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Short Story

Short Story

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Published by Brett Deister
This is actually going to turn into a book. It is suppose to be a dark fantasy. Hope you enjoy it!
This is actually going to turn into a book. It is suppose to be a dark fantasy. Hope you enjoy it!

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Published by: Brett Deister on Feb 28, 2013
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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Hope Will Rise Again
He walks out onto the light. With his shimmering armor, and steadfast resolve could not savehim. As the world crumbled around him a sharp pain explodes his nerves in his back. Hereaches around and finds blood, his blood. Breaton turns to see a woman standing over him.She walks over and as he is about to see her face, he wakes up in a cold sweat. His heartracing, he scans his back with his hands. Making sure he has no wound, his hands pass over many scars from years of bloodshed and war. This war, did anyone know what they werefighting for? His heart still pounding fast from the dream, a soft touch passes over his chest.“Hey, everything will be ok?” She says, empathizing with these maddening visions of the deathand the end of the world. “Death is near,” Breaton says over and over to himself. As he turns tohis lover, he knows of his wrong doing, his full vulnerable sins he has been living with. His firstone: he knows he should have married her long ago, but the sense of death always stoppedhim. He is faithful to her until the stars rain fire down and the earth implode on itself, he has heldno other woman higher than her. She was perfect for him. As she sings a sweet lullaby to calmhim, he turns to her for a superficial smile. Then he proceeds to let her know that, “I am fine.”Yet, the dream and his past ruined him.She knows this may not be the whole truth, but trusting him was what she wanted to believe. As she smiles back and she lays her head back down. A flash of emotions rides through him.Filling him with the story of how they met. Two broken people, finding love. They met at thelowest point of his life. Going through life as an empty soul, Breaton wondered if there wasanything for him. Living a life full of pain, Breaton could not wash away his sins of his past. Hewondered if he could ever love. Seeing the cruel lust of a mad father, he saw no reason to ever show any. He was broken. Lydia was one who understood. She accepted him for his faults. Sheknew he was a better man. They met in a palace gathering, where dancing and orgies toldplace. She was a harlot, but more of a lady in every sense of the word. Every noble lady lookedat her and laughed. They said, “How much will it take for you to take our husbands for a night?”They teased and snickered, looking self-righteous but never truly right. As Breaton walked in,remaining unnoticed, she noticed him. To her, there was something noble about him, somethingthat no one else saw in Breaton. She quickly thought began to devise a plan to get his attention.Breaton recalled her story: She grew up selling her body to have a meal. She grew up knowingnothing but how to use her body for power. An effective tool, that would backfire, Breatonalways knew she was raped and taken advantage of from lesser men. She was a woman thathad no name, her worth and purpose was from her body and beauty. Breaton always called her,the beauty in my life. He knew every day was better with her than without. Lightly stroking hishand on her body, he could feel and find his way through her natural curves. Knowing everywrinkle, and elegant imperfection, was still perfection in his eyes. He could draw out the beautybeneath the skin. However, he was happy sleeping next to such an exquisite woman. Her bodywas a sacred shrine to behold. Her fiery red hair to her precious green emerald eyes, down toher curvy and her blessed bountiful bosom, she was a gift to any man. He saw and felt the hurtshe endured and wanted to take it all for himself. However, that battle was not his to fight. Hewas there for support and a tender kiss. As the tender memories of being together strip away the guilt of being so intimate with her andnot fully being as one, he was able to live with that. He himself was a man born of a “noble”house. His father a paranoid ruler, always seeing the tainting of the blood line, encouraged sexwith family members. He would make Breaton, his son practice on his mother, while hewatched. He would then after he was done with his sister, “have a go at it,” He would like to say.Breaton born on house Castion was chastised for his father’s beliefs. His sister, after years of 
