To Remember

[__Stal27 2148]

 

 

None of the Art is my own

 

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Spoiler

 

 

 

Isla de Diamente CIRCA 152 BA. 

 

The wind whispered through the olive-strewn slopes, the scent of sun-warmed rocks and the salty seas were carried amongst the slow murmurs and ripples of the distant seas, the strait, often known as the Strait de Sybille, had come into a magnificent view. The mountain would soon loom above the pair, it’s own designs were of a rugged and cragged stone imbued into the titanical slope, it’s peak kissed by the golden glow of a descending sun that cascaded it’s rays upon the island as a whole, casting it’s glow upon the structures below. 

 

Crunch. It sounded, as dust and dry earth clung onto the boots of the pair scaling the mountain, the heat of the day had given way instead allowing for an amalgamation of a seafaring and gentle breeze that brushed against the face of the mountain which rustled through the sparse pines that grew and clung onto the slopped cliffs.

 

Huff. The Prince breathed out as he trudged forwards. His heavy boots scraping against the worn stone path, his breath was steady but it was lined with exhaustion. His tunics and gambeson, once pristine and regal, was now bore with the sweat and dust which accumulated through their assent, the regal embroidery dulled through the journey taken. The climb had been arduous, it had been consuming but it wasn’t concluded.

 

The Bishop of Lotharia, cladded in his humble vestments and armour moved with a measured, an ambled pace, his stick pattering against the rough edges of the mountain side as they climbed, rhythmically and knowingly, as though he had taken the same path dozens of times it became second nature. He did not speak at first, allowing for their ascent to be dictated by silence. It was evident such a pilgrimage was not merely an act of devotion, but too was it an act of endurance, a trial the Bishop of Lotharia sought for both the body and the spirit.

 

“The Higher we climb,” Ivan finally muttered, guiding the Prince forth, “The closer we come to HIS wisdom.”

 

The Princeling’s exhale was sharp as such words were spoken, the belt at his waist adjusted mere seconds later as he paused to wipe the sweat from his brows. “If that is so, then HE has made his wisdom a hard thing to seek.” He murmured in response, though his words were irreverence, of a jest and wry humor of a youth who began understanding the weight of the Earth beneath him.

 

Ivan laughed, perhaps the first sight of such in years, at least before another person and yet he offered a knowing glance. “The faithful do not seek the path of ease, but the path of truth, Lothar.”

 

Ahead, the worn path narrowed, forcing them to move as a single file as they passed beneath a natural arch; it was one that was formed from worn and weathered limestone, carved by what was centuries and decades of both wind and sea spray. The sun drew the structure in hues of gold, casting upon the ground flickering shadows.

 

Ding, Ding, Ding. It echoed, faintly.

 

The bell did not toll again, yet its unmistakable, single chim lingered, it echoed amongst the valleys, carried by the wind that swept through the gorse-covered cliffs and into the rolling hills below. Lothar slowed and ceased in his steps. Breath steadying as he finally panned down to the vast expense below, in the distance he spotted where they were dropped by a vessel, yet soon he snapped back, the unmistakable toll of the bell ringing within his mind. “Did you hear it?” - “The bell?” He soon posed.

 

The Bishop, ever deliberate in his path forth, came to a slow halt, the iron end tip of his staff planted into the stone-riddled soil, gaze following Lothar’s own as they, for even a moment, stood together in silence.

 

“There was no bell. Your mind plays tricks.” The Bishop finally murmured.

 

Lothar furrowed his brows at the Bishop’s dismissal, though he knew better than to argue on this matter, he was hardly experienced, perhaps such was the truth. Yet he could not dismiss the distant toll that resonated within his mind which pulled at his chest like an unseen hand. But as the wind whispered past them, the Bishop finally spoke once more, “Or perhaps it was a memory.” - “That is for you to know yourself.”

 

It hadn’t been a bell of iron, perhaps it was indeed one of memory.

 

A toll, one from what felt as though it were now eternity away.

 

Lothar exhaled, eyes glancing to the path ahead as it snaked and rose further up the mountain’s ridgeline, where shadows and silhouettes of fig trees and olive groves seemed to be planted in abundance, the very same trees that only a few years prior did Isidora and Lothar study about, the trees that stood as the backdrop amalgamated of a dying sky. The climb had not yet ended.

 

The bishop, as though sensing the boy’s very thoughts, released a grunt and shifted his walking stick, continuing upon the path and leading the pair. 

 

Lothar simply followed.

 

The air grew thinner as they continued their ascent into the tops of the mountain, the one salty-sea scent began to fade under the earthier scent of thyme and mountain sage, what sound was made from waves now were made from the brief and gentle rustles of the groves of trees and sweet singings of the lumine garnu and orange chested fowl substituted their ambience. The once solid path had broken, turning into a path to be threaded with caution and focus.

 

It was not long before fatigue would soon begin taking hold, not merely in the body - but in the mind as well.

 

The Prince’s breath came heavier now, the weight of the journey they had taken had settled upon the now teen’s shoulder, incoherent-murmurs escaping him. His body ached, his thoughts drifting. And as they climbed, visions and memories of past happenings, of his youth flashed behind his eyes, from his first outing to his first fight, to his very recent one, none had escaped him. He noticed a boy upon a road split in two, pondering on which path he might take before treading a path, looking always to the horizon for answers that he did not yet possess.

 

With another bout of wind, the teen reached for his cloak, settling it from wilding flapping about in the wind as he smelt an odd and near identical smell, one reminiscent in times he felt at ease, its smell was near identical to the one he found regularly of a light, floral mix of jasmine- spritzed with the faintest drop of lemon. It was faint, akin to a dusting- barely there and yet, still entirely present. A sweetness lingered as an afterthought, lent from the jasmine and coupled with something more. Cookies, cakes; the essence of home baked goods joined with the jasmine and lemon to create a tangy, sweet and flowery scent. 

Ahead of him however, the Bishop of Lotharia moved with the subtle steadiness of a man who had long since embraced and perhaps welcomed suffering. Ivan had done much in his life, he had weathered many pilgrimages, many battles for the faith, his eye a testament to his former battles, his feet had felt the scorched warmth of the sands of Rhen, the snow-ladened passes of Haense. He had weathered the weight of an entire nation and a crown who he returned to the faith, not once had he wavered. To him, pain was not an enemy to be conquered, but rather one to be embraced as though it were a companion.

 

 

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Spoiler

 

 

 

“Why do you do this?” Lothar posed in-between measured breaths.

 

Despite not slowing, Ivan retorted fairly, his voice carried wholly and easily through the evening breeze.

 

“To remember.”

Lothar swallowed his want and his instinct to ask further to ask what the Bishop had sought to remember, instead he focused upon the climb once more. The skies began to blend into a magnificent sight, with hues of deep violet, the first stars began to show, appearing during the approaching dusk.

 

Their journey continued, it was arduous but it was magnificent, through the jagged ridges, narrow paths and cracks within might rocks, the wind howled mournfully, yet as they made it beyond it, the path levelled - not into flat ground, but rather into a weathered plateau, overlooking and spanning upon not only the whole archipelago, but rather the entire Kingdom itself, Portoregne, Sunholdt, San Adriano it was all visible from this spot.

 

And yet, their gaze was instead taken by a small structure; the remnants of what might’ve once been a watchtower stood a pillar of stone. Eroded by decades of salt and wind, half buried in vines and wildflowers, it stood. Inscriptions were present upon such a stone, yet it was discernible in the dying and scrambling light from the fading sun.

 

It wasn’t a monument, nor was it a shrine. It was a remnant it seemed, of something that was, and now wasn’t.

 

The Bishop was the first to step forth, his aged fingers brushing against the rough and worn surface of the stone, it did not matter to him however.

 

“Pilgrimage is not simply a journey from one place to another, it is not a simple. . . walk. A simple look forward to the end, the destination, Niet.” Ivan murmured. “It is a remembrance, a recollection. Of those who walked before us. Of those who stood, who struggled, who suffered.”

 

The elderly man turned. His plated armor creaked as he did so, it was then that Lothar saw the fatigue in his eye, the clear wrinkles of his features. He stepped forward closer towards the princeling. With one fluid motion, the elder placed a firm left hand upon his grandson’s right shoulder. 

 

“Memories will serve you well in life. When stumbling upon a forkroad of dilemmas, search your memories for the best choice. It may not be the perfect choice, but nevertheless…” 

 

And it was then that thin yet gentle smile of a grandfather’s love fully prevailed before the young princeling. 

 

“You remembered from the past.” 

 

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Spoiler

Thanks to @Waveyfor co-writing this 🙏

 

[Yeetboy0206 1574]

Spoiler

Beautiful man. Absolutely beautiful.

 

[Lirinya 4036]

Knelt in prayer within the hall of the Basilica for the third time this Saints Day, Isidora had sought solace and peace throughout Lothar's pilgrimage- praying for his safe travel, his return home and his opportunity to come closer to god.

 

Her visits had began once a day; the absence of the Princeling new and strange. She had spent her youth trailing within his shadow and then by his side and now to be alone...?

 

That was when the visits increased in tempo. Twice was first, but it was not enough. Even her work could not keep her attention too long. So she prayed, more and more and before she knew it- most of her day was spent within the Basilica.

 

And soon he was to return home. Soon their lives would change drastically, and she prayed that whilst he had the chance, that he sought as much time with god as he possibly could.

 

Spoiler

Beautiful writing you two.