This is the first part of a short story I wrote entitled "The Lightbringer." Enjoy, if you dare.

He crested the top of the hill, his destination finally in sight. A castle, nestled among the hills, rested next to the sea. The sun was setting, deep oranges and purples shooting across the sky. Emerald grasses covered the ground, ranging from the glassy sapphire sea to as far as the eye could see. Small white animals dotted the pastures, small clumps of sheep and cattle. The setting sun cast long shadows across the landscape. The scenery was idyllic, like heaven to the man who looked over it. The man was young, thin, but muscles were clearly visible through his thin shirt. His vibrant red hair looked like flames in the fading sunlight, and a long, elaborate sword hung from his belt. He staggered forward a couple steps, his slender frame exhausted and pained from his journey, but smiled despite it. He was home.

He entered the castle, his body aching and tired. But this was not a chance to rest; there was work to be done. The young man limped toward the enormous doorway before him; the two sentries, recognizing him, instantly stepped aside to let him through. Grunting, he pushed the tall arched door open, struggling under its heavy weight. “Lord!” he shouted, his voiced carrying down the long corridor.

The figure at the end of the hall shifted slightly, gesturing him forward. He limped down toward the regal figure, trying to ignore the pain deep in his leg. The tired young man reached the end of the corridor, stopping to kneel before the elderly man in the large gold chair.

“Arise, good knight.”

“Lord Raghnall, I come with news from the east. The Saxons have left their lands, rising on the warpath. They destroy all in their path. The Lord Artorius is raising an army. He requests your help, lord,” the young man began, his quiet voice lined deep with concern.

“Sir Geal, the English can deal with their own troubles. Arthur has done nothing for the peoples of Ireland. He has given none of his great prosperity and renown to our island. His own uncle, King Lot of Wales, has been very gracious to our kingdom. He has paid us in tribute, opened his land to trade, and even you possess a gift from him. Yet Arthur has done nothing. Why should we come to his aid now?”

“I am sorry, liege lord. He says that the Saxons, the barbarians from the north, will stop at nothing. They will conquer all, and divided all the kingdoms of our isles will fall,” Geal answered, wishing to God for His great strength.

“The honorable King Arthur has supposed a lot. Why should the Saxons continue to the west? England has more than enough land for the barbarians,” Lord Raghnall said, his voice thick with contempt.

“My lord, the king believes in the greed of the barbarians. It may be more than enough, but it will not satisfy their bloodlust. We must band together to protect ourselves. Already seven kings, including Lot, whose allegiance you hold so dear, have already pledged their armies to Arthur,” Sir Geal answered, hoping this plea would appeal to his king.

“Lot—pledged to Artorius?” Lord Raghnall was obviously shocked, taken aback. He stroked his beard, a thoughtful look in his crystal blue eyes. “Why would Lot do this without consulting to me?”

“I believe, lord, that he understands the troubles of the islands.”

“He is closer to England. He is more at risk than Ireland.”

“Perhaps, my lord, but we, too, have a lot to lose.”

“Sir Geal, you have given me much to think about,” the king said abruptly. “You are dismissed now. Go relax; you must be weary from your long journey.” Geal bowed again, his achy legs a testament to his lord’s words, and turned to leave. “It is good to have you back, son.” Geal smiled in gratitude as he walked away from his king and father.

***

“Geal, Geal!”

The knight turned, looking down the stone hallway. A young man, only two years older than Sir Geal, jogged through toward him. He had a shock of messy brown hair that complimented his deep brown eyes and a winning smile. Where Geal was slender, this man was short and stocky, obviously a physical being. Geal smiled in recognition.

“How are you, Merrich?”

“Just fine, brother! How was your trip to Briton?”

Geal’s smile remained, though his eyes looked distraught. “I do not know. Artorius is requesting help from all the nearby kingdoms. He says that the Saxons won’t stop until Horsa and Hengest are dead.”

