Chapter 4

In the aftermath of the bandit raid, the village of Mayor Windmen fell into a somber silence, the cries of battle replaced by the mournful sounds of the injured and the weary. Endwar, his clothes torn and his body aching, stood beside his father, his gaze fixed on the retreating figures of the defeated raiders.

The young Windmen boy felt a mix of emotions – relief that his home and his people had been spared the worst of the devastation, but also a deep sense of disappointment and resignation. For even as the villagers began the solemn task of tending to the wounded and assessing the damage, Endwar's eyes were drawn to the motionless form of Drunkole, still slumped against the overturned wagon.

Mayor Windmen, his weathered face etched with a mixture of pride and concern, placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "You fought bravely today, Endwar," he said, his voice low and steady. "The entire village owes you a debt of gratitude."

Endwar nodded, his expression solemn. "I only did what I felt was necessary to protect our home," he replied. "But what of Drunkole? I had the chance to rouse him, to bring him into the fight, and yet I chose to leave him be."

The Mayor's brow furrowed, and he followed his son's gaze to where the old drunkard lay. "Ah, yes, Drunkole," he murmured, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. "I had hoped that even in the midst of such peril, the old fool might find the strength to rise and defend his own."

Endwar felt a pang of regret, his jaw tightening as he recalled the countless times he had tried to reason with Drunkole, to no avail. "I tried, Father," he said, his voice tinged with frustration. "I tried to make him see the importance of our work, of our civic duty. But he refused to listen, lost in his own selfish indulgences."

The Mayor nodded slowly, his eyes filled with a deep, almost sorrowful understanding. "I know, my son," he said, placing a reassuring hand on Endwar's arm. "Drunkole has long been a thorn in the side of this community, a living embodiment of the very vices we have worked so hard to overcome."

Endwar looked up at his father, his brow furrowed. "Then why, Father? Why do we tolerate such a man in our midst? Why not cast him out, or see that he is cared for elsewhere?"

The Mayor's gaze grew distant, his expression pensive. "Because, Endwar," he said slowly, "Drunkole's story is a cautionary tale, one that serves as a stark reminder of the consequences of forsaking the virtues that sustain our way of life."

Endwar listened intently as his father continued, his words imbued with a deep sense of wisdom and experience.

"You see, my son, Drunkole was once a respected member of this community, a hard-working man who took pride in his labors and contributed to the greater good. But over time, he allowed his vices to consume him, until the lure of the bottle and the allure of idle indulgence became too powerful to resist."

The Mayor paused, his gaze drifting once more to Drunkole's prone form. "And now, here he lies, a cautionary tale for all to see – a man who squandered his potential, who turned his back on the very values that make this village strong."

Endwar felt a chill run down his spine as he listened, the weight of his father's words settling heavily upon him. "Then what is to be done with him?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The Mayor turned to face his son, his expression resolute. "His fate is not for us to decide, Endwar," he said firmly. "Rather, it is the lesson of his story that we must now embrace and pass on to future generations."

Endwar's eyes widened with understanding, and he nodded slowly. "You mean to use Drunkole's tale as a warning," he said, "a testament to the importance of industry, civic responsibility, and the virtues that sustain our community."

"Precisely," the Mayor replied, a hint of pride in his voice. "For if we can learn from Drunkole's mistakes, if we can impress upon our children the dangers of sloth and selfishness, then perhaps his life will not have been wasted entirely."

Endwar felt a renewed sense of purpose, his shoulders squaring with determination. "Then I will tell his story, Father," he said, his voice resolute. "I will ensure that the lesson of Drunkole's fate is not forgotten, that it serves as a guiding light for all who would seek to uphold the values that make our village strong."

The Mayor smiled, placing a hand on Endwar's shoulder. "I had no doubt you would, my son," he said, his voice filled with pride. "For you, Endwar Windmen, are the embodiment of all that is good and right in this community. And your story, coupled with Drunkole's cautionary tale, will become the foundation upon which the next generation will build their own legacies of industry and virtue."

As the sun began to set over the battered but resilient village, Endwar knew that the events of this day would forever be seared into the collective memory of his people. And with a deep sense of responsibility, he vowed to ensure that the lesson of Drunkole's fate would continue to inspire and guide his fellow villagers, reminding them all of the true meaning of a life well-lived.

When anyone asked Endwar about the story, he would tell them " That old man? Ha..he died by laziness"