Ben
3 Days After the War
Near Thornholl, between the roads of the village of the Eternal West, after the war had ended, Ben rode in a cart. The same man who had carried him to Valkryn was carrying him back. Ben was returning with his family—his wives behind him, his children in a cart following. The driver was the same man, filled with curiosity—not because he wished to be, but because the road was long and boredom was a patient companion.
The driver kept glancing at Ben. His eyes moved from the road to the small figure beside him, then back to the road. His fingers, wrapped around the reins, were red from the cold. The rope had left marks on his palms.
"Really lucky," the driver said, his voice carrying over the creak of the wheels. He turned his head slightly, one eye squinting against the wind. "To fight an entire war without getting a single scratch, You must be extremely lucky."
Ben was looking at the dark sky, which seemed to him to be moving. His hand rested on the book in his lap. His thumb traced the edge of the cover. "Do you think I make things up?"
The driver shrugged, his shoulders lifting beneath his worn cloak. "That's what you do. With that book, is it not?" He spat over the side of the cart.
Ben shifted slightly. He pulled up his sleeve and then his trouser leg—just enough to reveal a small scar on his ankle. His movement was slow, deliberate. "Do you see this? I got it during a fight."
The driver glanced at it. His lip curled slightly. He snorted. "My four-year-old son got a bigger scratch than that from his cat."
Ben let the cloth fall back into place. He did not look offended. He looked tired. His jaw tightened once, then relaxed. "If you do not believe me, you are free to do so. But your children and your children's children will believe—because I am the only one who will carry it to them."
The driver said, "In your book?" He clicked his tongue at the horse.
Ben nodded. His hand patted the book once. "There are many things worth writing." He paused. His eyes moved to the road ahead. "Can you go faster? My memory keeps letting things slip away."
The driver said, his voice dry, "I was going faster, but you must consider your wives. Travel by cart is painful." He gestured with his chin toward the cart behind them.
Ben said, "Just go. The road is clean. No holes."
The driver said, "Do not trouble yourself. Just take some rest until we arrive. You seem tired." He glanced at Ben's face—at the dark circles beneath his eyes.
Ben placed his book on his feet and leaned on it. His eyes closed. Within moments, his breathing slowed. He slept quickly—the sleep of a man who had not truly rested in days.
The driver looked at him. Then at the road. Then he turned—again and again—to look at Ben's wives. He muttered under his breath, "Lucky bastard." He continued driving. His hands were bare, and the cold ate at them. The rope was etched into his skin. His face was red.
The driver turned back with a smile. He kept driving. Beside him, Ben growled and made sounds of fear in his sleep.
They continued until they reached the outer walls of Thornholl, beside the great front gate. The driver woke Ben. His hand shook Ben's shoulder—gently at first, then harder.
"We have arrived. wake up."
Ben and his family descended from the carts. Ben gathered them close. His hands moved over their shoulders, counting them. One. Two. Three. His fingers pressed into each shoulder, as though making sure they were real.
"Cover your heads," he said. His voice was low, urgent.
One of the children said, "Why, Father?" The boy's head tilted, his brow furrowing.
Ben said, "Just do what I told you." His hand pushed the boy's hood over his head.
They entered. The atmosphere was quiet—too quiet. The people who passed beside them were silent in a way that was disturbing. Their eyes were down. Their steps were quick. Ben hurried his family along. Ahead, a few steps away, there was a crowd—a demonstration before the walls of the palace. Fists raised. Mouths open. But the sound was muffled, distant.
Ben said, "Come. Let us go around from here." His hand gestured toward a dark alley.
They entered through the alley. They walked through the alleys of the Black Mud Town until they reached the house.
"Go in quickly," Ben said. He stood at the door, holding it open, counting them again as they passed.
He entered quickly. He threw off his cloak and coat. The wet fabric landed in a heap on the floor. Then he headed toward the vault. His steps were fast—as fast as his short legs could carry him. He descended the stairs quickly, his hand gripping the railing.
