The rain had just begun to fall over the field of battle. Far below the grey clouds lay a vast field, laced with low hills and small stands of trees.
The knight's hair hung lank with sweat as he dispatched his most recent foe. His once burnished armour was now battered and streaked with blood and grime. Around him the battle raged on, neither side showing any mercy and neither side with any thoughts of surrender. Casting his eyes skywards the man murmured a quick prayer for the solider he had just slain and he advanced forwards, once more seeking an enemy.
Markus was of average size and clean shaven although his long black hair was matted with blood. His grey eyes moved ceaselessly as he advanced through the bodies of the dead and dying, passing between the knots of men who still fought. His armour proclaimed his allegiance, the iconic suns on each shoulder and then the elaborate decorations adorning his breastplate marked him as a middling level knight in the Solarium knighthood. The Solarium Knighthood. The name meant that the knighthood was an canopy which covered all of the knights as they stood to defend the light.
A few feet ahead another knight howled and fell as an axe bit into his side. As the knight fell his assailant was revealed. A brutish monstrosity of a man, this soldier was massive, his great axe easily matching Markus's height. Seeing Markus the soldier grinned around his thick red beard and bashed his hand against his chest in a mock salute, holding the axe easily in his second hand. Markus brought his own blade up to his temple in a more formal response.
Without warning the solider sprang into action, swinging the axe towards Markus's midriff. Markus stepped fluidly to the side and after the axe had sailed through he sliced at the man's arm. There was a screech as the blade slid along the soldier's armour. With a growl the soldier retaliated, throwing a quick punch at Markus's unarmoured head. Once more he simply sidestepped the blow and again he retaliated, this time aiming a backhand slash at the man's head. Lightning quick the soldier blocked the blow with the haft of his axe. As Markus withdrew his blade the soldier chopped at Markus's leg, hoping to catch him off balance. Markus leapt backwards, scrambling to avoid the heavy axe. The soldier staggered as the axe sailed by the knight and Markus seized his advantage. Stepping in close he drove the blade up into the soldier's belly. They froze for a moment as the axe fell from the soldier's fingers. Slowly the man slumped to the ground, shock painted across his features. Coolly Markus cleaned his blade on the soldier’s cloak.
Carefully looking around Markus left the fallen soldier. Without a backwards glance he moved off into the battle to find another to dispatch. This day was far from done.
To Watch the Storm
There is dampness in the air; the wind that blows against your face is cool and damp. A sharp scent reaches your nose and you inhale deeply. It's the smell that comes before the rain, tainted with the heavy scent of brine and the sea. You lift one hand over your shoulder, your arm straight and palm flat against the sky. Your eyes rise to the skies, and you stare far off towards the distant horizon. A gathering storm fills the empty air above the sea, thunder cracks and lightning flashes, providing brief illumination for the rocky cliff on which you stand.
Sparse grass pokes out from between the rocks. It’s almost funny. Funny that even here on these windswept cliffs tufts of grass can still survive.
Far below your feet the waves crash against the cold stone lining the base of the cliffs. Each consecutive wave produces a torrential roar as it pounds against the jagged rocks.
That’s fine; it doesn’t really fit your mood. Instead the sound seems to compliment it. It seems calming.
The storm grows closer as you stand watch. The heavy rain pounds the rolling surface of the water. Thunder claps again and your breath catches in your throat. The power the storm shows is staggering, yet you show no fear as it sweeps towards you. Today you have chosen to stand witness to the storms fury.
Soon enough the storm surrounds you, yet still you remain out on the cliff. You stand steadfast as the elements rage around you, but still you feel no fear. Chilled water sprays against your bare arms; the gusts muss your hair. Lightning falls all around and the force of the wind threatens to push you off the cliffs edge, yet still inexplicitly you remain. Your eyes close against the biting droplets and you listen as the winds howl around you, shrieking their piercing cries.
Soon though the storm passes and you are left dripping and cold, but elated at the same time. You faced the storm. You endured.
A half remembered question lingers on the edge of your mind. You focus and along with the face of the one who asked it the question comes to you. The circumstances were different then… but the meaning was the same.