Merrich frowned, thoughtful. “Arthur is rarely wrong about such things. And Hengest is as brutal a king as they come; I doubt he’ll rest until the world is under his control. What does father say?”

“He is unsure. He doubts Arthur’s reasoning. You know our father, he is careful in his decisions, and this is no exception,” Geal said diplomatically.

“Arthur is wise, and not easily fooled. I believe him; Hengest will kill and destroy. Nothing will make him happy. We must come to the aid of Arthur, if we are to save our own kingdom.”

***

Sir Geal sighed, concern evident in every breath. It was almost a week later when Lord Raghnall called his son back, telling him that Ireland would defend its own borders. Arthur would have to defend himself from the Saxons. Geal was sent to organize the kingdoms borders, and now here he was, mobilizing a backcountry fort, trying to prepare the poorly-trained troops for the ferocity of the barbarians. He was on a walk a few miles from the wooden fort, only a dozen soldiers as his guard. It was mid-afternoon, the sun distant, high in the sky. They walked in quiet through an emerald forest. The sun spilt through the foliage, creating an array of wonderful greens as it pierced through the leaves. It was soothing, pleasant, but soon the calm was broken.

A fierce, wild cry broke through the trees, and chaos erupted around the Irish soldiers. Almost thirty men burst through the forest onto the soldiers, dirty, clad in the hides of animals, screaming in an incomprehensible, violent language, their weapons wicked and deadly.

“Saxons!” a soldier cried, drawing his sword in his shaking hand.

The fight was fast, brutal, lasting only a matter of minutes. Blades and blood flew everywhere, cries of fury and anguish resounded through the air. It was savage, sharp, and in the end, few were left standing. Geal was covered in sweat, a deep and bloody scar across his eye. He breathed heavily, standing over a wounded Saxon who clutched his arm that lay limp by his side. “What are you here for?” Geal said, menace in his voice.

The Saxon looked up at him, a fury in his eyes. “You!”

Geal started, shocked, and looked back into the Saxon’s eyes, as if he could tell whether or not the man was lying. “Why would you want me?”

“You are a risk,” the Saxon sneered, “If you convince your father to go to the Britons, then Arthur’s army will be too strong. Hengest wants you dead!” The Saxon spat on Geal’s face, then struggled to draw his sword before an Irish dagger sunk into his throat.

***

It was a four days’ journey back to Raghnall’s castle, and Geal didn’t waste a minute. His return was greeted with shock; he hadn’t even been gone two weeks and was supposed to be gone for months. The news of the attempted assassination was even more shocking: a barbarian invasion and the attempt to kill the young prince outraged the Irish kingdom. The cut on his eye had scarred over, jarring his princely appearance. The scar was a reminder to all who saw him that Hengest would not leave Ireland alone, and Raghnall’s entire kingdom was clamoring for revenge.

It took only three days to amass the first army. Sir Merrich, the future king, was to lead them to Arthur’s aid. Geal’s older brother was violent with anger. His love for his brother was unquestioned, and it was all his father and brother could do to restrain him from heading out alone to take on Hengest and Horsa.

And it was a fortnight after his scarring when Geal stepped off the boat, back in Arthur’s kingdom. He was in the second army, led by his father, and would be welcomed into their host’s court at dawn of the next day. The soldiers were restless, ready for a fight. Geal softly touched his forehead, feeling the mark above his eye. The Irish soldiers camped at their landing site, only a half an hour’s walk from Arthur’s fortifications. Horsa and Hengest were moving to the west, trying to cut off Lot’s forces from Arthur’s. Geal slipped into his tent.

He was tired. It had been a long day; a long month, really. He closed his eyes, trying to relax, only to be startled out of his near sleep when someone approached his tent.

“Sir Geal?” a voice questioned politely.

“Come in,” Geal invited, never even opening his eyes.

