The following story/essay came to me this morning and I wrote it in about 15 minutes. I don’t write fiction very well and I don’t know what came over me, and probably there are historical discrepancies. It was as if some other entity was using my hands to type.

I am unable to judge it. Probably y’all are going to say it’s good, because you don’t want to hurt my feelings. I am asking you to be brutal. Thankee kindly. Xx, Teal

P.S. I don’t know why I wrote a story with a medieval theme. Ordinarily I avoid these movies like the plague.

When I slew my enemy, I adopted his infant son as my own and raised him to be one of us.

When he came of age and learned about his past, he withdrew to a distant shore and bethought to reclaim his true identity. But he loved me as his father and so he did nothing for seven years.

One day he came to me. He had grown to full manhood, had learned the ways of the world beyond our land, had lain with women, had married and fathered a son. He had gone to battle with the kin of his father, been victorious and gained lands. My quarrel with his people had long since been forgotten, but my foster son could not let it rest.
So it was that he wished to exact a measure of justice from me. But, wise though he had become, he had not learned to forgive and forget. So it was that he chose to fight me so as to avenge his father.

I did not wish to fight him, for I saw him as a son, ‘though he was not of my loins. When I saw that he would not be dissuaded, I made ready for battle. But when we met on the field, each mounted, armed with our lances and broad swords, I was prepared to die rather than harm him. I did not defend myself. He unseated me, and standing over me on the field, prepared to pierce my armor with his lance.

At that moment, my wife, who had nurtured him and prayed for us both, ran to us. Standing between us, she implored him to be merciful. So it was that he left me there, wounded but not dead, and returned to his homeland.

I am now old and ill and pining for the sight of him. My wife, ever faithful and also longing to see the son she had raised as her own, sent a courier to beg him to come to us one last time.

The days pass and I grow weaker. There is no word, our courier has not returned and I fear for his life.
One day, as I lie gazing out my window, I see a hawk circling our castle. Eventually he comes to rest on the sill by my bed. He sits there a while, then flies away. Every day for 7 days the hawk visits me at bedside and watches me.

I begin to think the hawk has come from the land past dying and is preparing to take me with him.

I resign myself to the end, and a tear escapes my eye for the wrongs I have done in life, for the love from my son I did not deserve, for the anguish of my wife, who could not bear children of her own.

On the 7th day of the hawk, my son appears at the entry to my chamber. He comes to my side and sits without a word. Our eyes meet, he takes my hand. I am finally at peace. The hawk waits for my son to say goodbye.