My name? What's in a name? I can
think of no good reason to give you my name. That's mainly
because I'm not even certain of who I am anymore. Once I thought
I knew. Long ago. Until I had forsaken my name. Bah! My name isn't
important. Forget I mentioned it. Just know that I'm no common
man. I was born of kings and I'll die of rags. But through no
choice of my own. I take that back. It was a choice of my own. Though
my hand was forced. If I could have a second chance to choose, I would.
Believe me. I would.
12 December 1521
The troubled young teen, dressed in the most noble of garments took a
seat upon the lesser throne that was his own and opened the journal
before him. Taking a fresh quill, he began to scribe his thoughts. Each
word was supported by a fresh tear that caressed his noble cheeks and
came to line the royal parchments in the book.
They did it today. All that my father once stood for has been forsaken
by me. His only son, rendered incapable of continuing his legacy. It
places great burden upon my heart to know that the one thing he ever
wished of me, I cannot do. Those who call themselves the nobles have
gathered this afternoon to ask me that ear-piercing question once more.
Again, when I had little choice but to answer no... They took action.
As of today, I no longer hold any divine right to my father's throne. I
write this as I sit upon my throne for the last time. What am I to do?
Where am I to go? I've had it made quite clear to me that I'm no longer
welcome in the homes of my friends. Nor would I wish to be in many of
them. My dear father, laid to rest for the good of our people... My father,
whom I, his son, avenged when none would... Forgotten. How quickly the nobles
who did not have to battle our revolution forget my sacrifice. May the
gods bless you father. I am very sorry. Please forgive me!
The young man wrote, before slamming the book rather hastily and standing.
One hand began to wipe at his dampened eyes as he looked around the room
with a heavy heart. A deep sigh was forced from within his chest as he
approached the crown, in it's glass case, that was once placed upon his
father's head. He bowed his head in respect as he touched his dampened
fingertips to the glass. Two royal guards then approached, one clasping
each of his arms before they would together remove him from the castle
grounds. On the way out, his cousin, whom had right to assume the throne
now cast him a wink and an evil smirk. The young man tried to fight, but
the guards were far too strong.
28 December 1521
The young man sat in a rather used Inn bedroom. His clothing was a
simple dark green cloak, and worn leather boots. Upon his side was a
rather rusted bastard sword. The journal, which looked like it had far
much more value than the boy himself, was in front of him. Opening the
book to a fresh page, he gathered a small piece of wood, a splinter, and
dipped it into some ink, before he began to write upon the pages again.
I can't believe I've been so blind. I'd never once thought life beyond
the castle walls could be so harsh. I was wrong. Out here, people fight
for the mere excitement of feeling another man's blood upon your knuckles.
Clothing is hard to find with little gold, and if you don't have a weapon
visible, folks find it keen to take your belongings. Most of what I was
allowed to take with me, has already been stolen. This winter weather has
been harsh. Nights are long and lonely. I wish that I had someone to talk to
about things. Anyone. My friends have all forsaken me. All that I've loved
is gone now. But I'm not bitter. I asked for this. I did. I really did.
He wrote upon the pages, before slamming the book closed and laying his
forehead on his arm. He began to weep silently to himself. So much loss
was an overwhelming thing to endure. The young man of most noble blood was
having a hard time adjusting from the most noble of blood to just a common
21 January 1522
Very troubled at the new information he'd discovered, the young man sat
down at his usual place in the tavern and reached into his leather pouch
to recover his journal and a typical scrap of wood, to dip into ink and
begin jotting his new worries on this evening.
Something has happen to her. I'd heard rumors and I had to have a look
for myself. My findings have proven the rumors to be correct, but I'm frightened
now. She used to be my age. But now, she's quite a bit older than me. She
has children now. Not just one child, but children. I don't know how it
happened. But she is the very same woman. Older. I'm not certain how this
came to pass, and I'm not certain why. But I am very confused. Is this the
work of the curse upon her lands? Perhaps, but unlikely. Another magic, maybe.
I don't know. Maybe time will hold the answers.
