Tears Of The Aeon: The Gothic War by R. F. PINA


In the crucible of history, where the flames of empires clash, and the destinies of civilizations are forged, there exists a chapter often overlooked—a tale obscured by the dust of ages. It is a saga of untamed lands, ancient conflicts, and beings whose destinies were bound to the cosmic threads of gods and mortals alike.

Within the shadows of the Roman Empire, during the fateful year of 376 AD, a narrative unfolded that would echo through the corridors of time, leaving behind a legacy woven with threads of love, war, and the supernatural. Tears of The Aeon: The Gothic War unravels against the setting of a world grappling with the chaos of an impending conflict between the mighty Roman Empire and the desperate Visigoths led by the enigmatic Chieftain Fritigern. Faced with the dual threats of the Roman legions and the merciless Huns, Fritigern makes a desperate plea to Emperor Valens for sanctuary within the borders of the empire. This plea sets in motion a series of events destined to reshape the fate of nations.

A warrior, blessed with strength and abilities that defy the laws of men, embarks on a journey marked by love, and destined to attract the gaze of gods. Bound by an inexplicable connection, he finds himself entangled with a young Gothic woman from the Taifali Tribe, their union becoming a focal point for the unfolding cosmic drama. As the gods themselves take notice, the stage is set for the initiation of the end of the world.

Tears of The Aeon invites you to traverse the realms of history and myth, where the fates of empires and the whims of divine beings converge in a tale of love, war, and the enduring echoes of an age-long past. In the shadows of forgotten forests, where the tears of the Aeon fall like rain, the Gothic War awaits its chronicler.

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Excerpt from Tears Of The Aeon: The Gothic War © Copyright 2024 R. F. PINA


Cherry pie was what he ate on that very morrow, breaking his fast the same way he did a fortnight ago. Goat milk with honey and a portion of cherry pie – a hot, sweet, and tender combination. The taste reminded him of his youth and his dear mother. He loved her more than any riches and plunders he had obtained throughout the years. Although he did not exactly remember how young he was when the gods took her from him, he did know that a long time had passed.

Now, her face was a shadow in his mind, a distant ghost that always skulked about in times like this. He had attempted to remember her face clearly, but somehow, it remained hidden in the shades of his thoughts, in the deepest parts of his being, where he always remained a boy aged ten. He acknowledged this was what time did to memories. He missed her greatly, and perhaps it was why he preferred cherry pie over any other dessert. He felt a sentiment of closure to his mother when the pastry vanished upon his tongue. Even when her existence was only a mere thought—the taste of cherry pie always brought her back from the dead!

He glanced at a marble bust perched upon a plinth in the corridor of his home in Italy. The white statue bared an eerie resemblance to him, staring back with eyes blank as death, as if the marble wished to speak back to him, to tell him of his follies. Dressed in a purple toga proper for the Roman senate, he stood in silence for a few moments.

His gaze found the wall of his home, and upon it hung a circular mirror with his reflection. Immediately, he became conscious of the wrinkle lines that had taken over his façade and the absence of hair that had left a crescent impression upon his head like the moon suspended in the night sky at night. It was the same moon he remembered conquering Gaul six years before. To him, it felt like yesterday when he walked its verdant fields, escorted by two Roman legionaries alongside a line of frightened Gallic slaves chained to their ankles and wrists. They stood in a line that stretched far beyond the eyes could see. As a clever ruler, he had the tendency to examine each slave for any corporal abnormality, and when he could not find any deformity, he gave them his blessings.

One morrow, walking beside the vast line of slaves, the General noticed a wizened old man. He was scrawny, frail, barefoot, only donning a filthy loincloth that covered his manhood and skin filled with all sorts of blotches. He smelled of piss and shit, and his blue eyes burned like sapphires once bathed under the orange rays of the morrow sun. The old man’s long, shiny, silvery hair drowned his face. He appeared as old as the mountains but not as firm. It seemed as if death was about to come for him at any moment.