“Last few months, my love,” a deep voice said. Weariness shaped each word, but love filled them and an absolute unyielding vow defined them.
A woman with grey hair pinned into a bun, reached out a wrinkled hand and placed it on the ivory shirt covering the broad chest of the man that had spoken. She smiled, accentuating the creases around her mouth and the lines around her warm hazel eyes.
“You will not know what to do with yourself.”
Adam Jameson, Commander of Fort Stalwart, snorted and then turned away as a tickle in his chest provoked a series of dry coughs.
His wife held up a woollen rich burgundy overcoat.
“Make sure you keep it buttoned.”
Adam rolled his eyes.
The woman raised her eyebrows.
He smiled and took the coat from her, then leant forward and kissed her cheek.
“For forty years, Jane, you have only had to put up with me for six months of the year. You sure you want me to retire?”
Jane gave a pursed lip smile and patted her husband’s chest.
“Let’s see how we go.”
It was Adam’s turn to raise his eyebrows.
His wife chuckled. She waved her hand at him.
“Off with you.”
Adam pulled on his overcoat, and with a glance at Jane buttoned it. He lifted a worn and cracked leather bandolier laying on the kitchen table and slung it over his shoulder. Several small, scarred sealed containers hung from it and dangled across his chest. He walked to the door, grasped the barrel of a matchlock arquebus leaning against the door frame, then turned back to his wife.
“See you in the spring.”
Jane walked to him and wrapped her arms around his body.
“See you in the spring,” she said and kissed him on the lips.
Adam opened the door and left his home for the last time.
The world was dark as he saddled his horse, pulled on a weathered three-cornered tricorne hat and took the road out of Brookfield.
The commander passed first the village church, then the mill and then there was only farmland. He stared at The Kafifi Ranges rising in the distance. Farms dwindled closer to the mountains as the land became rocky and barren. The ground then rose steeply, splitting into separate peaks. Mountain pines and snow grew thicker as the ground climbed higher.
Adam yawned and dragged tired eyes closer to home, to the swiftly flowing brook in the west and the large open dark fields that surrounded him and from which the village got its name. He gazed at the empty fields he passed. Wheat and barley had just been sown and would grow through the winter. They would be thriving when he returned, ready to be harvested in early summer.
It’s always so stark when I leave, he thought. It’s like the land knows my heart. He closed his eyes and imagined the lakes of gold that would welcome him home.
Ah, what a sight that will be.
He kicked his horse into a trot.
The sun rose as he rode, though thick grey clouds smothered most of the light. A light scatter of rain wet the ground and dripped from the leaves of walnuts and pines as he turned onto the wide stone path leading up into the mountains.
The trees grew thicker as the path wound higher, birds calling from their thick branches and hares running between their trunks. Rounding a bend, the trees parted and Adam paused to take in the view. Farmland, lakes, woodland and villages stretched to the outskirts of Southcastle where they were replaced by factories, warehouses and ever denser housing until the capital’s inner city walls rose to hold them back. The commander pulled a cloth-wrapped chunk of bread from a saddlebag, washing it down with a mouthful of water from a tin canteen as he stared at distant conical towers peering over the crenellated walls. His eyes moved to the fortified palace beyond as he resealed his canteen and then refastened it to his saddle. His right hand rose to his head in salute, then he kicked his horse into motion once again.
The rain fell heavier. Adam hunched his shoulders and pulled the front point of his hat a little further down. A vision of the golden fields that would greet him on his return filled his mind.
What a sight.