A tall man entered, broad-shouldered and strikingly handsome. He was dressed in full armor, ready for a fight; but then again, he was hardly ever out of battle-dress. Everything about him was military—he was an enormous and physical man, and rumors circled around Ireland that he was so large, he once crushed an enemy’s skull with his bare hands. “My lord, how do you feel?” the man asked, his voice a deep rumble, bear-like and gravelly.

“I am fine, Sir Shae,” Geal answered, his eyes opening reluctantly. “Please, have a seat.”

“Do not worry, my lord. I shan’t be long. I was sent by your father to tell you that Arthur invites your family to break your fast in his camp. He wants you ready to leave before the sun rises,” Sir Shae delivered the message and awaited a response.

“Thank you, Sir Shae. You may tell him that I will be ready.” Sir Geal closed his eyes again, and fell asleep before he was able to get to bed.

Ags win 54-14. Gig'em, Aggies! Finally playing like a Division I team!!

Writing a story write now for my Creative Writing class. The topic is "Gross Out." I'll be sure to post it after I am finished. I'm on the first paragraph right now.

I wrote another story. It's Arthurian. I'll post it in the next couple of days. I think it's pretty good. It's 14 pages long, which makes it the single longest thing I've ever written. Impressive? I'm not sure. At least it's a milestone, in a way. It could probably be lengthened to a novella at some point. But for now, I'm busy with other writings.

Speaking of other writings, I also have a 4-6 page History essay that is due on Thursday, so I'd probably better get to work.

This is something I wrote for my Creative Writing class. Enjoy.

Beloved John,

Thank you for enquiring. Yes, Elise is doing well. We are happy to have finally settled into the new house, but I don’t look forward to emptying all the boxes. It is too strange that you mention that strange dream in your last letter. I, too, had the same dream just three nights ago! Yet where yours ended, mine kept going.

The bell rang, just as in your dream. We stood there in the bell tower, surveying the landscape. The decrepit, ruined gothic architecture cast ghostly shadows in the moonlight. The rain was only a light drizzle where we were, but the storm was obviously headed our way. The dull roar of explosions continued to sound in the distance, occasionally punctuated with the clap of thunder. I wiped the blood from my face, and you continued to grin at me.

“Still okay, little brother?” you asked.

“I am,” I answered, wiping my now-bloody hand on my uniform. “But I am ready for this to end.”

“We all are, little brother. We all are.”

We watched the flashes from artillery in the distance, a sort of peaceful quiet around us, despite the apparent chaos on the ground below. The silence was broken several minutes later by the squawk of the radio. We had the go-ahead. You knelt, shouldering the rifle, and looked carefully through the scope. I wiped the blood from my face again and cursed. “This blood keeps getting in my eyes.”

You tossed me a rag, which I quickly tied around my forehead, hoping to staunch the flow of blood and keep it out of my eyes. “See him yet?” I asked. You shook your head, and that’s when it happened.

The bell tower rocked, hit by an artillery shell. You tumbled, managing to brace yourself with your arms. I was sent sprawling, bouncing across the floor like a ragdoll, coming to rest against the opposite wall. I was dizzy, and had the most curious floating feeling, which I can only now on recollection attribute to that strange sensation that is so particular to dreams. There was an intense pain shooting up my arm, and I could see my blood pooling once around me once again. You looked over to me and cursed, your eyes wide with horror.

“Christ, there’s shrapnel in you!” You clamored over to me, your hands hovering just over my body, as if in a desperate dilemma to help or to stop from making it worse.

I coughed. “John, I’m okay. We need to keep going. We need to get him.”

“Hell, there’s no way you can make that! This could take hours, you’re losing way too much blood.” Your eyes were fixed to mine, almost as if you were afraid to look elsewhere. That unnerved me more than anything.

I reached with my good arm, feeling the wound at my shoulder. A large, thin sheet of metal stuck out of the shoulder cavity, right where I would put the butt of my rifle. I touched it softly, then gasped in pain as it moved, only to have that flexing in my chest disturb the wound more.

