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
seem 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 some 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,” a 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 very much 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 as much to you, 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 the plan to keep the habit going until a
Knight of the Pegasus Core found in the back of the library on a Sunday. The
young squirrel 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, the Dogwood Flower over
his heart and the Pegasus flying over them both.
“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 instead of the house books.”
The Knight had been right, and I
should have taken the day for the Lord. So, now, as I write this letter to you
on 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 ate the food quickly as we chatted among the books. There was not
a soul, other than us, in the whole place, and he told me his story. He told
his father 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 letters 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 simply 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 chances 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, only to find out that Knight had a
heart of gold.
After I finish this book for the
Emperor, I think, I shall travel the Realm collecting stories of squirrels who
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
(1425)
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