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THE LAST GOODBYE

FINDING RESOLVE AND RESOLUTION

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This is written from the perspective of someone broken by emotion and escaping into their own mind to find solace in face of the reality of the world. It might be triggering to some audiences and elicit emotion in those who have gone through a similar set of experiences. As someone who has gone through plenty in my life, I hope to depict a tale of overcoming adversity rather than being imprisoned by it. Nonetheless, this is a fair warning to those that would rather not be reminded of such times.

 

 

Spoiler

 

 

 


 


 

The City of Crows was a place usually filled with liveliness.

 

But inside a small estate set by the wayside of the Karosgrad Colosseum emanated an unusual stillness. From the very moment one approached the door a lingering sense of sadness was felt. There was only pain now. Where the spacious home had once been filled with laughter, joy and active children, there was only this silence, this omnipresent feeling of death. Were it not for the whipping of family banners from the wind and the rattling of the tugging lantern chains, one might think it abandoned. In truth, it was far from so instead those inside were no longer fully grounded on this earth. But for now, the living room only held one figure whose gaze did not wander; that gaze was settled, settled forwards and staring off somewhere distant. Beneath those lost eyes, the elderly man’s beard had grown dishevelled from a lack of care and his mopish hair, which clung to his cheek and even laid strands across his gaze.

 

The Patriarch of House Colborn was listless and all strength had long since left him, his greyed hues which so often held warmth were empty, filled only with a void of vitality, lacking in life and any sense of emotion else than hopelessness. Was this oblivion? To be cursed with a rarely seen long-lived star who others envied, only to watch those beloved part from this world, to be burdened with pain, again and again, assaulted by quandary after quandary. Was this life? To bring about and birth endless treasures only for them to be taken before one has a chance to appreciate them in their fullest value. To experience things that stab wounds to one very soul that not even prayer can heal, that cannot be mended by magic. Was this fate? To work until one's bones were brittle and one's hand could barely rise properly, only to be punished and put in one's place, to be reminded of the woes of the world and to be pained by twisted reality.

 

A burst of hoarse croaking laughter escaped the elderly man’s throat as if a thousand grains of sand sliding against each other, his throat more parched than a man wandering the desert, as if water couldn’t sate him anymore. With each set of sounds, his throat twisted in pain, eventually leading to a series of coughs, and only a few more pained croaks as if he had swallowed a fly followed. There was a ringing in his ear which had yet to disappear since he had heard the news, that dreadful set of news.

 

Whenever he tried to remember it was like an onset of fog clung to his very mind. What have I forgotten? What was it I’m trying to remember? His mind could not sustain this line of inquiry for long before the fog overwhelmed him again, eliciting another series of wind whistling through his throat, barely able to be called a chuckle, more if anything as if the soul was attempting to leave his body. In his blurry vision which grew darker with each coming moment he could see two figures, two adult men who spoke in the room before him, he could almost hear their voices now. Yes, almost. He was trying his best to make out those voices. The blonde-haired man and his opposite who wore a well-trimmed dark mane walked about the room, two opposites. Why can’t I remember their names?

 

In the chair sitting across from where the disheveled man had sunk into the sofa was a figure he was far too familiar with, the third one present. It was from this man a much deeper and stern voice carried forth.

 

“How long will you do this to yourself?”

 

Adrian’s eyes were still staring in the direction of the two younger images who were silently laughing in the distance as if still alive, a distant memory of better days. The only thought lingering in his mind was why couldn’t he hear them.

 

Breaking his line of thought was the sound of someone clicking their tongue, far too familiar. It caught his attention as it continued in its deeper tone “How long Adrian?”

 

With his name being called he caught himself and as if echoing the thoughts of the person sitting across from him he asked himself. How long has it been? With each moment after the miasma which covered up his thoughts slowly loosened, each eliciting a thought. How long have I been sitting here? Before he could ask himself the next question he heard again that voice, the voice of his father. 

 

“Would you rather trick yourself until you are your own prisoner, guard and executioner? And what for? To live out a fantasy of what once was, of what cannot be any longer even if you so dreadfully wish it to?” gruffed the voice, one strained from many years of pipesmoking. He could almost smell the tobacco waft off of his father’s breath, strong and overwhelming.

