A Name Never Written

"Songs only sing of Kings and Queens, Knights and Heroes, the foes of the Realm, but little is said of those who are not great, and yet, are the greatest among us." - Timothy Wolfash the Bard of the P

Dear River,

 

Why is summer always the worst for me, brother? Is it because it was her favorite time of year, and there are too many memories lingering in the heat of the day? I don't know the reason behind my melancholy during this time of year, but I'm more than ready for autumn and winter. I need the world to slow down once more before I can get my mind back on the task I was given.

That is not to say I haven't been doing any of my work on my history book for the Emperor. I have spent most of my days in the library reading and studying, only coming out at night when the sun has gone in the hopes the air would be cool. At least, it should be cool during the nighttime hours, but the heat has hung on to the world, and there seems to be no escaping it.

I long for snow cover trees, warm drinks, and the short days. I long for the holidays where I can hear the songs of many families in their homes praising the AllFather for the glory of his Son. Those months cannot come soon enough, my dear brother.

But as my wise teacher once said to me," Do not wish you time away." I truism of the highest order. One should not live in the dreams of tomorrow but find himself in the now to get the work done. And I have so much very work to complete before All Hallow Eve in which the Master of my Order has asked me to join him on a trip to Traveler's Heaven for a Royal gathering. I could not, would not, dare say no to him, mostly because, who wouldn't want to go to the gathering.

The work has taken me away from writing to you as much, but I don't think there is much of shame in the matter. When I do finally get to my room to sleep in the wee hours, I am too tired to put pen to paper. My mind is cloaked in a haze of staring at too many letters, and I fear; I couldn't write to you if I wished.

I had been working all seven days of the week for the last month and had planned to keep the habit going until a Knight of the Pegasus Core found me in the back of the library on a Sunday morning. The young squirrel's names were Sir John Mightyeyes, and he had seen me a lot through the weeks. He stopped at my desk, books towering around me, and waited for me to look up at him.

My nose had been buried inside a book, and we both know when I'm reading, the rest of the world died away quickly. John made a light cough bring my eyes up to his silver and gold armor with the Great Oak at the center of the chest plate.

"Sir," he said.

"Yes?" said I.

"It is Sunday," he told me.

"And?" I question him.

"It is the day of rest, sir," John said, "a day of worship, and I believe, you should find yourself sitting in the house of the AllFather."

The Knight had been right, and I should have taken the day for the Lord. So, now, as I write this letter to you one a Sunday, I'm taking some rest from my studies. I plan to keep every Sunday as the day of rest as it is the command of us to do so.

When I came back from church, I found the Knight bring him some sweet cornbread form the kitchen as a thank you. I found him walking the library alone and overjoyed at the sight of the cornbread. He devoured the food as we chatted among the books. There was not a soul, other than us, in the whole place, and he told me his story; of his father, who was a poor farmer and his mother died of the fever, leaving him alone to raise his two sisters. When he got old enough, he marched off to become a Knight and now sends home enough acorns to keep the farm above water. His father still works the land, he won't remarry even if they keep begging him to do so, and his youngest sister has stayed at home to help around the farm.

While his oldest sister ran off with some Ranger from Thornwood, he gets a letter from her here and there but not enough to set his worry aside. He prays for her every night, and I told him I would also pray for her as well.

I enjoy hearing his story. After all, is that not what I'm doing writing this book? Am I not merely collecting the stories of our Realm and is not the Realm made up of the squirrels who live in it?

Yes, I know, Sir John Mighteyes name will never be known in the history books. The chance of anyone outside of me or you, knowing him will be little. His children, children, might know him in passing, but soon they will fade from life taking his name along with him. The older brother doing everything in the world to keep his family safe, not a soul will know his deed. It will all be gone in the end, and yet, we know about him. Maybe, I hope anyway; you can tell your children about the Knight who made their uncle take a day of rest.

After I finish this book for the Emperor, I think I shall travel the Realm collecting stories of squirrels whose names will never be written in the history books, for they are not the great ones, and yet, at the same time, they are the greatest among us. It would be a grand way to live out the rest of my days, brother.                   

 

Your brother,

Brain Redtales

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