Never Forget--Chapter Two

Fiction By Ariel // 7/19/2009

The old man sitting in front of the mountain chalet leaned back and watched an eagle soaring lazily above the mountain peak. He closed his eyes and listened for a moment to the wind hissing softly through the trees. He folded his rough hands across his broad chest and leaned back against the rough sides of the house. He was deep in thought when a light touch on his shoulder brought his to his feet. A slight woman with graying hair leaned over him, a soft smile on her weathered face. He smiled back and she seated herself at his side. For a long time the just sat there, their roughened hands entwined and her head on his large shoulder. The woman broke the silence,


“Do you think it was right?” she asked softly, her voice shaking with emotion. Donnell Minstraly looked down at her tear filled eyes and said simply,


“It is their destiny. They would have found out about it eventually,” His wife nodded and laid her head on his shoulder again.


Their thoughts drifted back to the winter night when they had both been sitting silently gazing into the fire. The howling of wolves had brought Donnell to his feet. He had swiftly armed himself and moved through the softly falling snow to where they kept the sheep. In the flickering light of his torch he had glimpsed several sets of sinister yellow eyes. His longbow, carefully oiled and fitted with a sharp arrow, was pulled back and held at the ready. As he neared the sheep shed he thought he heard a weak cry for help and quickened his pace. Just before he reached the wooden door a great black wolf jumped from the shadows to block his path. He thrust the pole of the torch into the stiff snow and pulled back on the bowstring. The wolf stood with his feet apart, his head down and his lips pulled back in a snarl. The farmer sighted down his arrow and let it go with a twang. The beast reared back in pain and then fell heavily into the snow. Donnell saw a slender she wolf move out from the trees to sniff the fallen body of her comrade. He had fitted another arrow, but it was not needed. The wolf had leaped back at the smell of death and wheeled into the darkness. He listened to the scurrying of paws around him and then ran to the door of the sheepfold.


The creatures were bunched in the corner farthest from the door, bleating nervously. He raised his torch and gazed around the room. Looking down at the earthen floor he spotted what looked like great drops of blood leading behind a stack of hay. Setting down the torch he raised his bow and advanced. Two bright eyes looked up at him from under a mop of curling brown hair. A small boy sat with his knees drawn up against himself and a terrified expression on his face. The farmer lowered his bow and looked beyond the boy. A man lay slumped against the bales, a wiggling blanket lying across his lap. He started and tried to draw his sword when Donnell appeared, but a gaping wound on his chest made him cry in agony and fall back into unconsciousness.


Donnell lifted the baby, for it was a small babe, from his arms and drew back the silken cloth carefully. Two startling grey eyes stared up at him out of a pink, healthy face. Soft dark curls covered the delicate head and an embroidered nightgown peeked out from the coverlet. Donnell cradled the baby and walked back to were the boy sat, his eyes heavy with sleep. He scooped up the lad, who laid his curly head on the man’s shoulder, and made a dash for the house. His wife jumped from her chair and ran to take the children, cooing over their soft hair and weeping over their cold hands. With a quick word of explanation, Donnell ran back to the shed to fetch the wounded guard.


The man woke only once, to see that the children were safe, to question the farmer and his wife, and to write a long letter. His head had fallen back against the pillow just as he was about to finish the writing. They never had the chance to ask him what the children’s names were or who their parents were.


That same week the biggest battle that Lauderlan had ever known was fought. Good King Jerrell was violently killed before the remaining prisoners and peasants that had assembled on the battlefield. Even before the crowd was given a chance to wail his death, the black knight that had struck him down had raised his bloody sword and yelled the words “Never Forget” at the people. Less than a week later the man was crowned king; his scarred face twisted in a hideous grin of victory. Hundreds were thrown into the rat infested prisons for protesting.


Jaune stirred against her husband and smiled as she remembered the many happy years that they had spent with their adopted children. The happiness that they had been given by watching the boy learn to read; the girl to sing; the hours that they spent watching the children running through the meadows with the bright sun on their hair would never be replaced. She smiled when she remember the look of pride on her husband and her son’s faces when Gerhard had brought home the prancing stallion that he had been working toward for the last three years; the tears of happiness that had overflowed when her daughter had shown her the book filled with sketches from their life. “Mere at the Stove”, “Papa with the Sheep”, “Gerhard on Thunder”, each one was priceless even with their crooked lines and smudged borders.

She looked up again at the sounds of sheep bells. The collie dog appeared at the crest of a hill, nipping at the heels of a wayward lamb. Donnell stood beside his wife and shaded his eyes toward the approaching herd. Gerhard appeared, a lamb swung across his broad shoulder, followed by Donawyn, her hair blowing in the wind and a wilted daisy chain slipping over her ear. They raised their hands in greeting; Jaune and Donnell returned the gesture, their eyes threatening to spill over at the sight of their children, now reached adulthood. Though they were still young boy and girl, their parents knew without even speaking it that they were ready to go into the valley to fulfill their destiny and that, though they were far away, they would never forget.



Very nice, very nice.  Good

Very nice, very nice.  Good chapter...keep it up.

Alecia | Wed, 07/22/2009

It awoke with a shrill shreak that can be trnaslated "How dare you leave me in this bed, when I am asleep and helpless?" My sister

Why thank ya, dearie! I've

Why thank ya, dearie! I've finished Chapter Three, but I'm not going to post it until next Sun. :P This chapter was more of an in-between chapter to explain some things about their past.

Ariel | Wed, 07/22/2009

"To produce a mighty book, you must choose a mighty theme. No great and enduring volume can ever be written on the flea, though many there be that have tried it." -- Herman Melville

I really like this, Old

I really like this, Old Fashined Girl! Never Forget is a really good title and motto. Keep it up!

Anonymous | Thu, 07/23/2009

Oh, good! Very good, darling!

Oh, good! Very good, darling! Simply charming. No, I didn't comment on every chapter, but I was busy reading the next, so you can't blame me can you.  I can't suggest anything, really. Ummmmmm, no, nothing.

The Brit | Fri, 07/24/2009

Very good chapter, OFG! I

Very good chapter, OFG! I like it a lot!

Laura Elizabeth | Fri, 07/24/2009

The best stories are those that are focused, unassuming, and self-confident enough to trust the reader to figure things out. --

Thanks girls! Do you have any

Thanks girls!

Do you have any suggestions, Laura? I know the Brit doesn't, I confused her too much at church the other day, but I was just wondering if you do.

Ariel | Fri, 07/24/2009

"To produce a mighty book, you must choose a mighty theme. No great and enduring volume can ever be written on the flea, though many there be that have tried it." -- Herman Melville

So we know what the girls

So we know what the girls think, but what about the guy? Here it is: IS IS HORRIBLE! (Just kidding. Sorry, that was a mean one.) Much better than the last chapter. Sorry I haven't read this yet. I just don't seem to have enough time for this any more! I'll read the next chapter as soon I can though.

"El einradhin iet ai Shur'tugal. Upon my word as a Rider"-Murtagh

I am Nate-Dude | Sun, 08/23/2009