Of Gods and Heroes
Chapter 1: Fighting Shadows
It has come to my attention of late that throughout history there have been events which, no matter how disheartening or reprehensible, must be recounted, else future generations might be allowed to repeat them in ignorance. This was by no means a realization I came to personally, and as I cannot in good conscience claim to be so forward thinking in such matters I will admit for you here that these revelations came at the musings of my wife, who was always better equipped at accounting for such considerations. And yet, despite her insistence that a specific set of events must be told, Wren was never as well suited to the written word as I, and was even less inclined to relay our narrative to another, even for the sake of her cause.
And so in an effort to help prevent this calamity from reoccurring, I find myself once more putting ink to paper to tell a tale I would sooner bury within the deepest recesses of my mind until my dying breath, for in truth there is nothing more in the world I would rather give up than the experiences which drove my wife and I to such dire acts as the ones I will be retelling for you here.
As is customary with all tales there must naturally be a beginning, and while I can bring to mind the precise moment when our world began to crumble from beneath our feet, it would be better in the interest of linguistic context to provide you with a precursor to those events.
And so I will begin by telling you of my last acts of normality prior to our struggle, which happened to be a routine inspection of Mourningwood Fort and her newest commanding officer; a man whom I believed fully capable of excelling within the ranks of Albion's army once he was quit of the demeanor only a man who had never known a hard post could possess. His task had been unprecedented; to restore the fort to a condition that would permit the station to be held with minimal to no casualties – a fete that had been near to impossible when Major Swift had held command five years prior, for Albion's former king had held no favor for the fort or her men, and no desire to see it provisioned properly to allow for the repairs it required. Yet now Wren was ruler and I her most trusted general; and where I made mention of a need in the armies Wren approved my requests without question or hesitation.
It was therefore upon the predetermined date that I arrived at Mourningwood and observed of my former outpost the various repairs and additions which had been completed by her new brigade, giving the ancient structure a feel of a place almost cared for, though not to the degree I felt appropriate. It was through no fault of the man following at my heels that the fort did not yet indicate that proper effort had been given; this man had not been stationed in Mourningwood long enough to appreciate her as those of us who had called her home for so long.
And taking into account the relative inexperience my former hold's newest commanding officer had with her, I felt no ire at the man when his voice rose behind me in honest inquiry. "Does the work meet your approval, General?"
Said approval notwithstanding, I was neither inclined to dismiss the lack of true commitment to the fort's restoration, or lessen my expectations of a man I knew capable of far more than what he displayed at present. "Well, she's prettier than when I served here, but I can't say much more than that." With a pull of my chin I brought his attention to the iron bars installed within the holes of the outer hold walls. "This is a swamp, Captain. Those'll be rusted out in a matter of months of you don't constantly oil them. An' no one here will have time for that. Do you men a favor and rebuild the walls proper. And the gates. You get one of those big blighters in here knocking on your door you're going to find yourselves with a lifetime supply of toothpicks and a whole lot of graves to dig. Get yourselves oak gates, and while you're at it add some steel supports." With those alterations ordered, I was at last able to turn my attention to what was admittedly the height of my attraction to this place, the dull black sheen atop the wall walk an invitation to some familiar sport just waiting to be had. "How's the mortar?" I inquired, making my way for the stairs even as the question was delivered.
"Cleaned, loaded and ready for your inspection, sir." The captain's response was dutiful as he followed, if a bit too formal for my liking; the wave of his hand in silent commanding to the man stationed at the massive black weapon rendered useless as I brushed the soldier aside to take up the familiar position I had shared with Major Swift and Wren countless times before. There, to my slight dismay, Mourningwood's captain plaintively argued at my back. "General, sir, Lieutenant Maxwell will be happy to-"
If there was one thing I would not permit, it would be the denial of an opportunity at the mortar by anyone; and most assuredly not at the behest of this man whose appointment at the fort had been by my actions. It was this mindset that drove me to turn a disparaging gaze upon said officer with my rebuke in hand. "An' just how am I supposed to check its aim if someone else fires it?" Without pausing for an answer I in truth had no desire to hear I placed my site upon my target and in moments had fired off my old friend, the ringing in my ears a familiar accompaniment to the vibrations that traveled throughout my boots and legs as my target and a sizable portion of its surrounding ground were decimated.
