A Fallen Knight...

Fog curls out from beneath the gnarled tree roots and gently caresses the ground as it spreads forward to embrace the earth. Broken rays of sunlight trickle down through the cluttered branches to sparkle delicately in the gray cloud covering the ground. For a brief moment it seems as if all of the world has fallen into an enchanted slumber.  Then hoarse shout rises distantly from within the thicket of trees and is soon joined by a great number of screams. Birds burst dramatically into the air to blend their shrieking calls with the deathly din they are eagerly escaping. Wearily, a battered face turns towards the outburst with calculating eyes; wiping glistening beads of sweat from his face, Sir Leon motions to a waiting squire who refills his water-skin as the Knight strains to make out the sounds of battle.

“It’s the Seymour’s yellow coated brigands again, I reckon” a nearby soldier helpfully interjects to break the quiet reflection. The Knight nods as he returns “But whose men are they butchering now?” which causes everyone to fall silent again. The sounds of battle drift from the distant conflict for a few more minutes before slowly fading away into an eerie calm. Tilting his head back, Sir Leon looks up at the makeshift watch tower his men had completed just the previous night. A slight movement on the wooden construction and then a head peers over and makes eye contact with the Knight. “Can’t see diddly, Sir. No idea where they are, or how many there are.”

A muffled groan might have been heard as the Knight looks around at his remaining men. Keeping an outward appearance of calm, he nods solidly to those who manage to meet his eyes though he is inwardly raging. Curse whatever bloody fools light the entire grasslands on fire, he mentally shouts to himself. A pox and a curse and all of the boils of Satan’s torment burn their souls for eternity! We might have stood a chance until a prairie fire sets a beacon out to the whole world and conveniently blocks any line of sight or ability to watch or scout for movement. 17 ambushes in just two weeks, who ever heard of a Knight being caught unaware that often? A few nervous glances from his squires makes Sir Leon realize that his face was betraying his inner turmoil again, which he resolves by stiffly turning and making another round of their precarious encampment. Occupying himself by taking a quick internal roll call, the Knight is almost crushed by the realization he has only twelve men left. Twelve men out of a fierce seventy man regiment so widely respected that many fights stopped simply because they arrived.

The moment the fire became apparent, every House around rushed to wipe the other off the planet under the cover of the ash darkened skies. Finding soldiers in yellow and green was not surprising, as the Seymour and Gainesford Houses had already been encroaching on Dalison land. But mixed in with those bodies, not only had he found the reddish brown of his own Dalison House but also the light cyan of the Rodhale, and also the deeper red of House Andrews. Probably all Houses have a quick tongued gent on hand with the King to explain the “mistaken identity” or “accidental death” for any conflict that could actually be witnessed and proven in the King’s court. And nobody had heard word of that minor House that was poking around before the fire started. So much for their vaunted help that they offered, he snorts to himself, some rumors even have them as the reason that the fire started. I wish I knew what they really wanted and why they decided to wipe the Dalison House off the world.

Sudden alarm breaks into his thought process and he stiffens in shock as his mind frantically does a double take. “Alarm!” he barely manages to get out before the trees around him erupt into a flurry of weapons swinging at his face. I walked right past that guy and never realized he was just standing there in the shadows. Time has frozen for the briefest of moments as he rebels against accepting the sight in front of him. Not the Black! They never surround or take prisoners, just kill us all with no warning or reasoning. They aren’t from here, some say they are from Hell. Why must it be them, why can’t it be a House?

All these thoughts flit through Leon’s brain in a lightning fast moment before combat shuts down any further extraneous thoughts. Quickly twisting with the grace of years of practice, Leon flips his shield sideways and manages a quick bump against an incoming sword. Rotating his head in an awkward angle, he is barely able to catch a second thrust against the strong crest of his helm. Using the momentum of his twist, his right arm strains muscles in a painful movement but succeeds in clearing his sword from his scabbard and sending a darting thrust towards the black armored opponent.  Screams and shouts fill the air but sound seems compressed to the Knight as he focuses on pure survival.

