A Ranger No More

[PCSwift 1422]

 

A picture of Asbjorn, Circa 120 of the Second Age, over looking the Petran Forests

 

 

Spoiler

Upon creation, this letter was sent upon a boat, and floated across the ocean towards Almaris, where Rin lays at rest.

 

Rin,

 

It has been a long time since I’ve written to you. Much has changed in my life, I’ve aged tremendously well, and each time I look at myself in the mirror I’m amazed by how young I still appear. I have Mother to thank for that. I wish you could see me now, I stand taller than I ever could because of your wisdom and kindness. It’s funny, when I was young we had many spats about my choices in life, now I feel we’d agree on almost everything. I no longer seek a path of war, but instead of peace. To better the world through understanding, forgiveness, and patience. 

 

I shall catch you up, when last I wrote to you, I finally found the Adunian people’s folly in Karkosa to be irreparable. Despite my hard efforts, nothing could be done about the evil that was unleashed in that forsaken realm. I know now it is doomed, and it was because of my powerless ness. The adventure was only half a year's length, yet when I returned, everything was different. You were dead, Wings was gone, my brothers, sisters-nowhere to be found. I was distraught, and turned to the only man I could, the Elendil. We journeyed and fought many evil beings, but our prize was Aurelion. It was he that destroyed Cartref Mor, and it was he I would kill. At least, until I made my peace with him. We understood our ways of the Old Faith have come to pass, in favor of the Numenadain. Our disdain for them brought us together and was my first step away from the light. We worked to bring together what little of our kind was left-and found it was just us two. I am but a man, and he but an agent of the Dark-what are we to do? So I searched our scripture, it allowed me to seek power. And so, I delved into the study of the void to find it.

 

As well, I’ve fought in two wars now, and am guilty of regicide. I helped the Haenseni armies with their victory over the Raev and put down the Petran rebellion before it even began by killing their prince with my magical prowess. Shooting the rocks in practice always felt so satisfying, but the sound of rock breaking bone is horrific; no mortal should ever be faced with such a sound. When I was paid for my work, as before, something inside me did not feel right. I accepted one thousand mina for his life, and I watched a son be executed by his mother. I thought not of his political dealings or treachery at that moment, only sadness. They were a family once, Queen Renilde and Paul. She raised him, cleaned up after him, fed him, and waited on him. That baby she raised, his blood was now spattered over him. She looked wholly unlike a mother, she looked like a murderer. 

 

I next asked myself, is this my fault? I told myself at first someone else would have fell Paul. I kept playing back the scene of the battle, searching for others that were unoccupied with soldiers and came to the conclusion it was my own doing. Not a mere stroke of luck that I dealt the blow, rather, a skill that only I had brought to the table. It was by my own hands, that I saw a family torn apart, a Mother left with no son. I asked, is this what I’ve become, Father? An agent of filicide? 

 

Is my purpose in life to be a tool of war? Am I truly a simple weapon to be picked up the lords and regents and used as a chess piece in their game of thrones? I was so distraught in this belief I began to explore the lands of the elfen, searching for answers from our wiser, and longer lived counterparts. What I found instead, was the truth of our existence. 

 

 

 

It’s a LIE. 

All of it. 

Owyn did not follow the Creator’s will.

Harren did not found Idunia for the Creator.

Horen did not speak for him.

For The Creator’s only task, was creation itself.

 

May I one day find you in Ebrietaes, Father. 

 

Asbjorn Carthaig

 

[Malta 2811]

Somewhere lies the rotting body of a dead man, dressed in the ragged remnants of what used to be the garb of a priest. In that skeleton, that horrid forgotten thing strewn about on the lost lands of Almaris, was the memory of a ranger and his bow. There was a memory of a tunnel, of a brotherhood forged in darkness. There was a memory of abandonment, of guilt and sorrow.

In the seven skies, Walter wept.