Back-and-forth again and again, he dragged his brush allowing their bristles to dig into every crevice of the wood, yet no matter how hard he tried, he could never truly remove move every single speck of dirt. The frustration grew, but to ease his mind he stopped. Brighton lifted his eyes from the corner of the room before turning around. Examining much of the dining room he took a as moment to catch his breath. Looking upon the long table, he fought back to all those times, and all the meals had at that same place. The sentiment and emotion tied to the item of furniture brought him a warmth which eased his exhaustion.
Past the table, stood the grand fireplace. This ancient hearth adorned with carvings, worn by time invoked another memory. Countless evenings filled with discussion and humour have been a regular event in the evenings. After the passing of his mother there were still evenings of discussion, yet they lacked that same degree of enlightenment. At least Brighton thought as much. Most of his chores for the day had been completed. The table had been cleared. The floor had been swept, and the mirror had been polished. Crossing the room at lacklustre pace, Brighton drew closer to the looking glass and stopped. Seeing himself, his blue eyes, and thick light brown hair showed he was still in the prime of youth. Even though he was in good health, he seemed disposed. He then noticed specks of dust clinging to his cotton tunic. He was not impressed.
From the other room Brighton heard a string of deep coughs. One following the other in rapid succession. Heading away from the mirror, the young man strode toward a door at the far end of the room. Pressing his fingers into his palm, Brighton tapped his knuckles upon the birchwood and waited for the echo of his knock to fade. Silence lingered in the air and stoked his unease.
“Sir Jevon?” Brighton called out with concern.
Once again, silence lingered some more. Brighton let out a gruff wheeze to vent his annoyance.
“Do you need anything to eat? Perhaps you would desire some water?”
Brighton waited yet again however strained himself to hear anything. No longer would he endure this. Grabbing the handle of the door, he pressed the latch down before pressing himself against the door. With just enough force, it opened with a deep creek.
Entering the room, Brighton found it with the chest wide open and items of clothing cast about the floor. Letting his eyes drift, he soon found a tall slender man of broad shoulders propped up in a chair in the corner of his room. Brighton’s heart sank when he noticed down the front of the man’s surcoat were small red specks. He didn’t like it one bit.
“Good morning
to you Sir Jevon. Did you sleep well?” Brighton addressed the older man with an
artificial smile.
“Brighton you need not hide your concern,” the man responded in a deep tone filled with a brave gruffness. “It seems my condition lingers still.”
Brighton watched as Jevon moved his hand toward his mouth before rubbing the back of his hand against his lip. Conscious to mop up any lingering droplets around his chops. Jevon then looked over to the young man standing in the doorway with eyes filled with unease.
“Brighton. Come in but keep your distance. I have no wish to see you infected.”
Gingerly crossing the threshold, Brighton stood in the far corner of the room at the first distance he could. Pressing his back to the wall, the young man looked across the room toward his sickly mentor. Brighton noticed the open chest beside him with its lid left open. Peering inside, he noticed a neatly folded bundle bound by thread of twine.
“That is for you,” stated the middle-aged man with a grim tone.
Brighton looked back over to Jevon to see him at ease in his chair. His shoulders seemed not to be so tense.
“I had wanted to give that to you some time ago,” the decrepit knight continued. “Alas, your mother thought you not ready and I had no reason to argue with her. Since her passing, I have been uncertain as to when i should present it to you. My illness has accelerated the moment to the forefront, and it is best you have it now.”
Brighton looked back into the chest but remained silent. Pondering what the bundle could be the young man noticed the twine had started to fray. It seemed older than what was normal for such material.
“It is yours now boy. It was your father’s and now you should have it,” Jevon informed the young man between wheezes.
Brighton looked over to the knight now bound to his chair. He watched as Jevon tried to curdle his flem within his throat before letting out another strained cough.
“Open it,” he ordered with his voice carrying droplets of moister.
Brighton leaned over the chest beside him and reached his hand into the wooden container. Pressing the tips of his fingers to grasp the stray end of the twine then prodded to pull. With a single gesture, Brighton pulled on the twine in the opposite direction. Once the bindings fell loose the hessian slumped toward the four corners of the chest as if they were melting like a candle. Peering into the box, Brighton noticed a collection of silver circles upon a field of black hidden away within the bag. Extending his hands into the chest wooden box and pulled away the cloth which clung to the object. With one sudden thrust, Brighton removed the sheet around the object to reveal what it. Lying inside the wooden container sat a kite shield forged from stainless steel. The front of it was painted black and had a bushel of silver berries growing on a severed vine which dangled horizontally from one corner. The young man pressed his finger to the shield and felt the coldness of the metal course up his fingers and arm as it sent a shiver down his back. Sliding his fingers across the shield’s surface and toward the corners, Brighton pushed his fingers through the gaps and grasped onto the edges. Pulling firmly with both arms, the item groaned before sliding upright.