A single lasting second hangs in time before the two blackened blades flicker frighteningly quick towards Leon. An efficient sidestep puts his shield once more right in the perfect path to blunt a sword strike, but this time his attempt to dodge is not quick enough and the second sword catches on his shoulder plates. Metal shrieks as a few chains snap beneath the weight of the blow and blood vessels burst in protest, however his skin does not break and the fight must continue. Moving into his blow, the Knight flings a quick side-hand slash that is easily dodged by his nimble opponent. Hard earned experience has prepared Leon for his tactic however and he manages to shuffle forward just a bit during the exchange.

The roar of blood pounds a drastic beat in his ears, drowning out the sounds of his men behind him. Knowing that they fought the black devils, Leon lets slip a brief snarl of despair and grief for his loyal men dying at this moment. Even a brief slip is too much against such spirited foes and a dark blade connects solidly against the side of his helmet and forces his eyes shut against the ringing. Dalison Knights are respected throughout the entire Kingdom for their training and old legends, and this one refuses to go down so easily. Gritting against the pain, the blind man relies entirely on instinct born of training and experience. Unconventionally swinging his sword low towards the dirt, he waits a heady and full microsecond before flicking his wrist upward with all of the strength that he has left in his battered body.

Bitter raging lust courses through his veins as the impact of steel upon heavy flash ripples through his muscles. A killing blow, he knows even though his eyes refuse to open. Elation and horror melt together inside his emotions as sweet droplets of blood course down his face. In his enlightened sense, Leon feels the presence of several bodies closing on his position. A snarl of pure determination rips through clenched teeth as he whirls and spins into the mass of bodies approaching him. Laughing the last laugh of a doomed man, he revels in the screams and grunts as his shield and blade clash and smash into his enemies. Unfeeling, unaware, he ignores everything around him and surrounds to the rage and anger and bliss of knowing there are no more cares.

A bright light seems to dance in his mind, guiding him through each step of this delicate and maddening dance. Oh Lord of Creation, I entrust myself to You. Take my last confession, feel my sins and absolve me. Let me dance with You this night and sup from Your cup. I dedicate this glorious moment to You, let my name live on in glory forever. And as this last prayer bubbles out of lips brimming with blood, his body finally loses its battle. With a slow and sweeping spin, he slowly buckles to his knees and then begins a glacial fall to the ground. One last breath breaks free of collapsing lungs and his eyes finally work again, giving him one last glance of his final battlefield.

As the world spins in on itself, his mind is already fleeing but has time to mark the positions of two black suits of armor crumpled at one corner of the field and another one a few feet down. From those bodies lead a set of bloody footprints in an erratic pattern through a broken pile of brown armored bodies. The last sight seared into the Knight’s eyes are the footprints ending directly beneath him.

A Setting Sun

As the sun slowly fades below the horizon, the air is filled with the terrible sounds of death. A black shroud slowly descends to cloak the blood soaked meadow where thousands of bodies lie in a chaotic tangle. Moans and groans are the only sounds audible from these bodies, though the myriad birds feasting upon still warm flesh assault the ears with a cacophony of raucous calls.

Staring blankly at the carnage from the edge of a once peaceful meadow, a haggard survivor struggles to keep his composure as his mind fails to process such horrible devastation. Slowly turning a slim profile to view the warriors resting behind him, he utters soft orders. “Teratha, let’s get the wounded moving and give Last Peace to those who can’t survive the trip.” Turning from the black haired priestess, he then addresses a wounded soldier resolutely standing at his side. “Lyet, we have to get back and tell the Emperor. He needs to know that all is lost and we must sound a retreat”. The soldier’s eyes widen at hearing that; he is not surprised by the fact as it a truth that they have all come to recognize, but he is more surprised at hearing his superior actually admit it out loud.