“Don’t move!” you scolded, obviously still trying to make a decision.

“John, we can’t abandon the mission. There’s too much riding on us. Forget about this, I’ll be okay. For now, we need to make sure that all this effort isn’t wasted. You hear me, John? We need to make sure it isn’t wasted!”

You nodded abruptly, curtly, as if you couldn’t deal with more. You reached into a pack that had been thrown across the floor in the blast, pulling out some forceps and a strip of gauze.

After my wound was dressed, you helped me struggle to my feet. I swayed slightly, the loss of blood effecting my balance. I steadied myself on the wall, and then swore silently. “John, that’s him! There!” I gestured weakly with my hurt arm.

You lifted the rifle to your shoulder, staring intently down the scope. A small man, dressed in an over-the-top military uniform, medals seeming to hang from every strip of cloth on him, walking swiftly down a hallway in a building several blocks away. “Confirmed target, proceeding,” you said, which I repeated into our battered radio.

I barely heard the sound of the gunshot, drowned out by the constant artillery. The man slumped to the floor, a large red stain appearing on the wall beside him. “Confirmed kill,” you said with finality. I raised the radio to repeat the message when a the bell tower was hit again.

Both of us were thrown to the ground, and I felt a large crack on the back of my head. I reached back and touched the base of my skull, feeling the sticky blood. I looked over to you, my eyes unfocused and bleary. “John?” I whispered, my breath ragged, as my eyes sank closed into darkness.

Have you ever had a dream within a dream? I suddenly found myself floating, deep in an empty nothingness. It has that indescribable quality that dreams so often do. I was hovering in this calm gray that seemed endless. I could see nothing to break the monotony of my surroundings, yet I didn’t mind much. I was strangely at comfort in this place, and I closed my eyes blissfully. I felt a tug deep in the core of my body, and knew instantly without even opening my eyes that I was moving forward, as if called by an unseen source. “Little brother,” a shadowy voice rumbled, that I could only vaguely recognize as yours. “Little brother, you will come here soon, so very soon. But it is not quite your time to stay. You must know what your wife will feel. She would be lost, alone in the world, should you stay in this place.”

“John?” I answered groggily. “She can’t stay here too?”

The thing pulling me continued, and I suddenly realized that it was taking me away from this calm place. “No, little brother. It is not time for her. You must go back, and give it to me.”

“Give what to you?” I questioned, now straining to see where you were in the midst of the gray. “John? Give what to you?” I repeated, an answer never coming.

Slowly I wakened from the dream within a dream, and my eyes fluttered open to see you staring down at me. “Are you okay?” you asked, the worry abundant in your voice.

“No,” I whispered, the blood thick in my throat, bubbling out of my mouth in a coughing fit. My fingers pulled their way up my chest, pulling one of my breast pockets open, tearing off the button. I pulled a carefully folded piece of paper from the pocket, stuffing it into your hand. “Give this to Elise, John. Promise me.”

“Christ, man … you’re going to make it. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”

“I don’t think so, John.” I closed my eyes, my breath growing faint in my chest. “Tell Elise I love her, man.”

It was then that I woke up in the dead of night. I knew I was home only by the sigh of Elise at my side. It is truly a strange dream, is it not, John? I still can’t believe that our dreams were so similar. It is truly unfortunate that you woke up in the middle of yours. I wish to know how yours would have ended. Please do fill me in if you have the dream again.

Do you think it means anything? I have had some trouble over this. It is one of the most intense, realistic dreams I’ve ever had in my life. I wonder where we were. I could only assume it would be Germany, and if they continue the way they have, it is possible that we would wind up there.

It is good to hear from you, John. Please write soon; I anxiously await news from your end!

Your Little Brother

Please keep in mind it is only a rough draft. I imagine that I will post an updated, cleaned-up version sometime. Let me know what you think. Criticisms welcome.