I was born in a town called Malbel, and that makes us Brenzian, specifically of the northern sort- as you’ll come to hear, that matters to some folk. You’ve heard me call myself that before, though you no doubt have little understanding of what it means. Barbarians, to most other people on the continent, though not quite the ‘mudpicking’ sort those that claim to be civilized can get away with spitting on in the street. Indeed, you’ll mostly find ill talk of Brenzians behind closed doors or with your back. We do not think of ourselves as barbarians, anyway.
Where is Malbel? You’ll not find it on any map, gone as it is. Probably could find few maps that ever had it. It was a small town, with only a handful of farms of more than a few dozen acres- a town of bumpkins, darling, or at least that's what other folks would say, probably correctly. Used to boil my blood for people to say such things. ‘We’re not all bumpkins,’ I would think, myself being one of the bumpkins who really just happened to live in town. Even if the rest of us were bumpkins, I wasn’t, not me and my family and the other hearths we broke bread with. That is the thing with weak folk being the subject of others’ derision, they all too often seek not to stop the derision but to shift it off them and further downhill instead. Yes, yes, I was weak-minded about this, do not attempt to deny it. I thought myself better than the yokels outside the town, but we had more in common with them than the folks in the real towns and cities elsewhere. Easier to see the differences up close, though. You know how it is, just as you feud with the Lueter boy across the courtyard while sharing a home.
You see, we were not farmers, unlike most of our kinsmen. Father was no mere fyrdsman, and that afforded us opportunity. Of course, he was no huscarl either, but a companion of one in town and a favored trainer and sparring partner. Sure, we had a plot of our own, and mother and father worked it when able, but more often we gave half the harvest to neighbors in exchange for keeping it in order. The salary for Father’s martial labors were more than enough to afford us a comfortable life, with my mother’s work treating livestock maladies a nice supplement. We farmed, but were not farmers, and that was important to me then, silly as it seems. Now I rather wish I was a farmer who had to pick up the reeve’s mace from time to time instead of a reeve who occasionally got to plow a field. What, don’t care for the dirt of the plow? Ha, my darling, there are few things so noble as dirt beneath your nails after a day in the field, but I understand. I was the same way, once.
I was too young to remember much of Malbel in detail, or even much of Mother and Father. I can’t even imagine their faces after so much time, I was so young. Imagine not remembering my face, darling. A sad thought! I think so, anyway. I remember the peace and quiet, even in town- it was much like here, in that way, but not at all like the towns and cities I would spend most of my life in. Life moved slowly, it seemed. I remember father being so serious in the training yard and so jolly at home, and watching him knock to the floor men twice his size and 10 years his junior while sparring. I remember mother fretting terribly over us both, and her helping a neighborhood dog give birth on the road outside our house and later handing me one of those puppies once they were older. A good dog, she was. I’ll never know what happened to her. A great shame of mine. One should always be there to bury their dog, when the time comes. And I can remember how Mother worried when Father was called to march with the Fyrd to resolve some dispute between the chief and a neighbor, I was too young to understand what. Mostly shield banging and spear shaking, I think, but it's smart to worry whenever a loved one walks to war. Useless, but good to realize they may not return. Many a widow and widower of an all too brave soldier has learned that lesson.
What else can I recall? The end, of course, but a bit more beyond that. Arthea was too little to be remembered as much more than a writhing bundle leaning on Mother’s hip. Cousin Edwain, of course, though he was a distant thing to me then, only occasionally appearing at gatherings and ruffling my hair before moving on to things young men cared about, like the pretty girl across the street. Anea was her name. I wonder what became of her. Anyway, Edwain had his own life and family, then, before Arthea and I became his only family, and he had little time for some child cousins. Mostly I remember how much I wanted to be like Father. I thought myself much bigger, much braver, or at least hoped I would become so, so that I too could train with the huscarls and fight and maybe become a huscarl myself. Ha! Funny to think of now. Look at me- imagine, a huscarl. And brave? Pah. Yes, in my own way, but not like Father. Not like a warrior. So much did I wish to be like him that I remember a day when three yokel boys my age were picking on one of the poor lads from down the road from us. And darling, he was sorry, poor thing, with a drunkard father and a mother who did anything to keep food in the larder. I did not realize these things until much later, but it is obvious looking backward.
These three farmboys had him on the ground, face in the dirt, saying cruel things children can put in a sentence but scarcely understand. Him being burgher like myself, this would not stand- yes, so rooted was my sense of worth in being better than these rural folk that I thought them better than this wretched, misfortunate boy. Life is a strange thing, my darling. I stood up to them, rotten stick in hand. “Stop,” I shouted, or more like squeaked. They stopped, alright, and turned to me instead. The stick broke mid-swing, before even striking them. I pray to Samar that you never have to experience a broken weapon in a fight, not even in a child’s dispute. They had me facedown in the dirt in another second. Strong and brave I was indeed indeed. Foolhardy and ignorant, more like. Now, it was right to stick up for the boy, but I did it for foolhardy and ignorant reasons, just as their reasons for picking on him were so. Probably some rich townie boy had thrown rocks at them while in sight of the guard, or something to that effect. Bah, we are all stupid while young. Yes, even one as smart as you, my darling, in your own way. It was a lesson, though not a learned one for many years to come. It was not long after that it all burned, and more pressing lessons had to be learned.
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