The new story I’m writing is coming along okay. I took about a week and a half break from it, because I wasn’t getting anywhere. But I opened it up today and did some work on it, and I think I’ve got my direction now. I’m going through what I’ve already written and making improvements to it, as I do several times in the course of writing a story. I’m going to post an excerpt of it here, for those who might be curious about it. Enjoy.
Prologue – The Disenchanted Warrior and The Imprisoned Intellect
Ryder opened his eyes, and then immediately squeezed them tightly shut again. The room was spinning. He had expected that, but he didn’t expect how quickly his stomach would start to perform nauseating back-flips in his gut as a result of the double vision and the feeling as though gravity had ceased to exist, giving the sensation he was about to fall off the planet in a strange reverse tail-spin. He swallowed hard and nearly gagged, slapping a hand over his mouth and then running it down over his chin and neck as the feeling momentarily eased. He had no idea how much he had drank the night before…hell, he didn’t even know if that HAD been the night before. How long had he slept? What day was it again? But of course, he knew what day it was. And no matter how much alcohol he forced into his system last night, he knew he wouldn’t have been able to make himself pass out so hard that he’d sleep the entire day away. No, that just wouldn’t happen. No matter how much he wanted to forget what THIS day stood for, no matter how badly he wanted to just skip it and never think about it again, he knew that a certain part of him (a part he disliked rather strongly) would certainly not let him miss it. It was the day. The day it happened.
He dared to open his eyes again. The room was still spinning, albeit not as quickly as before. He didn’t feel sudden urges to vomit all over himself as he looked around, and that was an improvement. Through the double vision, he could tell he was in his own room, though he had no recollection of coming home or getting into bed. He felt beside him and found he was the only one in bed. He hadn’t brought anyone home, either. This didn’t bother him very much, not as much as it may bother other, more normal and adjusted single twenty-eight year old men. No, he wasn’t troubled by that at all. His thoughts were all on the day, and nothing more. He slid out of bed and stood up, and then immediately fell to one knee. It wasn’t the hangover this time though. His mind was clearing up just fine, and his vision and nausea were steadily improving. But that just meant that he could more clearly think about the day and what it meant. That fucking day. It came faster every year, it seemed. He walked over to his dresser and picked up the only picture frame sitting on its top. He stared at it for a very long time, only staring, breathing slowly with an expressionless face. God, it had been nine years, to the day of course, but still the images were so clear in his mind. So very vivid. It was as though it was happening all over again, right before his eyes.
He had been nineteen years old then. Even though his memories of that day hadn’t faded one bit, as if they refused to age within his mind and stayed cryogenically frozen in his gray matter, nineteen seemed so long ago. Seemed so young. Only six months prior, he had reached that magic age of eighteen. He had become a man, which was immediately followed by the Crusaders Trial. Oh how he had looked forward to the trial. He worked so hard and practiced so much, and his father had been there every step of the way, helped him in any way he could, and had been so very proud of him. Although his father was a very quiet and reserved man, he could see it in those blue eyes. Those clear, sharp blue eyes that looked as though they could see right through you. He looked into them and he saw nothing but joy. And when Ryder had completed the trial without making so much as a single mistake, those eyes were the first thing he saw after he was finished. He’s quite sure that day had been the happiest day of his life. A year later he had nothing but the highest ambitions. When he was nineteen wanted to be the best. He wanted to do it all.
Most importantly, he wanted to keep his father proud.
On that rainy night in the spring of his nineteenth year, he was in his room studying. The subject was archeology. He remembered that very well, and he wondered if that had anything to do with where he would eventually find himself. But, the thought was quickly expelled from his mind. The memory continued on its own accord, playing before his eyes like a movie that couldn’t be paused or stopped. It was late, and he was beginning to nod off at his desk. His candle was burned down nearly all the way, and was flickering as if to warn of its impending demise. He probably dozed off for two minutes, maybe even three, and was jarred back to reality by a dull thud downstairs. He leaned back in his chair and stretched, then stood up and grabbed the empty goblet to his right. He had about another hour of studying to do, so another glass of juice would serve him well. Plus he needed to stretch his legs. The candle created animated shadows on his walls, and he watched them dismissively has he crossed the room towards the door. Lightning flashed outside, but the storm wasn’t close yet. He didn’t hear the low rumble of thunder for another four full seconds. He was at the top of the stairs when it reached his ears.
There was a fire burning in the fireplace in the den. He could hear the dry wood cracking. He saw a shadow move across the wall in the hallway, originating from the den, and he assumed his father was still awake possibly reading a book or simply stoking the fire. It didn’t occur to him to find this strange, even though he knew his father always went to bed rather early in the evening and even though he distinctly remembered him saying ‘good night’ to him earlier. But it was a damp night, and it would be best to keep the fire burning until morning. This was all the explanation he needed to give himself. He turned and walked into the den, and was greeted by his father’s striking and penetrating blue eyes. They were open wide in shock. His head was severed through the neck, and was nailed to the wall with a large, rusty spike. Blood oozed from the nail hole, running down his face in two places so that it appeared those eyes were crying blood. There was a puddle of blood on the floor where the head was hanging, and a trail of blood running down the wall. It looked oddly discolored in the firelight, almost orange. And it seemed to glow. But all Ryder saw were those eyes. Those eyes he knew so well. He stared into his fathers eyes aware of little else, even the decapitated body of his father lying only a few feet to his right. The empty goblet slipped from his grasp, hitting the floor with a metallic clang. That clang snapped him out of his trance, and he began to scream.
The screaming didn’t stop until he passed out from shock several moments later.
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