He placed his book on the desk. He took a cloth and wiped his hands. Then he picked up his pen.
He said slowly, "Let's go back to the hill." Then he stopped. His hand rose to his chin. His fingers tapped against his jaw. "Where did I stop? Where did I stop?"
Until Harold descended the stairs. His footsteps were light on the wooden steps.
"You stopped at the death of the stupid king, Father."
Ben said, "true. But how did you know?" He did not turn. His hand hovered over the page.
Harold said, "I want to hear what happened. How he was defeated." He stepped closer, his hands clasped behind his back.
Ben said, "Fine You should know." He set the pen down. His body turned slightly on the stool.
Harold said, "How did he die? You told me of his death, but not how." He leaned forward, his eyes fixed on his father's face.
Ben with a serious tone and features that delve into the past, " There, inside the battle—I was standing with him, side by side. I was fighting with him, side by side. Helping him to the point that he told me to Protect his back." His hand rose, gesturing in the air as though recreating the scene.
Harold said, "I already know, Father, that you did not fight. Just get to the point." He rolled his eyes, a small, impatient motion.
Ben said, "I fought, What are you saying? I fought fiercely. Do you doubt the accuracy of my stories?" His voice sharpened. His hand slapped the desk.
Harold said, "Just continue, father." He held up both hands, palms open.
Ben said, "There, Sam was standing without a shield—only a sword and his usual recklessness. What was not expected was that one of Izzadar's soldiers stabbed him in the back. It wasn't my fault, I was protecting his back, but as the battle intensified, I had to protect my own. He fell and died. No one could do anything. He fought like a king, and he died like a king." He paused. His pen hovered over the page. His eyes were distant.
"I stopped here in the book. Now I think I will move to the battle of the two kings. Now I want to focus on writing this part. Will you leave? I will give it to you to read and learn after I finish."
Harold said, "Alright. I am going." He turned toward the stairs.
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As he left, Ben said loudly, "When dinner is ready, do not call me. I'm full." His voice echoed up the stairwell.
Harold waved his hand as he left. After Harold left, Ben picked up his pen again.
And on the empty page, he wrote:
Darkness as usual. Blood as usual. Dead as usual.
Ben stood under the darkness, covered in blood. He stood upon the dead—he and his battalion. After the death of King Sam, the chaos did not stop. No one cared about his death. The body fell upon him until he was buried among them.
I stood there, fighting everyone who tried to get to me—while my eye caught another fight in my place. There was nothing interesting. Only men. Soldiers. Normal soldiers dying. I don't even know their names.
So At that moment, I looked at the warriors besides me and told them we would enter the enemy's zone. But one of the knights next to me told me it was folly—that we would enter between the ranks of the enemy. He said it was suicide. I did not see it that way. I saw it as an opportunity to convey the event.
After thinking, and after considering the knight's fear—which was completely Understood—we wore the worn armor of Izzadar's soldiers and their helmets We claimed to be warriors on their side. To the place where the fighting had not yet begun.
But I was wrong. There was a fight. One man. One madman—standing in the middle of thousands of Izzadar's soldiers, completely surrounded. But no one could bring him down. They were falling like flies.
A voice came from the top of the stairs. "Who was that?"
Ben said, "What are you doing there?" He did not turn. His hand tightened on the pen.
Harold descended. He stood at the foot of the stairs. His arms crossed over his chest.
"You always write and say what you write out loud."
Ben said, "You have distracted me again." He sighed, his shoulders rising and falling.
Harold said, "Just consider me nonexistent. But who was fighting among thousands of soldiers?" He stepped closer, his head tilting.
Ben said, "I do not know if I should tell you this or not." He set the pen down. His hands folded on the desk.
Harold said, "What?" His brow furrowed.
"I'm sorry, son, but I won't tell you."
Harold said, "Why won't you tell me what the problem?"
Ben said, "I don't think I'll even tell this book."