Undoubtedly grinning like a young boy with his new peashooter I reluctantly pulled my attention from the weapon and returned to Mourningwood's commanding officer. "Not bad," I drawled absently while attempting a no doubt unconvincing nonchalance as I wiped soot from my hands onto my fine trousers before realizing that the gesture was perhaps not befitting a man of my station, though in truth it was not among the more serious social infractions I had committed since my elevation in status. "She's always pulled a bit to the right, but I'm sure you found that out already."
If the captain noticed my childish delight at my reunion with my old friend, he wisely let neither word or expression betray him, nor did his gaze slip to the black smears I had deposited upon my uniform so thoughtlessly. "Yes sir."
Growing ever uncomfortable with the absolute propriety being displayed to me in this place, I at last came to the conclusion that the inspection had taken longer than I had originally planned, for night was falling upon the fort, the cook fires were lighting in the bailey below us, and despite my desire to join the ranks and regal them with stories of my days at this post I instead scraped an absent hand against my chin, knowing it was time for me to return to the life to which I now belonged. "All right then, I've seen enough here. Make those changes, Captain. I expect a report in two weeks telling me the fort's ready for a follow up."
The receipt of the customary salute with the captain's response of "As you say, sir," was expected and yet seemed wholly insufficient in this instance, as it occurred to me that this man would take charge of a place that, while macabre, foreboding, and not a touch uncomfortable, had become quite dear to me. And so it was that without thought as to the discomfort I might be placing upon the man that I caught my unsuspecting subordinate off guard when I proffered my hand for a friendly shake; yet whatever surprise he experienced was not enough to prevent him from taking up the hand and returning the gesture in apparent earnest.
"Take care of Mourningwood, Turner," I instructed with all of the gravity I dared place into my words without coming across as overly distressed, "it's a hard station, make no mistake. I'll send a relief detail in a couple months to take over." With those final words delivered I departed from my former post, my customary accompanying officer falling into step beside me in silence; and only when we placed sufficient distance between ourselves and the fort did Major Morris speak his peace.
"Ya really think he's got what it takes, do ya?" His query was justified, for in truth this was Turner's first command that could be counted on to engage in combat, and experience taught the Major and I that such encounters as what could be expected here were not always easily routed.
Still, any concerns I had for the safety of the fort or her assigned brigade were silenced by one irrefutable fact which I readily shared with my former comrade. "He held the castle before you arrived during the balverine raids, didn't he? I think a little time in the fort's exactly what he needs. Get him into the grit of things an' all that. Keep an eye on him for me though, will you? Make sure he doesn't end up like Simmons?"
To my unexpected irritation an audible snort from Morris pricked my ears, intermixed with a grumbled solitary word which spoke volumes of the man's opinion of my request: "Babysitting."
Now it should go without saying that I had never been one for a stationary lifestyle, and as a result of this tendency found my recent removal from the life of combat at the behest of my new titles and roles in life difficult to adjust to. No doubt I would have happily remained at the fort to oversee her repairs while decimating a few hollowmen beneath a mortar-ball, were it not for that which I would be leaving behind at the castle; for there was nothing I could think of that could drive me to abandon that which I had gained in recent years. Make no mistake, I was grateful for the turn in fortune I had come to experience of late, but that turn did little to dissuade me from lamenting the loss of a good scrap in the field.
And so it was not appreciation for said blessings, but the regret for the excitement and camaraderie that I was presently leaving behind which brought about my response, coupled admittedly with a fair amount of envy at the freedom the man at my side was still able to enjoy. "Comes with the territory, Major." I drawled, making no attempt at disguising my ill temperament at that precise moment.
