Dear Peter,

I am writing this letter to you because of your wishes. You have asked me to explain to you of when I was the age you are now, and I will fulfill that request.

When I was the age of seventeen, The Brethren had started to be taken captive and hurt for information by a secretive group of Deadmen. We were dispersed across the lands, your grandparents and I ending up where you are now, in Vathailor, from Bacrosia. The day this began was soon dubbed The Incarceration.

Around three years later, a man by the name of Silven rose to power in Vathailor. The group of Deadmen had settled down for a while, but they still were taking members of The Brethren captive throughout the year. Silven seemed to be a good man, always respecting his people, until all the power he had received infected his heart, leaving him a cold soul. He began to persecute people of The Brethren and take them away, killing them without their families knowing. This is how your grandfather died, and why your grandmother will never converse with any townspeople, for most of them are Deadmen. The only people who were able to join his army were those who were of Vathailorian backgrounds, and whom did not believe in Mirianth. Therefore, I was not eligible at the time to fight for my land. The Brethren had begun to call Silven, Lucifer, for they believed he was the true spawn of the devil.

Twenty years later, when I was the age of forty, the Bacrosians had gotten tired of Silven's ridiculous actions and had murdered him in his sleep at five forty-three that morning, the exact time when you were born. I had met your mother ten years before, and we were happily married. Three years after our marriage, your eldest sister was born, and a year after her came your brother. Your mother had wanted more children, and she often pleaded to Mirianth that he would grant her one more son. She had waited six years for you, and she had given up hope by then. Yet, a year after she gave up hope, you were born. You were a miracle child son.

Today I write to you from the tent that I have been confined to because of my injuries. Do not worry son, for they are not fatal. I bid you well on this day of your birth we celebrate once more, and I hope that the festival goes well, for today is also  the anniversary of Silven's death. Have hope and live long, my son.'

Sincerely,
Your loving father

-=-

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