Salt and Stories

“I came this far south looking for him. He left when I was so young. The army took him, like so many others. It became normal where I grew up. Every other family had a member conscripted. Guess we were just lucky he went south into the salt wars rather than… than…”

“The wars in the archipelago weren’t any less brutal than down here. They were just reported on more.”

“Still though, you’re the farmer. Everyone in the small settlements around here knows you. Told me to find you. Said you were an ex-soldier.”

“Ha! What else did they tell you about me.”

“Said you were eccentric, and a bit annoying. But your corn is good. And…”

“And?”

“They said you know my father, knew my father?”

“Are you asking me if I knew him. Or if I know where he is?”

“Both, I guess. I just, I hoped that someone would know. This search has been long, and winter is coming. I just want to know if he is still out there. His death was never confirmed. Just tell me. What, what happened out there?”

And there was my quandary. The salt wars were brutal. They changed people. Do I tell this young man to give up hope? Return to his home in the north? Or do I spin a tale of heroism and glory? A tale he could imprint on, one he could see his father in?

Or do I just tell him the truth?

So, what could I do, if not sigh.

“Very well,” I said. “But remember, this knowledge will not bring you peace.”

“I just want to find him. I’ll worry about peace afterwards.”

…

The southern front was brutal. Constant raids from orcish tribes, while we dealt with poor conditions and low rations.

Nothing could grow down there, so there wasn’t even any meat to catch. I’d never seen anything like it. When I arrived, much like all the others, we would go to this hill just a short walk from the camp. On a clear day, you could see the whole cracked coast in all its terrifying glory.

Shining white beaches as far as the eye could see. Light bouncing off the salt like a swarm of fireflies. Strange, seeing something so valuable be so abundant.

The empire needs salt for everything. With the ever-expanding war in the west, they needed more and more explosive powder. Preserved rations for ships. Supplies just to keep us going.

They made it very clear: if we failed, if the mining ever stopped, our food would stop too.

…

“I… I never knew.”

“No one did, really.” Where is this boy from? Eldara, maybe. Only imperial-approved news there, no doubt.

“But you were fighting orcs. That’s what the papers said.”

“Hmm. Their motivations may have been… altered slightly.”

…

The papers spun a tale of greedy orcs demanding imperial land back. But no. The truth was far simpler.

The cracked coast is sacred to many of the tribes, as are many of the southern territories. For years they tolerated the empire’s presence. Land shared, peace held.

But when the mining began, when the empire tore down vast acres of forest, that was one step too far.

…

“Yes, yes. Fine! I didn’t expect some scandalous truth for the tabloids. Just tell me. What happened to my father?”

I had delayed long enough.

…

Your father arrived fresh-faced. He spent much of his time on that hill, sketching the coast. Telling the other men half-remembered bits of history. And of course, talking about his family.

He told me about you. Said he had great plans. Said you could become anything you wanted to be.

But time passed, as it always does. The tents grew muddier. The food more tasteless. The war began to feel more like a prison than a battlefield.

We dug trenches, miles of them. Salted earth that sometimes turned to sludge, burying anyone unlucky enough to be stationed there. Rotting timbers, splinters everywhere.

Our job became a cycle. Dig a trench to defend the mine, then move when the mine moved. Dig again.

Days bled into weeks. There was no way out. Except death.

Eventually, people stopped talking about their old lives. About where they came from or where they wanted to go. They focused only on staying alive.

And then one day, an orcish raid came through. The spotters missed them. They breached the trench but couldn’t push further.

So, they took the injured. Prisoners of war.

Including me.

And your father.

…

“You were imprisoned by the orcs, and you survived?”

“I told you. They are not savages. They wanted peace. Their land. Their rights respected.”

“But my father… he…”

I watched him piece it together.

“My father is still alive?”

…

Orc captivity felt like luxury after the trenches. We were prisoners, yes, but we didn’t have to fight.

They hunted deep in the mountains. Real meat, for the first time in months. Not something salted and sealed in a barrel.

In time, we felt less like prisoners and more like guests. We saw the war for what it was, pointless. The will to fight simply… left us.

We made friends among the tribe. And when the war ended, many chose to stay.

…

“Stay? You mean, stay with the orcs?”

“Yes.”

“So, it’s true. Back in Eldara they called him a traitor.”

“He is no traitor.”

“Then what is he?”

“A lost man who fell in love. Who found a new family.”

“Love? With, with one of the orcs?”

“Yes. When the war ended, he couldn’t leave her.”

“This whole journey, this whole search, a waste of time! I should’ve listened to the fools back home!”

“Sometimes,” I said gently, “we don’t find what we’re looking for. But we find something better instead.”

“Better? What’s better?”

…

“And that’s the story of how I met your half-brother.”

“Whaaat? That’s it? Boring!”

“Ha! The boring part was him returning to the empire to confirm your father’s death.”

“But… Dada isn’t dead?”

“Indeed, child. But that’s a story for another day. Run along now.”

“I’m barely even late!”

“Run along,” I chuckle. “Before your father tells me off. Again.”

“Ergh! That’s stupid! You’re leaving town tomorrow!”

“Ha! Maybe I am. But all I have are my stories. And any story with a happy ending is worth telling.”