A Thousand (Part II) Aerone

But it did not come. There was no great uprising. No army of thousands stretching across bloodstained fields. Only oppression, a dark shadow embittering the hearts of all those who stood in it’s wake. “These are difficult days” the peasants would patiently sigh as they went about their business. But nothing truly changed much. The men went out and did their business, whatever it may be, while the woman looked after the children and cleaned the house. Most had little to do with the hierarchy, and frankly, did not care to. And if children went to bed hungry every night and toes froze in the wintertime and the poor or outspoken disappeared from the streets, never to be heard from again, well, those were difficult days. And that was the end of it. 1

But out of that snowy, frozen oxymoron of despair and complacence, a spark rose, a single ray of hope in the darkness. His name was Aerone. He was a very old, ancient even, by the looks of his long beard and deeply wrinkled yet soft eye. Any fool could have seen that, but very few would correctly venture to guess at his true age. Aerone had seen one hundred and three years through those emerald eyes. He had lived through the most abundant and joyous times. Where the wheat grew tall in the fields and every man had fresh bread to eat. He had also lived through days where men slit each other’s throats, simply to feed their families. He was dressed only in rags and his matted and dirty hair and beard made him look no more than a common beggar, worthy of no man’s attention. He walked slowly into town shivering and cursing the cold winds that blew the snow in his face. He briefly considered stopping in the friendly Fire Bird Inn nearby for the night. But he dismissed the thought and persevered on. He had a mission to complete…2