"Yes sir." The response I received was immediate and deferential, and at that moment all unfettered banter we two had been able to share dissolved while I cursed to myself if only within my own mind, for it always occurred to me too late that if I wished to engage in a disagreement of any sort with my this man who was once my equal, I must do so without the involvement of rank. It was a loss of sociability that I regretted greatly, for in truth Morris was my last true connection to the brigade I still held fealty to.
Deciding that there was no longer a valid reason to delay my return to the castle, I elected at last to complete the trip through the white vortex of Fast Travel, extending my hand out to Morris so that he might enjoy an expedited journey as well. "Alright, fun as this was, think I'll call it a night. Care for a lift somewhere?"
I am to this day confident that I could have exacted a variety of threats of torture upon the man and solicited the same reaction as the one I received at my innocuous inquiry, for Morris immediately appeared aghast, peering at my appendage as though at any moment it may erupt in flames and sear the flesh from his body. "What? Of course not! Why'd you think-"
"Easy, Morris," wisely I let my evidently imposed hand drop to my side, which seemed to alleviate the man's agitation instantly, "it's just an offer."
With the obvious assault upon his dignity thwarted, Morris pulled his tact back in place and was able to adapt a semblance of his former equanimity once more. "Thanks, but no. Wouldn't be right to ask you to cart me about like a common coach. I can manage the trip to base alone." A quirked smile accompanied the statement, for Morris had never been one to allow the finer points to escape his notice, and my disappointment at our altered relationship must have become conspicuous at that point, giving him cause to attempt to smooth the damage his reaction had done. Yet while appreciated to some degree, his attempt at levity were regrettably not sufficient to disburse the feeling of loss I experienced at that moment, for here was a man I had once been able to engage in heated arguments with and still call friend; a man I could now not even offer a simple favor to without instilling offense if not horror.
And so it was that I stepped back from the major, bringing to mind the castle courtyard with a reluctant sigh I found impossible to suppress for the sake of my companion's conscience. "Alright. In that case safe travels, mate." Morris' smile brightened ever still as he raised his fingers in a careless salute that grew distorted through the blue-white glow of impending Fast Travel.
"Safe travels, Ben."
XXXX
Like all good citizens of our fair kingdom born to mediocre or lesser status, there had once been a time when the grandiose gardens and walls of the castle were enough to strike up a substantial amount of awe within me, for this place held no equal in Albion and, even more impressively, no equal in much of the world as I had discovered in my travels abroad during my more cavalier days. And yet in recent months the glamor of the monarchy's residence had grown to be almost mundane in my eyes, no doubt a result of over familiarity that seemed to dull the admiration of all who frequented the magnificent estate. As such I felt no compulsion to gaze in wonder at my surroundings as I entered the grand structure and escorted myself up the stairs to the wing where Albion's royal family resided, dismissing the large double doors of the royal suite in favor of a singular, less ostentatious door off to the side which had until recently housed the queen's personal study. In place of the large desks and bookshelves that had previously adorned the chamber, the room now held all the trappings of fantasy and comfort a young girl could hope for; lit by a single candle tucked away in the corner to keep the shadows at bay, for even at such a young age, and despite a total ignorance of all that her mother and I had endured before her birth, Lark had, by whatever turn of fortune, managed match her mother's all consuming fear of the dark.
To add to the difficulties her mother and I faced each evening, Lark had seemingly been born utterly aware of her father's ineptitude for reticence, for my daughter slept as lightly as the bird for which she had been named and was known to wake at the slightest disturbance.
In response to her penchant for hearing all that transpired around her, and under penalty of being forced from the royal chambers by one sleep deprived mother for prior transgressions in which I cost us more than one night's rest, I had only recently developed a sense of subtlety I had never possessed before, and was now able to creep to Lark's bedside to kiss her forehead without rousing the little darling, before finally entering the main suite through the adjoining door beside me.
It is with no small amount of boasting at my good fortune that I relay to you here my wife's astonishing ability to recover her figure, if not improve upon it if such a thing was possible, after the birth of our daughter; and therefore it never ceased to delight me to find Wren dressed down in our chambers, for such was an indication that there would be no further royal obligations to tend to this day, and I would be free to enjoy her company without interruption, save that of the tousle-headed little blonde in the next room. Yet this night the sight of Wren's bare legs slipping out from her dressing gown as she lounged upon her favorite chaise was dampened significantly, for there upon her lap was a familiar bundle of papers which I distinctly recalled instructing her to refrain from reviewing until further notice.
