The Page

The Page
The Page is a short story about a a boy named Charl Hurreson, and how his opinion on change changes.

You can read The Page (Chapter 1) here, or on the wiki:

Chapter I
I guess the change had to happen eventually. I suppose it was inevitable. Either way, it happened. Change always does.

I am a castle page. My job every day is to bring food to Lord Gwyyn son of Gwarth and his wife, Lady Herda, and to serve them in whatever way would be helpful. It has been my job for as long as I can remember, actually. My mother got this position for me. It’s actually a fine job. Steady, sometimes boring, but not a hard, painful job with hours of physical labour. I rather enjoy it. I walked the steps to Lord Gwyyn’s chambers, large food tray in hand, as I did every day, eventually reaching the great oak door of my master’s rooms. I awkwardly knocked on it with my foot, as I did every day. “Enter!” I heard a voice say. I elbowed open the door and saw Lord Gwyyn sitting in his chair, as I did every day. He did not have a fire going in his fire place, as he did most days, but the large room was warm. It was winter then in Alesh’era. Of course, that doesn’t mean much when you’re living in a desert. In fact, there’s not much difference between winter and summer here, it’s only really night and day where temperatures change. I laid out the food on the tray on the small table beside Lord Gwyyn’s table, and set it out. I then poured him a glass of white wine, and stood by to wait for his next command. “How are you today, Charl?” He asked me kindly. He always asked me this, for as long as I can remember, he has asked me this every morning. “I’m well, sir. As always, right, ready and wise.” I replied same as I had hundreds of days before. “Very good, very good.” There was a pause. Lord Gwyyn looked thoughtful, “I think I shall start giving you an education. I have thought this through, and I think it’s best if you learn the art of the sword.” I couldn’t believe his words! “Well, sir,” I beamed. Well known was it that the art of fencing and swordsmanship was only taught to the higher birth, “Tha—Thank you, sir!” “You’re welcome, boy. It is my pleasure. I’m sure your father would be proud.” I bobbed my head at him, smiling. My father... He would have been proud, but he had died in the War fighting under the command of the warrior woman, the Raiimark. After what was a short silence, but seemed like forever, Lord Gwyyn spoke, “You may go now, if you’d like. Go to Kart the trainer, and give him this note.” He handed me a scroll with the Gwarth House seal on it. “Thank you, sir! Thank you, sir!” I told him, and skipped out of the door, near tripping over Lady Herda as she entered. I yelled a hasty “Sorry!” as she let out a burst of flustered laughter.

Sword training! This had been one of the things I wanted to do since I was 5 years old, but I never ever thought I would be trained. No pages were ever taught the art of the sword! As I ran down the stairs and out to the barracks, I thought about how great my destiny was that I, a serving boy, like my father before me, would get this privilege. My father had said —when I had told him as a boy that my dream was to become a knight— that “that would be almost impossible for one of your birth, son. That’s just who we are. But remember this son, there are always choices. And you will always have to choose. Maybe if you choose correctly, you might become one.” My mother had said: “If you truly try, nothing can stop you. Let me tell you a story.” —She pulled me up onto her lap and began her tale— “Years ago, there was a man. His name was Darium Maerson. Daerium was a manservant to knight, just like your father, and he wanted to be a knight. Ever since he was 5 years old, like you, he wanted to be one. “Now because he was a servant, he couldn’t train professionally, sad as it is, but every day, young Darium would train personally, by himself. Little did Darium know, that almost every single day, there was a knight by the name of Sir Sayyd who would watch him from a window as he practised. At first, Sir Sayyd thought it was just a phase little Darium was going through, as some young boys went through, but it was not. Darium steadily practiced every day, and when a whole year had passed, Sir Sayyd decided to put him through training. “For 7 years after that, Darium trained almost every day against real sparring partners, and eventually, after Darium became Sir Sayyd’s grael*1. It wasn’t long before he saw his first battle, and that is where everything changed. Now as you know, my dear Charl, a grael must see one battle before he can be promoted to a knight. So Darium, who was now 18, was very excited, unlike Sir Sayyd, who didn’t relish the idea of trying to hope that he wouldn’t die when drowning in a sea of angry blades. And Sir Sayyd was right, battles are ugly things, Charl, deadly and dangerous, don’t be fooled. Battles are gruesome, not something to be looked forward to. Darium, however, was a man of eighteen years, unwise and energetic as young unbroken horse, and he was bursting with grim and fearful anticipation, for a part of him knew that he might die. “After a time, Darium stood with his master and the other graels and knights on the agreed field of battle— now you might be thinking ‘Battle isn’t like that! You don’t pick a field to fight, rather you fight when they are not prepared!’ but not here. This was long ago, in days gone, when chivalry was uttermost, and honour was great, you fairly picked a battle to fight on, and then you honourably began. — “So Darium was standing there, on the battlefield, anticipating the battle. Over the distance, coming over the hill, Darium saw the men of Varkas Drún drawing nearer. With a twist in his stomach, Darium realized that there was a very real chance that he might actually die. However, Darium was a stoic young man, and after the initial realization, he was again firm and ready… “And ready he had to be, for when the blacksilver*2 clad Varkans closed in on them, they had to fight like men, true and deadly. Darium’s sword sliced through many a man, fast and swift, deadly as a desert hawk. His sword like a black talon, slicing with deadly precision. Even though Darium was immensely occupied by his slaughter, he still noticed the moment when his master, Sir Sayyd was slain by a savage Varkan warrior. Darium reeled with the dizziness of unbelief as he ran over a warm dead body to avenge his fallen master. He lifted his red sword in fury and sorrow and plunged it into the black clad murderer, heedless of the blacksilver armour. Nobody knows how he speared through the blacksilver, it being the strongest form of armour, normally easily deflecting mere steel. Some say it is in the rage and the avenging of loved ones that a simple human can call on the magics of the gods. Others say that he simply pushed his sword with the force of anger behind it. I suppose we’ll never know, but what we  do  know is that he managed, and the black clad Varkan Darium had so swiftly felled was the Varkan leader, who was dressed as a common soldier, as Varkan leaders often did. “Well, after that, you can probably predict. We won the war valiantly if not well. The Varkans honourably surrendered to the Alesh’eran general, but when we went through our casualties, the King was dead. For a whole month, the whole country mourned, and because of the chivalry of all the surrounding countries, Alesh’era was not attacked nor harrased for a whole month. The Lady Queen eventually came out of mourning, and all the knights of the realm came and swore allegiance to her as sole Monarch and ruler. “And the story goes on, my boy, but I cannot tell the rest to you now, for your father awaits his evening meal, and after that, my son, you await your bed.” “But Mother!” I had protested, “Can’t you tell me a little more?” “No, Charl, not now.” She smiled. “Maybe tomorrow?” I pleaded “Maybe tomorrow.” Mother agreed.

I never did hear the end of the story.