Said the young man, as he closed the journal and bit upon his bottom lip, both
brows furrowing in thought. He couldn't figure out for the life of him why he
was so troubled about this. But, he knew for a fact that he was troubled. And
he believed that he would be troubled until he found some answers.
7 April 1529
After so many years of having been settled into his "new life" the once
noble man hadn't felt the need to write in his journal for a long time.
But after some unsettling news had reached his ears, he set off for a land
he'd not visited in quite a long while, to seek the truth. He also brought
his journal along with him on this venture. Once he'd found the answers he
sought, the man, dressed in worn leather pantaloons and a simple tunic, with
a light blue robe over it, sat down at the base of a tree and began to scribe
with tears in his eyes.
She's dead! I can't believe it. She's really dead. They say she gave
her life in order to save others. When I was told that for the first time,
I couldn't help but thinking about when I first came to her lands injured and
she'd healed my leg. It drained her to just do that. But death? Does that mean
that I've contributed to the death of someone I cherished so? The very thought
puts an aching in my heart to think that if she'd only not healed one person,
she'd still be alive today. Whether or not she'd have me, I still enjoyed
admiring her and her work from a distance. Quite a long distance, but still.
That creature had cost me her, and now he and his worthless kin are
to claim her lands. What of her children? That creature had best pray he never
exposes his back with no witnesses to be found. My heart weeps for you, m'love.
Once his words had been scribed, the man clenched his book to his chest and sat
there for a moment thinking. Though, he stood and dashed off into the forest as
the mourners had begun to pass. He'd never allow himself to be seen by these
citizens. Never again. Not so long as they bowed before the one that had
crushed every dream and goal he'd ever had in life.
19 February 1544
The man, very worn from a hard day of labor, came walking into his little
cottage and settled down at his desk, gathering his journal and a piece of
small chalk, as he began to record what had happened to him today. It was
obvious that something he felt the need to talk about had happened, as he'd
not written about much since he'd become settled outside of his past life in
I found a job today. I told my puppy, Isa, about it. She didn't seem to
care much though, so I'm writing it here, incase anyone decides to care one
day. I haul large crates of wine from brewers to taverns, and it pays fairly
good. Though, I am quite sore when the day comes to an end. Other than that,
I was given Isa from a local tavern owner. Suppose he knew that it was my
birthday when he caught me buying a cake for myself. She's a cute little puppy.
One day I'm told that she'll grow up to be a good watch dog. I doubt that
though. She's such a tiny little thing. Ah well, it's nice to have someone
here when I get home at night to care about what I have to say. But tonight
all she wanted to do was sleep. That's why I'm writing this. Alright, I'm
Gently closing the book, the tired man set it aside and walked over to his bed,
where he began undressing and he'd climb right in there with his little beagle
pup and sigh before he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.
7 April 1544
With a sigh, having finished his deed, he placed the massive headstone back into place, glanced
at the flowers he'd placed at the base of it, and then leaned back against it,
as he dusted some stray pieces of the stone from his trousers. He then reached into
his pouch and recovered the journal he'd kept for all these years. Taking out that
familiar piece of chalk, he began to write once again.
Fifteen years. She's been out of this world for fifteen years to the day. And god, not a single
day or night passes that I don't think about those afternoons in her throne room, staring out
into the sunny skies across the ocean to my homelands. I can't believe it. After fifteen years, it
would seem that every trace of her is gone from this world. Her children are nowhere to be found and
that creature roams her lands freely. She gave her heart to him and yet he's not even placed a single
flower upon her grave for fifteen years. She's not dead though. She never will be until I am. In my
heart, in my mind, and always in my dreams... She will live. But I am no one. I can't spread her
memory to those that have forgotten or never knew her. I no longer have that ability. But now, she lives
for me. In my heart. Till my death, she is never forgotten. I turned her headstone tonight and carved
our initials in a heart upon the bottom. She knew how I felt. Once. I hope she remembers, even in her
Giving a sigh, he stood, closing the journal and turned, placing his lips upon the cold rock headstone,
before he turned and walked quickly from the scene. He'd then head to the shore, so he could depart for his
7 August 1544
Slinking back into his home after another long night on the seventh, he sat upon his
chair, giving his dog Isa a pat to the head, before he grabbed his journal. He flipped the
pages until he came to one of the pages near the back. A blank one. There he began to write
something that was beginning to concern him very much.
