Times Forgotten (Post Three)

Alec realized that he was more nervous now than he had been in a very long time.  Numerous battles had come and gone, his life dangling on a wire many-a-time, and still they could not match the tension that had seeped into him now.  He had to remind himself to breath, slowly and evenly, or else he would never be able to react in time should something actually happen.  He glanced back off into the darkness.  Now is not the time to forget his training.

Alec returned his gaze forward, only it was no longer what had been there before.  Instead he found himself looking back into the trees where that darkness waited.  He shuddered and closed his eyes but when he opened them, nothing had changed.  Then he realized that the horse was gone.  Baldrik was no longer beside him on the bench.  Instead it was just him, alone, surrounded by ancient trees and looking straight into the darkness now looming ahead.  A darkness that was now seemingly alive and creeping forward.

He tried to call out, but his voice failed him.  In fact, his entire body was rooted to the spot.  His sword sat in his lap, hand on the pommel, but he could will nothing to move.  Instead he sat, transfixed on the now smoke-like shadows.  Tendrils twined and snaked, disturbed by an unfelt breeze, as they wormed their way forward.  A subtle hiss could be heard as dropped pine needles scattered in the passing.

Suddenly it was cold, colder than any winter storm Alec had felt.  His breath puffed unsteadily in the chill but his brow continued to bead sweat.  His fingers twitched uselessly over his sword.  Still the smoke rolled forward.  He could smell it now, like stale air trapped for far too long.  His vision began to blur as his eyes watered from the cold.

Soon it stopped, a smoky wall swirling no more than an arm's length from where Alec sat frozen in his seat.  His past rolled through his head.  He thought of all the times that he should have been dead, all the wounds that he had taken in the service of his king.  It stung him that, after it was all said and done, he should leave this world in such a helpless state.  His teeth gritted as he stared the darkness down.  The least he could do was look death in the face.

Suddenly, many hands shot out of the smoke like snakes.  Grey, peeling skin rasped like leaves as their long, spindly fingers grabbed at Alec, pulling him off his seat and hoisting him into the air.  A strange face slowly rose from the smoke, gaunt skin was pulled tight over too-high cheekbones and a long, narrow chin.  Silver teeth glistened from under parched lips, and shriveled lids hung over empty eye sockets.  Wisps of grey smoke curled from every orifice.

It rose slowly, shoulders sharp and angular soon leaning forward, bringing the face inches from Alec's.  He could feel his body trembling despite his best wishes.  Hands moved to cradle the weapons master's head, forcing him to look deep into the dry, empty sockets of the creature.

"Blood of the Haz'Raith, soul of the Redkin.  Mountains shall fall in his passing.  Dust to those who follow."  It drew him closer still, its nails digging into his temples as silver teeth began to gnash.  Then it was gone.

Alec's vision blurred and he slumped.  He was aware of being shaken, but not much else.  For a few brief seconds in his stupor he thought the creature had come back.  Instinct took over and he threw a fist, guessing as best as he could where his foe was.  It made contact with a crack and a yowl.  And oddly human yowl.

He shook his head and did his best to blink the haze away.  As his vision slowly cleared he could make out men surrounding him.  His second in command, Kalif, sat back a few feet nursing a bloody nose.  A steady stream of curses could be heard coming from him.

"What happened?"  Alec rubbed his bruised knuckles with his other hand.  He was still a little light headed from his ordeal.

"You damn near leveled Kalif, sir."  The casual reply received a few snickers from the group of men standing around.

"You'd be out cold if it had been you!"  Kalif's retort was muffled through blood and his hands.  The men laughed.

"No, no.  I see that, and I am truly sorry Kalif, but what happened?  How did I get here?"  He looked past the men to see that they were in a clearing somewhere in the younger, outer layers of the forest.  Neither the cart or Baldrik were anywhere in sight.  "Where is Firehammer?"

"Firehammer is fine.  After you disappeared, he steered the cart to the camp and got us out looking for you."  Alec had always kept and easy air with his closest men and so they felt confident speaking to him as an equal.  His ability to keep level with them is part of what gained him such great respect in the ranks.  "As to how you got here?  We were hoping that you could tell us."

