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A Day Remembered
The flags snapped sharply in the wind. The crow banner, ancient and victorious, flew above the high rampart. The memory stood as clear as day. The boy stood in the direct sunlight of an early autumn afternoon. The days grew shorter, the chill of Highland winter seemed to creep closer each morning. He had walked into the courtyard as the flurry of activity subsided. The welcome return of a successful hunt was always an occasion for noise and celebration. Men stood, milling about in high spirits while the beast was prepared for an evening feast. Some cleaned arms, told stories, and shared the news of the day. At the center of attention, though, was the Lord of the keep: tall, powerfully built. His once fair hair had long before begun to gray, his tightly coiled beard had grown dark in the fashion of the men of the family. He laughed boisterously at a retainer's display with a spinning blade.
He drew his own sword from scabbard: grey steel that seemed dull in the full light of day. The pommel simple, its elegance found in balance and the distribution of weight along the heavy blade. With a deft motion he swung the blade around his wrist, grasping it again before it fell. He made a broad stride with his left foot; his eyes were the very picture of concentration and focus. He drew the sword from his right arm toward his left, mimicking the man whose display he was attempting to follow. Before the sword could transition from one hand to the next, he jerked it to a sudden stop with a motion that threatened to send him toppling to the ground.
He let out an even louder guffaw, "You win!" he shouted with a voice that reverberated within the walls of the keep's courtyard, joined soon by the laughing good cheer of his men.
He strode a few steps away, catching his breath from laughter. He stopped, peering down with a smile toward the boy who had wandered out to meet him.Â
"Aaah Thule, my lad, my son! A good day isn't it?"
"It is!" he answered excitedly, his eyes wide and bright with the energy of an inspired youth. "That's your sword, father?" he asked, pointing to the blade the Lord of the House still carried in his hand.
The man raised the broad-bladed sword with another spinning motion, bearing the proud grin of a father. "That, it is. Our sword." he nodded to himself, as if in correction.
"Ours?" asked the son, "but don't we have many?"
His father laughed again, the grin undiminished. "Our family has many swords. Weapons of all varieties one could wish for." He narrowed his eyes, focused intently upon the uninspired-looking blade, "But just one ancestral arm."
The boy looked upon it with the astonishment only a child can muster.
"Ah, you like it then?" grinned the father. "Do you think it a tearer?" he asked, adding a slicing motion. He turned it over as if to examine it, "A ripper?" He looked at the lad with raised quizzical eyebrow, "A slasher?"
He turned the blade over once more, grinning with a deep chuckle. "Its a cleaver." He pressed his lips together and nodded—lost in thought, and admiration of the blade he knew so well.
"The forger's name is lost to the mists of time. As is how it was forged to have such strength, and mass. The secret of its balance, lost. How the edge stays keen." he shrugged, offering the boy a slight shake of the head, "Lost."
"It was my father's blade, your grandfather." he added, looking to the boy. "His father's, and his father's before him. For generations of our house it has served, and proved its loyalty again and again." He nodded toward the sword with the same fatherly conviction he showed to his boy.
"Your great grandfather had a new blade guard made, in the style of the last. Your grandfather, replaced the pommel." He glanced to the boy with one eyebrow raised for emphasis, "It took him ten years to find one with just the right weight to balance the sword." With a turn of the sword he showed the pommel to his son for examination. Beaten base steel, pounded roughly into shape. It was not a work of art.
"Would you like to see it?" he asked with an unexpectedly friendly smile, shifting the blade toward the lad who nodded in reply. He remembered how the handle fit in his father's hand. Palms that seemed like they could hold the world. Fingers with the strength of a man's arm. Hands that could shape, that could hold, that could protect. Hands that could do anything. They held the sword with a preternatural ease.
"Then you must promise me two things." came the father's voice in a full earnestness usually reserved for addressing adults.Â
"That you shall wield it well. That you shall wield it with honor. And with respect." He nodded slowly, solemnly.
"And." he paused, as if the second could carry more weight than the first. "That you shall remember that it is you who wield the blade. And not the other way around."
The son nodded. The father carefully passed him the sword. Son held the handle with firm, and sure grip. Its heavy weight was too much, the blade struck hard against the ground. Father laughed.Â
He remembered. He remembered.
Thule stood before the Seawolf. His garments were simple, worn linens. The leather of his belt stretched, threatened to tear. His beard was dark, tightly curled, and untrimmed. His once fair hair, grey and crudely shorn. He looked down at the sword laying on the counter. Its dull steel refused to gleam in the mid-afternoon sun of the early autumn. The grip had seen better days. He had once hoped to replace it. The pommel was of rough, beaten steel. The imperfect accompaniment to the heavy blade, whose edge had not yet dulled.
"Fifteen hundred." repeated the scouringly deep voice that belonged to the Seawolf. The Hyur looked up, his steel-blue eyes once shone like daggers. Their pierce had dulled. He was silent.
"Fifteen hundred, take it or leave it."
The Hyur chewed his lip. He swallowed his words.
"That's enough to get off this island. That's what you're lookin' for, right old man?" The Seawolf was sure of himself.
"Three thousand."Â the words flew from the Hyur's throat as if sprung from a trap.Â
The Seawolf laughed, "I said, take it or leave it."
The Hyur nodded. And repeated, "Three thousand."
The Seawolf grunted. "For this worn old thing?" he shook his head as he gestured toward the blade.Â
The Hyur nodded. He swallowed. Hard. He nodded again.
"Twenty-five." he answered, the words a struggle.
The Seawolf sighed with a shake of his massive head, long braids swinging to-and-fro. "Five-hundred, and passage to the mainland. You are not going to find a better deal, old man."
Thule nodded. He thought. He nodded once more. He agreed.
He looked at the sword one more time before turning away. He remembered. He remembered.
His eyebrows had grown thick and bushy. His body, when standing, stooped. His hands rest upon a pommel; that of a walking stick. He breathed slowly; eyes staring straight ahead at the coal fire that burned with its quiet sizzle and pop in the hearth before him. He remembered that day. He remembered. What he had given to buy his family's way to Ishgard. This city where all had been lost. This city that had swallowed a son. This city that had stolen a daughter.
He sighed. He closed his eyes. His youngest, his only daughter. Stolen in the prime of her youth. Beautiful. Kind. Sweet. Her voice would never be heard again.
He remembered her smile. Her laugh. How she had played and danced as a child. The earnest, heart-warming joy. He cried.
Sometimes he forgot what had come after. The stubbornness. The trouble.  The besmirching of the family's name, its pride, its honor. He wished he could forget the words he had used. He wished he could have them back. That he could simply speak to her—hold her once more. How useless his hands had become.
How much he would have forgiven, if only he could have seen what would come... he remembered. How could he forget? How could he forgive himself. How could they forgive him.
The door opened in the tavern below. The sound of familiar boots. The sound of familiar voice.
"Uncle, where is father?" he sounded excited. Thule lowered his head, forehead resting upon his hands, upon the pommel of the walking stick; the final, mocking heirloom of a broken family.
The steps came heavy upon the stairs, despite their quickness. They stopped in the hallway outside.
"Mother..." came the voice of his son, almost breathless. "You must see this.." the door swung open. The old man did not move. He did not see the parchment in Osvald's hand. He did not see the handwriting upon it.
"Father.. father..! Its a letter!"
The old man did not move. Did not speak. Merely breathed. He remembered. How could he not?
"Father!" repeated the voice of his agitated son.
"Its from Aya, father, she's alive!"
Eyebrows quivered. The old man collapsed. Crying. He remembered. He remembered.
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