Regardless of this transgression, having had the pleasure of her company long enough to know her temperament, I was thankfully in possession of the awareness that, although I would be in the right to voice my indignation at her violation of my privacy it would prove only counterproductive to simply launch into her without at least an attempt at a pleasant exchange given her present disposition. And so, being the dutiful husband that I was, my first action upon entering our chambers was to bend to kiss her head while going about the task of divesting myself of my general's attire, though I had never been disposed to restraint and was only able to stay my tongue long enough for the briefest of greetings. "Hiya pal. I seem to remember telling you it wasn't ready."
Ever able to find the flaws in the arguments she was determined to turn a deaf ear to, Wren returned the display of affection and the halfhearted greeting before effortlessly laying waste to my reasoning. "We both know you've been done for weeks. I don't like it." It was a perfunctory statement, one she was quite clearly not inclined to retract based on contention, and so I chose to forgo arguing my effort's merits with her.
"Well it's not exactly the story of 'Mindy the Prancing Pony' now, is it?" My comparison to our daughter's most beloved storybook drew neither humor from my wife nor quieted her opinion, though in truth I had expected neither result, for she'd not yet had a chance to provide her reasoning.
"You all but excused my horrible treatment of you, Ben." Wren gave voice to her cause for irritation far more readily than I would have thought, allowing said irritability to display itself as she tapped the papers with the back of her fingers, "You took all of the blame and excused my actions as justified when it's the furthest thing from the truth."
Having anticipated this reaction to my memoir when I had first begun to put to writing the account of our struggle against the second coming of the darkness, I still found myself begrudging her for said distaste and compelled to defend the hours of work I poured into the work she was now condemning. "Your truth, maybe."
"There's a difference?"
"I would say so." If it was not apparent in the print she had splayed across her lap I would have questioned her reason for such an inquiry, yet now I saw it only as her attempting to find the flaw in my opinion, an opportunity I was by no means inclined to provide her. "Now look, that's my memoir you've got there, isn't it? You say you saw things in a different light? Fine. Pen an account of your own."
The levied frown I received in response was by no means meant to intimidate or even to display a deepening agitation with me; rather she turned that expression to the pages upon her lap and kept it there as she at last made her admission in a voice that was by contrast subdued.
"I just don't want people viewing you the way they did Eugene."
And there at last Wren's true issue with my retelling came to light; not the stubborn need to weigh her viewpoint against mine, but a heartfelt concern for the good graces Albion's people had placed me in. Aware of the opinion she and the kingdom's populous shared of the man she once believed to be her father, I was able to sympathize to an extent with her dilemma; even finding myself inclined to cooperate and allow for a degree of compromise with regards to my chronicle, therefor stooping over her to nestle my face into hair that smelled achingly captivating.
"Look, I can't change how I feel about what I did back then anymore than I can change what happened. But what if I put together a nice epilogue showing how I've atoned and am now a model husband and father?" The head beneath my lips tilted slightly, exposing a lengthy column of pale flesh to me invitingly and making it known before her words that my offer had been accepted, the sheaf of papers on her lap almost carelessly displaced to the floor beside her.
"Well, that might work. But it needs to be fairly spectacular."
"My dear, even when I'm fouling things up, I am always spectacular!"
The rumbling laugh that resulted signified my triumph at last in this debate, and the throat I had been about to reacquaint myself with was immediately replaced to my delight with soft lips, ever moving as my beloved murmured her affectionate adaptation of "Shut up, Ben," against my mouth while twining her arms about my neck.
So it was that our argument was concluded, if one could go so far as to call it a true argument, as I lifted the enticing creature from her seat so that we might rid ourselves of the restrictive confines of what clothing remained between us and rediscover the thrill of intimacy that had by some miracle, retained the same intensity it had established in that first embrace before Walter's statue.