The men became serious and all eyes turned to him.  Alec firmed his jaw and stood, if a bit shakily, with the aid of the tree at his back.  "I can't rightly say what happened.  I'm not even sure if I know myself.  I have no memory of ending up here, or even leaving the cart for that matter."  He turned to look back into the forest, a brief shudder running through him, but he checked it before his men could notice.  "Though I suppose the important thing is that Baldrik is safe.  For now, let us return to camp and prepare for the night.  We leave at dawn tomorrow."

His men snapped their heels in attention and saluted before turning back towards camp.  Kalif, still covering his nose with a bloody cloth, waited behind with Alec.  "Sir, forgive me, but are sure that you are alright?"

"That I am, Kal."  He put a hand on his second's shoulder in reassurance.  "I don't know what happened, but a little food and some rest will have me back to top shape."  He looked around again, absently rubbing his chin in thought.  "On that note, where exactly are we?"  All he could see were trees beyond the clearing.  Any smoke from the camp was still hidden by the canopy above.

"We're about a half mile south east of the camp right now.  It's a fairly easy walk"  Kal gestured in the direction of the camp as he spoke.

"Then we best get back.  I need to talk to Firehammer immediately."  Alec took a step and stumbled, still feeling weaker than he expected to.  Kal caught him and supported him by his shoulders.  With his second's aid, Alec started towards the trees again in silence.  He had a lot to think about, and many unanswered questions floated through his head.  Hopefully Baldrik would be able to shed some light for him.

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Wanting Peace

Jonathon smiled brightly as he tapped his inked quill against the blank page. "I've got it!" he exclaimed, though there was no one around to hear him. It did not matter. All that mattered was that the words were finally coming back to him. 

He had been staring at the blank page all night, wracking the smallest memory out of his head while his wife had long since retired to bed. Her smile had been of encouragement, but he had seen in her eyes just how worried she was. Jonathon had to be careful to note every last detail, every last memory from his time with those strange people. He had not been a prisoner, but rather someone they let wander about their small camps. He certainly had not seemed a threat to them after he explained how he only wanted to learn. 

Jonathon wanted nothing more than to have peace between his people and the other tribes that had the land before them. They were gracious and full of knowledge of the land that he had never dreamed was possible. Jonathon had never farmed before he came this far west. His true place was with quill and paper, writing like he had back in the city. Mary wanted to escape from the city life, however, and he wanted nothing more than for her to be happy.  

So he had tossed his writings in his luggage and the two made their way west, along with what seemed like hundreds of people. Jonathon thought they were all foolish, trying so hard to claim land when most of them had been city folk, but Jonathon knew how to find out information. "Don't worry, dear, I will find out how to make us prosperous farmers!" he had told her, and meant every word of it at the time. 

Now that he hadn't touched his writings in several weeks, Jonathon had been itching to break off the stoppers on his ink wells and start something fresh. He wanted to write more than anything, but his wife chided him and reminded him what chores still needed to be done. Farming was more exhausting than creating a brand new story from scratch!  

Then trouble happened, when some of the Indian tribes tried to chase them from the land that the men laid claim to. Jonathon did not agree that they were savages like some of the other men in his community, but rather volunteered to find out what would make them happy. And learn how to make crops grow more quickly and better than the other farmers had successfully done. If these people have always lived out in the west, they must have some tricks for him to learn. He wanted to be the most prosperous farmer in the area, as he had promised his wife months before. 

And learn he did. He did not understand their language, but he understood their methods. He observed while they observed him. Of course he had set up a pact and brought gifts they did not have in exchange for their knowledge, but none gave him trouble. The women seemed to encourage him to help pick vegetation and even taught him how to gut a bison. It was more than he as a city man ever dreamed of doing. 

Every time he came back home, his wife embraced him as if he had been gone years, then kissed his cheek and told him to write it all down. Remember every detail that will help them understand who these people were. 

This time, Jonathon had not liked what he saw. Men from his community were closing in on the tribes and fighting would not be far away. As much as he did not believe in violence, he could see the Indian tribe getting ready for a war. They showed him spear points and arrow heads, things that would give them advantages, while he sat quietly and refused to tell them of the muskets and pistols his men would use against them. Not that he would ever raise his hand against either man. 

Writing quickly, Jonathon wrote briefly of the hunting methods used by the tribe. He did not mention their true intentions of war on his own community, but did feel clever as he whipped words into sounding more docile than they truly were. Surely the men in his community would appreciate the artistic view of his words and not view the Indians as 'savages' any longer. They simply needed peace between white man and red man. 

