Year 877
The White Crow Inn erupted in thunderous applause. The cacophony of celebration
welcomed the arrival of the hero of the moment. Sylas had returned to the
shambles of Highett to celebrate in his home town after a momentous victory in
the Magic War. The country of Santelia had been going through one of its worst
wars in known history. Millions were killed in needless bloodshed, entire races
driven to extinction. As a general of the army, Silas had been instrumental in
winning the war, and thus bringing Santelia out of darkness.
“It’s Sylas!!” A woman screeched. Every eye was pinned to the hero. His mere
presence was magnetic; people were drawn to him at the best of times. But now,
people clambered over each other just to get a handshake, a nod of the head in
their direction or even just a touch of him. Sylas had his hair in a dirty,
blonde ponytail with a brown grizzled beard shrouding his face. His skin was
sun-kissed and his hands looked to be made of steel clamps. Beneath the
coloured cape of his king, his hulking figure barely fit
through the door. His arms were tree trunks and his muscles like boulders.
Sylas hushed his admirers with one hand and they obeyed like faithful dogs,
hungry to listen to what he had to say.
“My brothers and sisters,” Sylas started with a smile, “I come to you today not
as general of the human army that won the 15-year long Magic War.” The people
cheered emphatically, spilling liquid unreservedly while toasting their drinks.
“I don’t even come to today as a knight. A knight to whom slew countless
enemies and never gave up even when the days were bleak and nights were long”
The people were feasting on his every word, squirming when his gaze fell in
their direction.
“Today, I come to you naught but a humble citizen of the glorious town of
Highett to celebrate with my common folk about our continued survival!” The
people, as if on cue, threw their hats and some glasses in their air. “To
celebrate our grit! Our determination! Our belief that those b******s can never
take what is ours! They can try, but they will never break our resolve! And we
will always be victorious!” Sylas’ booming voice reverberated through the inn.
Silence once more as Sylas went to continue, “And I come because I know Margaret
and her bar maids here have the best ale I’ve ever tasted.”
Laughter and more adulation ensued. Sylas began making his way to the counter
to get a drink, shaking hands and being bombarded with praise along the way.
“Sylas the strong! You’re my hero.”
“I want to be like him when I grow up.”
“The things he did are beyond belief.”
After trudging through the maze of people and chairs he finally arrived at the
bar and was greeting warmly by a lady who cut off another patron mid-sentence
to turn her attention to Sylas. “What’ll you ‘ave Sylas?” The bar maid asked.
“Just some of your finest ale my dear.” Sylas moved to grab for his coin pouch
around his waist when the maid interrupted,
“No gold necessary from Sylas! For Sylas, for saving us all, you can have free
drinks forever!” The maid announced loudly. The crowd shouted in agreement.
Sylas smiled and winked at the bar maid. The woman seemed to lose herself as if
under his spell and forgot all about the drink for a few seconds before being
nudged by another bar tender. Coming back to her senses and blushing, she
thrust a bubbling tankard of ale into Sylas’ strong grasp.
Word of his arrival in town had been known for quite a few hours, and everyone
knew Sylas would eventually return to his favourite hideout in Highett. Because
of this, there was barely any room to move, let alone sit down. It seemed as
though his searching looks was all his fans required to know what he wanted. He
was suddenly spoiled for choice, offers of seats from everywhere at once. “Have
my table, Sylas the strong!” A thin, wiry haired man nearby said with a bow and
gesture to his table. Sylas humbly accepted with a handshake and a pat on the
back of the man. The man, ecstatic, clearly thought it was an agreeable trade.
On his way navigating through the whirlpool of people he noticed an elderly man
had fallen over and was in actual danger of being trampled. “CLEAR THE WAY!”
Sylas boomed and his subjects obeyed. Most had not even noticed the elderly
gentlemen, too entranced by Sylas. Sylas knelt next to the man and offered him
a seat at his table after making sure he was not harmed.
The people gave Sylas no moments of peace, not that this bothered him at all;
he loved the attention. Women throwing themselves at him and men looking on in
wonder at his achievements. It was not long until a buxom young lady asked him
to regal them with a tale from one of his fights in the Magic War.
“Oh no. You guys don’t want to hear about that.” Sylas coyly remarked to which
the crowd replied with cheers of approval. Sylas didn’t require much
convincing, if any at all, so he began his story.
“Hmm… Ah yes. There was this one encounter late last year which was
particularly memorable on the battlegrounds in Listerton. My battalion were
mostly dead, taken from us by an army of disgusting magic users.” The crowd
grimaced and scowled. “My brother had cleared the way to the main keep where I
believe their general to be. Unfortunately, that was not the case; I entered
the main chamber to find the throne room filled with f*****g wizards, with their
general nowhere to be seen. These cowards had hidden here away from the battle
and killed their own general. Savages, the lot of them. But by my count there
were five of them and only one of me. I was at the ready with my sword and shield
from the moment I laid eyes on their filth. They saw me and slowly began to
surround me, trying to stretch my defences.” A few of the ladies in the crowd
looked worried, as if they didn’t know whether he would make it out safely.
