I kept my promise to him, a promise I would never regret. He grew to be strong. Stronger than I can possibly imagine. I never thought I would love him so much and by that token, I never thought I could be so angry with anyone before.

All children are like a reflection in the mirror. They’re bound to make the same mistakes and to be tempered by them. He looked up to me as an idol of perfection but over time he saw the small acts of meanness I’ve done. He witnessed my cruelty. Children have a choice to reject the villainy they were taught. Or they can harden their hearts, and do better than instructed.

Life comes with regrets. I carry them every day. It’s impossible to go through life without hurting someone you care about but I often wonder if I could have done a little less. We all hurt one another in the end and it is the reason why such a weight is attached to forgiveness; its virtue is attached to its repudiation of anger and hate; its weight comes with how difficult it is to overcome such hatred.

Desmond embraced the winter’s winds on his back as his fingers dug into the granite face of the mountain. The cold air filled his lungs. He was tired beyond endurance. Remember, you must keep your head clear and know how to suffer like a man, he thought. He lept and tumbled forward to the top where his Uncle stood with his arm folded and walked away.

“How I did, Uncle?” he said smiling.

Michael didn’t answer.

You’ll ever see me, Uncle? He wondered as they returned to the temple. The outer gate’s bell rang and the drawbridge was lowered and they proceeded to the courtyard where the sounds of swords were at play. The arrows whistled through the air to hit their targets along the path to the temple.

“Desmond,” he said.

“Yes, Uncle?”

“Check with Willard. I think your sword is ready by now.”

Desmond could not suppress the smile in his voice. “Fantastic. I’ll swing by right now.”

Michael nodded.

Desmond followed the smoke from the forge in little ways from the temple grounds to the blacksmith shop. As he approached Willard drew the sword into the fire. Red flames spat out under the blade. The steel quivered under the heat and glowed a translucent yellow. Willard placed the blade on the anvil and he hammered steadily and effortlessly. The soft metal clinked as it gave way to the blows and he placed the blade in a bucket of water and a ball of steam rose. Willard sharpened the blade’s edge over the whetstone.

Pale as milkglass, curved, the metal was in a ripple pattern like a flowing river and the blade’s pommel was wrapped in red leather.

“Desmond. It’s ready,” Willard said. He grinned with satisfaction in his gray eyes.

He accepted it. “It’s much lighter than I imagined.” Desmond bowed his head. “Thank you, Willard.”

“It ain’t no thing.” Willard turned his back and swung his hammer once more as Desmond left his shop and returned to the main path to the temple; that great stone labyrinth.

He pushed the doors with both hands and went down the corridor where on the walls hung paintings of angels, heroes, and great men alike. Desmond’s friend, Dorian sat on a bench with his hands in his pocket, admiring the portrait of the Archangel Michael with his sword out and his heel pressed against the tempter’s head. Desmond sat with him.

“He has always been my favorite,” Dorian said, still looking at the portrait.

“The Archangel?”

“Who else but him? The High General of the Celestial Host. I wish I was made to be an angel instead of a man so I could’ve fought alongside him.”

“I can’t relate,” Desmond said. “The way I see it, I was born as a man for a reason. And that reason? I can’t say but God never intended men to be angels. He intended us to be creatures of choice and will. His likeness in mind and soul.”

“I know, I’m not disagreeing. But we are no longer walking with God in the garden. And who do we hold to account? Adam and Eve? Prometheus? The Serpent? God himself? The price that men paid for consciousness was pain. The angels do not experience that,” he said. “Pain doesn’t contain them and I desire to escape it all.”

“I’ve always held onto this notion that Satan contaminated everything, to bring hell on earth simply but the human mind is its own place; and what resides there is light and darkness and only men can wake it.” Desmond leaned forward and turned to Dorian. “The soul has always been a battlefield between good and evil. Heaven and hell. I see your meaning that angels can’t experience that for their inner reality is monitored by God's will.”

“And beyond all that, they do not experience the frailty that comes with flesh. They’re without trepidation. Without fear.”