 

“Will you not return to them?” came the next sentence which echoed now through the elder’s mind. With what had clung across his mind and left it clueless slowly clearing, so did the vision around him, the brightly lit room full of warmth, with its two presences slowly breaking and giving way to an empty home, dark and empty. The fireplace held not even embers and brought no warmth to the cold which filled up the place.

 

“Return to them? Who will I return to? What do I have left to do?” He asked himself while looking to the window which reflected in it a gaunt and harrowing face, his boney cheeks most prominent. His hands which had lay slack slowly making for it, twig-like fingers lanky and absent of warmth, clinging as best they could to a feverishly sweaty forehead. Next to him on the sofa sat Anabel with a tray that held a set of steaming soup bowls, her hands scarred with half-bandaged cuts from her labor. 

 

“Find your resolve my son. . . find it as you once did in your youth and bring about the change you want to see in this world. I know you are capable of it.” So came the last words before the elder returned fully to reality as he was jolted by a warm hand, which reached out and caressed his sunken cheek. He barely managed the words through parched lips. It came out in rasps. “My child. . . how long have I…?” 

 

With the fog gone now, he knew he’d been through a cyclical process - this wasn’t the first, more so the third or fourth and Anabel had been by his side through it all - his far too kind granddaughter - they all were the treasures of his long-gone Gwyn and what she had wished for the most. That was what made all of this so difficult, with each of their deaths a part of her died with them, a part of her he could never reclaim nor hold to him tight. With each pressing thought, small beads slowly rolled down his cheeks, staining the warmth which covered his right side.

 

Her expression was weary and helpless as she was already not good with people as it was. But even the face of his granddaughter which seldom held much but shyness was covered in worry. With a voice like the soft midsummer gale that carried forth words. “A few hours, I had to reheat the soup twice.” She intoned the last perhaps more in an attempt to hide her worry. But she clearly wasn’t willing to divulge exactly how long it had been.

 

“S-So long?”

 

That long, yes,” she answered. With the warmth leaving his cheek, his watery eyes drifted down to an extended bowl, held by a caring hand. As his hands gripped around the shape and found long heat he sank in a spoon and ate a mouthful of soup. To his surprise, it tasted better than anything he’d ever eaten, not because of the flavor, but rather because of the hands who had toiled to make it.

 

“Baldram helped, even he seemed to realize what state you’ve been in. . . since.” She caught herself and became numb, her body rigid.

 

He would have let loose a boisterous chuckle in moments like these in the past yet he didn’t find it right to do so, nor was he able. With all he could, he finished off the bowl after an extended period of time sat in relative silence. Though Anabel still remained by his side through it all with fidgeting hands and stirring the cushions of the sofa ever so often.

 

“I’ve sat still for far too long.” Came a voice that had recovered some from having been wet with a meal and his appetite filled. “They say a blade will lose its sharpness if not used, but a trained blade never goes fully dull, ha.” He let out a very short laugh as he monologued a little for the first time in days, weeks even. Putting the bowl down on the tray and extending a thank you to his granddaughter he pushed off of the sofa and came to a stand, making way for his study. While making his way up the stairs brief flashes of what had put him in his state came over him.

 

He had held onto the lifeless body of his grandson Godric with a grip so strong it had split nails and broken a finger. The man’s leg had been as best as possible sown back to where it had been cut off so that he might be whole for a funeral.

 

Thunk, thunk with each step upwards carried another memory.

 

He had wailed his eyes out until red and baggy, his very body broken, wracked with emotion - as if gripping onto any last memory he could of his precious descendant - the heart of his heart and gem to his eye - priceless to him each branch that made up the Colborn tree.

 

Thunk, thunk it continued.

 

He had returned to a home abandoned by Godric’s daughter and his eldest son drinking away his woes, the little one closing himself off from the world. They each sought their own ways to escape from reality and to close themselves off from accepting what it all meant. He had sunk into the sofa then in a moment of helplessness, in a moment of delirium, stuck there as if piecing together a time before all of this had happened and bringing it into reality. He was a craftsman since birth and adventurer by choice, but no tool could fashion him a replacement, no vision or dream could replace what he had lost, and no amount of travel could find his grandson.

 

Thunk, thunk he finally came to a stop at the top of the stairs in front of an oaken door. With a rattle of keys, he slid a key forward and cranked the path open to his study.

 

“I will be the change I wish to see in this world, my fate my own, my journey one of my own making.” He muttered a promise he had made to himself many years before when he had told his father after the tragic passing of his mother, that he wished to return to their homeland, to Haense. His father having seemingly expected as much handed him a bag and retinue, to offer him safe passage.