As the small band of wound soldiers slowly gathers themselves and prepares for an arduous trek, the leader turns one last look at the ghastly battlefield. “To think, the entire might of the Arkhold people will soon be spread amongst the carrion birds. May history never know the truth of this defeat.” With that he reaches down to pick up his equipment, a battered shield and a well-used battle-axe. A moment of reflection is spent gazing at these few pieces of metal that have so defined his entire adult life. No longer is his visage keenly reflected on the polished edges of the shield, nor does his axe bear the shimmering marks of the marvelous Adante metalworking. Instead they appear worn and torn, almost as if some ancient tribe had buried and lost these artifacts several centuries in the past. Realizing that his life now would be very different than it has been in the past, he actually drops the shield in the dirt and almost drops his axe before Lyet reaches over to stop him. “Hold, my lord Baratel,” mutters the young brunette, “We still have need of your strength in arms should we meet more barbarians on our trip to the Emperor.”

Baratel hearkens to the words of his junior officer, though he nearly demands to know what point there is in fighting the barbarians. Grudgingly, the small group forges onward through the branches of the forest and sets their sights to a distant point in the east. Hours blend into days and then weeks as they journey south, each day appearing to rise only to give them less reason to carry on. The air hangs heavy with smoke, laden with the horrifying stench of burnt flesh. Countless villages appear on the edge of the path they travel, but all are ransacked and destroyed; little remains of the vast Empire which once gracefully spread across the plains and mountains. Instead they face only reminders of their great failure, evidence that the time of the Arkhold Empire has come to a close. 

Gripping his battle-axe with bitter fierceness, Baratel mentally swears to protect the last remnant of his people until they can recover from this travesty and once again fill this world with true civilization. Gentle golden rays of sunlight caress his face for a last brief moment before the sun sets, almost as if abandoning the Arkholdian people entirely. As gloom settles, it matches the feeling in the heart of all civilization, and the question is left hanging against the flickering glower of the moon. “What will become of the Arkhold Empire and its people? Will history ever know that they existed?”

The Ending. Perhaps a beginning?

For all those who have asked, encouraged, prayed for, or otherwise supported my battle in the previous tale of the Paladin and Angel..(http://dwarventhoughts.blogspot.com/2012/05/beginning-is-it-also-ending.html)

Here is the next stage in the story, who can say if it is the last?

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The skies fade to black, night beckons into a sweet embrace. A single figure stands defiant against the cold wind sweeping down into the valley. Weariness causes strong shoulders to sag, and a ragged cough erupts from his throat. Huddling closer into his armor, the Paladin moves towards the warmth of the small campfire set before him.

His companion shuffles slightly in impatience, the tall and lanky youth has not yet learned the graceful and sure movement that his master desires to teach him. Time passes without communication as the wind howls in breathy rage and the cold seeps into the every bone. Hooded eyes peer out from under the cowl of the Paladin and search the darkness, but they appear dead to this world.

As the silence wears on, the impatience of youth defeats the fear of reprisals and soon the Squire clears his throat and breaks into the Paladins fierce contemplation. The same tired question floats in the night air, though this time the Paladin shivers against the chill of reality and decides to answer. Turning towards the Squire, the old Knight is illuminated by the flickering flames as he begins to recount an old tale of heartbreak and sorrow.

The gruff voice slowly and painstakingly describes the night that the Paladin met an Angel.  With stammering lips and forced explanations, he slowly describes the wild beating of his heart with her every kiss. Losing himself into memory, the Paladin recalls the brush of her fingers down his chest and how she gently kissed his ear to tease an excited groan from him. Remembering the rushed breathing as hands caressed, lips closed upon each other, as passion light the night sky with flames.

The crackle of the campfire lends a melody to the low tenor tones as the tale of the Angel continues on into the night. The Squire listens in rapt attention as a door opens in the heart of his master and new revelations pour forth.  Surprise shows on his face, as the story reveals emotions that the guarded knight has never before let be seen.  Yearning crosses the worn face of the Paladin as he tells his protégé about the laughter and joy he felt every single moment spent in the arms of the Angel; how resting with her cuddled tight in his arms made the world stand still and every worry vanish.

Such deep and powerful feelings stir within the breast of the youth that he nearly asks for the story to stop so that he can process what is happening. But he is entranced now and dare not break the spell that this recounting seems to have placed upon his master. Even as each description of the Angel and her beauty or love is graced upon the Squire, the Paladin seems to grow younger and the light in his eyes almost outshines the very stars themselves.

