What is he doing here? Before Rickhart could reach out to him and speak, they were both carried away and lost in a tide of people within the halls of an old palace.

Losing hope that he had lost his friend again, Rickhart scowled at the crowds and hung his head in restrained anger and resignation, and followed them. People of all levels of society walked side by side and yet paid no heed to one another, although he did not find this strange. There was a purpose to their strides and not a disconnection from one another, even though the soot stained charcoal maker walked alongside and slightly ahead of a tall nobleman, handsome and armed in the style of an Arcaean soldier. At that Rickhart’s eyes fluttered a little wider in surprise, but then the crowd thinned and he lost sight of first the man’s fair face, then the back of his chainmail, and then his gold and blue plumed half-helm. The walls closed off and the way ahead opened out into a garden filled with flowers, dense bushes and statues – overgrown, but more grand and awe-inspiring than oppressive. At the centre was a single fountain with a statue of a mystical lady in long white robes wet with water at the bottom, standing, hands holding two conical pots with one pouring water into the other. Her hair was hidden by the robes and a wreath of leaves surrounded her visage.

Somehow he had clambered up to where she was and the Lady leant down to him, handing him one of the pots. Rickhart’s axe lay beside him on the edge of the fountain, sharp as ever and yet devoid of any menace in this serene place. With her now free hand she raised it to his face and stroked it lovingly, like a mother would to a son whom has grown too big to cradle like a babe, and smiled.

“Come home.”

Time was still for a moment, and the moment was then broken with sudden fury. The ground shook again and tore the pedestal of the fountain upwards whilst the rest of the garden fell away. Horrified and stuck where he stood, Rickhart stared down helplessly at the ruined stones of the palace and city below it falling apart just beneath his feet. Screams came from the streets and dust rose from where the ancient stones crashed against one another in the once peaceful light of dawn. Out from the city the grasslands ran into a great river, which rode down southwards to the sea. It occurred to him where he was now. Rising to meet the gaze of the Lady, he took a step back over the edge in terror and disgust. Her face was covered in congealing blood, running down from the top of her head to her breasts. The white cloth was weighed down and stained where it swiftly fell between the folds. Her fearful expression hung in his mind as he fell to the ashes covering the earth below.

Aeriel's Mourning

A late summer rain was falling.

Walking through the streets of Topenah since the war with Ethiala had always been an unnerving experience for Aeriel, even when most of the damage was wrought upon the people by those who had ruled them in the first place. Now especially, there were barely any signs of the war that had raged outside except for the simple truth that became blaring obvious as soon as one passed the city gates. Abandoned houses were falling into decay everywhere, not because of poverty but simply because there was no one to live in them. Even the avenues leading the plaza seemed somewhat empty at the height of day. Pulling a few strands of her long, dust-stained auburn hair out of her eyes, Aeriel looked up from her placid black mount to the aristocratic quarter and the ducal palace.

For a moment she held the small column of cavalry back, pulling them to a stop before the place where the Duke had died. A statue rising from the red clay before the river, standing in its noble watch over the city he had pledged to defend, rebuild, and died in. At the base of the column beneath his feet were several dying flowers plucked from the boulevards he had replanted - a smattering of roses, lavender and lilies. She sighed at the sight of his stoney gaze and had to turn her eyes away, dryly noting through her misery that the likeness was a little off.

They had not managed to capture the storm in his eyes. The fatal stain on the lake of passion and drowning sadness.

After questioning some of the guards sitting under shelter across the other side of the Saffron Bridge, Aeriel found her search drew her to the small chapel beside the ducal palace. Once everyone knew that they would have the day to themselves, the men took the horses away to be rubbed down and to go drink until the red light of morning with the other soldiers gathering within the city walls. She did not bother to strip herself of her riding leathers and began racing to the place she had been closing in on for the past three years, ever since she had heard news of the tragedy in Caergoth, from the battlefields of Fwuvoghor and the seas that lay between. Very quickly she outpaced the few men who had decided to accompany her and pay their own respects until she found herself upon the threshold between the physical and the unseen worlds. Every step she took grew heavier, leadened by the foreboding of what lay beyond.

In this dark and gloomy temple, once a proud symbol of Aenilic majesty in what was the proudest city in the north, lay his body. Aerywyn. Her dearest, baby brother.


As her mother and brother had sung it upon the death of Tirilyn and taught it to her, so too the words of that song clouded her mind and begged escape from her lungs. As she entered through the doorway the twin echoes of her voice and steps resounded through the cold heights of the gothic temple.

"...And so the rain kept on falling Still a solitary mourner stands Beneath the sorrowed eaves Among the rotting autumn leaves And watches over you..."

The smell of the rain and garden outside came in with her, filtering with the musty taste of death trying to escape from within. Under her feet ran a dark red carpet, almost black, bloody, in the poor light filtering through the few stained glass windows depicting scenes of bravery and revelations from days gone by. It ran to the dias at the far end of the temple, lit by the silent vigil of long candles whose dark, swirling trails of smoke rose to the arches of the roof above.

Upon the dias sat the casket where, beneath, was her brother's resting place. Buried in the soil he had conquered and made his own. On top was another statue of him, although this had far greater attention paid to it than had the previous one in the open, lying down in full armour and with a sword resting in his clasp, his eyes closed forever. All was stone except for the sword itself and the dying flowers which surrounded his sleeping head. Her own eyes were misting and the song was getting weaker as she continued, yet she still stood aside as if she still could not believe what this burial place meant.

"All the flowers laid Have long since bowed their heads And all the wailing women No longer cast their cries And all who once wore black Have returned to their lives Yet the mourner has not Forgotten And will stand that way forever

If I am the mourner Who shall know my name? Who shall ever know my pain?"

At that last word her quiet voice faltered and she paused. With a shaking hand she tried to rub her throat and, so she might not lose herself entirely, draw apart the knots of emotion choking her. Unsteadily she leant closer to the stone casket, but she was light headed and woozy from the stale, dusty aroma of death it seemed to give off and half-fell upon the prone statue of Aerywyn. Her hand was resting across his chest, which then instinctively grabbed vainly at his hands wrapped around the sword, seeking the warmth of has reaffirming touch. She swore she could hear a morose droning in the emptiness of the church, as if the silence was straining under its own weight. Part of her wished to cover her ears from it, whilst another part of her was mourning the youth of the poor young girl lying on her poor brother's tomb. She had to finish the song. Just as he was born and now dead, so too must the words reach the end of the cycle.

"A solitary mourner stands to watch over you..."

A tear fell upon a hard, unyielding grey eyelid, and the soft sound of a woman weeping could be heard in the temple eaves.