Lexson of Aerolite

Chapter 1: Overture

  Battle of Ferro-Ignatius   

Inevitably, unbearable times must sow unreasonable children: those whose desire will pivot the world—one anchor point, to the next. No man, historian, or other, can objectively reason if les enfants terriblés will bring ruin to everything, or salvation to all. No outcome is certain, but the insufferable yoke must break. 

The tent swayed, oscillating to the whims of a nimble wind; rhythmically, its fabric calmy rose and fell, beholden to the spring breeze, not unlike the alien, long forgotten tides. A generation ago, it was hailed as exuberant, a textile that matched the fervor of the coming times, decorated with legends: knights who ascended mortality to single-handedly turn the tide of battle but ultimately not the war; sole archers that had blinded a dragon seeking to feast upon the wounded in the back lines, and the common soldier; the common man who returned to war with a lead heart. He who answered the call of past heroes and held their endless heroics tightly as a fleeting memory before the coming dark. Once more he rose to act the shield and fulfill his final duty to country and family.

This scroll unravelled hearts beneath the wind, lifting their spirits and barring fear, and doubt. To many it became a quiet sanctuary: towering over the contested landscape, echoing the authority of the old world with all its righteous splendour. That time had come, stayed, and mindlessly faded like the last roar of a long-forgotten titan. No fleeting memory remained of those times. Nobody, not even the man who inhabited it, could remember the original's handcrafted beauty. It changed with time. The generations swapped: those who sought war and glory were replaced by those who knew nothing else, and instead sought only a quiet peace.

The message changed too, now it went on and on, about endurance... selfless piety. It's quality materials were battered into near pulp. Its divine craftsmanship has found itself at the last vestiges of life. The vibrant golden embroidery faded, and the last remnants are likely left scattered till the decay takes them too, and the original impetus is lost entirely like ash to a scouring wind.

This creation outlived its creator. In his short life, he had mastered only one art form. Despite achieving a supreme artistry, he never left as much as a name behind. Not even a mark was left to prove his existence to the world. No one missed him, for he had no family to speak of, and barely anyone knew him, or of him. Those that had the displeasure found him arid, and strange, eventually distancing themselves. Not even when faced with the wild breadth and valour imbued upon his craft—did they resolve to elevate his measly status up to a mere acquaintance. Such was the plight of the artist laid bare outside of art. The burden resolute in the unfashionable man.

He died alone one night, an ugly death of rotten consumption. But somehow in his last desolate moments. He remained happy, resolute that in his life, perfection was finally achieved. The tapestry brought into this world from his otherwise barren hands. It endured—long after his flesh was discarded into a nameless grave, quietly into a ditch without due service. His age is unknown, but some had found some intrigue in his almost enigmatic nature. They study the scarce remains of his work to attempt to piece together his life. "They," my associates have not even unravelled the mystery of his age or birth. Pathetic, anyways...

Many men since have grasped and appreciated this fabric. Some have reset the bindings, broken in a gust of wind. Others had calmed its surface with fine needlework. It didn't matter how many times it was left battered by the elements. It was always repaired in due time. Long years thus passed. The owner and the tent grew old....

Decades later, in our present day, its flower (once in bloom) had wilted. It was far past worn in, past that initial trauma. Age had rippled through it like a knife. You wondered where it would break next. Yet... somehow, perhaps through the spirit of its creator, the tent continued to stand, imbued with an aura of unwavering fortitude.