584 Reads | Published over 5 years ago
When I was younger, just a child really, my mother used to take me walking near the stone giants. Just after tea she’d trundle me up in my shoes and hat. My older brother, Frederick, would be left to clear the table while I, I got to be the sole recipient of my mother’s attention and love for a precious hour or so.
I adored those times. During those walks, she’d tell me stories while she sketched the stone faces. In the beginning, I imagine they were mostly to keep me from wandering too far off. To keep me by her side while she worked and likely to keep my chattering to a controllable level. She’d fill the air with tales of her own childhood, or her cousin Louisa who I’d never meet, or the Battenberg Pig and his antics.
All happy stories. All fit to entertain a wild and curious mind.
However, that all changed the year I turned eight.
That was the year she began telling me about the towering Anghenfil, vast powerful beings who used to stride across our land so very long ago. She told me how they, through magics unspeakable, came to dominate and control the very fabric of reality. How their rule had been a cruel one. And how, one brave young man named Tam, had risked everything to venture deep into their stronghold and steal a wisp of their power.
It was only a wisp, but it was strong enough to slow the Anghenfil to stillness, until they seemed not to move at all. And, it was also strong enough to imprison them deep in the ground, to lock them away from the surface they’d so long ravaged.
But, it was not strong enough to keep them there.
Which was why we walked the path every day.
Why my mother took so much effort to mark just how much of those stony lips were showing, and just how far the angle of that head had turned.
To see them. To watch them.
And it is why my children, and their children, and their children’s children will do the exact same thing, on and on until the Anghenfil have lifted themselves from the earth completely.
Until it is time to run.
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