Something must be wrong with me. A woman that I loved with all my heart died in a land far
from my current home. I hadn't spoken to her in years prior to her death, but now I speak to
her on a monthly basis. Sometimes more. But I made it a point to be there on the seventh of
every month. On the anniversary of each month since her death. There's rumors all about her lands
over the flowers that keep appearing on her grave. But I don't care. I couldn't show her or tell
her nearly as much as I wanted to in this life how I felt about her... So I'm taking each chance
I can get now to make up for it. I tell her that I love her every night. Even when I'm not there.
The only regret that I'll take to my grave with me, is that even in my dreams, I can't
fathom her saying it back.
Nodding his head gently, he looked toward Isa with moist eyes and wiped his nose, pushing
the journal back into place upon his desk. Then he stood and moved toward the bed, to undress
and climb under the covers to try and sleep.
23 November 1544
After another long day at work, he came slinking in the door, handing Isa a bone that he'd
brought her, he moved over to his desk and sat down. After writing up a few parchments that he'd
need to deliver to some various people in the morning, he moved his hands to gather his journal. He
then sat there for a moment and debated on whether or not he should write in it. Giving a sigh, he
nodded to himself and opened the book.
Today was pretty much a typical day. I went to work and I had to deliver to the Johnson Tavern
again. They keep ordering that Oshennan wine like crazy. They come in crates that are a bit larger
than the ones I'm used to. But, it could be that time is just making me frail and I can't lift as
easily as I could when I was younger. Anything is possible, I suppose. Sometimes I sit here and I
just wonder what my purpose was in this life. Well, no I don't. I know what I was intended to do during
my time on this earth. I suppose I wonder more along the lines of what could have been and why I've
made my life so miserable. It's just not very motivating to know that when you wake up the next morning
there's no chance you'll ever have everything you wanted in this life. It's just impossible. Ah well,
I suppose babbling about what causes my old heart ache won't help relieve it. In fact, it's done nothing
to relieve pain for quite a while. Maybe this journal has shifted from a pain reliever to a record of my
pain since she died. Who knows?
And he finished his writing upon the page, before taking a deep breath and slowly releasing it. Giving a shrug
to try and loosen his worked and stressed muscles, he stood and began preparing for bed, which he'd ultimately
climb into and relax as much as possible. Then he found sleep.
12 December 1544
Today just had a depression aura written all over it. Memories had found their way into his
mind all day and he just wasn't thinking clearly. With a sigh, he came in sore as usual from
work. Gathering his journal, he tossed another log into the fire heating his cottage and then
sat down upon the edge of his bed as he began to scribe this time.
There seems to be no salvation. No matter what I do, or how dramatically I change my
life, I just can't forget where I come from. Believe, I do try hard. But every time I
feel like I've finally lessened the burden from my chest, something restores it. Today when
I was delivering crates, as I do every day, the King decided to pay our village a visit. I
just couldn't stop thinking about his crown and all the golden rings he was wearing. Even
that blade that he carried with him. Then I really got to thinking when I was given my lunch
break. Turns out, it's the anniversary of the day I was removed from divine rights. I sat
there, thinking mostly. My father's image haunted my mind then. All I could see, over and over
was that smile upon his lips when he put his arm around me and motioned out over the balcony. He
told me that one day, it would all be mine. There was such pride in his eyes when he told me that.
It feels like someone is gripping by heart at both ends tugging it viciously every time I think
that I can never deliver to my father that sense of pride after his death. I am a failure. As a
son and as an heir.
When tears splashed upon the pages, he closed the book and stared at the fire. Hours passed
without the man moving a muscle. His face remained emotionless, save for the tears that continued
to roll down his cheeks and drip onto the closed book in hand.