Skies Fall

In this land, words are precious. A good story is valued alongside the finest gold and silver. Wars have been fought over the libraries of kings, often with catastrophic results, and only the most worthy are chosen to write these books.

Poets. Personally, I hate them. The constant awe and reverence their position inspires always has a way of going to their heads. I’ve yet to meet one I’ve liked, but what can I say? I’m a storyteller, a lost untethered soul who travels the land collecting all sorts of legends, myths, and ghost tales. I may not like poets as people, but I love hunting down their work. It always seems to appear in the strangest of places: behind wallpaper, in the depths of catacombs, or locked in a chest at the bottom of a leviathan-infested moat. Each location is more bizarre than the last.

During my recent journey through the outlands, I came across the ruins of what was once a mighty fortress. Nature had already begun to crumble its stones and take back what was hers. The place was like a shipwreck, so full of stories and mysteries that I just had to take a closer look.

Whoever had owned the castle had lived well. As I walked, I passed the scorched remnants of finery: half-burned ornate mantle pieces, elaborate armor, swords that most street thieves would give both their hands for, and, in a distant tower, the most marvelous treasure chest. Every inch of its golden surface was set with precious stones, and it was mysteriously untouched by whatever catastrophe had destroyed the castle.

When I touched it, a strange tingle ran through my fingers and down my spine. Magic. This place was getting more intriguing by the minute. Once I got the lock undone, I slowly lifted the lid, half expecting to either be blinded by the glow of gold or attacked by a spell. When nothing happened, I peered inside the box. It was completely empty except for a scroll of parchment at the bottom, tied shut with a red velvet ribbon. The first thing that struck me when I unrolled it was the handwriting. It clearly belonged to a woman, one who had taken care to practice her calligraphy.

There was no one around, but I threw a glance over my shoulder anyways. It felt like I was intruding on something private. I turned back towards the paper, resting it on my knees as I sat and read the words to the broken castle. Perhaps these words will be of some use to you.

~~~~~~~~

As I’m looking through the fire,

I see your face

For a moment,

The world is a brighter place

Even though everything’s crashing down

Things are a little less terrible when you’re around

I see your face through the fire

And you’re still fighting,

Sword blazing,

It seems like you’ll never tire

And we lock eyes

Through the blazing flame

And in my mind,

I hear your voice call my name,

And to this day,

I’ll never forget the words I heard you say.

"My dearest friend,

I will fight by your side

‘Til the world’s end

Even if the storms rage

Or the skies fall,

I will be with you through it all.

I will be here."

You give me a nod

And then you disappear.

Oh, how I wish you were here.

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