《Before the Fall》


 Before the Fall — I:III

    A dark winter''s night creeps over the land, clawing its way westward with icy fingers, belching chill snow round the Dark Lord''s keep. But tonight, winter ends for the Master of Night; all ends for him. Tonight, he faces the inevitability of his own demise. The world was too similar to how it had been, too many coincidences to be mere chance. He has known for a while now that his final night draws near, its end wrought by his own cursed hands.


    Sitting upon his sullied throne, the Dark Lord raps his crusted fingernails upon its pewter arm. Slowly, steadily, ever-gaining in frequency and intensity, he clicks his gnarled digits against the metal. Waiting. Eternally. Expectantly. For his sworn enemy''s arrival.


    Two heavy oak doors squeal on rusty hinges, seemingly propelled by the savage winter winds. The darkness of night obscures all beyond the keep''s portal. Yet soon motion splits the shadows. Barely perceptible at first, the confident stride of a familiar cloaked figure gains in clarity as it gains in proximity. The Dark Lord''s slayer cometh.


    What had appeared to be confidence in gait was perhaps a mere illusion born of shadows and anticipation, as the figure limping through the great oaken doors can do little more than stand¡ªthis itself a minor miracle, after having cut through the demon hordes defending the battlements. Yet a fire burns in those eyes, fueled by righteous furor and glory-lust. In truth, it is the same fire that once raged within the coal-black eyes of the man sitting upon the pewter throne.Stolen novel; please report.


    The Master of Night muses back upon his flawed existence, wondering now what he should regret¡ªif he should regret. Wisely, he sates his ego''s thirst for blame with only himself. In the end, he knew that though the universe may have thrust a sword into his hand, it was he who chose to wield it.


    Acceptance returns him to a long forgotten state¡ªa state more legend than truth to him in recent decades. Absurdity absolves him of his sins and renews his trust in chaos. Now, he vows, now his enmity with destiny ends, at long last. Life''s shackles unlock, freeing him from any fear of death. He leaves these heavy bonds to his slayer - a final yet unending irony.


    Peace made with fate, the Dark Lord rises from his throne and raises a wrinkled hand into the air, lowering it as a clenched fist. Gnarled joints crack against his palm as his grip tightens, compressing the very air into powder. A forgotten passion temporarily reignites within the cold void of his soul; his coal-black eyes alight anew.


    The battered warrior at the door gains the strength of a desperate man, drawing it from the unplumbed depths of his soul¡ªa strength that bolsters his structure for a final assault on his chosen evil. He darts forward, the Master of Night responding in kind.


    Their two voices erupt into twinned battle cries, echoing and crescendoing within the empty hall. Ever-closer drawing. Ever-fiercer growing. Until the moment they collide. The promised moment etched forever in time. The known moment expected ever since the slain realized whose flesh he had assumed those many moons ago.


    Upon the warrior''s blade the Dark Lord''s body rests, his struggle now over, true peace finally attained. The beginning for one man is likewise his end.

 Before the Fall — II:II

    The warrior''s fame spreads far and wide. He is now known by numerous epithets¡ªDarksbane, Nightslayer, and Hopebringer chief among them. He has conquered the evil besetting the kingdom and brought peace to the world, and these heroic deeds have earned him a place in the hearts of all folk.


    Yet, the years come and they go and along with them vanish the painful memories of oppression and subjugation under the Dark Lord''s regime. No demons remain to torment. No inky clouds hang perpetually in the skies. And soon, no trace will linger of a past evil at all. The people have truly entered an age of great prosperity, peace now reigning in evil''s stead.


    The warrior who brought it all about, though, now suffers greatly. His entire life he had spent training to slay the demonic, to purge the malevolent. But now that no evil remains, he is without purpose, without function...


    He thus vows to shuck the yoke of his heroic past and reintegrate into society¡ªa final victory, well-suited to a hero.


    First, he becomes a farmhand, but one day while clumsily pitching hay, he accidentally knocks over an oil lamp in the stable. In the space of a thought, the whole structure is ablaze, burning throughout the night, leaving only ash where the region''s most profitable horse stable once stood. Needless to say, the owner was displeased.


