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As they spoke, that very same plague to Idimus’ rule had reached a crossroad: The trail west would lead him back to the kingdom he had charged into so valiantly only days ago, where he risked his life to save some of those he barely knew. The other would lead him north, on to a place he had once called home; a place he had not returned to in nearly three centuries. Of those, that road north seemed like a much harder journey.
Grahamas took a deep breath, a moment to recognize the sun flirting with the horizon that peered over to paint his back, and he rode on, curious as to what lay before him—albeit—terrified of what he knew he would find. As Grahamas had told Elryia earlier, that letter he received played a crucial part in their quest, and despite his discomfort and guilt, he knew this trip was necessary, for contained in that letter were instructions on where to find the prized possession of Highlace, the armor of countless Champions, Radiant Hope.
Perhaps an even greater legend than that of Wind Chaser, Radiant Hope was without doubt the finest piece of armor that had ever been forged—if it could even be proven that someone had made it. Savados—with his age and unprecedented wisdom—could not account for its origins, and despite years upon years of research, never could discern how old it was, where it was created or even how much power truly lay within it. Grahamas wore it for over two hundred years, but had barely scratched the surface of the magnificent armor’s potential. He knew only of its most important aspects. No weapon could pierce it, nor magick penetrate it. When worn, it weighed virtually nothing, and after an owner was chosen and donned the suit, it would morph itself to fit their body. Yet to the people the armor served a far great purpose than simply protecting the user, or holding some hidden magick. It instilled all with exactly what it was named for: Hope. Brilliant silver in color, plates and gauntlets, bracers and helmet all designed to look like frozen flames upon the wearer’s body. It was fearsome for those who opposed it, warm and inspiring for those who stood behind it. Its glimmer could be seen for miles, would never tarnish despite its age, and some said with only one glance, it seemed as though it cleansed their souls. Because of that, during times of peace, it was displayed in Highlace’s main castle, Irnin, for all to see. And it was there that Grahamas left it when he escorted Idimus back to Kaldus that last time. Perhaps that was his plan, and for many years, the Champion feared that wondrous armor had fallen into the King’s hands, gone forever. Yet the letter Tallvas wrote changed all that, and awoke within Grahamas a new found hope, and quest.
In recollection, as Graham rode on, he pulled the letter from his pocket as he had done so countless times over the years:
Grahamas,
Though I fear when you read this, you will no longer have a kingdom, you are still Champion. Even now they are attacking the city and they will work their way towards the castle, towards your armor. I will not let them have it. Even if it means my own death, I will escape with it. It is my duty to you, to our Champion to do such. I can think of only one area to hide it, one place where it will be safe. The place you and I discovered that first day I taught you to hunt. I hope that you remember, as I cannot be specific. Although I will give this letter to the only person I can trust, Lornya, I fear even then it may fall into the wrong hands.
Reclaim your armor Champion; reclaim your kingdom. The world needs you, needs to be led by you.
I knew the first day I met you, that you were destined for great things. You learned what I taught you so quickly, so easily. And you led the people with strength and compassion. I hope that one day you and I may be reunited but I fear that it may not happen, so know this. Though I never had any children of my own, being with you made me feel like a parent.
I love you, son.
For freeDom,
Tallvas
Grahamas fought back a tear as he tucked the letter into his pocket. As much as Tallvas considered him a son, Graham thought of the Duke as his father. He had never known his real one, and his mother, Alasia, was reluctant to ever speak of it. For ten years, Grahamas was simply raised by her, until by happenstance, or perhaps something deeper, the Champion met the man that would change his life forever. Though Graham never quite knew what his mother did, he knew she worked directly with the King, and as such spent most of her days within Irnin, their home only minutes away from it. While Alasia was at work, Graham spent long hours sifting through the numerous tomes located within Daleforn’s library. Times then were much more despondent but the wealth of knowledge was still available for all to read. Grahamas had not let one day pass without visiting. He studied everything from theory, ethics, mathematics and even the art of war. He saw many frequenters, but Tallvas was the most recognizable, and most common. A tall stoic man with gray hair on top, black on the sides. His face was covered in a well-trimmed beard, dominated with the same gray as his head, with only a thin line of black that surrounded his mouth in a goatee. Though he held himself with all the nobility one would expect from a Duke, his eyes spoke only compassion and concern—but even then Grahamas was fearful to approach him. Six months into his tenth year, the job was done for him. Grahamas had entered the library like normal, and had sat down to read. He felt as though he had only been there for an hour, yet when he looked up, the sun was already starting to fade inexplicably. His mind was apparently too involved on a legend of Golden Dragons and the time slipped away. To avoid punishment from his mother, paying no heed to his surroundings, he rushed out. Grahamas typically lost track of time, but this seemed different, and the confusion only spurred his frenzy.
When he came out, he was so frazzled, he failed to see Tallvas and the expensive vase he was carrying to decorate the interior. Without even a second to adjust after he ripped around the corner, young Grahamas crashed directly into Tallvas, forcing him to drop the vase and nearly knocking him down in the process.
Grahamas didn’t utter a word, kept his eyes closed—fearful that if he looked upon the man, the rage would surely end him. Yet the Duke seemed rather calm about the incident, even offered to escort him home—as he knew a short cut. Though skeptical, Grahamas agreed. When they arrived, Grahamas was certain the Duke had ulterior motives—had simply made the offer to report Grahamas directly to his mother, and the reprimand would come from her—and it would be far worse.
He then had a vision of himself in the stocks, and his mother holding the key.
