A Dark Past
I suppose I was only ten or so. Yes, I believe that's correct. I remember it so clearly even to this day, the horror that haunts my every waking moment and turns my dreamworld into one of nightmares. The pain brought by my foolishness is the restraint that holds the beast in its cage.
My father was a nobleman. He owned a large keep that'd been in the family for generations. My mother was the daughter of another nobleman whose lands were just to the north of ours. Together, my parents gave birth to both myself and my younger brother. My father didn't hesitate to have us trained in weaponry, just like he himself had been trained and his father before him. It was tradition that the heirs should be able to defend their keep.
That day came all too soon, I fear. As I rested underneath the shade of my favorite tree in our courtyard, the watchmen sounded the alarm. A rebellion had been taking place against our King. Having been unjust, the public arose to stand up for their rights and their lives. In their rage, they saw all political figures as a hindrance -- even my father who had always strived to treat his people justly.
My brother and I were enraged by the disrespect our father had been given. In spite of my teacher's and my father's wisdom, we rushed out to meet the forces. My brother and I were young, foolish, and hungry for battle. We'd trained with our weapons for as long as we could walk, so we ~knew~ we were invincible against any threat.
Blinded by anger and hatred, we rushed out into the battle while my father and his men defended the keep from the likewise enraged public. It was then that my beloved mother ran out and snatched us both up into her arms. Our weapons fell to the ground as she pulled us both back into the keep.
The keep's gates were in sight; we were almost safe from the attack. That was when I heard the loud thud of an arrow landing itself in my mother's back. It pierced her heart and came straight through her chest, her blood spilling down over my brother and me as she huddled over us, protecting us from the onslaught.
She died that day where she fell on her knees, praying to the gods that my brother and I be spared. Her blood spilled because of my stupidity and foolishness. For weeks, it was all I could see, and smell... and taste.
My brother and I walked different roads from that day forward. We both saw my father, standing victorious as the public retreated, screaming in horror when he saw his love -- our mother -- dead at his keep's gates. My brother left us that very day, walking the path of rage and hatred -- hatred over the lands that had betrayed him.
I, on the other hand, viewed my rage as a curse. Because of it, my mother is dead, and my father is uncaring and hateful. Like my brother, I too set out on my own journey. However, the memory of my mother's blood covering my face is the one blessing that keeps my rage locked away.
Rage is a monster that only seeks to fuel more rage. Where ever rage walks, it plants seeds of hatred in everyone around it. I have removed myself from this rage so that I will never sew such seeds again. I suppose, in this light, my mother's death is not in vain; her sacrifice has made all the difference in my life.
-Lornel Kyrvan