    Next, he becomes a sailor, very soon finding his sea legs to be made of gelatin. The summer season spent draped over the bow, the hero hangs listless, hopeless, utterly useless to his captain. Wan in face, he incessantly retches the contents of his unsympathetic stomach into the ocean.


    One final attempt he makes leads him to study trade. He learns to buy and sell a quarry most mundane¡ªthat is, compared to the horns of slain demons. Yet his trusting nature and honesty lead to unwise investments, costing him all of his remaining coin.


    Ten years thus pass in the span of a breath, not even the shadow of success in sight. Ten years of toil, agony, and failure have aged his body tenfold. Now looking upon his withered and gnarled hands, he no longer recognizes them as his own. He had once been the strongest in the land, but now none weaker remain.


    To his misfortune, news of his legendary incompetence for anything but demon-slaying spreads and he is soon without recourse. Doors shut in his face; dismissive hands wave him away. Even as a beggar he fails, for none are willing to approach him, much less drop a coin into his grotesque hands. Mothers warn children to keep their distance; people divert their course to avoid passing near him. Soon, none even remember who he is or why they spurn him; they just know to do so with religious regularity.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    Soon, ten more years come and go. The former hero now spends his miserable days hunting rats and digging through refuse just to find some half-spoiled head of cabbage. More feral beast than lauded savior, he has become utterly unrecognizable.


    One day, as he wanders the grimy streets of a dispassionate city, he decides to finally search for a suitable place to die. And find it he does. Along an unmarked alley in a forgotten part of town, he falls to the ground, kissing stone with cracked, bloody lips, unable and unwilling to move.


    Twenty years have elapsed since he freed the traitorous world from their horrific overlord. Twenty years he has suffered the forgetfulness of ingrates and hypocrites. Though two small drops in an ocean unfathomably vast, these two decades were time enough to break the spirit of the one man whose optimism once saved the world. And now, he will die unmourned, unremembered, unwanted...


    But out from the darkness of that trash-filled alley comes a cloaked individual, staring down upon the broken man''s wretched form. A simple raising of this unknown figure''s hand levitates the ragged, dying body from the floor. Yet another deft gesture gently propels it through the air and toward an opened door at the end of the forgotten alley. The cloaked figure follows the floating body in and the door shuts behind them.


    In this dusty, ill-lit room are jars housing a frightening menagerie of creatures, at many stages of development, suspended in viscous fluids of many colors¡ªsome even thrash about in their glassy prisons. Cauldrons bubble absent fire. Furniture moved by unseen hands carves a path through the chaos. Leatherbound tomes strewn about a table shut themselves and fly to their appointed places upon distant shelves.


    When the former warrior finally stirs, he finds his form bound to a cold metal surface. There he lies, naked and afraid. Fear? But of what? Was he not searching for death? The cloaked figure appears before him, scarlet lips curled into a sinister grin.


    The trapped man now feels a burning rage surge within him. But he soon realizes this devil before him is not the object of his anger. Then who? The images of all who had betrayed him flash before his mind''s eye. All the shopkeepers, the housewives, the sailors and farmers, the merchants and children, all of them appear with their mocking laughter, fingers pointed at him.


    These memories, both constructed and real, come pouring forth from the depths of his soul, culminating in a clarion cry of absolute pain. His vision blurs, all colors merging, gaining in brightness and intensity. Soon all he sees is white. And in a flash of blinding light, his body disappears.

 Before the Fall — III:I

    Darkness. Undisturbed, unadulterated nothingness.


    Silence. Unbroken, uninterrupted absence.


    A spark, first seen and only then heard, ignites a meager flame from lingering intent. What is a man when stripped of flesh and bone but intent? The sword saves lives in the hands of a guardian, but in the hand of a murderer it merely kills.


    The flame grows, fed on the fuel of emotion. What is intent without emotion? The guardian cannot protect without love and the murderer cannot slay without contempt.


    The flame blossoms into a very familiar, all-consuming conflagration, filling the void to its very edges. For in the end, the actions of the sword share the same results in spite of their intent.


    Regaining awareness of body, the broken warrior''s withered hand reaches out through time to catch the fire. Clutching it in his frail hand, he takes with it an immense and ineffable power. Seeping into his weakened form, bone, muscle, sinew, everything returns. Youth regained, strength recovered, his body becomes whole. Years peel away, and his energy peaks. Knowledge beyond his comprehension flows inwards from bygone eras. He feels he can move mountains with a breath, freeze oceans with a whisper. He learns to control the elements, to bend them to his will. And at long last, he learns a path back to his world.


