To Take His Rest

The Old Gate _{(Credit: jontorresart on DeviantArt)}

The castle, cold and austere, stood on a hill, painted by scattered moonlight scarring its stonework. The rhythmic thumping of a horse tearing a path through backwoods did so little to drown the unholy chorus of voices crushing the young knight’s head.

His only desire was to flee the ball and its discordant affectations. He carved a trail through thick forests with branches making grotesque shadows in the moonlight. His journey continued on the side of mountains and over bridges, past the dwellings and businesses of so many others. His path was lit only by the light of the moonbeams streaming down through the holes in the clouds and the steely gaze of his steed.

“Your fault,” one of the voices whispered into his ear, the knife grinding on stone. He shook his tired head and focused on the path ahead of him. The rasping voice laughed a shrill, horrid laugh.

“You’re a disappointment,” came the deep baritone of the wolf splintering the thin wooden walls of his thoughts.

“Everyone carries the weights of your failures!” the cackle of the witch finished her thought.

The knight let out a sound somewhere between a whimper and a growl. Manors with stately gardens lit up with candles were distant harbors he could never reach. Castles with their walls were strength and security to envy. The darkened forms of farms and hills and markets and healers all raced past in the darkness, devoid of life for the evening. His tormentors continued stalking him, for their taunts were the only companionship he had.

“You were weak,” the knife said.

“Undisciplined! A coward and a fool!” Came the booming voice of a mentor who had never spoken words such as these to the knight in his life.

“You made everyone who gave everything for you feel unwanted, unloved, unappreciated,” the wolf reminded him matter-of-factly.

The path darkened as his horse started huffing from exhaustion, but knew its master was on the run from something he could never escape, so willingly pressed onwards. The fixtures of civilization faded and the knight alone in the woods, a thick canopy smothering the moonlight. Deer passed right in front of him as he sped through on his way to nowhere, and owls hooted back and forth as they darted their way through the branches above.

“If you had just been better…” the witch trailed off before giggling in a manner that made his skin crawl.

Lies. Damned lies he told himself. Their poison seeped into his foundation, rotted away the boards his bulwarks were built atop. The voices spoke supposed truths never uttered by their real counterparts, if they even had one at all. None of this mattered, the knight heard it all the same.

“Your fault,” a thousand voices said in an unholy, unnatural, unmusical canon, the singsong of the siren cutting above all the rest.

He passed the big farm once more; the horses tucked away in their stalls. A fallen tree being consumed by nature on the edge of the fields caught his eye for a moment as it whipped past. A sad reminder that even things wholly part of the natural order were doomed to wither and die.

“There is no love which you will ever deserve,” the siren sang mockingly. The ice in her voice sent a chill up the knight’s spine, but he kept moving. She never gave the impression she hated him. He pieced that together all on his own.

“You were far too needy. You couldn’t hold yourself together,” the wolf noted with rising temperature and fervor.

He continued past the old stone church that had stood for longer than anyone could have hoped to remember. A structure with a door as red as his guilty blood, stained glass depicting salvation that would never be offered to him, a spire that cut a perfect grey slash through a blue sky during the daylight hours and called to mind the sword he would fall on some day in the dark of the night.

“And that was unfair to me,” the siren added, her grin at his misfortune forcing him to grit his teeth and continue onwards.

He passed the graveyard. Crumbling grey headstones clawed up their way from the wet earth the way a drowning man claws at the surface of the water, begging to get his head back above it before the depths lock him in a fatal final embrace.

“No matter what, your virtue is a lie. They all say it isn’t, but would anyone tell someone so pitiable the truth?” The knife asked, chiseling doubt into the knight that he was nothing but forgery and distortion.

“Your story should have ended long ago,” The siren hissed.

“You could never hope to stand up to yourself,” the witch noted.

Lanterns on some distant road passed, golden ghost lights enticing him to venture deeper into the night from which he would never return. He thought about traveling to the town up north, it was only about an hour’s trip. He decided against it. The only person who knew him would prove a permanently unwelcoming host.

“Arrogant!” Came the knife.

“Foolish,” snapped the wolf.

“A liar and a cheat!” The witch cackled.

“Self-centered and greedy,” hissed the siren.

“Pathetic,” the knife snarled in that raspy, metallic voice.

“A detriment to everyone you ever loved,” the wolf grumbled.

“A lost cause,” the witch screeched with sadistic delight.

“Too broken to ever love or be loved again,” she siren stated simply.

“ENOUGH!” Barked the knight. The voices quieted for the moment, but the knight was certain they would return.

As he came upon a bridge towering out of the fog, flickering with the fire of a thousand torches, a lone figure stood before him, blocking his path. Dismounting and drawing his blade, he called a challenge to the mysterious stranger. The stranger did not answer, merely drew a zweihänder with a sickly pale yellow glow and made a line in the dirt before him. It was either a challenge or a warning, and the knight was prepared to risk either. Behind him was a chorus of misery; he could only push forward.

He called out again as he approached the stranger, who gave no response. As the knight approached the line which the stranger had drawn, the silent specter swung its unholy blade at the knight’s face. The knight barely had time to bring his own up to redirect the stranger’s strike away from his body.

A flurry of blows chased the start of this fierce duel. The stranger’s armor was blackened, corrupted, and absorbed every blow the knight could land. Meanwhile, the stranger was able to swing his massive sword with impossible speed and power. It was something beyond mortal, and an opponent which the knight feared would spell his undoing.

A lucky blow struck the stranger’s helmet and it shattered, revealing the knight’s face underneath. Pale, poisoned skin, and face stained with darkness which seeped from its eyes down its face like a trail of corrupted tears. No expression on the reflection’s face, no words from its pale lips except a ghastly snarl. A darkened and warped mirror to one of nobility yet imperfection. The reflection had no need for such concepts; it was far more primal.

Had the knight’s own helmet been displaced or damaged, the reflection could have seen the fear and horror on his face. With every brutal swing, the knight lost more ground. With every blow parried or dodged, the knight felt fatigue creeping around his limbs, slowing his actions, pulling him towards his death.

Realizing it would take resolve, not endurance, to end the fight, the knight summoned all that remained of his willpower. Catching the reflection’s string of attacks with a lucky feint, the knight pushed his opponent’s sword aside and plunged his own blade deep into the reflection’s chest. The breastplate which had blocked every blow before had given way, almost welcoming the knight’s blade.

As it dissolved into coal black petals, the reflection finally made a sound. A disturbing laugh of every voice the knight had heard that night in discordant, dissonant unison. Then, with a bitter and frigid gust of wind, the knight stood alone on the bridge once more. His horse had returned to his side, and though no guardian persisted, the knight’s feet were stayed from crossing. He stared over the edge of the bridge, as pale moonlight rippled on the surface of the water.

The cold water the bridge below looked inviting. One terrifying moment of falling off the bridge, in exchange for the icy hold of death. Were it not for the horse reminding its owner of his role in ensuring its continued existence, the siren’s call of silence might have won. The knight begrudgingly mounted his horse and continued his ride, praying a silent prayer that the voices had not caught him once more.

The knight would not get the chance to take his rest. While he would march on and continue his mission, a discouraging truth wound its way around his soul and threatened to choke it until there was nothing left.

No soldier can fight forever.