Ironforge, two years ago
Sometimes, when I close my eyes and try really hard to remember, I can almost see the farm as if I stood there. The sun on my face and arms as I worked the plow. The way Hannah would call for me and Danir to come inside for dinner. The smell of freshly turned earth and the harvested grain. The herb garden Hannah kept for cooking. Oh, and Hannah's cooking! The gods themselves would die to have even a bite of her food.
I remember that the first time I saw her farm, I cried. I didn't want to stay there. Father... He stopped his train of thought, his green eyes opening.
The stone walls of the room filled his sight and he groaned. Above, he could hear loud shouting and laughter of drunken dwarves and he wished he could join them. But he had already had a few to drink, which was why he was back in his room as it was, his head pounding from a compounded hangover. It's the only reason he was waxing nostalgic. There was no reason to think back, to dream about what was, when it can never be that way again. Father would disapprove, especially. 'Course, he'd think my behavior in general is terrible. So would Graz, come to think of it.
He was so strong. Always strong for us. Hannah hated him for it, but I know why he was so hard on us. I don't know if I love him, but I can at least respect him. She just thought he was callous. He wanted us to survive, to fight, to be strong like him. He didn't know how to raise children, just soldiers. I suppose my mother could have softened him a bit, but I never got a chance to meet her. Still, Hannah and Danir did well enough for me, as family goes. They made me strong, just in a different way than my father would have wanted.
Still, they couldn't prepare me for what would happen. Father might have been able to do so. He might have made me stoney enough to have been able to take the loss that would come without shedding a tear, but Hannah and Danir were too... human. Too loving. When we got word that they were gone...
He was almost surprised to feel the tear slide down his face. He had hit bottom. A deserter, a failed soldier, and only an adequate blacksmith, he hadn't done anything with his life. Ever since he left the battlefield those years ago and fled to Khaz Modan he had been a failure. His father woudn't have run. He would have done his duty to his prince, no matter what orders he was given. No matter how mad the prince may have seemed, or how terrible things had gotten. But not me. I ran, ran like the scared child that cried when his daddy went to war. And I tried to make it right, but I haven't done that well, here, either.
He turned over, feeling sick for the first time in ages after drinking. Maybe I had too much of that ale earlier. Maybe Hannah was right. Maybe it really is a poison, sadness. Maybe I've just gone too long without crying.
He fell asleep again, alcohol causing his dreams to shift and change, too fleeting to be remembered.
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