Dusting sand across the inked words, Jonathon beamed at his detailed work. It wasn't one of his masterpieces, but then again, this had little need for imagination in them. 

Quickly he set the page down and stoppered the ink well before standing from his small desk. He stretched and carefully tucked away his quills, not wanting anything bent or twisted if he could prevent it. He hated making new quills. 

Grunting in surprise as the door to his home rattled, Jonathon grabbed the lit candle from his desk and hurried to the front door. He hoped Mary wouldn't wake. She got little enough sleep as it was. 

"Open the door, John! We've got a problem!" a gruff voice yelled before Jonathon could yank open the door. He certainly was not pleased to be disturbed so late in the evening. 

"What is it, Hank? Mary is trying to sleep and I just now finished with my next-" 

"It doesn't matter. You've been feeding us a bunch of crock!" Hank said, his face twisted in pure anger. His eyes were glistening orbs of onyx, making Jonathon shudder despite the unusually warm night. 

"They are not bad people," Jonathon said as calmly as he could manage. He felt as if he were writing the bitter twist in a story, and he was the main character about to lose everything, despite all his efforts. "All I want is for us to have peace!" 

Hank reached forward and grabbed the collar of Jonathon's plain gray shirt. Slowly he pulled Jonathon forward until their faces were within inches of one another. Jonathon was too mesmerized to even think of pulling back.

"Then why did they just take my wife and daughter? Why did they just burn my home? Everything I own!" 

Jonathon merely shook his head, careful not to spill any of the wax onto his hand as he held the candle closer to Hank. He could see the man was covered in dirt and soot with blood on the side of his face. His green eyes rose to the north where Hank's farm once stood and could see orange through the trees, though the smell of fire had not reached his home yet. 

"Hank, why did you kill one of the families today?" Jonathon said calmly. He had seen it with his own eyes. All I want is peace… 

Hank's grip tightened and he began shaking Jonathon as if he were a girl's doll. The candle wax spilled over Jonathon's hand, making him cry out and drop the lit candle. 

"Because I can't stand sharing my land with one of those savages!" 

Jonathon stomped out the candle as best he could, desperately not wanting his home to turn into Hank's. He gripped Hank's beefy arm and held tight. 

"Then your pride has cost you everything! If all of you had just listened to my suggestions in the first place, you wouldn't have Sally and Maylin missing!" 

Jonathon thought he could hear Hank's teeth grinding as he shook Jonathon harder. The man was reaching for his belt, though without light, it was hard for Jonathon to see what. 

"Hank, don't do anything else you'll regret tonight. I can probably go to the tribe tomorrow and-" 

"Jonathon?" Mary's voice came from the back of the house, a candle in her hand. "Is that you, Hank?" 

"Yes ma'am, and your husband here thinks that all his work has made the savages less deadly. You are in danger, Mary. They took Sally and Maylin," Hank said, and although he had stopped shaking Jonathon, he seemed no less ready to let him go. 

"Hank, I'm so sorry! Jonathon said they were harmless, so maybe he can talk some sense into them…" slowly Mary trailed off as she came to the door, her mass of brown hair loose around her shoulders. 

Jonathon was able to crane his neck just enough to smile at his beautiful wife. He always thought the warm glow of candlelight brought out the coloring of her skin and made him want to write her in an epic tale.  

"I will try, Mary, but Hank has to let me go, first." 

But Mary's eyes never flicked toward her husband. Instead, she stared wild eyed at Hank, her pale blue eyes never blinking. 

"Hank, please put that down. Jonathon will do his best, I promise you will see your wife and daughter again." 

Slowly Jonathon turned back to face Hank, the man's onyx eyes no less cold than they had been. Now that there was candle light near him once more, Jonathon could see the small pistol in the man's hands. 

"No Mary. John is going to lose everything, just like I did," Hank said slowly, deliberately.

In what felt like seconds, Jonathon heard two loud bangs. He felt dazed as he realized he was sprawled across the floor, Mary beside him, a rosebud blooming out of her chest. Her blue eyes held a tear in them, but her lips did not move. He could not feel anything but sadness as those beautiful blue eyes lost its light. 

"All I wanted was peace," he whispered, not aware of the candle that had fallen a caught against the curtains Mary had worked so hard on. 

Jonathon slowly rolled onto his back, gasping for air as he clutched for Mary's cold hand. He smiled, in spite of himself. What a fitting end for a character in one of my tales.