“Your father used it to protect himself in battle,” Jevon shared as his mind thought back to those days. “When we left Mallistal I had it mended and repainted.”
Brighton lifted the shield from the trunk and turned it over. The other side held no exquisite artwork, and the scratches of battles past remained. Two leather loops tied in through metal grooves allowed for adjusting.
“It’s heavier than the wooden shields,” the young man remarked as he lifted the item.
Sliding his hand through the leather bindings, Brighton raised the shield and held it to his chest before posing with it. Seeing his mentor’s eyes flicker with pride seemed to alleviate the growing pain within the aged and sickly knight.
“Perhaps when you are recovered, we might train with it?”
These well to do words were met with a strange silence. As Brighton looked across the room once again, he noticed how Jevon’s eyes and lowered and his lip trembled before straightening.
“Brighton,” he said after clearing his throat with a damp wheeze. “I never thought you naive, but I do know what you are doing. You choose not to see what is happening to me as it must be painful for you.”
Jevon coughed as he leaned to his left and extended himself over the armrest of his chair. Reaching his hand down to the side, Brighton watched as the knight lifted an item wrapped in wax paper tied with red ribbon.
“This was meant to be for you when you reached your Name Day. However, maybe it is better for you to have it now.”
Lifting the bundle of wax paper in one hand Jevon huffed as he raised his arm toward the young man in the opposite direction. Brighton saw the man’s handshake while grasping at the gift. Taking the item with both hands, the young man felt a great weight and nearly dropped it. Lurching forwards to adjust his grip, Brighton pulled the item closer to him and pulled on the ribbon to let the wax paper slip away to the floor below. Looking at this long sword dressed in a scabbard, Brighton looked on this weapon with newfound excitement. Its cross guard was crafted from sturdy iron drew his eyes along with the unblemished leather straps around the handle.
“I had that made for you a while ago,” Jevon stated as his protege examined the weapon with delight. “You will need it for the task ahead of you.”
Hearing these words struck at the foundation of Brighton’s happiness as he then turned his eyes over to the man in his chair.
“What task do you speak of?” The young man inquired with concern.
Jevon coughed a few times before his lungs calmed and he stared at the young man beyond his reach.
“Brighton, you can no longer stay here. I understand that this is your home, and it is the beating heart of the only world to have ever known. However, much has changed since we first came here all those years ago and you have grown into a fine young man.”
Jevon pointed over to the shield strapped to the young man’s arm while his own started to shake.
“That shield belonged to your father. It might surprise you to know that he was not just a knight like I was. He was a prince.”
Brighton listened and the moment those words hit his ear the young man’s mind emptied and everything else came to a stop. Jevon lowered his arm and sighed before leaning back into his seat.
“A prince?” Brighton asked with a bemused expression.
Jevon nodded as his breath curdled at the back of his throat. Once he cleared his mouth, he continued.
“Not like the way you’re thinking though. His mother was a vigneron’s daughter, and his father was King Gunther of Alacain. Even though your father was a bastard, when he was revealed to the court, your grandfather styled him Prince of the Silverberries. When the old king departed from the world, your father was old enough and held some popularity, so he tried to claim the throne.”
Brighton took in the words of the man who raised him while looking around the well-kept hovel which they lived in.
“I assume his attempt was not successful?” The young man asked with a smirk on his face.
Jevon couldn’t help but let out a muffled laugh as he had no desire to start another coughing fit.
“Aye, you can clearly see he was not. But he put up a fight before being forced into exile. I had sworn myself to him and his cause so when he was banished, I went with him and his wife. Your mother.”
Brighton thought of his mother. A rather slender woman if not busy with something around the house or garden. Always at the table mending socks, cloaks, tunics, and trousers for what little coin she could get.
“I could never imagine my mother with a crown on her head,” Brighton mumbled solemnly.
“That’s not why she married your father,” Jevon continued between wheezes. “The two of them were lovers and he married her out of choice. Before your father was banished your mother fell pregnant with you and she went with him to Penkavern. I volunteered to go and help keep the two of them safe and nearly seventeen years later, here we are.”
Brighton thought back to the earliest years of his life and remembered the working of his mother at the supper table. Toiling away at mending garments and Sir Jevon helping with cleaning and cooking. All those years, he only saw two people, not three.
“What became of my father?” The young man asked with wide eyes.
Such a question caused Sir Jevon to fall silent as his eyes darted from side to see while ideas struggled to formulate words. A moment two of uncomfortable silence passed before his tutor responded honestly.
“While your father was a decent man,” he stated with an inkling of hesitation. “One of his only vices was that which many men dabble in once or twice in their lives. He was skilled with the sword and with words, alas, gambling proved to be his downfall. A card game turned awfully bloody after a bluff was called.”