Then suddenly there is a hitch in the Paladin’s voice and it grows even gruffer. Now he tells the young companion that the Angel lived in two worlds. He tells of the nights laying on his back and watching the skies, forlornly hoping to see her grace his world and float down to join him. Softly now, the knight recounts searching for the Angel everywhere and finding a mystical portal that let him see into the other world. There he saw the Angel frolicking with another man who appeared only as a vague shape in the murky depths. He heard the twinkling of laughter in her voice and saw the radiance of her smile as she responded to a joke.

The wind no longer rages against the camp but instead slows to a quiet whisper, as if straining to hear the next words from the Paladin. Coarsely, he continues with the tale and explains how the Angel returned again in a few days and acted like nothing was different. Conversations from that fateful day seem to linger in the air; the melodic tones of the Angel as she admits to loving two worlds and not knowing what to do mingle with the broken queries of the armored knight trying to find his place in the universe. Confusion, anger, heartbreak, and sadness linger in the air as the two struggle to understand the twisting of Fate and decipher all possible futures.

A gentle whisper escapes the lips of the knight as he closes his eyes and empties out his heart in the telling of this story and recalls that fateful conversation. Passion still lights the very air between the Paladin and the Angel, as they mournfully gaze into each other’s eyes. Desire and longing make speaking difficult, and for a time they just meld together and try to forget what decisions must be faced in the morning.

A single tear tracks down the face of the Paladin as he reaches this part of his story; the Squire feels an answering tear begin to form in his own eye. Pushing himself forward, the Paladin stirs the campfire in silence for a while before again resuming his tale. Speaking of the last time that he saw the Angel, he calls to mind the memory of her radiant beauty. The luscious face now pale and hidden in shadow, streaked with the broken paths of tears that have cascaded down once rosy cheeks. The sparkle in her eyes has faded now, replaced only with a sad resolve. And thus the Paladin knows her decision before she even opens her mouth. Steeling his face to be as stiff and solid as he can be, the knight turns towards his forbidden Angel and gently traces a strong hand down her side while he looks straight into her shimmering eyes.  Only one question is asked, just to make sure that he was not misreading the situation. But she answers in the positive, giving a small nod of her head before turning away in tears once more. And then she was gone. 

Silence stretches out as time passes by with neither knight nor protégé noticing any change. Not even the impatience of youth can prompt the Squire to interrupt his master at this point, and so they both stare into the flickering light of the dying campfire. Shock still reverberates within the heart of the young man, as he could sense the depth of the love that the Paladin had felt and then lost. A low cough gets his attention and he turns back to his master and listens as the elderly knight tells him of the things that were attempted to capture the attention of the Angel again. The stories of the lonely nights staring into the sky and the words that alternated by softly whispered and fiercely screamed into the air. And while the Angel sometimes answered with words of sadness and understanding, they still echoed from another world and never from the world of the Paladin.

Dawn begins to break, as the sun slowly peeks over the horizon. Still the two companions sat besides the ashen remains of the campfire and stare into the distance, each one contemplating the matters of the heart. Slowly the Squire turns towards the older knight and forlornly asks just how the Paladin could handle such loss, and what he would do now. The Paladin lets loose a wry chuckle, tilting his head back to gaze up at the vanishing stars as he ponders how to respond. Then he lays a heavy hand upon the back of his young charge and gives him the lesson of life.

Cherish each moment, treasure every heartbeat. Bask in every bit of love you find, store it against the winter of desolation. Live life, enjoy life.  If the fear of pain stops you from looking, then you will never find peace or joy.

(Perhaps there is more than one Angel in this universe).

More than a Storm.

Steely gray eyes stare relentlessly across the void. Dark and full eyebrows furrowed as the man contemplated the unknowable questions of life. A slight twitch sets firm jaw muscles quivering as he turns slightly and glares down at the packed grass beneath his feet. His visage remains a mask for a few moments more, as certain thoughts rumble inside his head. A speck of gold briefly swims in the depths of his brown eyes before he closes his eyelids and emits a painful groan.