Is this what it means to live?
An icy feeling brings you out of your musings and you return your attention to the surrounding world.
Beads of chilled water slide down your arm leaving glistening trails on your skin. After a long arduous journey the droplets come to rest in your palm. The colour of the glinting water catches your eye. The pooled water within your cupped hand seems to be tinted differently than water usually is. The colour of the water seems wrong.
Your eyes widen as you stare at the droplets on your hand and you glance up at the sky. You close your eyes and take a deep breath; steeling yourself before you look back at your hand.
Those rain drops… no. Impossible. How could the water have a rosy tint?
Trapped
Her eyes were wide with fear as she huddled under the desk trying to make sense of the situation. All she knew was that she had woken up in a plainly furnished grey room tucked neatly into a white and blue sheeted bed, with no knowledge of how she had gotten there or memory of her past life. After she had overheard voices outside discussing how they were to "keep her in the dark this time" she had surprised the guard outside the door and escaped out into the facility. That was several hours ago. Now she was on the run with no memory other than her escape. Well one other memory stuck in her mind, she remembered a name; Maria. This she assumed was her name, but she had no way to be sure.
Blood pounded in her ears and she frantically struggled to stifle her heavy breathing as three people ran by the desk; she could see their clean black shoes flash in and out of sight as their owners ran between the desks filling the room. The shoes passed out of sight but she held her breath until the sounds of their running faded away.
What was happening? The one question followed her where ever she went, but searching her memory provided no answers.
After several deep breaths she cautiously begins to climb out from under the desk. A voice speaking softly from somewhere behind the desk drew her up short and sent her diving, quietly, back under the solid wood.
"Why haven't you found her yet Carl?" spoke a soft commanding voice.
"We are looking, Mrs. Marok," responded a stately, colder voice, "She is proving to be quite skilled at eluding detection, let alone capture."
Maria pressed her cheek against the soft carpet and tried to see the pair in charge between the desks, tables and chairs cluttering the room. She was rewarded with a brief glimpse of a pair of feet, adorned by the common footwear of the facility, at the far end of the room.
"That's not good enough Carl," Said the woman dryly yet firmly, "She is a threat. We need her recaptured or eliminated."
"Of course, we already have guards stationed at the entrances, but we think…" The man's voice faded as the speakers left the room.
Maria remained frozen even after the voices had faded. The other woman's last words echoed in her ears and filled her thoughts. They needed her recaptured or eliminated.
Uh oh.
It was several minutes before Maria could gather herself enough to roll out from under the desk and begin to move once more. Time seemed to fly by as she rushed through the facility searching for a way out. Occasionally she had to find cover as a group of searchers rushed by but for the most part she was alone. She thought the building was immense and endless and her suspicion of this was only strengthened by how infrequently the searchers rushed by.
After a time she came across a narrow hallway lined with mirrors, at its end was a neon exit sign. Beneath it the door stood ajar.
This seemed too easy. The door was just ahead of her and unguarded but she couldn't help but to think that this was too simple, could she really just walk out of here or was this a trap? It didn't help that the hallway seemed familiar. After a quick look around, to ensure she was still alone, she stared into a mirror as she thought on her choice. Back out of the mirror stared her own dark eyes, her walnut heart shaped face framed by black hair. Her lips narrowed in thought and then released as she made a choice.
Hesitantly Maria walked down the hall; reaching the door without incident she cautiously poked her head into the room. The room was plain, simply furnished, but the grey walls had sunlight painted across them. The light was coming from around a corner in the room. Hope filled her, was it possible that she was in an entryway? Entering the room and turning the corner she found the source of the light. A narrow locked window set in the wall above a white and blue sheeted bed. She was back where she had started.
As she realized this she heard the door slam behind her and a key turn in the lock. She'd somehow got turned around and now she was locked in. Somehow they’d known she would end up back around the room so they’d planted the fake sign. How had they known?
In the end it didn’t matter, she was trapped in the room. Again.
The Storyteller: Ghosts
"It was autumn, leaves were changing colours, harvest was beginning and it was growing colder. One day Katrina was out on a walk, heading to one place or another after work. Katrina was young, often dreaming of a better time, a better life. Like so many other young people she dreamed of the future."
