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apieters · 2 years

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From my interviews with High Shepherd Yan:

Peter the Marshal? Of course I knew him! And oh, how I miss him to this day.

Many years have gone by, and I am no longer the little boy of 12 or 13 that I was when I met him—as you can plainly see. I see nothing plainly anymore, not in front of these dim old eyes. But I still see him, plain as day. “He is more real to me than you are,” I still remember an old master saying once, or something to that effect. I understand him now—would that Peter had gotten the chance…

The Kingdom of Heimar remembers well the great warrior-prince, charging dismounted with his men, his greatsword Dragonsbane in hand. The Lord of the Isles, they called him by right of birth; the Marshal of Heimar he became at Torin’s proclamation; the Lion’s Cub, they call him in some of the ballads—he was never fond of bards and troubadours, but never seemed to mind that particular moniker. Everyone remembers the stern, strong warrior, the man who exercised the authority of a king, with his auburn beard and red-gold hair, girded in dented armor and a tattered surcoat, ready to lead the charge at the decisive moment of a battle, with Dragonsbane whistling through the air, ready to cleave its way to victory.

But that is not the face I see now. No, before my mind’s eye I see a round-faced youth, with smooth cheeks and shaggy red-gold hair, his shoulders broad from hammering at a smith’s anvil, armored only in a heavy leather apron. I remember his tattered old plaid that he wore in defiance of the bans whenever he could, the pride and the gravity that came over him when he placed his lordly circlet of red gold upon his brow.

He didn’t smile much then, for then he had little to smile about. When I first met him, it was perhaps the darkest point in his life—seven years he and Torin had hidden themselves as itinerant laborers, wandering all over Heimar to remain unrecognized and undetected by Tiberian and his spies after the cowardly assassination of Peter’s father, Claas Perseyn, the Red Lion. We mustn’t be too harsh when we judge him in that era—the sole survivor of an ancient and noble lineage, living in fear for his life everyday, unable to mourn the death of the one who meant the world to him. What is truly the miracle—and he and I later thanked Torin every day for this—is that when I met him, he had any human compassion left at all.

And yet, after I had been kidnapped from my home in Pushta and taken north to Alpan, there to be sold as a slave in the mines, it was Peter who noticed me crying on the auction block. It was Peter who bartered away a precious dragonsteel blade—worth twice its weight in gold, if one was a miser and a cheat—that he had forged in secret in order to buy back our lives. I only latter learned the great danger he exposed himself to, for only the Lords of the Isles could forge such blades, and in trading such a blade would have alerted anyone with any sense that the Red Lion’s cub was still alive. Fortunately, the slaver’s avarice outweighed his common sense, and he sold us all to Peter on the spot—and Peter freed us right then and there, in front of the slaver’s face.

Like all slaves, I was stripped to the waist (so that the slave drivers could flog us at a moment’s notice), even in the winter. After freeing me, Peter singled me out and wrapped his plaid around me and lead me to his smithy to warm up. He did not show me any other particular affection, and certainly did not smile. Yet we have a saying here in Heimar—perhaps you have a similar saying in your distant land—which says, “The heart lies in the hands.” Some foolish minstrels say that the eyes are the window to the heart, or other such nonsense. They are wrong. A man’s heart is revealed by what he does with his hands, not with his eyes or his tongue. Peter’s face betrayed nothing to me that cold late winter’s day of the noble character that made him almost a king later in life. His tongue, dare I say, was gruff and harsh. But his hands—his hands were gentle and tender, the hands of a father or a skillful craftsman.

And so he proved to be.

#heimar #peterthemarshal #Peter the marshal #portrait #bust portrait #lord of the isles #the marshal

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qscvgyum · 3 years

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Esquiro, an amazing artist herself

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