 

“Your journey will be difficult, there will be times when you wish you hadn’t taken this path and instead taken the easy way out. Will you still travel down this thorny road knowing so?” As if responding to that distant past he whispered beneath his breath, when coming upon his armour and sword.

 

“Now and forever, for inaction is the death of Man and sloth is the downfall of his Kingdom. I will carry forward my virtues and bring upon them my beliefs, my hopes, my dreams.” With newfound resolve he donned himself fully as he had done in times past, slinking his blade into its scabbard - sister to Aeternus. In its shimmering reflection, he saw his sharp gaze which carried with it the strength of his youth before fully sheathed. The blade had been maintained with great discipline as he had been taught to, perhaps he had forgotten to maintain himself - but he wouldn’t forget how - he would forge of himself a new blade that would shine brightly.

 

When he finally came down the stairs with the sounds of his heavy steps following him, strained by his aged body which might give out any moment, he saw at the door his Burgrave Rudolf Vyronov - ready and waiting. He was the diligent sort and a truly loyal retainer, as his ancestors were likewise, once and now again bannermen of his family and bonded brothers. “Have I kept you waiting?” He shot back with a grin that finally graced his features.

 

“Not at all Bossir, I have readied your horse and stand ready for your orders.” The Vyronov stepped forward and hung a cloak around Adrian’s pauldrons, clicking them in place.

 

“Let this old man ask you something Rudolf, not as your liege, but as an elder.” He stated while opening the door to the fresh wintry wind outside, blowing into the home, as well as showing the black steed stationed outside. Turning back for a moment he spoke the all too familiar words. “Your journey will be difficult, there will be times when you wish you hadn’t taken this path and instead taken the easy way out. Will you still travel down this thorny road knowing so?”

 

The younger Vyronov looked at Adrian with no uncertainty and flashed a small cheeky smile that he so often hid behind his well-mannered exterior. “Where you go I follow, where you ride I travel and where you die I shall draw my last - now and forever.”

 

Adrian couldn’t help himself from letting out a chuckle. “Well said. If I was cursed with a long life it seems I was likewise blessed with good company and companions, you never disappoint my Burgrave.”

 

The Vyronov held in his head thoughts of the Elder that he might not realize, for to him, he was more than his liege. No, it was fair to say they were family and he had guided him like a father, and he wouldn’t forget it.

 

Whipping up a storm the two set off for a Haeseni Monastery where the holiest man of all lay in a coma. When let into its hallow chambers the elder kneeled down at the head of the Pontiff’s bed, speaking softly, he recited passages from the Scroll of Auspice.

 

“Bear witness to this prophecy of Sigismund, of the line of Joren, revealed in his last days as he gaze into the Face of God. Attend, brothers, and record my revelation: Behold, and the shadow of GOD is cast thrice upon the land, and thrice the light of instruction is obscured, and men tread the sea in its wake. Now Iblees is rising from the Void. And his chains are augmented, and they are become two wyrms, one beautiful and one terrible. The world is given over to them. The first wyrm is Vargengotz, and he goes forth to conquer and to rule. His six heads bear six crowns, which are the great kingdoms of the world, and he lets no evil be spoken of him. His body is black iron and his wings are dark smoke. The banners of the world are struck down before him, and the sky and mountains are his conquests. And Vargentgotz calls forth three deceivers in the guise of messengers, with wings of cold fire. They are called Justice, Glory, and Reward.”

Scroll of Auspice 1:1-9

 

“The Evil Heart of Iblees rears its ugly head. In my moments of wavering strength, it has taken two of my descendants from me, brought to the Seven Skies before their time. When the deceiver of Justice came to us in the image of St. Karl. His words were not of Justice but in its stead wrath misguided. When those present were fooled I was not swayed, nor did I listen. Holding in my heart the Holy Scrolls to which I leave my trust in.”

 

With more intonation he spoke yet again, lowering his head further towards the ground as if beginning to bow - bowing to God.

 

“Then I found in my land a woman strung upon a cross, perverting the holy. Below she was written in my people's tongue an idiom dear to my heart that only daemons could whisper or know, but I did not waver. When the man of many faces appeared before us I knew it was the deceiver of Glory, and so I swallowed my pride, revealing to the Knights and Acre my failure, trusting in the sacred.”