Harold said, "But you can tell me, Father, if you won't tell the book, who will keep what you saw?"
Ben said, "Since I won't write down what I saw, I think I'll at least tell you, but be careful, my son, don't tell anyone". He turned on the stool to face his son. His voice dropped. "When I infiltrated enemy lines and pretended to be one of them, I saw what they saw from their vantage point. I saw that man, or whatever he was, fighting in a completely inhuman way. Dozens of men couldn't take him down. At that moment, I couldn't think...I just stood there, watching and backing away."
Harold said, "What do you mean?" His arms uncrossed. His hands fell to his sides.
Ben said, "Do you know what Neverwood is, my son? Does anyone even know what it is? It's a place beyond our imagination. How could a blind old man enter the depths of human incomprehension and emerge unscathed? Not only that, but his sight returned and he has changed. what happened in the Neverwood was not logical. But this—I did not imagine it." His voice was quiet. His eyes were steady.
Harold said, "Are you talking about King Robert?" He leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the desk.
Ben said, " How does he fight? It is clear—it is not Robert. The Robert I know is strong, but not with those powers. Someone told me there, in the Neverwood, that Robert was not Robert. But I did not understand what he meant." He rubbed his neck. His fingers pressed into the muscle.
Harold said, "So did he defeat them all?" His voice was barely above a whisper.
Ben said, "No. He fought for a while, then changed his position. But even so, Izzadar's army was superior. What made the difference in that battle was the army of Valkryn—the one supporting the back of Thornholl." He leaned back. The stool creaked.
Harold said, "What about you?" He straightened, waiting.
Ben said, "After Robert disappeared, I removed Izzadar's helmet and moved again toward Thornholl's side. During the battle, I fought beside the soldiers. I saw them crying for help. Screaming. Dying. It was hell—so much that I cannot write how the simple soldiers died. Because I only remember a similar death—painful and forgotten." His hand rose and rubbed his neck again. The motion was slow, tired.
He paused. His eyes dropped to the desk.
"I stepped on many of their faces. But I did not remember one of them. As for the knights who accompanied me—four knights died, It's strange that in a place like that, death becomes something expected and not so important."
Harold said, "Are you sad about them, Father?" His voice was softer now.
Ben said, "Not really. It was necessary—to convey history. To convey their voices. And indeed, I recorded the names of the four in my book." He picked up the pen again. His fingers adjusted its position.
A voice from the top of the stairs shouted, "Father!"
Ben said, "What?" His head lifted. His eyes narrowed.
The boy said, "I am Jack, Father. Someone wants to see you."
Ben said, "Tell him to enter." He waved his hand toward the stairs.
Harold said, "I am going now, Father." He turned and walked toward the stairs.
Harold left. And a man entered. He looked at Harold as they passed—a quick glance, then away. Then he descended and stood before Ben.
"Do you know what it cost me to come to you?" The man's voice was rough. His clothes were stained with travel.
Ben said, "I do not care. What I care about is how much will it cost me?" He did not look up. His hand rested on the book.
The man said, "Considering what happened in the Red Tide battle, it will cost you much." He shifted his weight. His boots scraped against the stone.
Ben said, "The Red Tide, huh? You named it. Who gave you the right—" he paused, "—I alone give the names. But it seems suitable enough. Did you see everything?" He looked up now. His eyes moved over the man's face.
The man said, "Yes. I was in the battle. I entered even the palace. I know every movement, But we must hurry, I've just hidden away in one of my relative's houses." He nodded once.
Ben rose from his place. He poured wine into a cup. He said, "Drink. Then tell me everything." He set the cup on the desk.
The man sat. And Ben and the man spent the night recording the events of the battle—from the launching of the ships to the end.
The man he said as he finished his story, "And William ordered us to stay—ten of us—in the palace while he and his men escaped, and he ordered us to bring Robert's head. As it was an easy thing to do. he thought we were nothing." He took a long drink from the cup.