Brighton failed to hold his jaw up when he heard this.
“My father, the prince of the silver berries, was a struck down over a hand of cards?”
Jevon glumly nodded his head before mopping droplets running down the corners of his mouth with his sleeve.
“Aye. You were only two years of age when it happened, and your mother was devastated by his passing. She focused only on being a seamstress and left it to me to raise you. Did the best I could considering the circumstances, and you’ve become a fine young man.”
Both Brighton and Jevon exchanged warm smiles as memories of yesterday surfaced in their minds at the same pace. Meals around the table, training sessions, trips to the market, and both tending to the sickly woman of the house. Jevon was the first to lose his smile.
“Brighton, you cannot stay here,” the knight insisted with relative calmness in his voice. “My condition will only worsen like it did with your mother. You will not catch it for the moment but if you are to stay you will succumb to the sickness. You must leave me and seek your fortune.”
Brighton attempted to cross the room and stand close enough to Jevon. Memory from not so long ago stopped him. Jolting forwards and then stopping, the young man took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind. Blinking rapidly to hold back his tears did little to confine his emotions yet failed to restrain every single tear.
“Don’t start crying boy,” Jevon blurted out in efforts to ease the situation. “You’re better off trying your luck as an adventurer. In fact, I have someone who can help in that regard.”
Lifting himself from the comfort of his trust chair, Jevon lurched upright and started to hobble over to the fireplace. Lifting a sheathed long sword held tightly in its scabbard, Jevon turned back toward the young man who watched with trepidation.
“This was meant for you when you reached your sixteenth Name Day. However, ‘tis better you have it now rather than later. Still, best you receive it and start while you are young.”
Carefully stepping forward, Brighton reached for the sword and firmly grasp his hand around the scabbard. Bringing it closer to him, the young man examined the sheathed weapon to notice little to no remarkable qualities about it. The scabbard was simple aged leather, and the cross guard of the sword was a strong steel with only a few scratches from use over the years. Brighton then placed his other hand on the sword’s handle and pulled. Dragging this weapon from the cover, the blade let out a slight hiss to partially reveal its blade was clear and reflective. He could almost see himself in the refined metal like an actual mirror.
Pushing the weapon back into its sheath, Brighton looked back to Jevon once more with a warm smile.
“You look like your father,” the aged knight blurted out whilst holding back his coughs.
Brighton brought the sheathed weapon to his side before wrapping the leather belt around his waist and tightening it with a few well to do tugs until the looseness was no more. These bands clung to his clothing with just enough space for his blood to flow.
“Now I am armed,” the young man remarked with confidence. “What is it I should do next?”
Jevon let out a few more damp coughs and raised his hand to cover his mouth. Once his chest was clear, the man replied.
“Pack a bag or two. Take all you need from the larder and some clothes from your trunk. Once ready, head down the road to Tillburn. Speak to Oscar at the Wooden keep and ask him about work as an adventurer. Tell him I sent you; he owes a favour or two. He can provide you with room and board for a while once you start working for him.”
Brighton rested his hand upon the handle of his sword which dangled from his belt.
“What will become of you?” He requested to know while burying his emotions.
Jevon remained in his chair while his eyes lowered, unable to look at him honestly.
“In time I should recover and be back to my full strength,” the knight answered with only an ounce of hesitation.
Brighton knew what Jevon was saying by not saying it. Once the old man raised his eyes to meet the boy’s, a flicker of realisation was exchanged between the two of them in silence. Instead, both men looked at one and other. Brighton saw how Jevon’s eyes appeared to tremble while the man took short breaths.
“I will miss you while I am away,” Brighton murmured as he held back his tears.
He failed. A single drop of water ran from the corner of his eye and slid down to the cleft in his chin. This sudden streak was enough for Jevon to discern in his condition.
“Shed no tears for me Brighton. I have lived a full life. Of both war and peace. Aye, looking back upon it all I think there is no moment for which I regret. Watching you grow into a fine young man has been my greatest honour. The only regret I feel is from not being able to join you on your journey.”
Brighton smiled as another tear ran down his other cheek before raising his hand to brush it away.
“I shall go and
pack,” he muttered restraining his emotions as best he could.
His lip trembled while Brighton turned away from the man who had raised him. The young man walked back to the door with each step a hundred times heavier than they had been only a few moments ago. Crossing the threshold, the urge to look back grew. Turning his head ever so slightly, he could still see Jevon in his seat with his head leaning back against his chair as his eyes closed with blessed relief. Brighton sighed. He felt it best not to press the matter.
In bitter
silence, he left the room and carefully closed the door behind him. Taking one
last glance at his sickly mentor, Brighton closed the door and left the knight
to his rest.
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