There comes a time when one begins to consider if what they have done in life is enough to call it fulfilling. I have travelled around the world seeking adventure after adventure to bring an end to my ceaseless boredom. Journeying across kingdoms, meeting new people, fighting old enemies, hunting wild beasts, and sleeping underneath the stars in open fields all made me feel as if I found something I was missing for a long, long time. But it was never fulfilling. Whenever an adventure came to an end, that satisfaction disappeared and my restlessness returned, so I would go out in search of finding that thrill that entranced me for the first time so many years ago. I miss the days when I was young and full of vigor that could drive me on towards a wonder.

But age has a habit of bringing an end to all your plans out of nowhere. Even the most cautious and prepared people still scream in fright when they see the first few wrinkles scar their face and the single white hair dangling from their head. Everyone knows it is coming but no one is ever ready for it. The truth is, it has always been by our side ever since we were screaming wet babes. Age is a small and simple parasite that slowly drains us of our zeal, and yet we blind ourselves to its presence believing it to be harmless. Oh, but I can tell you that every person, deep down, loathes this pesky parasite for robbing us of our prime!

Only now in my decrepit state do I see the strange yet unique quality to this parasite: After it has finished taking from you it gives something back. Strange right?! It almost feels as if the parasite feels guilty about its own nature, and wishes to remedy itself. 

Only now when my ending days grow nearer do I see this, and now while I write this do I understand why. Once it takes away your youth, vigor, and curiosity it gives wisdom, insight, and enlightenment in return.

You see, for most of my life I was searching for the thrill of adventure, trying to recreate that feeling I felt on my first. But once all that came to an end I started to lament on the thought of being a lazy old man. How foolish of me. I tried to hold onto the very thing that was already taken away. I even tried to go on another adventure which resulted in a sore knee that would keep me stuck at home. It was then that the realisation dawned upon me, and in that futile moment I turned to writing.

Now, ironically, every story I tell makes me want to write another as if I’m once again searching to recreate that one amazing feeling. Little did I know that I was avoiding the one story that could give me my release; my very first story. The one that started it all.

I have no idea why my subconscious would steer me away from the majesty of my first journey from home. Perhaps, deep down, I fear reliving my days of youth? No, it cannot be that. I just fear everything coming to an end. I fear sharing my first tale and it leaving my mind forever to be adopted by jesters and shadows. But I know I must do this to bring peace to both myself and the living memories trapped within the labyrinth of my mind. They want to be told but I fear that if I give them what they want, I will never be able to see them again, and they will disappear under the dust of the stars. I fear the words I give it will be not enough to give it justice. So many fears keeping me from going beyond this point. 

If I tell this story I just know that it will become legend which will later become myth and then finally become a forgotten tale. Just like any fable used to bewitch children at night. So here I am presented with two options: Selfishly keep the story to myself and live my final days reliving it over and over again, or I can share it with everyone knowing that it will turn into an instrument of envy and conceit. If you’re reading this it obviously means I opted for the latter. Why? Well simply because I’m old and have nothing better to do.

So here is the tale of my first adventure, a tale about magic and swords, a Tale of the Elements.