Dreams of one fallen - An unknown tale. (Grapic warning)

[WhispersInTheWind]

When darkness had fallen in the Cloakwoods the warrior's blood was still racing from many fights and it warmed his body like a fire in his belly. But, weariness catches up with us all regardless how slow it creeps, and now huddled in his bedroll he shivered in a cold and restless sleep while dreams filled his head.

Its has been said that, Thinking is the work of intellect, dreaming is pleasure. (~ Victor Hugo). This dream however took him back to the day his fate was sealed. The halls of the Triad closed to him. The day he fell from his grace. It's memory haunting him most nights of late, made him toss and turn. The harsh, profane voice spoke within the dream. In the background a woman and her newborn child screamed and cried out for mercy.

His arms shackled against the stone wall and his feet bound together the once proud devout of Torm watched through eyes wet with tears as the pain racked the bodies of his wife and his young son. "Make the bargain young paladin, and their cries of pain and agony can end. I know it fills you with grief. I see it in your eyes, and your body now devoid of strength! I offer you a good deal and you know it!" The hot moist breath of his captor filled his nose with an acrid smell, and his tears made tracks through the grime on his flesh as they streaked down his cheeks.
...
He awoke

[WhispersInTheWind]

Sitting at a table at the Inn in Candlekeep the following morning, he watched out the window at two children playing at swords with sticks. They danced playfully as the their sticks were brought together violently again and again, causing a loud cracking noises to break through the calm of the otherwise quiet courtyard. “Jason would be about their age now. Perhaps he would have joined them in their play of knighthood and glory.” Briefly a smile played on the corners of his lips as an image of his young son filled his head.

But, that brief moment of happiness shattered as the soft unblemished flesh of his son began to melt away. The boy's face twisted and contorted, his mouth opening wide to scream as pain washed through him in waves. “Torm have mercy!” He silently prayed. His hands clenched tightly, so tightly he felt his nails digging into his palms. “Please let -”

“Wut would ye like ta order mista? We've got fresh goose eggs, ahn we dun slaughtered da pig only a day ago so the meat be fresh.” The waitress' voice broke through the daydream. His shoulders jerking when he was startled, perhaps kindly, back to the reality of the morning.

“Bring me ale,” he said hoarsely in a cracking voice.

“Fer breakfast? Ye addled in da head?” But, after a moment the waitress noted the young warrior's unease, his clenched fists, and lowered eyes. “Ye beh alrig't lad?” Her hand reached out to touch him on the shoulder. Her soft kind compassion began to overwhelm the young man and penetrate his stoic armor. He felt tears spring to his eyes.

Pride protested earnestly in his mind, “No! I shall not cry in public like this, they'll think me daft!” Quickly and forcefully, far more forcefully then he had planned his hand batted her's away. His voice grew cold and hard, “I will be when you get me the bloody ale”, he hissed through clenched teeth. Turning away, his eyes wandered back to the courtyard, listening to the waitress as she inhaled sharply in fear and retreated quickly to the kitchen.

[WhispersInTheWind]

The day had been long, so had been his thirst for ale at the Inn where he stayed. So, when his head laid down on the soft cofortable pillow in his room, and his eyes closed, he drifted off quickly into a deep slumber. Like always when he slept though, his dreams soon became the nightmares that haunted him daily.

An old and wise priest of Ilmater once told him that, If people are good only because they fear punishment, and hope for reward, then we are a sorry lot indeed. (- Albert Einstein) But, what about fear for the ones you love? For your friends, your comrades, the kindly old man on the corner who greets you every day with adoration? What about fear for your family, for the ones you love? Those questions he never had reason to ponder. Until that is. . .

“Come now, what harm could it bring?” Spittle from the thing's mouth landed like tiny droplets of contempt upon his face. It's foul breath present every time he gasp for air. Yet the words seemed to hold more wisdom with every syllable...every scream his wife made when the blade dragged across her flesh. Every time his son squealed in pain.

“I spoke a vow! I made a promise! I have a duty!” His feeble protestations seemed small in comparison. His eyes closed briefly, and his heart sank. A prayer sprung to his lips, “Torm guide me. Have mercy upon your serv-”, that was broken as a mailed fist slammed into his jaw and brought blood to his lips. But, it was the blood curdling wail his small innocent son made that caused him to despair. The limp spasms of death that caused his little hands to clutch at the air when he perished.

His armor of faith and piety began to crumble.

A sheen of sweat covered his body when he woke. The blankets kicked to the floor long ago as he struggled against chains made of dreams.

[WhispersInTheWind]

The Inn of the Burning Wizard in Beregost was not the best of Inns in the realms, but the fire was warm, the food was sweet, and the whiskey was never far away. As he sat drinking his whiskey the the din of the tavern began to melt away like ice in the coming spring. All that surrounded him faded off into somewhere else as his eyes focused on the fire. The crackling it made as it consumed the logs, and the way it seemed to dance alive within the hearth.

Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards. ((~ Soren Kierkegaard)) He'd read that in a book somewhere. Perhaps back at the hold in Tilverton where he'd spent many years as squire. But, if this was true then how does one live with the understanding of a past they despise? When every memory one has begins pleasant enough, but soon turns to suffering, regret and loss, how does the living in the future begin?

“Ride towards the Sword”, the beast had said, “and you will know the time to make your move”. It seemed clear as crystal to him, and it was all he could think of as he road North West with Sir Ronald. Yet, every time he glanced at the aging Purple Knight that he was squire to, he had to fight back the sorrow that continually rose up in his throat like vile guilt.

“If things are as bad as you say they are, we must make haste!”, Ronald put spurs to his horse's flanks egging him onward. “There, let's head for that rise and we'll have a better vantage to see what lies ahead!”

He remembered how he had turned his horse with Sir Ronald's, and gazed up at the rise before them. How the hairs on his neck had stood up when they got closer to their destination. The time was nearing, of that he was certain. He had always been good at discerning the possibility of a threat.

The glint of sunlight upon armor glittered brilliantly as they crested the rise. Sir Ronald pulled up the reins hoping to slow his horse so as not to plunge headlong into the ambush that awaited.

“. . . and you will know the time to make your move”.

The look on his friend's face nearly brought tears to his eyes. That look that a man gets when he knows he's been betrayed, and can see the end hurling towards him like spear. But the cries of anguish, and pain the aging Purple Knight made when his blade cut through the air, biting into flesh and bone were drowned out. . .

. . .and his wife's whimpering and sobbing was all that he heard.

He drained the whiskey from his glass in a single swallow, and forced himself to look away from the fire.