Stories

In a dim-lit chamber, shadows chasing the flickering candle light, a composer sits. An artisan whose heart thrums with the spark of ingenuity, the fire of creation. The composer can feel it, they know this will be their finest work, their magnum opus. Each note rising from the page, narry a second after birthed by the quill, whispering in the composer's ear like wraiths in the blackest of nights. What effect will this masterpiece have on the masses, the composer wonders. Would not they be blessed to experience such a piece? Would not they be entranced by the infectious wisdom of this sonata? Would not these sheets of paper translate to pure enlightenment?! 

A pause, the flickering candle light sparks brighter. The composer looks at the shortening wax stick. Another spark. The small flame engorged by an imperfection in the wax. The dimly lit room a shade brighter. Enlightenment? Wisdom? Does the composer care about such things? Nay, the composer set out to create such pieces that they would enjoy, that someone of a similar mind would appreciate. Perhaps a piece that would find its way to a concert hall one day, but if not so be it. The composer would be content, and that was enough.

The shadows press back into the light. The flame of the candle, it's momentary gluttony now passed, begins shrinking in luminosity. The composer returns their eyes to the page in front of them. Their hand finishes a note. Did they write this? Like a banshees wail, the note rises from the page. 'That is enough?', the note asks. 'Are thou truly content with such a meager audience'. The composer wonders, how long have they been here? Where is here? Another note is written. 'Such a composition deserves a much grander stage. Is that not why you sought me out?'.

The composer's hand begins moving. No, the composer thinks, I care not for the size of the audience, I care for the process of creation. The newly written notes chuckles at them. 'Ah, humbleness is certainly a virtue. Though not thy virtue. Hence why thou sought me out. Thou yearned for more, a way to elevate thou beyond thy peers. How could I refuse such dedication to thy craft. How could I not acquiesce to such passion.'

A glimmer of horror arises in the composer's mind. Me? Do I truly harbor such vain aspirations? The candle light dims, the flames feast long past. The shadows gather around the composer. Well, I have come this far, it would be a shame to end here, perhaps I can finish this one composition, the composer thinks. I? Who is I? Who am I? The composer shakes their head. A distracting thought, to be dealt with later. The composer's hand moves faster. Quill tracing notes of inky blackness. Each note rising from the sheet, playing their discordant harmony in the composer's head. Yes, this is fine. They will all hear this mesmerizing melody, as I have. And they will understand.

The composer writes with zealous fervor. The pandemonious notes ringing through the air, as if played by an infernal grand piano. The shadows standing behind the composer, watching, smiling.

The biting wind whipped at my face as the hill approached. Snow had begun to fall that morning, as foretold by the ever present grey clouds above, causing the field in front to be a beautiful white plane of bliss, and the field behind to be a churned muddy nightmare of passing hooves. Thump thump, thump thump, thump thump. Around me horses galloped, an armored man atop each. My own horse panting and wheezing at the long ride to the hill. Poor beast doesn't realize it will only get worse at the incline.

But six months ago I was back home, tending our crops, preparing our house for the winter to come. The scholars and sages say this will be the most brutal winter yet. A sentiment shared every year, I thought not much of it. Now, I say they were right. Flame itself struggles to maintain life. Each night the chilling tendrils of frost creep into our tents, searching for even the slightest hint of warmth. Like a man crawling from the desert seeks moisture.

I pray my family fares well. But four months ago there I was, kneeling in our field kissing my children goodbye. My lovely wife holding back tears, the most difficult act she had ever performed. Our Lord had called, called for all men of fighting age to join his march. I knew not the purpose of this march, but NO was not a concept known to our Lord. If nothing else I am fortunate my son was not of age. But a year in the future we would have marched together. I pray they are alright. I last exchanged letters with them two months ago. The cold has begun to creep in they said. I doubt not the blizzards have delayed the couriers. I dare not consider any alternatives.