    A mere thought and the endless void vanishes, soon replaced by a moonlit forest, where the man is alone with his rage. Betrayal remains carved into his very soul, like a fresh branding that will never heal. He seeks his revenge and nothing else will suffice.


    At his whim, all creatures of the forest congregate before him, bowing at his feet. With the mere flick of his wrist, their forms warp and distort into hideous, mixed beasts. Wolves meld with stags and bears with cougars, birthing terrible, demonic creatures. This depraved, unnatural army, built solely for the purpose of slaughter and destruction, eagerly awaits its commands.


    With the mere swing of an arm, the wizard sets his nightmare army in motion. Howls act as trumpets, heralding the twisted horde''s march through the midnight forest. Their four-pawed gallop carries them through the trees with inhuman speed; their master follows, carried on the wailing winds. Faster and faster, the misshapen beasts weave through pines and firs, until they reach the edge of the forest. A sleeping village. His vengeance begins.


    The demonic soldiers raze the town, murdering indiscriminately. Peasant blood irrigates the burning fields, screams fill the midnight air, and corpses litter the landscape. In a final display of wanton destruction, the wizard lights the buildings ablaze with a grand motion of lifting arms and clenching fists. But his hunger is yet unsated, the meal far too paltry.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Suddenly, deep within, the wizard feels his own fire dwindle, ever so slightly. An outward sign catches his eye, when he sees his left thumb has withered¡ªa reminder of his wretched and pathetic form beneath the fiery cloak of power. But his desire for revenge far outweighs his fear of relapse, and he marches onward.


    For ten years he brings destruction upon the land with his demon hordes, gathering legions of sycophantic human followers along the way. Never does he trust the fickle humans he collects; to him, they simply serve as fodder for his enemies'' armies. Humans are nothing in his eyes. Though his cold demeanor does not extend to all soldiers of his army. For in time, he bestows his beasts with sentience, despite the heavy cost incurred, as his left leg withers instantly upon granting this gift. Yet their unquestionable loyalty and companionship leave no room to regret the decision, and the wizard bears the cost gladly.


    But after ten years, he has destroyed the kingdoms that defied him and united the land under his dark banner. Now his banners of a starless night sky with a blood-red border dance in the wind above all castles in the land. However, the cost is great indeed. For he has now returned to his former decaying and shriveled body, and the blazing conflagration once within him has again waned to no more than a candle''s flame.


    For ten more years, he rules by force of reputation alone, never using his remaining power. He sits patiently upon his pewter throne signing edicts and performing the mundane tasks any lord might. When the impudent sow the seeds of rebellion, the Master of Night burns and salts the fields, quelling even the desire for change. He knows that none will rise to save these arrogant humans, that they are getting what they deserve!


    But at the end of these ten years, he receives a report which leaves him mouth agape, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. A new hero has arisen among the people, one who has promised to vanquish the Dark Lord and to free the people from his oppression. The reality of this familiar situation hits him like an earthquake, shaking the very foundations of his resolve. His meager candle''s wick grows dark, flameless, now with only a single wisp of smoke rising from it.


    As he sits upon his sullied throne, clicking his crusty fingernails on its arm, he waits for his final guest. Gazing at an all too familiar oaken door, he knows that at any minute through it a fated warrior will appear. The wind rips open the door, allowing the confident figure to come traipsing through. The wrinkled and broken Dark Lord then sees before him his youthful self staring back, hungry eyes ablaze with that forgotten fire. In tacit sympathy, the youth shares a spark, lighting the cold, black wick of the aged wizard''s spent candle.


    Two sides of the same coin dart forward toward each other, their two voices erupting into twinned battle cries. Ever-closer do they draw. Ever-fiercer do they grow. Until the moment they collide. That moment sealed by fate many cycles before the slayer was born. That moment expected by the slain ever since he realized whose flesh he had assumed those many moons ago.


    Upon the warrior''s blade the Dark Lord''s body rests, the struggle now over, true peace finally attained. What is the beginning for one man, is likewise his end.