“They cannot. They will not understand us, Dorian.”

“Why not?”

Desmond rubbed his chin. “Because fear and courage are fickle things that only men can understand and that our God shared in that pain and understanding. The great heroes of our time stood against the coming of the waves in the sea, willingly waded into its depths, to peer into the darkness,” he said. “Our saints, our heroes were held in derision by the people they were trying to save. They were mocked, ridiculed, and they suffered greatly despite their fear. For fear prevents good folks from being consumed by the waves and taken in by its depths. Its fear, that power corrupts absolutely. And to stand against it is to enter the membership of sainthood, after doing all to stand.”

Dorian studied him wearily, his emerald eyes downcast. “I won’t question your notions, Desmond, but I don’t want to think this is all simply a test to endure.”

“What’s wrong, man?”

“It’s nothing. I’ve fallen on hard times is all.”

“I know a good place we can go to.”

“Is there a lot of liquor?”

“Yes.”

“Alright let’s go.”

They went to the old tavern at the base of the mountain; the Lost Wail. As they entered the air was thick with spirits and cooked food to the sounds of overlapping conversations. Friends among friends. Desmond and Dorian sat forward at the center of the bar.

“Have you noticed there are about four things that women like?” Desmond said.

“No and knowing whatever you about say is some bullshit, so go ahead.”

“Alright. chicken.”

“What?”

“Yeah. chicken. Next on the list is pets, little children, salty foods.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, man.”

Jonah, the innkeeper, poured two steins of mead. Dorian took the stein and drank. “You’re a damn fool sometimes. You treat all women like they're this great mystery when they’re not.”

Desmond smiled. “Whoever told you that was lying to you.”

“It’s common sense.”

“Common sense is not common is it?”

Desmond took a sip from his beer and caught a woman strutting right past them. She was heavy but moved with grace and with her hips across the room; every stride was a seduction. Thick dark hair, huge black eyes, full-breasted, smooth copper skin, and she smelled of sunflowers.

She wore a fine dress of blue and gold, her bodice pushed her fullness of flesh upwards. The woman seated herself at a table, alone, in the back of the tavern.

Desmond glanced at Dorian and smiled slyly.

Dorian pressed two fingers on his temple and shook his head. Here we go again.

Desmond laid a silver coin on the counter. “Jonah, send a drink to the lady in the back.”

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Jonah scanned the room for the mystery woman. “Oh. Are you sure about that, lad?” he said.

“Why do you ask?”

Jonah studied him wearily and shrugged. “It’s your funeral, kid.” He poured the beer into a clear glass mug and he moved across the room and placed the mug right next to her. He whispered something into the woman’s ear. She blushed, flattered at the gesture.

“Wish me luck,” Desmond said as he strode off.

I wish you had sense, what Dorian wanted to say. “Good luck.”

The woman kindly looked at Desmond. She smiled softly, her eyes met his. “Who you might be?” she said, stretching her hand which Desmond accepted.

“Desmond, the most interesting man in your life. And your name is?”

She laughed softly, “Elena. So what brings you to me?”

“The woman is already spoken for,” said a voice, deep and guttural. Desmond turned around and was accosted, his huge hands seized Desmond’s collar and he pulled him close to the man’s face. Darkened, lined, craggy, and twisted by fury.

“Oh that’s your woman?” he said smiling. “Pretty. She can do better.”

“Son of a bitch.” The man pushed Desmond away and threw a blind jab. Desmond blocked it and countered with a cross to his left cheek. The man threw a wild haymaker but it was denied and Desmond retorted with a body shot, the man reeled. Desmond seized his arm and tossed him onto his back and smiled.

He turned around and only to see Elena was gone, he sighed. “See what you did? You scare off the lady.”

***

Elsewhere, west to the mountains, the evening redness settled the sky and the land alike. The dying sun glistened off her dark curls. She was tall, and lean, her eyes an icy blue and piercing. Lia leveled her bow and steadied her aim at a brown stag.