 

When his palms finally touched the ground he came to a full kowtow, his head touching the floor.

 

“Thus came the last deceiver of Reward before us in the shape of Sigismund III purporting to represent the will of the Golden and the wealth of his legacy, but in him, I found none but Avarice, and so my faith was tested yet I did not waver.”

 

Remaining as he was with tears straining at the corners of his eyes only held back by his own will he spoke in a shout for the first time since Godric’s death.

 

“I will have NO DEBTS LEFT UNPAID during my watch, their evil will be returned threefold, each a mortal blow to their cohorts for the sins against my heart and soul!”


NO EVIL LEFT UNPUNISHED on my watch for my hand will strike that which corrupts the land and the heart of Man, a vessel to the holy, may I take up my sword to strike them down in His name!”

 

“This will be MY LAST GOODBYE to Him, for the forces of Iblees shall be vanquished and their influence freed from the earth at last. A Crimson Inquisition to guide us on such a path towards salvation!”

 

With his last words echoing within the bed chambers it seemed to stir something in the Pontiff as his fingers slowly curled, slowly waking, slowly returning to his flock. Only time would tell if the Elder would have his answer, but he was ready to wait, wait as long as need be. For no man or woman to feel what he had felt, helplessness ever-permeating, pieces of their heart ripped from them.

 

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“Holy is thy cross and holy is thy word, crimson is thy punishment.”

 

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The runaway Colborn returned home briefly to see her father's corpse. She didn't want to stay any longer and cause more heart break to her family. Before Ada headed back to hiding, she cleaned up the tavern, adding more flowers and candles around the place. She left a small package and a note at the entrance, filled with flowers and unlit candles.

 

"Skrali for everything Fadir. We will avenge eym. That's a promise from me."

 

Maybe Adrian and Ada were both scheming similar ideas, she didn't know. Just a matter of time before they bump into each other...

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Water dripped into the dark wooden bowl, the running of droplets being the only sound that permeated the Silent Home. Anabel Elia sat to his side - that of Adrian the elder - for toiling hours on end. She had promised her sister that she would care for the man when no one else had the strength to, and a Highlander is not an oathbreaker. The girl squeezed the soaked cloth over the bowl, allowing it to drip excess droplets onto the still surface of the water inside. Meanwhile, she used the now-damp cloth as a sponge onto Adrian's forehead as he sat dormant.

While everyone else had busied themselves with searching for Ada, or the organisation of Godric's funeral, or had just fallen right into the bottle, Anabel - timid in all things - stayed home as she always did. Although now it was for neither research nor literature, as she had instead fallen into the role of caregiver.

Her cousin, Allyssa was much too young to be left alone, and clearly, their grandfather needed tended to. That was what motivated her to stay home. She finished mopping the old man's forehead and sat back, rinsing the shabby brown cloth in the bowl of water before lifting his left hand and beginning to gently clean it - then repeating the motion with his right.

Every few hours, Adrian would seemingly awaken in a bout of hysteria and would need calming. Anabel used these opportunities to attempt to feed and drink him, but often he would "sleep" once more before she had finished. His madness came from great sorrow, and she hoped to never have to experience that kind of pain ... Over the time that she looked after him, she slowly began to swear to never grow so attached as to be destroyed. Maybe it was self-preservation that drove her to this conclusion, maybe it was her empathy for the pain she was witnessing.

"Farfadir..." She would coaxe whenever he was awake, "Come on, eat something..." And he would eventually heed her instructions, mumbling senselessly to himself before falling back into his trance, of sorts, and leaving her in her own company once more.

 

She had no doubt that her grandfather was likely scheming to some extent; plotting, at least. He was obviously overcome with grief and loss, but nothing had ever stopped him before - hardworking to his core. She merely had to wait.

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[!]

 

A man now dressed in monastic clothes would smile as the news reached the man. A Colborn once, yet not one true; a Knight and son of yore. 

 

He reached to the Skies as words did leave him: “You will be set free, old man. God will take care of you. You deserve death; o’ I plead, let me join you someday, yet for now I remain.”

 

That old man of churchly appearance then moved on once more. In silence, he prayed, for his knew his father was now safe - soon for all humanity to join him.

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Spoiler

I got seriously baited by this, thought you were leaving lotc

 

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21 hours ago, Pork said:
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I got seriously baited by this, thought you were leaving lotc

 

 

Spoiler

I never miss

 

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