Ahead of me a horn blared. A single ray of sun shown down on the general and his banner carrier. Where the carrier displayed a glint of brass as he blew his horn with all his being, the general thrust his sword towards the hill ahead, the silver tip gleaming like the crest of a wave on a summer day. FORWARD, roared the general. The plume of his helmet swayed in the wind. The green and blue peacock feathers bristling and shining in the sun illuminating him. I still can't quite believe how I was placed so close to the generals entourage, his high officers. After all, I have no military experience. Yet here I was, but a dozen rows down from the head of the charge. Turns out I have a knack for fighting, or at least compared to the others enlisted by our Lord.

Somewhere behind me Jeremiah rode. That bastard Jeremiah. Terrible drunk he is. Even with his own lovely wife, he could never accept that Annabelle had chosen me as a husband. Jealousy runs deep in his veins. He had thought to finally exert dominance over me by proving his superior fighting worth during our training. How wrong he had been. In a surprise to the both of us, I steadily defeated him time and time again. I could tell, this failure on his behalf had only solidified his hatred of me. A wicked wish had come to mind at the start of this charge. A wish for him to fall in glorious battle. Such a wish I quickly brushed away. How could I think such a thing? I am no wicked man. But… his family would receive reparations in such an event. No. I cannot think such thoughts.

The falling snow had picked up. The hill ahead now blurred through the haze of cold and chill. Atop the hill a figure stood. Or was there a figure? The snow obscured any long distance vision, but something in me was sure a figure awaited us. Sitting on a horse they were, a flag in their hands. While I couldn't make out whose flag it was by vision, I knew whose it was in my heart. 

The general had taken a liking to me. I know not exactly why. One of his officers told me I reminded him of his son. The general had told me the gist of our march. Our Lord had been mocked and offended at a gathering hosted by the Primarch of our country. And thus had declared war. No doubt ahead of us, on top of the hill the flag of our neighboring land flew. I couldn't believe it, here we were, nearly freezing to death every night, all because our Lord had been offended? Meanwhile our Lord himself was keeping warm in his luxurious castle back home? The general had told me it was so, and such wars were common enough. But as men of God we must do as our Lords say, as they are God's chosen.

That brass horn blared again, the general's sword pointed left, then right, orders roared to each side. The left and right wings out our charge began splitting off. The thunderous sound of hooves splitting the frigid air above. I then realized I hadn't really heard the sound before. An eerie silence had overtaken me. Perhaps the adrenaline of the charge? The exhaustion of the ride? Whatever the case the sound had crept back in. Yelling men around, hooves on hooves hitting the ground, clinking armor. There was a sort of order to the chaos around. 

We had reached the base of the hill. The left and right wings of the cavalry had fully split off and were racing towards the low sides. The men around me roared louder. I found it hard to join them. That question kept infecting my mind. Why are we fighting? That doubt terrified me, angered me. But then I remembered, before our charge the general had passed by me. He was a godly man, the general. A true knight of chivalry. But what he whispered to me brought a smile to my face this moment. Worry not about the trifles of our wretched Lord on his hollow throne. Think of the reward you will bring back to your wife, your children. You'll be able to feed them for a year with the gold you'll receive! He had then ridden off, preaching to the men about our godly duties to fight for our Lord. 

With his true thoughts given to me and me alone, I smirked. That smirk grew to a grin. That grin to a full smile. I laughed as we rode up the hill. That laugh turned to a roar. The general was right, I care not about our Lords ego. Can such a man truly be Gods chosen? I fight for my family. For the honor and gold I will bring home to them. For that, I roared like a lion after a kill.

