“... “There were seven of us,” Carth repeated. His voice remained quiet and almost distant and Dravish realised that the old soldier was reminiscing, something that he rarely, if ever, did. “In the evenings we dug the well and during the day we guarded the people going to the river. We were tired all of the time and there were not enough of us, but that is no excuse.” Carth sighed heavily before raising his gaze, eyes glistening in the starlight with painful memories. “Your father died the day before the well was finished,” he stated quickly, as though forcing the words out.
Dravish blinked and shook his head, stunned, feeling like he had been struck across the face, hard. An image of a woman in a darkened room flittered across his memory; a huddled figure wrapped in a worn blanket, a monochrome study of grief.
“But…but you always told me that he died fighting for the freedom of the peoples,” Dravish said, almost in a whisper.
“Are you now saying that he did not?” asked Carth. His voice with a firm edge and his brow furrowed almost to a fierce scowl.
Dravish paused, thinking honestly about the question. He realised that somewhere in his mind he had always thought that his father had died in a glorious battle, perhaps defying the gods themselves. It was a vague notion; something no doubt concocted by a child’s mind with the practicalities never really thought through. He shook his head slowly.
“It seems so futile,” he said with a soft sigh.
Carth nodded his head in agreement and there seemed an age of understanding in the movement. “It often does,” he said. ...”
