Chapter 1: The Pilgrimage
The soothing sound of fluttering sails and the crackling of wood against the torrents of the sea. Such was the song the boy listened to as he took fate’s hand and let her guide his steps towards growth. By his side stood his uncle, symbol of both respect and wisdom in the boy’s eyes, he also stands to be his leash should his senses get the best of him. His gruff voice spoke lyrics to the boy, questioning his decision, testing his spirit and sharpening his resolve for what’s to come. After all, the boy challenged the one who gave him life, and raised him throughout the years to be what he is now.
With land coming closer, no gratitude fills the boy’s eyes, not a shred of compassion towards the figure who grew him to be the warrior he is. Empty and void of any glimmer, his eyes sank in the darkness of his own hatred.
Dry land, dry like the life the boy lead. Denied parental love and subjected to the harsh gaze of expectations, the heavy weight of duty, and the binds of blood which tie him down to this very moment. With each step, vivid imagery of the past filled his mind, from the ruthless hours of training, to the long lectures about the talent he never awakened, it all came rushing down like pouring rain. Crushing him like a boulder, the weight was so heavy it almost made him halt and fall to the ground, cower and step away. A hand rests on his shoulder, then moves to slap him once, the sting brings him back to reality.
“Swallow your fear, boy. You are the sword of the Rivorndir; you are steel and death. You do not feel fear.”
The streets are as loud as he recalls them to be, the voices of the merchants in the distance resonate a nostalgic symphony. For he was once a black sheep, an exile in his own home, a stranger in his own family and a stain in the pristine red and gold history of the house he was born into, thus he spent most of his youth walking these very streets. His legs, used to these roads, take him and his uncle without much thought, piercing through the city’s most dense parts with ease, leading them into the nearby forests. The merchant’s echoes now distant, soon only silence filled the air. A heavy silence, one which brought around the boy a cold he was familiar with: Loneliness.
Its arms cradled him in their draining embrace, numbing his senses and sinking him further from light. He wonders, why he is here again? After many years of escape, what is it that brought him the false courage to undertake this trial? No one would’ve minded, his stay in the isle of madness his family settled in now. No adventurer knew his past, no traveler knew his plight, and no stranger heard the whispers of his failures.
“It is inevitable that men die. But our blood, our honor, and our deeds surpass us. Ask yourself; how will men speak of your deeds?"