past Glory

The sun beat down mercilessly on the fields, its harsh rays seeming to leech the energy from everything it touched. Garmond, a newcomer to the village, found himself working alongside the tired villagers, each of them toiling under the oppressive heat as part of the harvesters. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, barely able to believe the turn his life had taken.

*Who would've thought that I would one day hold a hoe in my hands?* Garmond mused bitterly. From the ruler of an entire kingdom to a mere harvester in a forgotten village—how the mighty had fallen. He smirked at the thought, knowing full well no one would believe him if he were to reveal his true identity.

Despite the backbreaking labor, Garmond worked diligently, his frail body managing to move quickly between the rows of crops. His mind, however, wasn't fully on his work. He couldn't help but glance at the villagers around him, their exhaustion etched deep into their faces, their bodies worn down from years of labor. Sweat dripped from their brows, their calloused hands moving mechanically as they filled the baskets with crops. 

Yet, there was a quiet resignation to it all, a dull acceptance of their fate. These people had been ground down by years of oppression, their spirits crushed under the weight of an empire that took everything and gave nothing in return.

Garmond's eyes lingered on one villager in particular: a young woman named Devine. She worked steadily, but every now and then, she would glance in his direction, her face lined with guilt. She had dragged him into this work, and it was clear she regretted it.

Nearby, Aamon, the village overseer, stalked between the rows like a predator. He was a burly man, thick-necked and heavy-set, his booming voice carrying across the fields as he barked orders at the villagers. "Move faster! We need every basket filled before sundown!" His whip cracked through the air, a constant reminder of the price of disobedience.

The villagers flinched at the sound, their already weary movements quickening under Aamon's watchful eye. They had been living under the empire's yoke for so long, treated no better than slaves, that the cracks in their spirits were visible. Year after year, they labored in the fields, and year after year, the empire took everything from them, leaving them with nothing but empty hands and hollow stomachs.

As the day wore on, the heat grew unbearable. The sun had reached its zenith, hanging high in the sky, its searing light sapping the strength from the villagers' already tired bodies. Garmond, too, began to feel the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him. But despite his weariness, his gaze caught on the frail, hunched figure of an elderly woman nearby. She struggled to keep up with the others, her hands trembling as she tried to lift her basket, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

Without a second thought, Garmond set down his own basket and approached her. "Here, let me help you," he said softly, his voice gentle amid the harshness of the overseer's shouts.

The old woman looked up at him, her eyes filled with gratitude. "Thank you, young man," she rasped, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips. 

Garmond nodded, quickly taking over the burden of her basket. Together, they worked side by side, Garmond moving with the energy of a man far younger than his years, though his body ached with the effort.

"Please, you can leave now," the old woman said after a time, her voice weak but insistent. "I can handle the rest myself."

Garmond hesitated. It pained him to see these people—*his* people—suffering like this. He had built this nation, shaped it with his own hands, only to see it wither under the rule of the Malians. But now, fate had brought him back, and he knew he couldn't walk away from the path that lay before him.

"I'll help a little longer," he said, his voice firm.

But their small moment of defiance did not go unnoticed. Aamon, the overseer, had been watching them from afar, his sharp eyes narrowing as he strode over to where they worked. His presence cast a dark shadow over them as he sneered down at Garmond.

"What's this? Slacking off, are we?" Aamon's voice was full of malice, his tone making it clear that he would tolerate no disobedience.

Garmond straightened, his eyes meeting Aamon's without fear. "I was only helping her. She's weary and needs rest," he said calmly, though his heart pounded in his chest.

Aamon's lip curled in disgust. "Rest? Rest is a luxury you peasants cannot afford!" He raised his whip, the leather coiling in his hand like a serpent ready to strike.

Instinctively, Garmond's mind raced. He imagined himself lunging forward, grabbing Aamon's wrist, twisting it until the whip fell useless to the ground. He could see it all so clearly—the bone-shattering blow he would deliver, the look of shock on Aamon's face. But the vision vanished as quickly as it had come. He wasn't that man anymore. The warrior he had been—the king he had been—was long gone.

The whip cracked through the air before Garmond could react, the sharp sting of leather slicing through the side of his tunic. Pain exploded across his side as the whip bit into his flesh, drawing blood. Garmond gritted his teeth, refusing to give Aamon the satisfaction of hearing him cry out.

"Get back to work," Aamon spat, his eyes glinting with cruel satisfaction. "And no more helping." With that, he turned on his heel and stormed off, leaving Garmond to nurse his fresh wound.

Devine, who had been watching from a distance, rushed over as soon as Aamon's back was turned. "Are you alright?" she asked breathlessly, her hands trembling as she knelt beside him. Without waiting for a reply, she tore a strip of cloth from her ragged dress and began to bind his wound.

"I'll survive," Garmond said through clenched teeth, though the pain in his side throbbed with every breath.

Devine's brow furrowed in concentration as she worked, her fingers deft despite the roughness of the cloth. Her touch was gentle, and Garmond couldn't help but feel a deep sense of gratitude toward her. In such a cruel world, kindness had become a rare thing, and yet here she was, offering him more than he could ever ask for.

"Thank you," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Devine met his gaze, her deep blue eyes filled with concern. "It's the least I could do. You helped that old woman... you didn't deserve that."

Garmond smiled faintly, though the pain tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Athena," he murmured, the name slipping from his lips before he could stop it.

"Who?" Devine asked, tilting her head in confusion.

Garmond quickly shook his head, his smile deepening. "No one. Just... someone I used to know."

Devine stared at him for a moment, but she didn't press him further. Her cheeks flushed slightly, though she couldn't say why, and she quickly turned her attention back to tying the bandage.

Across the field, Aamon watched the two of them with narrowed eyes. The blow he had delivered should have knocked the boy out cold, but Garmond had barely flinched. There was something strange about him—something Aamon couldn't quite place. 

"Let them be," Aamon muttered to one of the other overseers as they began to approach Garmond and Devine. "The boy's already injured. He won't be much use now."

As the sun began to set, casting a warm, orange glow over the fields, Aamon finally called an end to the day's labor. "Enough! You've done enough for today. Go back to your homes. We'll continue tomorrow."

The villagers shuffled away, their movements slow and tired. Garmond, still leaning on Devine for support, glanced over at Aamon one last time. The overseer's eyes lingered on him, cold and calculating.

Devine helped Garmond to his feet, her arm around his waist to support him. "Come on," she said softly. "Let's get you somewhere safe to rest."

As they began to make their way back toward the village, Trevor, Devine's brother, approached them with a scowl on his face. "Devine, we should head home."

Before she could respond, an old woman hobbled toward them—Garmond recognized her immediately. It was the same woman he had helped earlier. She carried something in her hands, offering it to him as she approached.

"Here," she said, her voice cracked and weak. "Take this, young man. I'm sorry for what happened to you, but please accept this as a token of my gratitude."

In her hands was a handful of fruit—small, but ripe and sweet. Garmond's breath caught in his throat as he saw the fruit, a rush of memories flooding back. He hadn't seen such fruit since before the empire's cruelty had taken hold.

"Thank you," Garmond said, his voice thick with emotion as he reached out to acc

ept the gift. It felt wrong to take it, but he couldn't refuse her kindness.