I wanted very much to skip this part, but I suppose I ought to properly document what led up to that important day. You should know all of me and my story, even the parts I'm not particularly fond of.
I admit some of my memory is hazy, as grief still had a firm hold of me and my ambitions during that time. Losing my mother had gutted me in mind and spirit, more-so than the death of my father.
Let's start with that...
Tibus Kimball died suddenly and unexpectedly, and it is assumed a fever was the culprit, one brought on from an infected wound he left untreated. I found him on the ground of the stable, cold and long gone, teaching me that sometimes even heroes can succumb to unhappy and unfair endings.
He gave no parting words, and even today I can't recall with certainty the last thing we spoke of. But he left me with many lessons, and to this day I credit him for everything that I am, and honor him by using his sword in the same manner he did. I use it as a reminder, that magic must never be misused, and each time I swing the blade without shattering it, I remember it is only because of him I have such control.
The town of Terith grieved with me and my mother, remembering and honoring him in their own way. Candles and flowers cluttered the dirt path to my home for weeks, and food was brought to my mother from shopkeepers, they did so until color returned to her face.
I wish I could say things got better for us, but as many mourned my father, there were some who took pleasure in hearing of his death, some who were angry they did not get to see him take that final breath themselves. I knew in my heart that revenge was the motive when six men ravaged our family's stable a year later. I knew their intentions were sinister when they showed up in the dead of night, rousing me from sleep.
"Mother," I called out urgently. "Wake up."
I was quick, dressed and strapped in my boots before my mother had time to stagger out of bed, sword in my hand before she had time to cry out from realization. The hollering outside was cruel and unruly, and I could hear the desperate squeals of pigs and chickens, the thunderous collapsing of wooden shingles.
I had no need to light our lanterns, for a dreadful orange glow gathered and grew from outside our single window, illuminating the kitchen and warming our skin. The smell of thick smoke had my mother covering her mouth, she smothered her wails behind shaking hands.
They had set the stable ablaze, and from what I could tell, those flames were spreading quickly.
"Go hide," I told her, "stay hidden, and when you can—run."
My horse's yelp accompanied another crash, and a tightening anger swarmed in my chest. I was eager to meet these monsters, to show them that Tibus Kimball was not dead in the slightest, that he lived within me.
Before I could take a step towards the door, my mother reached out and locked her hands around my upper arm. Mary Kimball was a weak woman... frail, just as I had been once, but that night her grip had a desperate strength to it.
"No," she sobbed. "No, Harlow, you mustn't."
I mustn't.
Those words confused me, and I peered at her with wide eyes as she begged me to stay by her side, as she cried out that she could not lose me too.
Forgive my jumbled way of writing, but this part of the story is difficult for me to put to paper.
You see, my choices make little sense even to me, and I hate recalling times where I failed to think properly, to act according to my instincts. I've gone over the many outcomes that night could have offered, and every one ended the same if I had done what I needed to.
