The Faraway Paladin Vol 4 Chapter 5

 The Faraway Paladin Volume 4 Chapter 5

 “Well, time for me to hit the sack, I guess. Gotta be up early tomorrow.”

After we’d spent a while reminiscing, Menel gathered up his tools and the arrow shafts he’d finished scraping and rose to his feet.

“Yeah,” I said. “Good night.”


“You keep your late nights in check, too.” Menel casually flicked a finger. A tiny glowing ball floated out of the lantern’s magical light. It was a fairy of light, a kind of spirit that dwelled in all sources of light from fire to the sun and even the light of magical lanterns. The floorboards didn’t even creak as Menel left the room on graceful feet and headed into the dark hallway, the weak light of the fairy softly illuminating his surroundings. He now stayed in this mansion like a guest and slept in one of the rooms.

Considering he’d been preparing arrows, perhaps he was planning to go out hunting by himself tomorrow. Spring was the season when creatures coming out of hibernation roamed about. Thanks to the many stories that had been told about him, Meneldor of Swift Wings had a reputation as a famous hunter. Many came to him for help and depended on his hunting skills.

Now alone in my room, I returned to the task of writing. I made good progress working in the silence of night, but it was fairly laborious to write with an inkpot and a quill. I finished up the day’s work while thinking about how great the inventions of the pencil and fountain pen were.

“And done.”

I put my quill down, interlocked my fingers, and stretched. I’d been writing for so long that my body had gotten a little stiff. As I loosened up my body, gently rotating my wrists and shoulders, my eye caught the sheaf of paper I had neatly stacked near a corner of my desk. I stopped.

This was the first paper ever made in Torch Port. What was I going to use it for? I hummed in thought. The quality was slightly too poor to use for a letter, and it was too thick to carry around for writing little notes on. Maybe I could pass some thread through it and use it as a little diary, or maybe a memo for things I didn’t want to forget. In particular, a lot of little things had happened after my fight with Valacirca. The people I’d met, the events that had transpired, the things I’d seen and heard—maybe I should write those memories down while they were vivid in my mind so they wouldn’t one day be forgotten, and so that one day, when I met back up with the people who were important to me, I could tell these stories back to them.

“Oh. That’s what.”

Having thought that far, I hit on an idea. It was so simple that I laughed a little at myself, wondering why it took me so long to come up with it. Yes, this was perfect. I had decided. But in that case, how was I going to begin? The first line was always difficult.

Dear Blood and Mary. How have you been?

Yes, this was the right way to start a letter. It may have been uninspired, but I liked it.

After that, the tip of my quill began to flow smoothly. I wrote that I was doing well. I wrote that the land after leaving the City of the Dead and traveling downstream to the north had transformed into a dangerous forest called Beast Woods. I wrote that I fought with demons. I heard all their heroic deeds told through song. I fought with a wyvern in the city of Whitesails to the north. I met many people and came to be called the Faraway Paladin. I rediscovered ruins and was trying to build a town. I met the god of undeath again. Gus was still kicking.

I wrote about how I ventured to the old land of Lothdor and the Iron Country. I battled Valacirca, a wicked, fearsome dragon as old as the gods, and somehow just barely won when all looked lost. I made friends I could laugh with. I was living a happy, fulfilling life. I fell in love with a wonderful woman and confessed to her.

And I wrote that I was sad I couldn’t tell them all this face-to-face.

My writing, which had been flowing so smoothly onto the paper, got a little messy.

Blood... If you heard about the feats I accomplished, would you give me a, “You’re the man!”? Would you ruffle my hair and say, “Come on, I’ll give you a fight, show me how strong you’ve gotten,” with those will-o’-the-wisps wavering warmly in your eye sockets?

Mary... Mary... If I said to you, “I made friends!” would you show me a happy smile and say, “Gracious”? Would you hug me and say, “They might be a little surprised by how we look, but it would be lovely to see them, if you’d like to bring them over,” while gently stroking my hair?

I believe that both of you would. But that future—it’s just a sweet fantasy. My chest hurts when I think that now it can never come true.

I miss you. It hurts. Part of me wants this pain to heal. And part of me doesn’t mind if it never does, because I don’t want to forget you, even a little. Will this pain and these feelings one day become a faded memory to look fondly back upon?

On this warm spring’s night, I quietly penned the letter to my late mother and father.

Many things had happened, both great and small. Some would be sung about and passed down by poets; others, deemed too unimportant, the world would never know. But they were all precious parts of my life, and each and every one was a memory I wanted to tell with my head held high.