Medieval Writing (Mis)Adventures - The last Bard

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The Echo of the Will

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Kila had lost one of his eyes when he was just a child,

But it wasn’t the world he stopped seeing—

It was his destiny that seemed lost.

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Years later, he opened an old yellowed letter

Left behind by his grandfather.

And the silent voice of the past

Echoed with words that shook him to his core:

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“My dear grandson Kila,

One day, if you ever feel voiceless, spiritless, alone,

Remember—the heart of our people is in our language.

Speak our faith. Sing our songs. Keep our manis alive.

Revive what was lost with your voice,

And make the silent speak with your melody.

Because you are the last bard of our blood.”

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Kila said nothing after reading those words.

He simply placed his hand on his chest.

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And the next morning,

With an old bag on his back

And his grandfather’s decaying saz around his neck,

He turned his one eye to the east.

He began walking toward the mountain.

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The Judgment of Melody

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When Kila stood at the foot of the mountain,

The sky was gray and the earth was still.

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He took out an old flute

And gently pressed it to his lips.

A melody poured into the arms of the wind—

The story of a mountain,

The cry of a people,

The prayer of a bard.

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Then he brought out his saz.

As his fingers touched the strings,

Even the wind seemed to shiver.

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Those who heard him came down from the hills—

Women, elders, children.

They all gathered around Kila.

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Their hearts trembled with his melody—

Some cried,

Some knelt.

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But envy burned in the hearts of some village bards.

Kila’s voice had captured emotions

They had failed to express for years.

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Blinded by jealousy,

They went to the king and said,

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“This man stole our songs.”

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By the king’s command,

Kila was brought to the palace.

He stood in silence within stone walls,

His gaze lowered.

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Before the king could speak,

A young bard stepped forward.

He looked at Kila—

And began to hum a melody.

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Everyone in the hall fell silent.

That sound…

It was the tune they had heard from Kila’s flute.

But the young bard sang it differently—

With new words, his own tongue,

Yet faithful to its soul.

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The king slowly rose from his throne.

He looked directly at Kila and said:

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“Melodies are the heart of the people…

And the heart of the people cannot be stolen.”

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Then he walked between the two bards,

Took the young bard’s hand, and Kila’s—

And placed them together.

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“Today, no song was stolen.

A song was reborn.

And a people heard themselves again.”

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Kila’s eyes welled with tears.

His grandfather’s words echoed once more:

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“You are the last bard of our blood.”

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The king turned to the court:

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“Your voice was an echo from the past,” he said to Kila.

“And his was the answer that reaches into the future.

Both of you carry the soul of this land.”

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And at that moment,

Within the palace’s stone walls,

A new melody began to rise.

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Two bards,

One melody, two voices—

Played together in harmony.

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The last Bard

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