The Pearl Tears of Ninyana

As my pen touches the parchment the ink seeps, flowing from the nib on to the page like blood through veins. It spreads to the corners, staining the points indicated by the ripples of my mind, unfolding a world that no longer exists, telling a story only I can remember. It was before the rising storm, when the Dark Age was nearing its peak. The winters were long and bitter and the days were short. Kindness was rare, friendship was rarer and love was unheard of. The world seemed to drift and as it moved through time the days turned to nights and back to day again without a trace of change to their contents. The inhabitants kept to their tight plans, never wavering from their orders. Black and tormented the world simply existed, having long forgotten how to live. You see, I remember. I was there.

Since this time I have seen many dawns and many dusks and have recounted this tale in more versions than I care to remember. At my hand the truth was buried under layers of manipulation. I changed points here and there, searching for a way to justify the events which occurred all those years past. Without knowing it I have become that which we sought to destroy so long ago; the wielder of falsehood. Yet despite all my attempted lies and sleepless nights I never forgot the reality which lay at the heart of the crippled tale twisted by voice and time. I remember her reflection in the still lake. I remember the silent tears that washed away the pain in her heart. I remember the fiery determination that shone in her eyes. And I remember the way she looked at me, no words, just a look. That final minute lasted longer than all the damned days that followed.

But enough of this foolishness, the time for you to know of that day will come; all too soon I am sure. For now you must know the beginning, long, long ago when the world still remembered peace. Darkness had only gripped the hearts of most for four decades. The old sat around fires cradling their grandchildren in their arms, telling them of times when they would run through fields of barley on bright sunlit afternoons, or sit reading on the outskirts of forests listening to the songs of birds and feeding the deer that crept timidly towards the smell of fresh oak leaves. Of course many of the slightly older children took these tales as nothing more than bedtime wonders. How could a world so dark have once been so full of beauty? If only those children knew how dark they would live to see the world become.

But I am dithering again, forgive me for my procrastination but I am afraid. I am not like her; I am not so brave at heart. Let us leave the fireside and venture outdoors and up to look through the eyes of the guardian of our world. Imagine, if you will, vast empty lands, where long grasses sway in unison at the merci of the wind. The Mountains of Saria loom to the south casting shadows over the land, delving it into darkness. To the North is the forest of Vangul, do you see? Ah, and there we are, me and her, right in the center, kneeling at the base of that boulder, watch…