Canto I: The Village of Silent Throats
The world was iron, and the sky was lead, And words were the ghosts of the long-time dead. In the Valley of Omdur, where the sun hung low, Nothing was permitted to bloom or grow, Save for the steel of the Emperor’s mine, And the marching boots in a rigid line.
The Emperor Gorr was a mountain of mail, Who decreed that the soft and the weak must fail. He burned the books in a pyre of light, And banished the singers into the night. "Strength," he roared from his throne of spears, "Is a fist that strikes and a hand that shears. A song cannot feed you, a rhyme cannot kill, So silence your tongues and obey my will."
And so the silence fell like snow, Heavy and cold on the world below. Seven years passed in the hush of the fear, Where a laugh was a crime and a sigh was a spear.
In this gray village, a boy was born, With a frame like a reed and a spirit torn. His name was Aelion, thin and pale, Too weak for the hammer, too slight for theflail. But worse than his arms, which were twigs in the wind, Was the silent throat where his voice was pinned.
He had no words. He had no sound. He watched the shadows crawl on the ground. The other boys wrestled and fought in the mud, Dreaming of glory and iron and blood. But Aelion sat by the river’s edge, Watching the wind move the drying sedge.
He heard what the others could not hear: The hum of the earth when the spring was near. The rhythm of rain on a slate-gray roof, The cadence of thunder, a celestial hoof. Though his lips were sealed like a tomb of stone, His mind was a choir, singing alone.
His father, a smith with a hammer of dread, Looked at the boy and shook his head. "He is useless," he grunted, the anvil ringing. "He cannot fight, and he is not worth bringing To the mines or the army. He is chaff to the wheat. Let him sweep the dust from the soldier's feet."
So Aelion swept, and Aelion wept, But the song in his heart, he secretly kept. He found a stick and he wrote in the dust, Of a sword that would shatter, a crown that would rust. He wrote of the moon as a lover’s eye, He wrote of the freedom that waited to fly.
But the wind would come and blow it away, And the silence returned at the end of the day. Until one night, when the moon was thin, A stranger arrived with a battered violin.
Canto II: The Stranger in Rags
The Stranger was old, with a beard like mist, And a hand that looked like it never made a fist. He wore a cloak of patches and blue, And he walked with a limp, but his eyes were new. Bright as the stars before they were broke, He sat by the well, and he softly spoke.
Not a speech, not an order, not a bark of command, But a melody woven from the air and the land. He plucked the strings, and the wood cried out, A sound that was stronger than a soldier's shout.
The village froze. The hammers stopped. The broom in Aelion’s hand was dropped. For seven years, no music was heard, No trilling of flute, no singing of bird. The sound was water to a desert soul, It filled up the empty, it made the heart whole.
The soldiers came running, their armor loud, Pushing their way through the frightened crowd. "Stop!" cried the Captain, his sword drawn high. "The Emperor forbids this! Prepare to die!"
The Stranger didn't stop. He played a chord, That sounded like peace, that sounded like a sword Being sheathed for the very last time. He looked at the Captain, and he spoke in rhyme:
"The iron will rust, and the stone will crack, But a song sent out, never turns back. You can cut the throat, you can break the bone, But the wind carries seeds that the heart has sown."
The Captain struck. It was brutal and fast. The Stranger fell, his music past. The violin shattered, a ruin of wood, And the silence returned, where the music stood.
The crowd dispersed, their heads hung low, Back to the silence, back to the woe. But Aelion stayed when the moon rose high, Under the vast and indifferent sky.
He crept to the body of the fallen man, And touched the wood with a trembling hand. He took a string that was made of gold, And a piece of the wood, ancient and old. He felt a hum, a vibration deep, A promise the Stranger had died to keep.
And there, in the dark, with the blood on the ground, Aelion opened his mouth... and found a sound.
It wasn't a word. It wasn't a scream. It was the note from the Stranger’s dream. It started a fire in his hollow chest, It burned through the fear, it denied him rest. He took the string and he tied it tight, To a branch of ash in the pale moonlight.
He plucked it once. Hummmmm. The sound was small, but it shook the air. Aelion smiled. He had a prayer.
Canto III: The Road of Whispers
He left that night. He left the broom. He walked away from his father’s gloom. He had no sword, he had no bread, Just a makeshift harp and a tune in his head.
He walked to the North, where the Emperor dwelt, Where the furnace of war was the only thing felt. The journey was hard. The mountains were steep, And the monsters of hunger began to creep.
He met a Wolf with a coat of gray, Who blocked the path in the middle of the day. The Wolf was gaunt, with yellow eyes, "I am Death," said the Wolf, "in a furry disguise. I will eat your bones, I will drink your blood, And leave what is left in the freezing mud. You have no spear, you have no knife, Give up, little boy. Give up your life."
Aelion trembled. He knew he was weak. But he touched his harp, and he began to speak. Not with words, for his tongue was slow, But with a melody, soft and low.
He played the song of the Hunt in the snow, Of the cubs in the den, in the warm amber glow. He played the song of the pack running free, Before the iron men cut down the tree. He played the memory of the Wolf’s own kin, Before the hunger had hollowed his skin.
The Wolf stopped growling. His ears went flat. He sat on the snow like a giant cat. The music touched a place deep inside, Where the pride of the Wolf had tried to hide. A tear rolled down the snout of the beast, And he turned away from his easy feast.
"You speak the tongue of the Olden Days," Said the Wolf, in a voice of quiet amaze. "Pass, little singer. I will not bite. Your song is a fire in the endless night."
Aelion walked on. He met a Bear, Trapped in a rusted, iron snare. The Bear roared in pain, a sound of rage, trapped in the Emperor’s metal cage. Any warrior would have slain the beast, Or run away to the South or East.
Aelion sat. He played a tune, Of honey and rivers and the harvest moon. He played a lullaby, deep and slow, Until the Bear’s breathing began to slow. When the beast was calm, Aelion drew near, And despite his shaking, despite his fear, He worked the trap with his slender hand, Until the iron jaws opened on command.
The Bear stood up. A mountain of fur. He looked at the boy, and he gave a purr. He nudged Aelion with a nose like stone, Then vanished into the woods, alone.
The boy realized then, as he walked the mile, That a sword can force, but a song can beguile. The weak conquer force by bending the will, By healing the wound that the strong would kill.
Canto IV: The Fortress of Iron
He reached the capital, black and tall, With a thousand skulls on the outer wall. The Fortress of Iron, where Emperor Gorr, Sat planning the next eternal war.
The gates were guarded by giants in steel, Who forced the world to bow and kneel. Aelion walked to the massive gate, Small as a mouse in the jaws of fate.
"Halt!" cried the guard, with a voice like thunder. "What brings you here, little mistake of nature's blunder? Do you bring tribute? Do you bring gold? Or are you a spy, brazen and bold?"
Aelion stood. He unslung his harp. The wind on the battlements was biting and sharp. He didn't answer. He started to play. He played the song of the Dawn of Day.
The guards began to laugh and jeer. "Look at this fool! He brings music here! Break his harp! Break his head!" But the song grew louder, waking the dead.
It wasn't a song of war or hate. It was a song of a garden gate. It was a song of a mother’s kiss, Of the simple things that the soldiers miss. It woven through the armor, through the mail, It found the heart beneath the scale.
The guard lowered his spear. His eyes went wide. He remembered the son who had long since died. He remembered the smell of bread in the morn, Before he was drafted, before he was torn. The laughter died. The jeering ceased. The music tamed the inner beast.
The gates swung open. Not by force. But because the guards had lost their course. They stepped aside, their faces wet, With the tears of a life they tried to forget.
Aelion walked into the Hall of Kings, With nothing but courage and six gut strings.
Canto V: The Duel of Silence and Song
Emperor Gorr sat on a throne of bone, His heart was iron, his face was stone. He saw the boy enter, small and slight, And he laughed a laugh that swallowed the light.
"Is this the assassin?" the Emperor cried. "A mute musician? My guards have lied! I expected an army! I expected a knight! Not a starving child with no will to fight!"
Gorr stood up. He drew his sword. It was massive and black, the blade of a lord. "I will cleave you in two, you broken thing. And silence the song you try to sing."
Aelion looked at the monster of war. He felt the fear, right to his core. But he remembered the Wolf. He remembered the Bear. He remembered the Stranger with the silver hair. He remembered that iron is hard and cold, But it breaks when the heat becomes too bold.
He began to play. The final song. He played of the weak who had suffered long. He played of the sorrow, he played of the pain, Of the tears that fell like the endless rain. But then, the tempo began to rise, Like the sun exploding in the morning skies.
He played of Hope.
It hit the Emperor like a physical blow. Gorr stumbled back. "Stop it! No!" He swung his sword, but his arm was heavy. The music broke through his mental levee.
The song told the Emperor the truth of his life: That he was alone with his sword and his strife. That his power was hollow, his kingdom was dust, That his legacy was nothing but ashes and rust. It showed him the boy he used to be, Before he decided to conquer the sea.
"Silence!" Gorr screamed, dropping his blade. He covered his ears, afraid, afraid. "Why does it hurt? Why does it burn?" Because, sang the harp, you have refused to learn.
The music swirled like a tempest of light. It cracked the throne. It shattered the night. The stone of the castle began to groan, Resonating with the boy's pure tone.
The Emperor fell to his knees on the floor. He wasn't a giant. He wasn't a boor. He was just a man, old and sad, Weeping for the love he never had.
The soldiers watched as their leader fell, Not by a weapon, but by a spell Of pure emotion, of truth revealed. The power of iron had been repealed.
Aelion stopped. His fingers bled. The silence returned. But the fear was dead.
Canto VI: The Crown of Flowers
The Emperor looked up, his eyes washed clean. He looked at the boy, so small and lean. "You have defeated me," the giant said. "With a weapon that didn't leave me dead. I thought I was strong because I could kill. But you are stronger. You bent my will."
Gorr took off his crown, heavy and black. "I do not want this burden back. Take it, boy. You are the King."
Aelion shook his head. He didn't want the thing. He pointed to the window, to the fields outside. He pointed to the world, wide and wide.
He wanted no throne. He wanted no power. He wanted the freedom of the growing flower.
The Emperor understood. He ordered the gates To be thrown wide open, to change the fates. He melted his sword. He melted his shield. He sent his soldiers to work in the field.
Aelion left as quietly as he came. He didn't seek fortune. He didn't seek fame. He walked back to the village, back to the streams, To weave the world from his silent dreams.
But the world was different. The gray was gone. The color returned with the break of dawn. People sang in the streets again. The sword was forgotten. Long live the pen.
And legend says, if you listen right, On a quiet, starry, and peaceful night, You can hear the music, soft and deep, Of the boy who sang the war to sleep.
They say the strongest are those who fight, Who crush their foes with power and might. But the story of Aelion proves them wrong. The strongest is he who can carry the song.
For the sword can break, and the shield can rust, And the tower will crumble down to dust. But love, and a verse, and a melody true, Will outlast the iron, and outlast you.
Here ends the Saga of the Bard.
No comments:
Post a Comment