19 years ago
Eleventh Tale - Aftermath
The walls of Peltarch loomed in the distance, the snowy cliffs of the Nars Pass widening, making way for the city's valley on the edge of the Icelace Lake. Despite his many journeys from north to south in his lifetime, Anakore never quite got used to the breathtaking sight that are the city's battlements and towers, and the distinct blue spire that is the Cerulean Tower, with the icy lake glinstering beyond the harbor. However, this day his mind was not set on the sight rather than the feeling of homecoming. An odd sensation quite belying his barbarian blood, but reinforced by the fiery-haired young boy awaiting him eagerly on the battlements.
As he strode in the shadow of the walls his son laughed down at him, even as he grunted his efforts, his body weary from the long hours of battle. "Father! Wait! I'll come down!" He had supposed underneath the caked dirt, blood and grime his wargear would be barely recogniseable but young Nickolai did not seem to have trouble pinpointing his father. Anakore grinned behind his visor, slightly painfully for the scorchmarks on his face despite the helm. The Eastlanders liked playing with fire.
The city was a hustle-bustle, commoners, women and children in the streets awaiting the returning warriors. The War was far from over but as battle continued every victory warranted a hero's welcome. More so from Nickolai, who, to Anakore's surprise, had lost nothing of his admiration for his father, even after the long years spent in Cormyr with Skyla curing the Crystal Crisis. He barely managed to wrench off his helmet when the red-haired boy came running up to him, hugging him as if he had just returned from a decade of War. "I'm back, Nick," he heard himself say, his voice gravely from weariness and probably matching his battle-weary appearance. "And I'm alive."
"And the Marauders?" the boy questioned, high-pitched and eager, the deep tones of manhood not quite having invaded his voice.
"They put up a good fight." Another grin crossed Anakore's lips as his son looked up at him appraisingly. "But this is a war of vengeance, and they will lose."
Nickolai laughed at these morbid words, as if war was nothing worse than the games the boy played with the tin figures Anakore made for him. Nick had already seen too much for so young a boy, and Anakore sincerely hoped that some of his father's mirth at life would never fade from him. "How many did you kill? Do you carry any trophies? Did you get hurt?" Nick tugged on his arm frenetically even as the both of them walked to the Tower, a barrage of questions doing nothing to ease Anakore's weary mind, but he could think of few things he would enjoy more now than this moment with his son.
As they strode through the streets with the victorious warriors, under the cheers of the crowd as women embraced their Defender men and a general air of festivity spread through the city, Anakore told his son of the battle. Nick's eyes glittered as he spoke of his arrival on the battle under the guise of invisibility, the fleeing Defenders and the struggle to keep a foothold near the Eastlander defences, Meril's magic holding the Marauder duelist, the Eastlander's magic scorching the snowy landscape as the sounds of war, pain and death rang through the Nars' cliffs.
The boy almost giggled in excitement as Anakore spoke of the Eastlander Chanters, their magical songs stripping him of his protections, and the cat-and-mouse duel with the Cleric, his description of the surge of Negative Energy coursing through him as the priest called upon his dark gods eliciting a gasp from his son.
When they finally reached the tower, the boy's questions never ceased as he aided Anakore in taking off and cleaning his armor and weaponry. To his fatherly pride, he noticed that the boy took meticulous care of Flowing Orchid, his katana. He clearly knew the boy would never be a warrior as his father, or even his mother, were, but he had insisted that Nickolai be trained in the ways of the Eastern Blade. Nick delighted in the weapon's smooth style as taught by his father, and likewise finding such an eager student in his son made pride blossom in Anakore's often-cynical heart.
When dusk set and the time was come to say goodbye to his son, for now, Nick sat, quietly, for a moment, as if his vigor at questioning his old father was finally spent. Suddenly the boy looked up at his father, his face serious after his afternoon of delight. "Will I ever be like you, father?" The innocence of his eyes belied the seriousness of the question.
Anakore looked down at his son and smiled slightly. "Through blood and love you'll be like your mother and me, Nickolai. But what man you really will be is a choice you alone can make. Fame and glory mean nothing when you are not proud of yourself. Find who you want to be, and -become- that man, that Nickolai. Then, one day, you might find that your son or daughter looks up to you and asks you the same question."
Anakore chuckled slightly as the boy struggled to grasp what his father just said. He did not worry much as the words would stick in the boy's head. They always did. By grace of his blood alone was the boy destined to be what he wanted to be. Anakore was already proud. "Good night, son. Tell your mother I made it back safe."
The simple reassuring words put the boy's mind back on track, and he smiled and tugged at his father's arm. "Good night, father. Show Nicahh and my sis that you're safe as well." At that, the boy released his arm and left Anakore grinning in the Tower's hall.
"I will, boy, I will." Anakore laid back and closed his eyes for a small nap before he would return to his family.
