Unia: Echo of Harmony

Night of the Departed Souls: Mourning's Dawn. Act 1

The scorching sun is blazing overhead, an unrelenting sentinel in the sky, its rays piercing the dusty air of the village square where the boy now stood. On any other day at this hour, he would have been nestled in the cool shadows of his home, lost in the gentle embrace of a midday nap. But this day is far from ordinary.

Earlier, as the boy and his family were poised on the edge of rest, their quiet was shattered by the abrupt arrival of a neighbor. The man spoke rapidly, his words a torrent that flooded their modest dwelling. The boy caught only fragments, but one phrase resonated with clarity—the directive from a city official that all villagers must assemble.

At first, curiosity piqued the boy's interest, a spark kindled by the rarity of such visits. But as he watched his father's face, the lines deepening, eyes clouding with a rare flicker of concern, the boy's excitement waned, eclipsed by a burgeoning sense of disturbance.

Now, here in the heart of their village, the boy clung to his father's leg, his small hand gripping the fabric of his trousers as if to anchor himself amidst the sea of gathered villagers. The square, typically a hive of banter and bartering, was thick with an unusual silence peppered with hushed murmurs and coughs. His mother, frail from the unknown disease, remained at home in bed, her absence from the square a hollow space at his side.

Yet amidst the swell of uncertainty, the boy found a measure of distraction in the undercurrent of voices that filled the square. His spirit was consumed by an insatiable curiosity, a thirst for the hidden meanings that danced within the murmurs and occasional shouts of grown men and women. Though the subtleties of their words often eluded him, swept away on tides too complex for his tender years, he listened with the fervor of a scholar, each snippet a puzzle piece to be turned and examined in the growing complexity of his mind.

His world, small and untouched by the broader concerns that furrowed the brows of his elders, is slowly expanding before his eyes, each anxious glance and wry smile a lesson in the human tapestry of emotion. He is still young, and the roots of understanding had yet to burrow deep into the soil of worldly knowledge, yet he felt—deep in the marrow of his bones—the infectious pulse of the crowd's anxiety.

Too young to fully comprehend the causes of the villagers' unrest, he nonetheless absorbed the prevailing moods, and the furrows of worry and whispers of discontent shaped his expression into a reflection of those around him—a small mirror, mimicking the darkening frowns that lined the faces of his elders.

"Again, are they raisin' taxes...?" grumbled a disgruntled, hoarse voice, its rasp suddenly devolving into a vigorous cough. The unexpected sound riveted the boy's attention, drawing his eyes to the source—a familiar neighbor known as Álvaro. The man's abrupt gesticulations, followed by his cough, sent a freshly baked loaf of bread tumbling from his basket to the dust below.

Though the boy scarcely knew Álvaro beyond brief encounters, he recognized him as the father of Raquel, a girl seven winters his senior who once frequented his childish games. Of late, however, the innocence of shared games had yielded to the inevitable passage of time, and he found Raquel ensconced increasingly amidst a circle of maidens, her peers, each step further weaving Raquel into the tapestry of burgeoning youth.

One sultry afternoon, as the sun played hide and seek with the clouds, the young boy had chanced upon Raquel and her companions beneath the old willow tree. Their voices, woven with dreams and draped in the secrecy of youthful ambition, floated on the breeze. Raquel, with a sparkle in her eyes and dreams of adventure dancing in her heart, declared, "My dream? Marry a knight, have his baby, and live in the city together."

At present, Raquel stood aloof, a single daisy held delicately in her slender fingers. Her world seemed to contract to just her and the flower, as she plucked its petals one by one, each dismissed to the whim of the wind with a soft chant, "Loves me, loves me not." Her voice, a gentle contrast to the coarse murmurings and restless unease that pervaded the gathering, seemed to weave a quiet spell in the afternoon air. The boy observed her from the fringes, his lips curling into an involuntary, skeptical smile. "What a silly dream," he mused silently, unable to grasp her youthful longings for chivalric love and the grandeur of distant courts, so at odds with the harsh realities of their rustic lives.