The Long Farewell

The Long Farewell... Established in 1239

It was an old dream. Bedridden at best, yet painful all the same. He shouldn't have awoken it. That was all too clear as he leaned against the tree and stared blindly into the ever-approaching darkness. It loomed over him, an obscurity of shifting shadows that took shape on the white canopy. Dark hands lifted up in prayer, and worst of all, curved talons slashed at the remnants of the light. Darkness engulfed him—that cold, yet familiar blackness.
The sunset was speckled with snowflakes. For the day had been cold and wet, yet as the armies poured forth into the rolling hills of the Edinmore, the omens swirled and deepened in the wandering skies. Darkness had fallen upon them by midday, the snow bitter and unforgiving; their banners pounded against the winds, merciless and relentless like some unruly child. Arrows rained and spears took flight, wild and free, but the swords... the swords would not stop falling. It seemed to end as soon as he fell, but the soldiers still wandered the hills, howling like wolves, cleansing what had been left unfinished. Coheric pulled back his hand, slowly, carefully as not to worsen his last wound. This will be my last war, he told himself.
He listened to the soft hymn of war horns and the clamorous chatter of soldiers in the forests beyond. It hushed his mind until a gentle hand brushed the hair from his face. It was warm. He rolled over and fixed his eyes upon her. "I knew you would come."
"How could I not?" Her eyes responded, but her lips remained sealed, unmoving, and smiling. A slither of moonlight illuminated her white yet forgiving face. Gray, watered eyes fell over him. "Don't be afraid. I haven't come all this way to frighten you." She looked just as he remembered. Her eyes were blue, just as he knew; her face was thin, her jaw narrowed, and hair strewn across her face like a thin blanket, knotted and twisted like the vines on an old tree. She was clad in a dress of white silk, reminiscent of the emperors of old—the chieftains of a dead world. Her hand lay on his cheek, warm to the touch. "You aren't what you think you are."
It was a cold promise. A mummer's farce, to be sure. For he knew what she meant by it, but she could not sway him now. Nothing would. Alas, her words did little to relieve him of his pounding headache. In truth, no herbal tea or alchemical tincture could soothe his aching mind and body, but he dared not tell her now. Her skills and knowledge of medicine were as vast and expansive as the night sky, but even still his sickness was beyond medicine. Nothing would help him now, but the threat of another sleepless night lingered at the edge of the forest.
"Why did you fight?" Her voice came rushing back like a swift, sudden wind. "You knew as well as I, this would be your last war. I'm not here to say, 'I told you so,' but..."
He stopped her then. "Why did you come back?"
She shrugged an answer he could not decipher. Her eyes fixed upon his, gleaming like the distant fires to the south, burning upon the battlements of the Edinmore—the fortress of the king. She would not answer, but he already knew. Sighing, he rolled his head, and looked upon the vague silhouette on the edge of the hill, unmoving beneath the bleeding skies. There he is, he thought, dreadfully at first. He was tall and slender, shifting over the field of the fallen like some craven crow, a ribbon of black fire in his hand, sharper than any steel.
"I'm tired of trying," he told her. "Tired of defeat; tired of failing again and again. Perhaps now, I can prove my worth by refusing to die. All my life, I took what was given, good or bad. Perhaps it's just as they say: 'It's never too late.' Or perhaps not."
"Close your eyes. Don't be afraid, take it all in. For the rest will fix itself in time." He could hear her distant voice in his head; an echo of things to come. Alas, she knew better than him. She always did. Even when his world slipped into darkness, she always knew. But when she pushed herself onto an elbow and looked upon him, her voice was drowned out by the trembling roar of thunder. He closed his eyes and felt the rain upon his skin. Nothing had ever been so sweet.
Half-submerged vessels battled the tempest, their sails pounding out a battle-beat as they swirled and danced amidst the flood. The persistent groan of thunder had followed him, but she was nowhere to be seen. Her faded gray eyes had drifted into the night, lost but not forgotten. The vessels swayed and twirled, their rough-torn sails of yellow, red, and brown. More fell from above, landing on the cobble-stones before him. More and more with each passing moment. He placed each step cautiously, for the ground was slick and treacherous underfoot. He knew this place well—as well as the eyes that once looked upon him.
The ghostly remnants of her voice echoed off the gutters, the rafters, and the ancient brick walls that lined the watery streets. He walked alone; his hands stuffed firmly in the pockets of his jacket. It did little to drive away the dying chill of autumn, but any kind of comfort was welcome. Especially now.
Coheric was not a man of fortune, neither good nor bad. As fortune-less as a man forgotten to time; forgotten to his neighbor, and the king he had fallen for. He walked the streets, ghost-like, and his cloak swirled behind him like the banners that heralded the king's armies. He was an old man, too old for such triumphs, but never old enough for a cup and the bitter taste of ale. I knew my destiny once I donned my helm for the last time, he thought, but it didn't stop me. In life, he had been untamed; wild like the wolves in the hills. And with a sword in my hand, no man could stop me. There was a certain ecstasy to the thought—the man he had once been. A sword would come rushing, a roaring knight behind it, but Coheric drove it away with a swift, bellowing slash of steel. He could conquer one man, but a thousand...
I'm a man of poor fortune, perhaps. He laughed at the thought.
He walked for some time down the familiar street, following the winding cobblestone path that lay before him. Leaves fell and rain pattered against them, muffling the sound of his footsteps. I remember this place, he thought, gleefully. In life, he might have laughed and clapped as the memories came pouring in, but this was an old dream. The sign swayed with the winds, creaking some old, withered tree battling the storm. It read: