cowmoonist
Member
- Joined
- Jan 22, 2020
- Messages
- 26
- Reaction score
- 194
A letter to my sons, comrades-in-arms, wiccans...
Tomorrow I will depart from these miserable lands. A voice has stuck in my head ever since I returned from Aelfwine’s voyage two decades ago. It whispered my fate, and I have put it off far too long owing to my duties.
To Ceadda and Cena- you have overachieved my expectations, and I cannot be more proud than I already am. Before I take my leave I task the two of you, along with the Radcliffe brothers, to save the wiccan identity. There is no more Barwic, no more Cynethrymm. But the wiccan people must always persevere, always march on. Not many can claim to have such an exciting and illustrious journey as we did, and that alone is something to be prideful of. The future of the wiccans lie in the hands of those with burning passion, in those who uphold justice and honor, and in those who will not forget the history of their own people. I sincerely hope I have raised you to be such individuals. In any case I’ve no place in that future for I am too ingrained in the past- it is better if I do not involve myself.
To Edward and Henry- your father was a brother to me, and so I’ve come to see you as my own kin. Your achievements and leadership in the war has led us to absolute victory. It is beyond doubt that your father brightly smiles down upon you, as do I.
To all my comrades in arms, too many to name, we bathe in Mytra’s warmest rays, and we will feast in the eternal halls in the life hereafter. My heart pounds with pride at the thought that I have fought alongside the bravest, most blessed warriors of Usyl. Wherever your destiny lies, I implore you to never forget those that have fallen along the way. All men die twice, once at their last breath, and the second is the last time their name is mentioned.
My voyage westward is where I seek out my fate. I am hopeful the journey will be worthwhile. Of course the possibility that I do not find what I need exists; and in the worst case scenario, if I am doomed to perish at sea, I trust I will not be utterly unprepared to face my death. I have lived a satisfactory life, and experienced much of what a man like me could possibly desire. When my day comes there will be no regrets, no explanations, for the sun will always rise tomorrow.
And so when dawn breaks on a misty morning again, in heralding spring, the earliest birds shall perch upon the flowering branches and introduce their melodious songs. Accompanied by sweet tunes we will say our farewells to forever, and offer each other the final gesture of camaraderie. Our joy will be dreams, and those dreams soon to become a mere figment of our infinite imagination. Fearing nothing, we move on with souvenirs of our heydays. With each paddle stroke comes a reminiscence of the past, fragrant of glory, of triumph, of all the feats we’ve achieved in the name of Mytra. A gentle tailwind carries my vessel, easing the burden of rowing. Floating through the calm waters I am ignorant of our ever-growing distance, almost blissful as I shed off what responsibility I’ve had left. Much to my anticipation the wind stops and the sail droops momentarily— a cruel reminder. I look over my shoulder only to see blurred memories shrouded by the fading mist, the last vestiges becoming nothing in a blink of an eye.
As you should always, I will keep my chin high and press on down the path that shall lead to our reunion, if there ever is one.
Hold fast, my Wiccas.
Lidmann Cooke