She loosed an arrow, cutting through the air but missed. The stag was startled and ran off deep into the woods.

“Damnit,” she hissed under her breath, “another meal lost.” She slung the bow over her shoulder and climbed down from the tree. She walked along the old forest road, her head bowed in defeat, she ignored her mother’s gravestone, withering to nature and yielding to time and whose very bones were desecrated by wandering wolves, and went straight to her family’s lakeside cabin. The cabin was small, made of inferior timber and by God’s awful grace did not collapse. As she opened the door. The air was thick with mildew and rot, she could not smell nor register anymore. Papers, and pieces of armor scattered. Blades dulled and rusted.

Lia threw her bow onto the table. She searched the room and found her father sleeping lazily. She sighed heavily and pulled a chair in front of him and arms folded and her legs stretched and patiently waited for her dad to wake from his slumber. Lia looked out the window to the coming of the night and the dying light reflected off the waters of the lake.

Her dad awoke, slowly rose and stretched his arms and legs. He pitched the bridge of his nose and yawned.

“Dad,” she said firmly, “we’re out of food.”

He let out a disappointed grunt and managed to get on his feet. “You can’t even do that right.”

Lia averted her eyes, she forced herself to speak. “Dad.”

He stopped, his hand lingered on the doorknob. “What is it, girl?”

“There’s nothing here for us. We need to leave, Dad, there’s nothing here for us. Not anymore,” she said.

“If there’s nothing here, where else can we go, girl?” he said. “Where everything you touch turns to shit…”

It is best to be quiet when he gets like this. His words are like the leaves in the wind, they linger and drift as I remain stone. Unmoving and steadfast. My silence shields me from his blast.

Her dad left the cabin and walked to the lake. Lia pursued. She watched him wander far into the docks and sat on his chair. The night has settled and moonlight reflected off the lake’s surface and the mountains were etched onto the lilac sky over the horizon. Lia sat next to him and her father wrapped his arm around her; his touch was warm and welcoming. Her father’s eyes looked out into the lake, in the deepening darkness of the waters as it remained still in a silent equanimity and his gaze turned to his daughter, the remaining light in his eyes.

“You know I love you, right?” he said.

“I know you love me, Dad.”

“They're things I’m sorry about—”

An arrow went through his abdomen, a second arrow lodged fast in his thigh, and a third in his groin, dark arterial blood spurted along the shaft. He let out a strange moan as he fell grotesquely sideways into the lakeside, vanishing into its depths under the moonlight, as the blood pooled and stained the waters.

“No!” cried Lia.

She took an arrow to her shoulder and was knocked back to the ground, blood was trickling down and seethed through her shirt. Lia broke off the shaft and ran back to the cabin, she heard chanting in barbarous tongues as arrows flew past her. Lia pushed herself beyond endurance to reach the cabin’s door. She armed herself with her bow and quiver then dashed out of the backdoor to the hunting ground.

She ran for what seemed like hours, her legs were lead and her body was heavy. Lia slumped under a willow tree, the leaves banished the moonlight. She broke off a piece of bark from the tree and put it in between her teeth. She breathed heavily and gritted tightly on the bark. She yanked the arrowhead from her shoulder. The bark failed to stifle her wails of agony. Redness was setting in the corner of her eyes.

This is not the time to cry. It's not the time, she had to tell herself. Dad…

Tears ran down her face, her grief could not be contained. Her silence drowned, and her wails of anguish loosed upon the world.

A man appeared, his skin was pale white like a phantom and clothed in a dark slicker jacket wielding a club in his left hand.

“You're a rare breed, ain’t you?” he said.

Lia jabbed the arrowhead into the man’s upper thigh.

“You got some fight left in you. Good” He smiled and was curiously unfazed. The man broke the club over Lia’s jaw, her whole world swirled into darkness.

Dad…

***

“Keep your head clear!” said Michael.

“Sir!” his students said in unison.

“Be flowing like water.”

“Sir!”

“Be still like a mirror.”

“Sir!”

