St. Isreal

*这篇写给我在缅甸认识的美国朋友Mike。我答应告诉他这个ID的故事。


I have to admit that the word Lyndol came from nowhere. I made it up. Although I’ve written a long story to tell about the man named Lyndol, the name itself has no meaning.
 
Lyndol was the lawful seccussor of the lord of the city Isreal (not Israel, please attention). In his early childhood his uncle Lydroy in a coupe killed his father and made him exile. Perhaps out of Lydroy’s pity, he survived as a sailor without changing his name, until he was 15. After that, he disappeared from vision for a couple of years, and came back, wandered around Isreal, the Gorgeous City, since a time point nobody could accurately tell, notorious for making his living on prostitutes. He was handsome enough to do that easily, and perhaps because of that Lydroy apparently no longer saw him a threat.
 
There wasn’t any change in his life until he was 26. Then he met Mavria. She might have some Gypsy blood, a witch, or an artist to put another way, and was drawing a purple Phoenix on a white cloth which is extremingly clean without even a spot of dirt.
 
That phoenix landed on the flag of Lyndol’s army 3 years later. Lyndol left Isreal very soon. He headed west to City Anderson, met Havred, who with him went down to Kingdom Lair to create their troop under the agreement of Havred’s sharing the revenue of the war but never entering City Isreal. Lyndol should lead his men into Isreal himself, to fulfill his oath of marrying his girl as the City Lord.
 
After the long campaign he returned to Isreal. At the night before the final attack, he and Havred rided out of the camp together to shed a glance at the city wall. They would part at the moment when success was destined, as they have promised. Lyndol talked no more than cool summer night weather, but Havred already realized Lyndol had made some decision. Normally he had no interest in understanding Lyndol’s mind but he could for the most of time guessed out his following move. He’s the best counterpart in the turbulent era one could ever had.
 
He was not at all surprised when Lyndol gave him the last message on the battlefield the day after. Lyndol was then riding too far from his soldiers, with only Havred following, toward the rain of arrows pouring down from the giant city wall. He stared back, directly at Havred’s eyes, with the face the same as when they were wandering in the southern land, singing rhythmless songs of the striders of the vast plain.
Finally Lyndol took off his hamlet with a smile.
 
Next second Lyndol’s shooting-star-like eyes was extinguished by an accurate arrow. It penetrated deep in his head and froze his smiling lips.
 
Havred didn’t let his friend’s body embrace the earth. He as lightening came up, wrapped Lyndol in the purple phoenix flag. Havred was so fast, the field was too messy, and they both were riding too far in front, that Lyndol’s men didn’t know anything about their captain’s death.
 
In minutes Havred occupied the city gate. He took over Lyndol’s famous sword Shadilia, Lyndol’s hamlet, and Lyndol’s name. As well as Lyndol’s oath. Havred, now Lyndol, returned to Isreal to be the lord, where he spent his remaining life without taking off the hamlet in front of anyone who knew Lyndol’s face.
 
What about the part of Lyndol’s oath that he was to marry his girl? Havred didn’t need to care any more. Mavria was burnt upon a cross, on the very peak of pyre, as a witch who had been tolerated long enough by the sympathetic citizens. That was several days before the final attack.
 
One thing has to be cleared that Lyndol didn’t choose to die because of Mavria’s end. He knew nothing about Mavria ever since he left. He didn’t know whether she was waiting for him. He didn’t even ask for a promise. He never cared. Lyndol was purely an idealist, sewing a dream but never brave enough to see it realize. It had been long time since he knew Mavria was no more than ordinary. He knew too much about vanishing love turning a goddess dim grey. Finally he would no longer distinguish her from any human being, including all the princesses and prostitues he met on the road. Lyndol could not endure the life afterwards, with oath fulfilled and no more space left for a dream.
 
I made Lyndol’s story certainly out of my own past, but it has been decorated so much that even a closest friend could not see similarities between Lyndol’s story and mine. However I totally understand him. I knew the mania when he first met Mavria, I knew how his heart is beating desperately at his last moment of life. Also, the will that oaths must be fulfilled, dreams never be repented, and the understanding that oaths and dreams conflict fundamentally and could not ever compromise.
 
Anyway. I’m really glad it is merely a story of past.