Writing Prompt: The Long Journey Home

Two heroes return home from a glorious battle. A glimpse at the events after the traditional ending...

The book fell to the floor…

“What d’you do that for?” Regar asked sullenly, rubbing his bruised knuckles.

Lethell simply continued to glare at the burly Northern swordsman as he picked up the battered tome. He knew that he should back down now, that antagonising a man who could kill him was a mistake, but he was still too angry.

For six years, they had adventured across the continent of Anroth, seeking the daemon king. For six years, he had not seen his wife or daughter. For six years, the quest had kept their band of five together and given purpose to their sacrifice. Now, at the end of it all, the daemon king lay slain and their band of five had become two tired souls trudging unhappily home to bury their loyal companions.

Lethell tucked away the book in the folds of his once-red robe and turned his back on Regar to limp back to the cart. The feel of the staff in his hands helped to calm him, the worn familiarity of the old wooden stick that had accompanied him since a childhood accident burnt away the flesh of his left leg.

He had been so young and full of curiosity, playing with magics that he could not truly comprehend out of some kind of youthful overconfidence or sense of invulnerability. When he realised that he could not hold the flows of power, he had called for his uncle, but the older man had been too slow to prevent the accident. Perhaps that was why he had lashed out with his staff when he saw Regar with his spell-book; it was too easy to forget that the fool had no aptitude for magic and even Lethell had needed years of training before he could even raise a candle-flame, let alone enough power to hurt someone.

“I am sorry.” a chastened voice said. It took Lethell a moment to realise it was his own.

“No, old man.” Regar said, “I shouldn’t have touched your book.

Lethell’s eyes narrowed at the ‘old man’, but he let it pass. In reality, he was not even thirty years old, but the accident had stolen the colour from his hair and left him with a fine white mane more suited to an arch-mage or druid than an apprentice wizard.

“Let’s just get moving again.” Lethell suggested, “I do not know how much longer the preservation charms will last.”

Regar did not seem apt to argue and so they lapsed back into their silent progress. The swordsman swung back onto his horse and trotted ahead. Lethell would have liked to ride, but Regar was quick to point out that it was his horse; Lethell knew the real reason was that the Northman did not like to drive the cart, that he thought it was back luck to spend so much time with the bodies, but his crippled leg mean he could not ride anyway and so he had no reason to force the point.

As they followed the road, Lethell let his thoughts drift to his wife. He remembered the days when Sintra had travelled with them, before they settled down to raise a family, before the daemon king’s rise in the west. He had taught her a few cantrips as they huddled together in his bedroll, simple spells to conjure lights and basic illusions that any student of the arts could pick up given enough time. She had picked them up so easily that he realised she could have been a competent wizard if she had ever studied at the academy.

He thought back to the days after their daughter was born, when the first hint of trouble had reached them from across the seas. He remembered reluctantly setting out with his companions to chase up one lead or another, then returning to see mage-light waiting in the window of their house. No matter how hard the trials, he had always been grateful for that small gesture of welcome. She never said how she knew when he was going to return, but perhaps she cast it anew each night until he did. He wondered if she would still be casting that light after these years, but he realised that she would not. Six years was too long to hold out any hope, surely…

“The light is failing, Regar. We should camp here.” Lethell called to the Northman.

“No, we can still make it back before the gates close. We should press onwards.”

“What? Who knows what creatures are lurking in the forest these days? We need a fire!”

“After all we have been through, you are scared of forest animals?” Regar asked, looking shocked.

The reproach had the desired effect and Lethell cracked his whip, muttering under his breath about ‘fine endings’ and ‘mangy dogs’, but he knew he could not bear one more night in the wilderness when he was so close to home any more than Regar could. More than a month had passed with no company but for a barbarian from the north, the stink of horse and a trio of corpses. Lethell knew that his mind could not survive another inane conversation about the uses for horse-dung or the correct use of a whetstone.

An hour passed, spent in brooding silence that had been their only refuge from outright hostility of late, and the gates of Lodin came into view. Watch-fires burned on either side of the gates and Lethell knew that they were nearly home.

He knew that he should feel happiness for the end of their long quest, but all he could feel was sadness for the friends they had lost and bitterness that their deaths would be remembered only as long as he and Regar lived. Their names would live on, he had no doubt, but who would mourn the dead when they were gone.

Lethell glanced idly at the city he had grown up in, though most of the buildings were dark now. A slender spire fretted with golden fire was easily identified as the Academy of magic, the place where he had burned until he could barely stand to live another moment. He almost stopped there, so vivid was the memory, but his eyes drifted to the small building nearby that he had shared with his wife for so many years…

…and then he saw the light in the window.

© 2012 Anthony Hart-Jones

Author's Note

This exercise was to write 750 words or more in under an hour starting with the words “The book fell to the floor…” and ending with “…and then he saw the light in the window.”

It's not meant to be great, just a quick writing exercise.

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TLK

I think it was difficult to weave the first line in. I'm not sure if there is much intrinsically interesting about a book dropping to the floor. You use it to indicate general mageiness, but I really struggle to see what else could be done.

However, you bring in the last line very well. It is a nice realisation.

While it is a strong ending, the story did not really seem to lead me to that point. It feels like part of a bigger journey, which may well be in your head. But as it's not written yet it's a little frustrating for the reader.