Resolutely, the man places one foot in front of the other and forces himself to walk forward a few paces, leaving his residence behind and stumbling into the open space for a brief moment. Dropping down to land upon a single bent knee, the man grimaces as he struggles to hold back his fears and even his tears. Flinging his head back as if to let loose a fierce yell, he is suddenly enchanted by the vision of the few moon above him, only slightly hidden by the clouds. But that very beauty soon begins to eat at him and the conflicted emotions crossing his face tells a tale to which not even a bard could do full justice.

Thoughts churning in his head, the man cannot even decide which thought to entertain, nor which emotion is truly suited. His low voiced growl of frustration is answered with a responding rumble of thunder and he briefly glances around before deciding that his inner storm is more important than any outside force.

"Do I love her?" rings in his head, demanding an answer that he can not seem to provide. The romantic idea of love pulls at him, but how can he know what is true when his emotions change every second. A fond memory of a moment with her surfaces and a slow smile steals across cracked lips. But then comes a harsh reminder of the truth in her actions and he growls in pure frustration. Sweet words seem to linger in the air, as conversations replay in his mind. Forcibly he reminds himself of the value as words, remembering the last kiss she shared with her as she chose a different path.

Anger pours through him now, though at himself and with no other target. "I swore that I knew better. Swore I was not going to let myself get hurt. I Swore that I could be just friends and not ask for anything more." A knotted fist pounds the dirt beside him and feels moist dirt cover his flesh. Surprised, the man opens his eyes and notices that rain has begun falling in a steady cadence. A wry chuckle echos in the air around him, as the realization strikes home that the weather is most appropriate to his current situation.

With that realization, it is as if a dam bursts within him and suddenly he can not hold back. Fire burns through his blood as he feels the heat of passion again, feels the touch of her skin and hears the pearling tones of her laughter. Raindrops land upon his skin and hiss away in steam as his body reacts to the recollection of her caress. A bolt of lightning rips across the night sky, splitting the world asunder in exactly the same moment as pain and loss fills the heart of the man. Screaming out against the dark of night, he feels again the hurt burning inside when he saw her in the arms of another man. Rage pours forth from him now, though he held it in then. "Remember, you had no claim. She was his and not yours, what right do you have to be angry".

His own words seem to slap him across the face and he stumbles for a moment, recognizing the pang of jealousy in the last flickers of the lightning leaping between clouds. Truth settles in his soul as he remembers those last fateful moments. He told her to choose, told her that there can only be one world in her life. Told her that he would accept whatever she chose and walk that path happily. But his tears coursing down his face begin to mix with the heavy raindrops that are hurtling down around him. "It would never work, there is much wrong. She doesn't even know me" he tells himself in a mumbled exertion. And just as he begins to feel a moment of comfort in that, suddenly he recalls the sparkle in her eyes as they share a moment just gazing at each other. Nothing else exists when she looks at him like that, the entire world stands still.

Stumbling to his feet against the wind and rain, the man stares forlornly into a night which he can no longer see. Every second that he breaths comes another emotion. Deep down, he knows that the past is the past and what has ended will not begin again. Practical thoughts seem to have little hold at this moment though, as another lightning bolt crackles down to shatter the tree next to him. Bowing his head for a moment, he breathes deeply to calm his thoughts. When he raises his eyes again, the fire in his eyes is reflected by the burning branches twisting against the thunderstorm. At last his emotions begin to fade, replaced by the soft patter of a healing rain. Once again, he places one foot in front of the other and continues along his journey. A gentle breeze caresses his face and gently tugs at his lips until he graces the world with a brief smile. Perhaps there is hope for the future after all. As the storm inside ends, the world outside no longer looks so grim.

The Decision: To be a Squire or a Knight

This is for H.A.

He requested a story and some advice that deals with how to approach the realization that you made a mistake and turned away someone for whom you had real feelings. I hope you enjoy and feel free to comment.

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The squire stares into space, eyes open but unseeing.