“Respond like an echo.”

“Sir!”

“Great difficulties strengthen the mind as exercise strengthens the body. You know how to suffer like men. Will you be able to stand after done all to stand?”

“Yes sir!”

“My hearing is failing me, say it again.”

“Yes sir!” they said booming off the walls in the room.

Michael walked around with his arms folded as he observed his students’ forms and techniques. His eye caught one student, Andrea, her form was awkward and imbalanced. It lacked any power and fluidity. He went to her.

“Widen your stance, girl.”

“Sir?”

“Widen your stance,” he said again calmly. “You are concentrating too much on the blade itself. Use your economy of movement to guide the blade.”

She nodded and proceeded with her stroke. “How’s this?”

Michael rubbed his chin and folded his arms, her form was perfected. “Again,” he said.

Andrea tried the third time. “Is it better?”

Michael walked away without answering. He observed from afar and kept a watchful eye on his students, he smiled softly. Raphael appeared next to him, shorter than Michael but nonetheless strong and quick. His hair was braided and scented with oils. He was chewing on mints.

“The big and bad and mysterious instructor. Michael being all mysterious,” he said. “You can brighten up a bit. You know to show the kids you care.”

“A gentle hand will not prepare these kids for what to come next,” he said. “What comes next in the future is hardship and affliction.”

“Aye, but brother don’t provoke them into wrath. Children are only concerned about what’s in front of them. What they see is you.”

“What they will see, Raphael is a world that is cruel and unforgiving.” Michael caught a fight breaking out between two students. He snapped his fingers and they stopped. “Both of you will carry water from the river. Now back to your drills,” he stated firmly and without reservation.

“You think that's an excuse to be an ass?”

“It’s the way of the world, brother,” Michael said, his arms folded.

“Perhaps so but, you carry the light within you, brother. And our children will follow our light; that this is the way. There’s too much darkness in the world and not enough kindness.” He laid a warm hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Look around you, every generation carries the sins of the father. A past that is etched into their souls that they cannot escape. But they carry the light and wield the sword for righteousness’s sake as soldiers of God and they will follow your light for the path you laid out for them.”

Michael pressed forward, ignoring Ralphael’s hand. “Class dismissed!” Michael affixed his hazel gaze to Raphael, deep in thought with a cool equanimity. He exited with his students.

Michael was in his study. He sat at his cedarwood desk with his quill in hand, writing a poem by the candle flame.

Man’s fifty years

Are but a phantom dream

In his journey through

The eternal transmigrations.

Michael ceased his pen's scratching. He heard faint sounds of light footsteps coming down the corridor and then a loud bang. He rushed out of his room and only to see Andrea’s fist against the stone wall; cracked and trembling and debris falling off. She breathed heavily.

“Andrea.”

“Sir,” she said, regaining her composure. “Apologies, I’ll fix the wall at first light.”

Michael studied her. “Do not worry about it,” he tilted his head to his chambers, “Come on.”

“Sir?”

“Did I stutter? Come on now.”

Andrea seated herself, her palms on her knees, and patiently awaited for further instruction. Michael walked to his weapons rack and drew two practice swords, and placed one at his pupil’s feet.

“Rise and readied your stance, Andrea.”

She nodded. Michael stood at her side with his practice blade in hand.

“Do as I do.”

“Sir,” she said softly.

They moved with grace and practiced elegance, flowing like water over the stones. Swift and fluid in an economy of motion like the dance of the ouroboros in its perpetuity and they danced until the candle flame was snuffed out.

***

“Stop squirming, girl.” He punched her and Lia relented. “Good,” said the man.

“How’s your leg?”

“She drew blood but it barely nicked me,” the man shrugged. “I’ll be alright.”

“If you say so. Aside from that drama, an easy job, easy coin. Not a bad take. You got any idea what they want with this little woman here?”

“We ain’t paid to know but I heard whispers in the wind. Trust me when I tell you it’s best not to be deeply intimate with those folks and their sick perversions they got engaging in them caves.”