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TheGuardian_2007 -> Old Hands (short story) (7/13/2011 0:40:45)
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Nothing new or particularly unique, just my first dip into Other Creative Prose (and basically all writing on Battleon Forums). My first try at writing something original, so here goes...
Old Hands
The fire crackles merrily, small but steady in the endless dark. Embers dancing, smoke rising, it presses against the oppressive, eternal night weighing down upon the landscape. Staring into the depths of twisting, sinuous flames, the warrior rests on a log, completely still. In reality, the fire would have died long ago, its fuel spent, reduced to nothing but ash. In reality, the warrior would have shifted and stretched, muscles tense and uncomfortable, eyes half blinded by his intense gaze into the fire. In reality, things would be complicated, difficult, problematic.
This is not reality. The warrior realized that long ago, the day he awoke—no, sprang into existence itself—in this place. The fire was there, from the beginning—unless it had none. So too was the log. So too was the endless field of the fallen, littered with aged, dusty, skeletons in full armor, stretching to the horizon around this small, lonely—yet defiant—campsite. So the warrior sits, motionless, utterly resigned to his fate. This is not reality. This is where dreams go to die.
The fire’s strength, its spirit and will, never dies, burning forever in the dark. In what remains of his mind, in the shreds of his own identity and consciousness, the warrior recognizes the passage of time. In a world of complete stillness, of utter stagnancy, the world should remain unchanged, frozen in one single moment despite the efforts of time. But the warrior does not remember dropping his shield, yet it lies on the dirt before him, facedown and already rusted. He does not remember unsheathing his sword, yet it slumps next to him on the log, the hilt’s wrapping frayed and torn, the blade notched and cracked. He does not remember removing his hot, heavy helmet, but it lies on his lap, dark, empty eyeholes peering up at him.
For the first time in this place—or perhaps the last—a thought crosses his mind: “Am I dying? Is this what it is to fade away?” And as resignation becomes doubt and fear, the fire burns that much dimmer. The ruined world around him passes out of sight, hidden in the obscurity of darkness. All that remains is the small, lonely campsite.
But in the next instant—or has it been an eternity?—a clank of metal echoes from beyond the circle of the fire’s light. Another clank, ringing with the sound of chain mail slapping against metal plate. One more, then another, each one louder than the last. Suddenly, the fire flares, burning brighter than ever before, tongues of flame leaping high into the air.
The warrior’s eyes widen, as awareness returns to him. Slowly, he rises to his feet, his helm slipping off his lap to land with a solid thunk. Sensations overwhelm him: the acrid smell of the smoke, the cool chill of the air, and the echoes of metal-shod footsteps. Energy surges into his veins, and he sways, lightheaded with amazement. He turns shakily, confronting the unknown.
And into the circle of light, out of the fields of the dead, steps another warrior, clad in dark armor and clutching a long spear. The spear carrier drops his weapon, and pulls off his helm, before flashing a smirk. Long hair, newly freed from the confines of the helm, curtains around a female face, whose eyes glisten mischievously.
“This is where you’ve been hiding all this time, Knight?”
* * *
Lancer raised an eyebrow at Knight’s dead expression. Sure, his eyes were wider than normal, indicating some measure of surprise, but from such an energetic person like Knight, a face like that was definitely out of character… She stepped forward, peering close into his eyes. “You don’t look so good…”
She leaned back, rocking on the balls of her feet, as she bit her bottom lip in contemplation. Turning away from the fire to peer at the endless night, Lancer casually peered at her erstwhile comrade from the corner of her eye. Oddly enough, Knight had barely moved a muscle, only staring at her as she turned. She shivered. Creepy… What could have made him like this?
Suddenly, her eyes widened, as a chilling realization struck her. Could it be…? She whirled deftly on her toes, facing Knight once more. The corner of her mouth twisted in discomfort, she asked, “Knight… how long have you been down here?”
And in an instant, his eyes widened, forming near perfect circles. An odd choking sound escaped from his throat, and the warrior collapsed to his knees. Lancer quickly knelt, placing a calming hand on his shoulder. Just as she had thought. “…how long…?” Knight rasped. “…I couldn’t say…”
Lancer’s eyes softened with concern and sympathy, as she gripped Knight’s upper arm. “Up you go,” she whispered soothingly, stroking his hair as he helped to a seat before the fire. She gently lowered him next to his fallen gear on the long, before plopping down next to him. She glanced at him, before pulling him into a hug, trying to comfort him despite the heavy armor between them.
“..how did this happen?” Knight mumbled. “…why was I here so long…”
Lancer grimaced, embrace tightening around him for a moment. “You weren’t there, were you? I guess… we just got caught up in the action. One minute, we were off slaying dragons, then we were fighting off an goblin invasion… The next day, we ended up saving a princess—we were involved with some pretty heavy political stuff there—and then we were the Resistance, and there was the Empire, and we had to deal with traitors and armies… It was just a mess.
“And in the midst of it all...” Lancer paused, sighing. “We lost sight of each other. I mean, would you believe that me and Rogue somehow ended up on different sides of the campaign?” She sighed again, looking away from her companion.
When she turned back, Knight was gazing up at her. “You’ll wait with me, right?” he whispered, voice twisted with both desperation and hope.
Lancer smiled again, more sadly than her confident smirk when she had arrived. “Of course. We’re archetypes, after all. It’s only a matter of time before someone picks us up for yet another story.”
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