Yes, quarreled. After our "discussions," half the camp scattered. But the more we argued, the better we understood each other. Maybe enmity is love ashamed to admit itself?
Urben laughed quietly—not from joy, but bitter wisdom:
— Internal conflicts destroy the collective. Common unity—the only path to liberation.
Old man's words hung like a spell. I felt something shift in understanding. Maybe Esten de Stalvart not enemy, but just a man seeing world from different angle?
— I'll heed your words. Thanks for advice.
Leaving tent, I looked back. Father and son stood side by side—one passing baton, other preparing to take. Scene had biblical solemnity and bitter prose of life.
There it is, life—flowers from all fields. Beautiful and prickly, tender and poisonous, growing together. And you never know which you'll pick next.
Ahead waited road to Esten de Stalvart—to man I considered foe, but who might prove ally. In such times, line between friends and enemies thin as sword's edge.
Horse under me shifted impatiently—animals don't like philosophizing. For them simple: there's road—must ride. Maybe that's their wisdom?
I touched reins and rode on, carrying weight of news and strange hope. Because even in dark times something light remains—people's ability to find each other despite disagreements and hurts.
Flowers from all fields—maybe that's the beauty? That they're different but grow on one earth under one sky.