The gentle cry of a hawk sounds in the distance, but even that majestic sound fails to leave an impression. The world spins upon its axis, and yet still the squire stares. Searching forward in time, seeking answers to questions he is not even able to properly form. In all of his musing, no escape from the past presents itself and now the present demands attention. Closing his eyes tight, he remembers the infamous words that he can never seem to retract. He really did tell her that "I don't really love you like that".

A frustrated huff escapes the lips of the brooding squire, as he leans back against the tree he has taken refuge in. At one point, he was the epitome of confidence. Always knew what he wanted and where he was going, strode briskly forward and took life by the horns. Smooth and assured, it seems like nothing would ever go wrong. But now, now how can he go on? How can he face tomorrow when the memory of yesterday flashes before his eyes seemingly every second. He was sure he knew what he wanted, that he was never meant to settle down or tie himself to just one place. He was going to be a Knight! A champion whom all would admire, surely he would be sought after and never have to worry about companionship.

Dark furrows creased the brow of the squire, in complete contrast to the peaceful stillness of the meadow around him. Within his mind, a mental storm raged with utmost ferocity. Questions forming and dashed aside, emotions roiling but not addressed. How had things gotten this way, what had so complicated his life now? It was one simple sight, and yet he can never forget it or block it out. How dare he be so upset, so torn and lovesick, when he was the one who told her to move on. And yet nothing else matters but the repeating image of her full lips firmly locked upon those of another man.

One thought beats a tune in his mind until finally he can focus upon it. Does he really care that deeply for her, or is it just the fact that she has found comfort in the arms of another that has so upset him? A discomforting thought for sure, he slowly muses while clenching his armored fists against each other. His training has taught him to be calm and slow in his reactions, to judge the situation and determine outcomes before moving. And yet every time that he comes back to considering this problem before him, it is as if nothing else matters. The simple fact that he wants to see her, hold her, kiss her again has completely distracted him from all other worries. Even his weapons lie beside him in disarray, no longer able to keep his mind away from these pestering questions.

As a lonely cloud drifts across the pale blue sky, the squire feels a determination building up within him. These feelings can not be false, how deep they are and how much they have affected him. Something must surely be true here. Slowly his internal storm resides and he grows steadier, his eyes beginning to glow again as he realizes that he again has confidence. Now instead of regretting what is lost, he ponders how to address his errors and regain the rhythm to his heartbeat. How do you take back words that can never be retracted, how do you heal a pain that one should experience in the first place. No wizard stood before the squire with an easy answer or a magical wand to wave. His mentors and Knights taught him the art of battle and combat, not of navigating the powerful currents known as love.

Pulling himself onto one knee, the squire plants his sword into the dirt and leans upon the hilt. Surely there must be an answer, a recourse to address this terrible tragedy. Chivalry would not allow for the most direct means of simply marching into her presence, grabbing her close, and telling her that he was wrong. Besides, how could she possibly believe or listen to him if he did that? It would look like the arrogant action of one who is jealous and believes he has a claim. No, this path must be slowly trod and carefully measured. If the feelings beating within his chest were true and as deep as he considered them, then they would be his guidance. He must harken back to the times of yore, realized what she cared for and prove that he truly listened and cared about the things that she cares about. To prove that he truly cares about her.

Muscles rippling beneath him, the squire steadily rises and strides forward. No true answer has yet presented itself, but he is determined that he will not give up without a fight. A Knight shall not be known for moping around wondering what might have been, and so this squire has decided to act like a Knight even before receiving his spurs. He must tell her of his feelings, this is obvious. But only if he truly cares and has paid attention to the beat of her heart does he have a chance. If he cared only for her attention and not truly for her, then it would be best to turn away now and mold himself to be the Knight of the future. In his heart beats the truth, the truth of his decision.

As the squire disappears into the gathering dusk, a question lingers. How does someone prove that their love is true, that the words of the past where a mistake, that there is a future together? The soft twitter of birds as they come to rest in the tree branches illuminate an answer. Slow down and stick to the true beat of the heart, take the time to show a true interest, communicate, be open and honest. No excuses uttered to hide painful admissions, but only words of truth backed by honest actions of caring. And then the strength to accept the response and bear it like a true Knight.