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By Kenneth Lawson
Time knows all.
There was a time when the walls that surrounded the remains of the window kept the rain and wind out. But that was centuries ago.
Now all that remained was a collection of stones and weeds and a few trees that were too stubborn to die in the cold wind and rain coming across the great bulk of an island in the north sea.
But he came back every year. He had to.
Every year, no matter where he was, or what he was doing, he stopped in the middle of September. Hopped a flight and spent days, sometimes a couple of weeks, traveling from one end of the planet to his home. Or what remained of his home.
There he would get lodging in the old inn in the nearest colony for a week. Once every day he would make the long dangerous trek to the remains. There he would say a silent prayer to his ancestors.
Once done, he would return to his world.
This was the 200th year he had made the trek to the dark side of the world. He was getting tired and he couldn’t take the travel like he did when he was much younger. The last few years he’d barely made it. It crossed his mind this could be his last year.
For over 200 years he had returned to the land and building of his ancient ancestors. To pay tribute to them and honor their lives and the difference they had made in their world.
But alas he had no heirs to pass the stories on to. No son. No daughter. Nor even a nephew that might understand the powers he had once had.
He stood on the hill overlooking the great seas. Seas he had once ruled and sailed in mighty ships that commanded respect and fear. Now only a small fishing boat that barely brought any fish back was all that was left of the grand harbors and buildings that had once stood where the small remains now stood.
He knew buried in the mounds of rocks and stones was his story. And he felt it was now time for him to join them.
He had come to the end of his time.
One last time he prayed to his Gods and honored his history and their memories. Slowly the last Keeper of the Stories made his way to the sea. Overlooking the cliffs.
He reveled in the cold wind that nearly blew him over. Not yet.
Not until he was ready.
He recited an ancient prayer as he let the wind carry him over the edge. The last thing he remembered was the sky opening up as if to welcome him home.
Please follow Kenneth on his blog: http://kennethlawson.weebly.com/fantasy/tribute