"What is future?" called a child's voice from the back of the dark room.
The old man in front of the single fire illuminating the crowded room paused in his narration. Rubbing at his eyes with his weathered hands he spoke, his voice was slow and soothing as he answered, it almost felt ancient, "The future is what is to come young one."
There is a stirring in the room as the children in the room shift positions and begin to whisper. The Storyteller waits calmly, taking advantage of their distraction to take a drink from the tall glass mug sitting at his side. The dark liquid contained within swirls in the depth of the mug as he replaces it at his side. Around the edge of the room adults and older teens hush the children. As silence falls the Storyteller nods and continues the narrative.
"There was a long lane lined with great trees which could lead to anyplace in town. Some called it the main road despite the fact that that another road nearby already held that name. Others called it barrow way. There was some argument as to where the name came from; some said it was called barrow way because of the many farmers who in years past had pushed wheel barrows down the road, wheel barrows filled with food to sell at the morning market. The rest said that the name had a more sinister nature. They said that there had once been an ancient burial ground somewhere along the road. A barrow if you will. They said that the road was haunted and they refused to walk the road unless it was broad daylight, and even then they were cautious, careful. Katrina knew these stories, but she was unafraid. She had walked this road many times before and she'd never seen a ghost."
"What is a ghost?" asked a young girl sitting at the fire side.
"A ghost is the spirit of a person remaining on the earth long after that person's body is gone."
Her eyes widen and she falls silent.
"Mommy says that ghosts aren't real," says a young boy sitting to the Storyteller's left.
"Does she now? What do you say?"
"I don't know," says the boy, confusion in his eyes.
"Who can really say whether or not they are real?" asks the Storyteller, "I can tell you though that as long as someone believes in ghosts then ghosts exist."
The room falls silent once more as the Storyteller resumes his narration.
"Today the road was empty other than Katrina herself; although this was uncommon it was not unheard of as many inhabitants of the town and surrounding farms did avoid the road. This suited Katrina just fine. She enjoyed the peace and quiet of the empty road as she walked."
The Storyteller pauses to wet his lips with another drink from the mug at his side.
"The walk was pleasant; even though winter was quickly approaching the weather was still mild. The winds that flowed around her and the heat from the sun were warm, although the sky was cloudy so often the sun was hidden. It was when the sun passed behind a cloud that she noticed him."
"Notice who?" called out another voice from behind the fire.
"I'm getting there. Patience. Katrina first noticed him by the side of the road; he was sitting, his back resting against a large rock. His clothing was tattered, in many places his clothing and skin were marked with what looked like dried blood. Katrina hesitated at this sight and then moved around the man in a wide arc, trying to get a better look without approaching him. The man's eyes opened as her shoes crunched through the gravel. Slowly he looked up and Katrina froze, watching him carefully to see what he did next. His cracked lips open and he spoke one word. Help. Katrina was gone in a flash, running to town to find the doctor."
The storyteller pauses to take another drink, his audience is rapt, their attention fully on his words.
"Soon enough she returned with the doctor and several others from town in tow. The sun was by then out from behind a cloud and so the road was well lit. Katrina stopped as the rock came into view. The man was no longer there. The doctor asks where is he? Katrina shrugs and points to where he had lain. The doctor sighs and then gestures to the others from the village, they spread out and quickly disappear from view as they begin to search the area surrounding the road. Katrina slumped to the ground nearby the stone and waits, trying to catch her breath. The warmth on her face fades as the sun passes behind a cloud. She jumped as a voice spoke right in front of her. Help me it says. She looked up and there is the man, once more leaning up against the rock, clothing tattered and marked with blood. The man smoothly rose to his feet and walked off down the road. Katrina leaped to her feet but before she could call back the searchers the sunlight pierced through the clouds and the man again faded from sight. Shocked Katrina continued to stare down the road. A thought occurred to her and she glanced up towards the sun but all the clouds seemed to have gone past. As the others returned and she turned to leave words are carried to her on the wind. Help me. She shivered as she walked away."
The old man drains his mug and rises to leave.
