The Dreadful Whisper

Whispers of the Beyond

Wherever there be a beginning, verily there shall follow an end, though it may repeat itself in many guises.

Our mortal lives are woven with many endings, oft unseen by our untrained eyes.

When I was but a mere child, my father fell in a distant land, upon a battlefield stained with the blood of war. The great conflict, which men shall recall as the War of the Icemen, claimed him ere I was of age to know his face. Yet, from the lips of those who knew him, I learned he was a man of noble spirit, full of virtue and compassion, a savior of souls who did not shrink from the call to sacrifice his own life for others. They told me he was gone, taken by the cruel hand of war, but in the stillness of my heart, I have felt his presence always, as if he yet walks beside me—living, breathing, ever watchful.

All that remains of him in this world is but a solitary photograph. When he was taken from us, my mother, consumed by grief and fury, for she had begged him not to go, sought to erase all traces of him. In a moment of despair, she set aflame all that once was his, save for that one image, which survived the inferno of her sorrow.

I, like many who offered their condolences, believed this to be the full tale of his end.

Yet, in the passing weeks, as the world moved on, my mother did wear the guise of one who had conquered her anguish. But I, her child, knew that beneath her well-crafted mask lay a heart still bleeding. I, too, retreated into the shadows of my own mind, finding solace neither in her embrace nor in the wider world. In time, I grew, seeking my path in the halls of learning and the clamor of labor. I fell into company of those who lived with reckless abandon, but such companionship brought naught but trouble upon my house. My steps faltered, and I found myself in the clutches of intoxicants, eschewing the wickedest poisons only by the slimmest of margins. Yet, there came a night when I succumbed, and in doing so, I fell deeper into the abyss.

Each passing day saw me draw further from my kin, entwining myself more tightly in the chains of my own making.

One fateful eve, I took to the road, my senses dulled by drink. Brady, Brooklyn, and Daniel were with me, yet it was I who bore the brunt of the gods' wrath, as we were hurled from the path into the yawning chasm of darkness. I slept for six months in the arms of Morpheus, and when I awoke, the faces that greeted me were those of strangers, though they bore the names of those I once knew.

I returned to a home that was no longer mine, for my mother, they told me, had gone on a journey far away. But such words rang hollow in my ears, for she would never have left me in my hour of need.

Days stretched into weeks before my dear Aunt Mandy, the only soul who seemed to care, came to speak with me.

"Megan, how dost thou fare?" she asked, her voice soft with concern.

"I am well, dear aunt, though troubled for my mother. First, my father was taken, and now I have failed her..."

"'Tis of thy mother I would speak," she interrupted, her tone heavy with import.

"Of my mother? What news hath thou?"

"Do not let thy heart be burdened with worry. Thy mother hath not journeyed far. She hath been taken..."

"Where is she?" I cried, a sudden dread seizing my breast.

"After thy grievous accident, she was overcome by despair and the bitter thought that all calamities were her doing—even thy father's untimely death. In her grief, she sought to escape this world by her own hand, but the attempt was foiled. Seeing her in such distress, we were left with no choice but to place her under the care of those who tend to the broken minds, in the asylum in the heart of the city."

Thus was revealed to me the truth I had long refused to see. I, who had prided myself on strength, now saw that my fortitude was naught but a brittle façade. In my heart, I knew that when others inquired after my well-being, it was not true concern that moved them, but rather a need to ease their own consciences.

I fought daily with myself, against the sorrow that gnawed at my soul and the false comfort of those who thought their hollow words could save me from despair. My father had perished in war, my mother was lost in the labyrinth of her mind, and my only brother cared not for the ties of blood. Alone, I stood in an unending, empty loop, with no hand to guide me.

Yet, I strove to live a life of semblance, attending the university with what little strength remained in me. I turned away from the vices that had once held me, and in time, my efforts earned me the favor of my peers. Still, a shadow hung over me, for I lived not for myself, but merely to exist.

In those darkest hours, when hope seemed a distant memory, I would journey to the place where my father had once found solace—our lighthouse by the sea. It was a sanctuary where the wind whispered secrets of the deep and the sun's warmth did not scorch the skin. There, high above the world, I could gaze upon the endless waves and breathe the briny air, free from the clamor of the crowds that my father had so disliked. It was his refuge, and it became mine as well.

And as I stood upon that sacred ground, my thoughts would turn to the truth my father had known: that beauty is but a fleeting shadow, often hiding within it the deeper, enduring virtues. The maid who is shunned by all may possess a greater beauty than she who is adored by the multitude, for the former remains true to herself, while the latter bends and breaks to please the world.

With my father's passing and my mother's descent into madness, I came to understand the selfishness that lies at the heart of all men. Even in our selflessness, we may succumb to the deepest sorrow imaginable— the sorrow of solitude. True beauty, I realized, is not found in the vain adornments of this world, but in the ancient, weathered tree that stands tall against the storm, or in the rare kindness of a soul who, like my father, finds it within themselves to care for another, despite their own suffering.

My father's end came while he sought to save a friend. He gave his life so that another might live. When the news reached us, it was Richard, his comrade, who told the tale. And thus, we learned that my father had died a hero's death.

He was a handsome man, with eyes as blue as the summer sky, and hair dark as the night. He stood tall, with a love for the wild places of the earth, and a mind drawn to the arts of engineering and the noble work of saving lives. My mother, in contrast, was a woman of practical mind and grounded heart. She loved the art of photography and the science of cooking, though her heart's true desire had been to shape the world as an engineer, a dream she set aside when they wed.

They met in their youth, and despite all obstacles, their love endured. It was a love that withstood the trials of life, and it bound them together until the very end.

My mother, in the years that followed, revealed to me the story she had kept from me as a child, deeming it too grim for young ears.

She told me how Richard, my father's dearest friend, had been gravely wounded, and how my father, instead of seeking safety, turned back to save him. Through mud and blood, he carried Richard to the shelter, refusing to abandon him to his fate. Once his friend was safe, he returned to the battlefield, determined to save more, but it was then that he was captured... and met his end.

Years later, Richard spoke of a strange vision he had that day. As my father lay dying, he reached into his tunic and drew forth the picture of my mother and I, pressing it into Richard's hand. "Protect them," he whispered, "for they are in danger."

And then, Richard spoke of a vision most strange, a sight that defied all reason. He claimed he beheld my father's spirit, as if it did rise from his shattered form, and, like a wisp of mist, vanish into the very ether. We, in our mortal frailty, attributed this to the delirium of a mind standing at the threshold of death, a fleeting mirage conjured by the shadows of the grave. Yet, from that fateful day onward, Richard has remained ever near, a constant sentinel in our lives, a living testament to the man who gave all he was.

This, then, was the tale of my father's death. But, as I was soon to learn, it was far from the end.