I had been gratified to discover early on in our intimacies that Wren, unlike the vast majority of my prior partners, bore no distaste for the rough stubble which coated my jaw, and would in fact frequently emit sounds of unrestrained pleasure when my chin would trail against exposed skin. In turn I was rewarded with fingernails that would scratch red lines through the wilds of my chest – a sensation I admittedly found provocative and enjoyed here again.
With these well honed skills in play, coupled with a host of others we knew the other to enjoy immensely, Wren and I were quickly losing ourselves to all but each other when the one thing in the world that could rouse our attention did so without mercy; a thin wail rising from the single door I had entered our chambers from that evening. It came as no surprise to us; we often quipped in private that Lark had seemingly made it her personal mission to remain an only child for as long as possible, and despite ourselves we smiled here at her continued effort yet again.
"Her timing's improving at least," I sighed, yet before the jibe was completed the mirth died from both of our faces, for the pitch of the cry that tore us from our mutual embrace was not that of an unpleasant fear of a burned out candle or the remnants of a toddling's nightmare, but one of true terror; one that spurred Wren and I to don our dressing robes and race for the door that barred us from our child.
"Lark, sweetheart, what is it?" Intent on giving my daughter some measure of comfort until I could at last reach her side, I attempted a calm demeanor as I called out ahead of my wife until at last we reached the nursery to find it swathed in darkness but for a weak patch of moonlight that emanated from the open window across the room. In response to my attempts at communicating the approach of the safety, cries for me personally interlaced with the tearful sobs that emanated not from the satin draped bed we discovered, but from the shadow darkened corner of the room beside the window, and for an instant confusion dulled my reason until the entirety of that massive blackness moved for the window, taking Lark's cries with it.
It was with a guttural roar of terror-born fury that I understood at last the cause of my daughter's distress, for not a night passed in which Wren and I did not ensure that window was bolted shut against the dark beyond. Without forethought or hesitation I hurtled myself bodily at a presence which for an instant towered over me as the intruder effortlessly cleared the sill with which I promptly collided, my knuckles brushing something cold and corporeal as I toppled to the floor. Prone beneath the window where I had fallen, my distraught wife dismissed my presence utterly as she lunged for the casement to shriek out our daughter's name, thereby forcing me to roll free of her limbs before I was at last able to right myself and burst from the room in pursuit of our daughter's abductor.
A litany of denial at what was happening chorused incessantly within my mind as I sped on bare feet through the castle towards the gardens without care for the furnishings or inhabitants I sent reeling in my wake, already fearful that my efforts would be in vain. The speed in which the intruder had moved with was unprecedented, and I had little doubt I would be unable to match such a pace, heroic abilities or no, let alone recover the distance lost as I had been forced to maneuver the castle's stairs and corridors. Yet none of these logical deductions were sufficient to convince me to abandon my pursuit or the silent plea my thoughts could not stop repeating.
Please, sweetheart, please! Please, no!
When at last I exploded into the gardens through a flurry of wrenched hinges and splintered wood, the paths and flowerbeds were awash in the dull orange glow of lamplight as guards and servants alike rushed about in response to Wren's cries, searching the grounds and outbuildings for signs of my daughter's passage through the night, and yet with each second of waiting with barely a breath I began to lose my grip on reality; my ears filling with inaudible noise and inhibiting my ability to form a coherent thought beyond one irrefutable and chilling fact.
My daughter, whom I held dearer to me than anything I could possibly consider, had just been taken from me, and I had been powerless to stop it.
XXXX
So here it is! My rewrite of 'Fighting Shadows'! Already I'm liking it more – other stories I can write in the third person and love them, but I think my Fable stories HAVE to come from Ben. Maybe it's because I just love the sound of that voice in my head. Mmmmmm... Anyway this rewrite is substantially longer than it's predecessor, but that's only because Ben loves the sound of his own voice, too. ;o) No plot or context was added, and nothing beyond some very slight descriptions that were sort of repetitive were removed. Even the dialogue between characters stayed the same verbatim, so no impact to the plot anticipated! Whew!