I am home. At least, that is what I tell myself as I cross the threshold of Bancross once more. The familiar sight of the village should feel comforting, but there is a weight in the air, subtle, yet unmistakable. The land has changed, or perhaps it is I who has changed. The streets are a little busier, the buildings a little taller, but there is no denying the quiet stillness that lingers here. Perhaps that is what makes it home.
A year has passed since I left for Dunland, a year spent among the windswept hills and desolate moors. I can feel the wear in my bones, wounds that never fully healed, both from the land and the constant strain of the work. My hair is graying faster than it should, and my steps are slower, hesitant. The weight of my past, it seems, refuses to let me go.
Still, there is peace here. A peace that is hard-earned, carved into the land by my own hands. The work of farming and carpentry has become my refuge, a rhythm I have come to trust. The earth is kind in its demands, and the wood, well, it is patient. I shape it with my hands and watch it grow into something new, something useful. Perhaps that is the way it should be, building something from nothing, just as I have tried to rebuild myself.
Yet the peace is not without its burdens. The whispers have begun. Young men, eager for skill and glory, have started to find their way to my door. They have heard of my swordsmanship, though I never considered myself more than a scout. A swift blade, they say, like the elves. I am no legend, nor was I ever meant to be. But there is truth in their words; I moved with a grace that few have seen, a rhythm that was once as natural to me as breathing. It is harder now, and I find myself teaching them not the flash of the blade, but the weight it carries.
They come seeking a master of arms, but what I give them is not what they expect. I do not teach them to fight for glory or honor, but to understand the cost of it. The sword is not an ornament; it is a burden. And I, too, have borne that weight, heavily at times. Each swing, each strike, left something behind. Pieces of myself that I may never fully reclaim.
The days are quiet now, but I do not forget Dunland. The winds, the cold, the endless barren lands. There is peace in Bancross, but it is a different kind of peace, a hard-won one. Not the soft stillness of a forest or the calm of Lothlórien, but a peace born from the earth itself. It feels like a rest I have earned, though not without its own price.
The fire crackles softly as I sit by it, my thoughts drifting to those days long past, when I was younger and the blade was sharper. But even now, as my fingers ache and my body feels older than it should, I find comfort in the simplicity of this life. The sword hangs above the hearth, a quiet reminder of what I was, and what I am now. I may be tired, but I am home.
The young men come and go, seeking to learn the ways of the sword. Perhaps they do not yet understand that the lessons I offer are not just of the body, but of the spirit. There is wisdom in every scar, every bruise, and I will teach them that. The sword is a tool, yes, but it is also a story. My story. One that is far from over.
And so, I sit here, in the quiet of Bancross, and I wonder if the peace I have found will last. I have come home, but there are some parts of me that will always remain in Dunland. In the winds, in the dust, in the long nights when the stars above seemed so distant. But here, among the earth and the wood, I find my rest. And for now, that is enough.