Others were just in awe.
“One opened his mouth, to this day I don’t know if he had the mind to taunt me
or speak peace, but I was not giving him an opportunity to utter a spell to
harm me. I threw a knife which found it’s home in his throat. One down. Now,
enraged by this one of them tried hurling a fire ball at me, and I’d have been
cooked worse than some of ol’ Margaret’s mutton if it weren’t for my shield!”
People howled in laughter and a call from afar was heard, “Hey! You love my
mutton!”
“You know I do Marge” Sylas said with a point, a wink and a shrewd smile. “But
as I said, I’d be naught but ash if it weren’t for my shield. It’s imbued with
magic, something I’m not too proud of, but if those fuckers are going to use
it, why not throw it back in their face.” Even at the mention of using magic he
was met with applause. Sylas could say no wrong.
“The fireball bounced off my shield and obliterated the wizard who produced it.
This shocked the savages, which brought down their guards. Childish mistake.
One I took advantage of. I slid across the marble and sliced one of them with
my sword from balls to chin.” Sylas proclaimed, demonstrating with a swish of
his arm.
“With only two left, one thought he had better chances making a run for it. As
I said, they were cowards. Worst kind of people and I was having none of it. I
stalked him calmly, knowing I had barred the door on the way in. Many folks ran
at the sight of me and I learned early on to trap them in there with me. As he
pulled desperately at the door in futility, I struck him down with my sword.” A
few in the crowd began clapping and whooping.
“There was one final putrid wizard left in the room and after seeing me strike
down his allies even against ridiculous odds, when I approached him he began to
beg.” The crowd groaned, women giggled and men shook their heads in disbelief.
“This thing didn’t even have the decency to die as a man. I shut him up and
relieved him of his pitiful life with one swing of my sword!” Sylas motioned
gallantly with his arm, knocking over his beer. It drenched a nearby patron and
Sylas apologised profusely. The patron assured him, “It is an honour to be
soaked in your drink, no apology is needed!”
Sylas chuckled at what he considered an honour, but if that made him happy,
Sylas was happy. Sylas was a selfless man at heart, whose people were always at
the forefront of his mind. Often in battles he would make an awful tactical
decision, but it would mean saving more civilians. The king did not always
approve, but the people loved him for it.
One young lady with a bright flower in her long braided brown hair nudged
through the crowd as Sylas was just having his ale replaced with a fresh
tankard. She had a small freckled nose with piercing green eyes. She shyly
began, “My name is Kalina. You probably don’t remember me but when my village
was attacked, I would have died if it weren’t for you. You have no idea how
grateful-”
She was interrupted by a sharp whistle from the entrance of the inn.
People turned their heads to see a royal messenger standing there, “King
Pannigar requests your presence immediately Sylas.”
Sylas looked back to the girl with the flower in her hair, but she had
disappeared into the crowd.
50 years later
Unfortunately for Sylas, time is fickle thing. On that day King Pannigar’s
legend was created. His heroism was told across the land and retold to their
children and their children’s children. Sylas however, along with millions upon
millions of faceless soldier’s names would never be remembered this long after.
No toasts would be made in their names. No songs be sung about their bravery.
Any war history book you pick up would mention the Magic War without question,
but nowhere did it mention the instrumental general responsible for so many
lives today and countless victories. Unlike King Pannigar’s legend, Sylas had
not been immune to the draining kiss of time.
Sylas now lived on his own, in a modest house. Still in his home town of
Highett. He would spend most of his time pottering around town, listening to
the stories of the travellers and weary soldiers who rested there. Sylas was
now a shadow of his former self, he could barely even lift his sword anymore.
Recently he took his sword down from the mantle where he had hung it. It was too
heavy for him to put back and he had needed to get assistance from a strong
looking passer-by. Sylas’ hands wouldn’t stop shaking and he babbled to the
passer-by about his sword. The young man ended up stealing the jewel-encrusted
sword from Sylas and left him alone, sobbing.
One day, he decided to return to the White Crow where he had had so many fond
memories. Although it wasn’t called the White Crow anymore, it had another
name, but Sylas could never remember it. His memory was not what it used to be
either.
Sylas stepped through the doorway to see a familiar inn and friendly
environment but no one paid him much mind. This time he easily slipped through
the door frame, not laboured anymore with his hulking figure. His arms were but
twigs now, his muscles like pebbles. His hair was thinning and white as snow,
but now his beard was a matching colour. He no longer sported sun-kissed skin,
having wrinkled and paled now. A completely unrecognisable man from the once
great hero.