Ben said, "Did all ten escape too?" His pen moved across the page.
The man said, "No. Some of them stayed—under the pretext of avenging Gerald. But I am not that foolish." He set the cup down. His hand wiped his mouth.
Ben said, "Indeed." He nodded once.
The man said, "That is all I have. Now pay me. I need to leave this place as soon as possible." He stood. His chair scraped against the floor.
Ben went to one of his shelves. Behind the books, in a box, he pulled out a handful of gold. He handed it to the man. "This is for everything."
The man said, "How much is here?" He weighed it in his palm.
Ben said, "Enough."
The man looked at the handful. His fingers closed around the coins. "Alright. It seems enough. I am going."
Ben said, "Shall I show you the way?" He took a step toward the stairs.
The man said, "No. Just stay where you are. I will go alone." He turned.
Ben said, "I insist." He followed him to the stairs.
He accompanied him until he left. The door closed. The lock clicked.
Ben returned to his desk. His hand rubbed his neck. He was tired. His fingers pressed into the muscle, kneading it.
"Now let us enter the moment of the fall. The fall of the third king. Or the fourth. It does not matter. Everyone will fall in their time."
He sat. He picked up his pen. And he returned to where he had stopped—in the Battle of the Death-Rise.
Izzadar's army was completely finished. Those who remained were fleeing back to the Rats Forest. Only one person remained—surrounded by thousands of Thornholl and Valkryn soldiers. Behind them, Robert watched in silence.
He looked into Meriel's eyes. Meriel seemed exhausted—covered in wounds. Every time one of Thornholl's soldiers advanced, Meriel brought him down. Even despite his exhaustion, Meriel had no escape left. He was completely surrounded. He had lost his soldiers. He had lost his war. He had nothing left but his pride.
Meriel—among the soldiers—raised his sword with his right hand and pointed it at Robert. And said As his last remaining hope, "Come here and fight me. Like a man. For once in your life. Do not run."
Robert was laughing, he was enjoying his moment. It's not every day you get to corner a king.
"Me? Are you talking to me?"
He straightened. His voice carried across the field.
"The thing is—I am tired like you. Let us save some time and effort. Just kneel and beg forgiveness from my men."
Meriel said, his voice raw with exhaustion and fury, "I knew it. You do not fight like a man. You never did in your life. That is why they call you Shame."
I don't think King Robert cared about those words, "Not like that. My not fighting you is not because of my lack of manhood. It is only because you do not deserve that honor. Your head will be cut off—just like your brother's. And I will enter this as a ritual for your family."
Robert raised his voice, his hand rising with it. "go! Seize him! And as I told you—do not kill him. I will only perform the rituals. If anyone kills him, He will follow him."
The men were approaching, not with steady steps, but hesitant and fearful. Meriel was not. He stood steadily, tired but wielding his sword with ease, and whoever approached, Meriel fought them, Meriel brought them to the ground. It was a joy to watch him fight all those men. But it was painful to realize that Meriel was finished. It didn't matter how many he brought down—ten or a hundred—more would keep coming until he fell Because of his exhaustion. And that's exactly what happened.
Meriel raised his sword. His arm was trembling with fatigue. He turned as someone approached. He pointed his sword toward Meriel's sword—a last, desperate movement—until the sword fell. And Meriel fell on his knees.
The soldiers gathered around him. They held him tightly. Their hands gripped his arms, his shoulders, his hair. They dragged him between the bodies and the blood while they shouted: "Cut off his head!"
It was a crushing victory for the Kingdom of Thornholl—with the help of the Kingdom of Valkryn. And a crushing defeat for Izzadar.
Thus ended the Battle of the Death-Rise.
Written by Ben the Golden Pen...
Ben set the pen down. His hand was trembling. He looked at the page—at the ink, at the words, at the story he had written. Then he closed the book.
He said quietly, "Now let us see what the next chapter holds."
He leaned back in his chair. The candle flickered. The darkness outside pressed against the windows.