"It's said that when the sun is hidden he still wanders lonely roads searching, ever searching, for the one that he lost."
Without a backwards glance he leaves the room amidst silence.
Lost Journey: The War
"Do you understand now?" asks the man, his face craggy and unforgiving in the half light of the room.
Mouth agape I slowly nod. Something had finally clicked in the last rotation and the meaning behind the memories had become clear.
“Responsibility,” I murmur.
That's what the man had wanted me to see in the memories of the cross and the car and the memories of the captain and his soldiers.
"Good," says the man slowly, a smile flickering across his face, "That is progress."
Turning away from you he steps out of the lights, after a moment I hear his voice speaking behind my back, another voice replies. I try to turn around to get a glimpse of the other speaker but the chair is too restricting. With a grimace I settle down and wait for the man to once more enter my line of sight.
It doesn't take him long to return.
"Alright, since you understand we can continue. This time we're are going to play one memory for you, while you are in that memory you will only remember the memories and experiences of the individual whom you are joining as you relive the memory. Make sense?"
I open my jaws to respond that no it does not make sense but he leaves no time for me to answer.
"Good, we shall continue then. Best of luck to you," With that he gestures to someone behind me, and moving in close he whispers something for my ears only, "Let’s get this done quicker this time."
He pats me on the shoulder and backs out of the light. I close my eyes. Through my eyelids I see a bright flash of light.
Opening my eyes I find myself walking down a beach, I've been walking along this narrow stretch of sand for several days now, following up on a lead from a local village. Many years ago my son left for war. His mother had died the year before he left, taken by a plague that had swept our village. He'd felt that he had no reason left to stay in the village. So he left. When he never returned I left to look for him.
My cloak flapped in the briny wind but I paid it no mind. After a while one came to ignore the chilled, damp air. I eased the bow and quiver strapped to my back, readjusting their positions as I continued to walk. Something cracks in the wind up ahead; the sound came from just over a nearby dune. I quietly draw the bow and, nocking an arrow in the string, I climb up the dune.
The beach in front of me is littered with bodies. The only movement come from a tattered banner attached to the end of a spear sticking up out of the ground, the banner snaps as the wind grabs hold of it, creating the cracking sound that I'd heard before. My eyes widen at the sheer number of unclaimed bodies. Bodies that had been left to rot on the beach.
Carefully I walk down the dune and choosing a body I kneel down. This soldier took a belly wound and then, by the blood on the sand around the soldier, bled out. A tear slides down my face. This war is such a waste of life. This soldier, this boy, was someone's child, perhaps they were out there somewhere searching for their lost son.
Just like I was.
If they were, their trail could someday lead them here to this beach, where they could discover the truth. Their son was dead. If decay had claimed his body by that time then they may never know.
I can only hope that my story will be different, that my son is still alive.
Pushing these thoughts aside I reach out and rest my trembling hand on the soldier's forehead. I close my eyes as I close his staring orbs.
I wander the field for a while, searching for that one familiar face and I breathe a breath of relief as I look down at the last body. My son is not here.
My time spent searching the battlefield had not been a waste though. I'd noticed two very important facts. This battle had been less than a week ago by the condition of the bodies, and the soldiers here were all wearing the same colours as the army my son had joined. One way or another I was getting close.
Turning away from the beach I move inland. I had to find some of the locals. I had to find out which direction the army had gone after this battle.
I was getting close.
The nearby ground starts to glow; I notice this but don't react. The glow grows, soon it is blinding. I blink against the light.
As my eyelids slide up I realize that I'm no longer on the beach. Once more I find myself sitting in a chair in a dark room. The memory of the battle scene is already beginning to fade.
"Do you understand? Relax this is real," It's the man again; "I need you to tell me if you understand."
Uncomprehending I stare at him, what could he have wanted me to see in that memory?
"Very well," he says. His tone betrays his dissatisfaction. Raising his eyes from mine he calls out to someone behind me, "Start it again."
The lights grow again. I close my eyes against the intense glare and when I open them I find myself walking down a beach; I've been walking along this narrow stretch of sand for several days now, following up on a lead from a local village. Many years ago my son left for war…