Ahead of me, at the front of our charge, the general stood in his saddle and pointed his sword forward. I know not how it's possible, but he remained illuminated by the sun. Him and his cohort of officers, each shining like an angel as they crested the top of the hill. And then the silence crept back in. No sound filled my world. What I saw was a scene straight out of a fairytale. As our charge crested the hill, so did our enemy. Both armies stormed towards each other like bats out of hell. Men and horses and flags and earth flew into the falling snow. Horses grew invisible wings and rose above the ground like in a children's book. Men rose as if lifted by angels to join Gods army in His fight against hell. Men and horses danced together in the air, entwined as if dancing around a bonfire at a harvest festival. The scene was as a mural painted on a church wall. The general himself rose above the enemy, as an angel preparing to smite a heretic. And all of this in silence.

Until the sound returned. Like a rogue wave against a cliff the sound hit me. Metal on metal, horse hitting horse, men roaring, men screaming. As a raging fire spits embers into the night sky, men were flung from atop their horses. Those horses leaped over fallen bodies to but find empty air on the other side. Fury and fear. Chaos. The furor of battle, of two charges meeting at the peak, sent men and horses flying. Wave after wave of men and horses met upon that crest. To my side the man who had rode next to me through the entire charge fell as a knight of the enemy fell upon him, the enemy's own horse lost ahead. To me he seemed to fall from the sky, bringing my brother in arms beneath the stampeding hooves of the cavalry behind. 

I never saw what happened to the general. That last image of him, rising into the air above the enemy. Was etched in my mind. The chaos ahead was unfathomable, the wriggling mass of men and horses like a horde of ants picking apart a corpse. And yet, somehow, a path opened. As if inviting me forward, like the tales of the Red Sea the chaos split presenting me a clear path to the crest. Nigh 100 cubits of clear ground, edged by flashing steel and cries of war. And at the apex of this path, that figure stood. The figure I had seen from the plain behind. A knight, in exquisite armor, atop of similarly adorned horse, bearing the flag of our neighboring land. I knew at that moment this was the commander of our enemy. I had but one option. Forward.

I charged. Laughing and roaring and crying I charged. Time stretched before me, what I knew should have been but a few seconds felt like years. But forward I pushed. The enemy commander just sat there, atop his horse. Looking at me. Slowly I watched his hand rise, and point in my direction. It was at that moment something caught my eye. There on the ground, a glint of steel. A silver tipped sword. Still held by a gauntleted hand. A hand belonging to a fallen man, wearing a silver helmet with a plume of blue and green peacock feathers. The once shining feathers caked in mud and splattered with blood. The general lay slain and trampled by innumerable hooves.

All feeling left my body in an instant. My courage, my hope, drained like the flickering flames of our candles were extinguished by the night air. I looked at the enemy commander. His hand has fallen. He no longer looked at me. And then, I was rising. From behind the commander a man and his horse had galloped towards me. With a speed I could scarcely believe, with a force I had never felt before, they had hit me. Rammed me like an army rams a castle door. And thus I joined the mystical scene at the top of the hill, this much I knew. No doubt the men below would wonder at another man rising into the air as if lifted by an angel. What I saw at the top of that hill, rising above the men below, told me that there were no angles in this battle. I twisted in the air, seeing my men reaching down one side of the hill, the enemy reaching down the other. Our Lord had prepared 600 fighting men for this war. Their lord double, perhaps thrice as many. 

Where our Lord prepared peasants as fighting men, their Lord prepared knights. Then a thought crossed my mind, what of my horse? Carrot had been his name. Not the most original, but he had served me well these past months. I hoped he had not joined me with invisible wings. I hope he was able to run off, ignored by the men fighting for their lives. 

Then I fell. And I fell. I almost smiled, it was humorous in a way. It felt like I was floating towards the ground, towards the mass of bodies in war beneath me. I could see it then, see him. The general laying there. What are the odds I would be flung towards him. And there, but a handful of horses away, that bastard, Jeremiah. He fought atop his horse, still with those miserable swings he thought to defeat me with. Reparations eh? The ground called to me, ushering me in like a mother their child. My vision went white. My breath escaped my lungs. Like the cold hungering for warmth, darkness consumed my world.