“It’s Sylas.” A woman groaned upon seeing him. She rolled her eyes and
continued wiping down a table. His presence now repelled looks as if two
opposite magnets were being pushed together. Sylas looked at his boots,
swallowed deeply and began his trek to a nearby seat.
A bar maid was rushing past and Sylas raised a hand for her attention to order
a drink but she ignored his request as if he were invisible. Things like this
happened a lot to Sylas nowadays; he was known around the town as Sylas the
Senile. People believed him to be some hermit who had lost all his wits and was
more of a burden than a help.
After waiting some time he realised he was not going to get any table service
so he resolved to get his own drink. “Hello Marge,” Sylas chirped.
The bar maid sighed, “Sylas I don’t know how many times I need to tell you, I’m
not Marge. I’ve never known anyone named Marge.”
This always startled Sylas. “Y-y-yes. Of-Of course.” He stammered. His hands
began to shake again. “I-I-I just mean to say-“ Sylas took a deep breath to
collect himself, with one hand on his brow. “Can I get a drink?”
“Two gold.” The maid stated bluntly.
Apparently forever wasn’t so long in Highett. “Ye-yeah, two gold. Two gold.”
Sylas stuttered as he fidgeted through his pouch before producing two gold.
“Two gold?”
“Two gold.” The lady confirmed.
The gold was dropped into the bar maids hand with a smile from Sylas. It was
not returned. She produced an ale in a tankard and returned to other duties at
the other side of the bar. Sylas had to grasp the drink with both hands to have
a firm enough grip on it to begin the trip back to his table. His legs had
really begun to tire by the time he returned to his seat. He rewarded himself
for making it to the table with a generous mouthful of ale. At least some things
didn’t change; it was still just as delicious. When he closed his eyes he could
almost hear the cheering. His eyes opened to the sound of another bar maid wiping
down a nearby table. Sylas leaned towards her and asked, “Did you want to hear
a story?”
“No that’s okay. I grew out of make-believe stories a long time ago. Thanks
anyway.” The maid replied with an impatient smile.
“But they aren’t make believe…” Sylas mumbled to no one in particular. The lady
had left him. Sylas looked around the White Crow. It was the same inn. But the
people were all different. The name was different. They chattered about the
heroes of the day. Not a care in the world for the past. Sylas decided coming
here was a mistake; this wasn’t his inn anymore. They didn’t remember people
like him anymore. He pushed himself up from his table and one of the legs of
the table snapped. Sylas struck the floor with a heavy ‘thud’. A few patrons
looked to the disturbance before returning to their drinks and muttering to
themselves. One patron however remained transfixed on Sylas. When falling,
Sylas had grabbed for anything to save him, managed to grasp his drink and
accidentally flung it on a nearby man. “What the f**k is wrong with you! Stupid
old fool!” The drenched man was outraged.
Sylas cowered on the floor like a submissive dog. Babbling nonsensical words.
His whole body shook like a leaf. Frustrated by Sylas’ lack of any real
response, the man left in a huff. Sylas lay there, curled up on the ground for
a few moments until a woman helped him off the ground and back to the table.
“Tha-thank you kind lady.” Sylas dribbled.
“It’s completely fine sir. The least I could do.” The woman had a warm and
sincere voice. Sylas looked up at her face for the first time. He thought he
was having another dream. It couldn’t be her, she hadn’t aged a day. The young
woman who helped him up had long braided brown hair, a small freckled nose,
green piercing eyes and of course, a flower resting above her ear. Sylas was
flustered again, he must be seeing things. He mustn’t mistake someone for
someone else again. The woman with the flower in her hair began walking out of
the inn and he couldn’t help but follow. Outside the familiar looking woman
thrust out her arms and a little girl, no older than seven years ran into her
arms. She swung the child around in the air and brought her in for a warm
embrace, both smiling wildly. The girl was the splitting image of the lady that
had helped Sylas up, she even had a tiara made of the same type of flower.
Sylas closed his eyes and wracked his brain. Is this what she looked like? Or
was his mind playing another trick?
The lady linked hands with the little girl and she chirped, “Are we going to
see grandma Kalina now?”
“We sure are, and I’m sure she’ll love your new tiara.”
Silent tears trickled down Sylas’ face. He watched the pair walk down the
cobbled stone path until they were tiny specks on the horizon. Sylas hadn’t
felt like this in a long time; like his life actually mattered. They wouldn’t
be here today if it weren’t for him. The people might not remember or value
him, but families like that made it all worth it. And that humbling feeling was
something time could never take away from him.
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