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"Devon and Damien"Chapter 6: Act 1
The hammer fell upon the anvil, crushing the newly forming blade beneath it. Sparks flew from the edges of the hot steel, flaming on the ground, for only a moment, before dying down to a forgotten ember. If one of these embers ever strayed too far from the sight of its creator, however, a great price would have to be paid. The hand that wielded this hammer belonged to Devon Tristam, ex-First General of Hessea. He wished he were a forgotten ember, strewn about the world and trampled down by those that failed to realize the importance of his role in the past. Unfortunately, his purpose had apparently yet to fulfill itself, as the fires in his wake still pursued him, especially with strangers and faint whispers and rumors fueling the already raging inferno from his past. In better years he was an admired and powerful man, hailed as the greatest of men in his time. After his self-dismissal from his lofty perch as the result of a mere woman, however, ridicule and disappointment trailed behind him like a starving animal, begging at the knees of his family and friends as well as himself. “Hail, the house of Tristam! Woe to its heavy voice, loud yet faint to the deaf of heart!” cried a voice beyond Devon’s doors. Devon smiled and placed his unfinished blade in the furnace, and passed through the doors of his shop. Before him stood an elderly and robust man, bald yet covered in hair everywhere else on his body. He stroked his dark beard and laughed heartily as Devon appeared. “Old Faddon of Holden Downs,” he replied, embracing an old friend, “please don’t flatter me with such old verses as those. Such things are left better said to the deserving.” “Nay, ‘tis plenty deserving the man that stands before me. That’s what I say at least, and what’s a thought between old friends?” “Maybe too much for wandering ears,” Devon said with a slightly suggestive tone in his voice. “Much has changed since your days as my second, Faddon. No more can you call me the voice of the common man.” “I hear the rumors, yes,” Faddon replied, slowly nodding with a grim look on his face. “The moment I set foot upon this accursed soil, the first thing I heard is of your ‘betrayal to the heart of a woman.’” “Well, no matter. Some don’t understand such things as well as you and I – ignorance for the cause of salvation as they say. Do come on though,” Devon said, motioning to his doors. “No, no,” Faddon said with a laugh. “You’ve grown too close to your new love for any normal man to come between you.” “Not used to the heat of my furnace, eh? I suppose it has been a while for you, out on the road and all. Excuse me for a moment.” Entering into his home and retrieving two chairs, Devon set one before his guest and turned the other towards himself so they could both sit and speak of old times. Long ago, Faddon had been the directing Captain of the Hessean armies. Directly after Devon resigned from his post as the First General, Faddon had given up the chance to take his place in favor of visiting his home country across the seas. They had been close for years (even before Devon took command of the military), despite Faddon’s advanced years in contrast to Devon’s. Where Faddon came from, people still spoke much in the same way they did centuries ago, adhering to the stringent codes of fine speech that they teach to this day. Sitting improperly, Devon folded his arms across the back of his chair, leaning forward as an avid child, anticipating some great story from an old relative that has returned from a voyage far away after many unknown years. “Much akin to myself in appearance have you become, Devon. Your hair is a crown though, whereas mine is a shackle,” he said, rubbing his bald head. “You are certainly rugged in these days.” “I suppose,” Devon said, smiling. “I’m not quite as you remember me. My hair is longer, untamed as it were. I must seem to you as a wild man.” “‘Tis unimportant. Unimportant indeed,” he said, waving his hands about in the air as if to ward off whatever stray thoughts were attacking him. “What has become of you these past few years, my friend?” “Nothing much at all – that much can be certain. I have slain a marauding band of thieves and extinguished a small war, ‘tis all.” “Not much for you in so many years, I should suspect,” said Devon. “'Twas the implication, my friend. But on to other things… I have come back for a far less general purpose than you may surmise, Devon. I come with an accomplice of gifts and treasures you see.” “Treasures?” Devon said, half-smiling and bewitched with amusement. “Has a man of the Half Downs found gold in the stripped mines of his barren land?” “Nay, my luck is not so grand. Many years have passed since any gems passed into my own land. This I assure you.” Devon laughed, remembering many old rhymes and poems concerning the greed of the men of Half Downs, and their devastation of their own land in search for wealth. “I come with treasures for the twin royalties, my boy! Their days have amassed twenty-five years, and a great ball is in preparation for their honor. A grand feast we shall have!” Devon slunk back from his chair with a solemn look on his face, but quickly smiled once more. “Yes… yes, the twins. I suppose that their birthday celebration will be tomorrow night.” “Well, of course!” Faddon laughed, slapping Devon on the back as he arose. “Hundreds of great dignitaries and political forces have journeyed to witness it. Not since the twenty-fifth birthday of his lordship Faleaon has there been such a festival! You must attend, Devon. The elder codes forbid a man such as yourself from not attending the first-fourth ceremony of such old friends.” Faddon referred to an ancient decree made thousands of years ago, called the elder codes, which has remained for generations as a tradition. Within the codes there is a tradition to celebrate the “first-fourth ceremony” of all children born of noblemen. The first-fourth ceremony refers to the first fourth of a person’s life, if he were to live to be a hundred. The second-fourth ceremony occurs on the fiftieth birthday, whereas the third-fourth occurs at seventy-five. The whole ceremony occurs at one hundred, but few live to be this old, especially in these times. The nobleman usually receives gifts in respect to his future success until his next ceremony of the fourths. Devon hesitated. “Certainly you don’t mean to miss the first first-fourth ceremony of royal twins in over five hundred years, Devon?” Faddon questioned, prodding him with a closed fist. “It will be an honor in itself to merely set foot in their presence!” “That much I know,” Devon replied, sulking in his chair. “I really do not wish to lay eyes on Joanna once again,” he said, bringing his hands to cover and massage his eyes, as if they were in pain from staring into too bright a light. “Certainly you don’t think of her still, Devon?” Faddon said sadly. “You made the right decision.” “I know,” Devon said, smiling. “I think I would go after all, old friend.” “Excellent then!” Faddon said, clapping his hands in delight. “We depart tomorrow at noon, and shall not return until the next day, if I anticipate as grand a party as I hope there to be.” Faddon trotted off out of visible distance, as Devon solemnly turned and went back inside to ponder what would become of him the next day. |