Tallvas, however, made no mention of it. He and Alasia simply greeted as though they were old friends, and she invited him to dinner. The entire time, Grahamas couldn’t eat, the paranoia turning his throat to sand and making it hard to swallow. He waited for Tallvas to sell him out, and he stared at the Duke agonizing over every moment. In response, Tallvas merely winked and went back to the conversation—of which centered mostly on politics, and their daily grind. Grahamas kept himself out of it, yet still unable to eat, he simply sat there, too fearful to excuse himself. It was nearing the end of the night when the Duke finally included Grahamas. More to Alasia, he mentioned seeing the young man about town and in the library, and because of his height and stature, he would make a perfect replacement for his stable boy, whom he’d recently lost to illness.
Alasia was a strong woman, yet she had always been protective when it came to Grahamas, and he thought for sure she would turn him down outright; her mouth even opened to begin the objection but a look from Tallvas halted her completely. Her entire demeanor changed, she nodded solemnly and whispered that she understood. They spent the rest of the night in their discussion on Highlace, and Tallvas never mentioned the vase.
Graham didn’t understand his mother’s reaction, nor asked her about it, yet it was a week later—his first day—when he learned of the Duke’s true intentions for the offer: The art in which Graham destroyed was to be worked off in the stables. From the looks of that vase, Grahamas would be employed for a long time.
While Grahamas expected hours upon hours of grueling labor, over the weeks he learned it would be nothing of the sort. To h
is relief, the work was more intellectually strenuous than it was physical. The Duke was incredibly lenient regarding Graham’s freedom. If the horses were taken care of—which he could do so in only two hours—Grahamas was allowed to use the rest of his time to study, explore and anything else he wished, so long as he stayed out of trouble. When Graham did work with Tallvas, the Duke would tell him stories of the past, how Highlace came to be; he would share his knowledge of art, literature and virtually anything Grahamas said he wanted to learn. Overtime the youngster ended up spending as much time with the Duke as he did in the library.
When Grahamas turned thirteen, he was promoted to the Castle’s stables, where he cared after nearly fifty horses; increasing his responsibility and stature, but diminishing his free time, though the Duke still made it a point to share as much knowledge as he could.
Two years later, they’d developed such a bond that Tallvas pushed to have Grahamas as his squire. It was there that Grahamas learned about war, leadership, how to organize an army and handle a weapon. Tallvas taught him to lead with strength and compassion, rather than fear and intimidation. He taught him how to be swift and precise on a battlefield, how to defeat an enemy and remain noble in doing so. The Duke shared with him how to be honorable in proceedings all the while maintaining order. In time, Graham realized that he gained a perspective on life that could never be found in a book. Every lesson, the Champion still remembered today, but of those, one was his favorite, and stood as true now as it did then: It is up to those with the power and will to fight to protect and inspire those who cannot.
With the tragic events that befell the peaceful Kingdom, Grahamas had lost that. When Highlace was destroyed he was too shocked—too pained—to consider that its ideals did not exist within the city’s walls, rather its people’s hearts. His hope faded as their hope faded. Struggled as they did—through a fog of pain, his entire world torn away from him.
And for years, it was where he stayed.
But—perhaps by coincidence—a child and a letter were given to him. In that moment his resilience had returned; his faith restored.
That one encounter had changed him entirely, had inspired him to fight once more for the people he let down and allowed to suffer while he suffocated in his own guilt. He would free them, and in the process—atone.
It would take more than his driven emotions, and his incredible passion. It would take more than a well-developed plan or perfectly trained army.
For years, Grahamas had considered only killing Idimus, give into his rage, seek revenge rather than redemption. He pondered, for the longest time, on doing what was best for him, not for the best of the people. In a sense, they were the same thing. But revenge meant simply ending Idimus’ vile life. There were so many times Grahamas would have been able to do that, but deep down he realized that it would not help the people.
It might actually make things worse.
Someone else may take his place, someone more cruel and corrupt with even higher taxes, more deranged patrols, and even stricter rules.
For the people to be truly free of Idimus, they had to know they were free. Their hope had to be restored. Idimus had been ruler for so long, he had robbed them of their history, their culture, peace of mind and any sense of optimism they once had. They no longer knew a better life was waiting for them. They merely lived, happy or not, day by day. No joy, no happiness, no love for themselves or others because they never had them to begin with. They had not the desire to fight for these things—had completely forgotten they existed.
The people had to be restored. Being away from Elryia stung him and traveling into Highlace wrought him with anxiety, but it was necessary. He could fight the war without Radiant Hope; he could probably even win it. And though no one knew of it, with the war, with the victory, Grahamas believed it would be what it once was: a symbol—a reminder to the people of that day, verification that everyone deserves hope and happiness. The armor would help them continue to fight for it.
So he drove on, despite his warring emotions. The valley around him turned from barren plains to a lush, colorful field, specks of reddish purple flowers mixed into long waves of green grass. The sun was burning high above his head, the wind against his face and he closed his eyes to inhale it all. Despite that which was going on around him, all that had unfolded—for a moment, he just enjoyed the quiet.
Yet that moment faded quickly, his eyes flung open and his head, which had been leaning back towards the sky, now remained straight ahead. He still had a long ride ahead of him, and he didn’t have the time to sit idle and take the scenic route. Grahamas had to travel well beyond Kaldus and Sharia, passed roving hills and rocky valleys to a land tucked away from the world, a land with only a small town—Hensah—and a few small farms. A place that had been forgotten by most, and was filled only with the rubble and remains of a once great kingdom.
Though as hard as he tried, as much as his body had committed to the ride his mind, however, continued to wander. Part of him curious as to how Elryia was faring, another was listening at his back, wondering if and when he would see repercussion from Idimus.