Banners unfurled in every regal color. I had not seen such pageantry since the war, since those banners waved over the bloody field of Adruin, and the foes of man took another bite before being rousted. They flee into the mountains and their caves once we wake ourselves to battle, but we sleep. We sleep, and they come. They come and take their bite. A child goes missing. A road becomes dangerous. A village is sacked. Then the hue and cry, the speeches, the press gangs, and off to war.
But today, the banners waved for a new purpose. The king was a father; the queen delivered. We had a future again, the same old future. Would this prince grow up as I? As most? Would his brother disappear someday? Would his playmates get picked off here and there. Would he one day go out into the castle’s walled garden, as I once wandered alone by the stream, and find the leftovers? Find the face, half the face, of someone he loved?
Would his blood be hot or cold?
But the voice of bitterness dies in my soul. I cannot help but love the fluttering banners and colors, the laughter and feasting. I hobble along to the banquet, feeling the bite in my leg ache as my mouth waters.
Tale Told 