The Unending Epic Written to Appease a Friend, Tell a Tale, an...

Part 1 - Two Lives

Author's Note:

          This section contains all previous parts of the Unending Epic, from 1 to 43. It's useful for reminding yourself of previous sections, and for quickly catching up. If you find yourself really enjoying, though, remember that views and votes are authors' lifeblood, so feel free to go back and vote on the individual parts. Happy reading!

                                                                                                                                                    - Covahdust

1) The story you will be reading is about a life. Two lives, in fact. And, as in life, this story shall progress, little by little, in ways that are at some times unexpected, at other times tragic, and at other times, well, rather adorable. The story takes place--or at the very least begins--in the region of Malarkia, a rather out-of-the-way and recently-added state in an empire with other things to care about.

In a wattle farmhouse on the northern fringes of Malarkia, where the summits of the Plaintive Peaks lift themselves from the earth and pierce the sky, lives the first of the two souls whom this story follows. If we go in through the open window, we will find ourselves in a small room, separated from the rest by a thin linen curtain. The room contains only a straw bed, a wooden chair, and a small wooden shelf. On the shelf are a half-dozen chipped clay tablets, remnants and receipts of a long-ago transaction. And on the bed is a boy, fourteen or fifteen years of age, sleeping, with walnut-colored skin, a headful of floppy, dark brown hair, and a face spotted with freckles. A thin scar runs from above his left eye to his left cheekbone. His name is Asher, and his parents have just died.

2) His parents died, and it fell to Asher to bury them. They lived, Asher, his mother, and his father, alone on their farm. On market days they would walk together to the settlement a league away, to trade with the townsfolk for whatever supplies they needed. Those were Asher's favorite days, for they were the only times he could be with other children his own age. Or any other people at all, for that matter. However, even though their farm was somewhat secluded, Asher loved it. The mountains as his neighbors, the fields as his playing ground, the beautiful sunrises he could see through his window each morning. "Kings of the greatest cities would spend their fortunes to live in a place as beautiful as this," his father used to say. He, too, loved the farm that he had built with his wife. And then yesterday, while out in the field, his hoe came down on the tail of a swamp snake. It lunged first at the ankle of Asher's mother, and then turned on his father. Their shouts came to Asher in the date grove and he ran to them, but when he arrived, they were gone. Their bodies were still, and the snake had vanished. The holes on their legs and the bruises in their skin were the only sign that it had been there. Struck dumb, Asher simply stared.

Eventually, the thought broke into his mind that he should bury them. He worked without thinking, knowing that once he allowed himself to touch that growing storm within his mind, he would lose all control over it. His mother he buried first, and then his father. They lay together beneath the grape vines they had planted when they first built the farm. And only then, after the last shovelful of dirt fell, did Asher allow himself to feel. His tears rolled out, falling like rain on the turned earth. He stayed that way for an hour, crying, talking to his parents, begging them for comfort, for guidance.

At last, when the sun had set, he returned to the house, where he fell into his bed and wept until sleep brought what comfort it could.

3) Now, he opens his eyes. Light flows in from the window, causing his amber eyes to shine. He lies perfectly still. The room is silent. Slowly, he lets out a breath. With the sound of rustling sheets he sits up and lets his feet fall to the floor. Again he is still, staring through the boards of his floor into empty space. Guided more by habit than any other force, he stands and steps through the curtain to the rest of their house.