rape and incest, took her life. Her final act, she hung herself above their father’s bed. Nakedshe was, bearing all the scars and hurt from her life, this drove Breaton’s father even more intomadness. Seeing as everyone a traitor to his cause, he would challenge any livestock that“looked at him wrong.” His mother was just an empty shell. She was just a walking dead.Some even called her a soulless. She gave up. She had nothing to live for. Born of houseLeonaird, Terila Castion was nothing of the old stories Leonaird use to tell us. Breaton devotedhimself to the art of war. First mastering one handed weapons, he was considered a mast at ayoung age. He then moved to throwing knives, knowing that sometimes a quick strike couldsave time, and energy, he was always practicing. Sun up to sun down, he was with some sortof weapon.Breaton was always blamed for the death of his sister. Beaten with a whip, he had learned tohate his father. He had taken it, challenged his anger into becoming a better fighter, to one daylead an army. Until his father snapped, in a blind drunken rage, he was using his fists. Thinkinghe had the upper hand, Breaton has enough. In one clean swift stroke he has sunk his dagger into him. Castion’s his shocked with the wide eyes of death. Knowing his death is coming hestarted to laugh. Coughing up blood he got the strength to say something. “I may die, but youwill die a slow death of loneliness.” “I have ruined you for every type of relationship.” As hetakes his final breath, “I can die a happy man.” Breaton shaking from what he has done looks athis hands. Bloodied from his vengeful act, he drops the dagger. “What have I done?” Hewanders. Still in shock he gathers up his things and decides to leave his home. He ties up hismother to the bed and sets the house of fire. This is his final act of cleansing himself from hisnightmare. He chose to bury those memories, never to be opened again… Althania, CaldooginnBreaton now focused on the battle ahead completely forgetting his beloved, picked up his swordand started his drills. Lunging, thrusting, sidesteps, quickly throws daggers to the back of him,followed quickly by quick thrust to his left and right. He starts to draw some sweat from hisbrow. He knows what needs to be done. He lowers his sword and walks over to pull away theflap. Looking outside, he sees it still night time. He has time to rest, to settle his conflictingthoughts, and maybe finally do what is needed and right… Marry her. Life is about the integrityyou possess and the will to act on it. That was once said to him as a young boy. He never thought that it would be true, but this truth was starring him in the face. He turned around, andslowly walked back to his bed; tears ever so gently falling from his face. Climbing back into hisbed he held is beloved tight, feeling heartbeat, he felt blessed. Silently praying to his Creator for a blessed victory, he worried sacrifices would be made. What heavy price would he be paying?The battle horns awoke him to the call of the battle that is about to ensue. The horns march on,the day is about to break. Breaton looks on a high hillside scanning for what is about to be abloody battle. He knows that many will not return. People he has called brother, will take their final breathe on the battlefield. He looks as though a bloodhound sniffing out his prey for aweakness in the battle formation. As he scans the sense of death fell upon him. This could behis last fight. This could be the last thought he will think. This could be his doom. For what?This stretch of land that has no value, but to add more to a country he believes lies to him. Acountry that once fought for freedom is now the oppressor. The one that believed every manand to a lesser extent woman had a right to choose. He has finally succumbed to imperialism. As the shock of reality slams him straight in the face, he walks into his tent to get ready. Hissquire at the ready to do his bidding assembles his armor. The armor that Breaton wears isworn. It is not bright and flashes everyone in the battlefield. It is dented and has been reforgedto ease the tension of his armor. His armor was once great and looked upon with awe.Whitesung they use to call it. Full of splendor and wonder, many people use to wonder how it
was made. The folk tales and lore of old would have people believe by magic. That magicmakes any wearer invulnerable. However, other tales say it makes a person faster than anyman alive. Either way the tales makes any man going up against someone in Whitesungtremble. Others would say this is bestowed from God or Gods to their most precious creation.The real tale is not of knowing how it was made, but to look at it as it once was something to bereckoned with. As the gauntlets slip on and tighten Breaton feels a battle-hardened peace seep through him.Like water slowly filling up a pitcher. His piece of the armor makes him more resolute about hispurpose. He is a soldier and he must kill or be killed. Nothing else matters. One by one thearmor comes on. The gauntlets tighten the breastplate fitted and the legs guarded. His bootscome on and he is fully aware of the hour that is upon him. He stands and the belt is tightenedwith a sheathed for his sword. He is handed his sword or the peacemaker as they call it. It wasa hand holding an olive branch as the hilt and the hand also holding the sword. “Peace throughstrength,” was the motto that Breaton was taught and lived by. The olive branches were made of out gold and the leaves were made of emeralds. This made the sword have a legendary, yetmajestic touch to it. Breaton swung the sword from side to side, listening for the humming soundof the countdown has begun, once he is handed his helmet and as he takes hold, the horns playagain. There is a beating of the drums, the horns and drums perfectly in sync with each other.Breaton walks over and lifts the tent flap; he turns back to his squire, “You have been faithful tome, I could not ask for a better partner. Thank you.” He turns back and closes the flap, maybeto never see him again. The squire runs, like a loin after its prey. “Sire” the squire shouts;Breaton turns “Yes.” “Never forget, you are somebody.” Out of all the odd things to say, hechooses this. Not a love sentiment or weeping for him not to leave. The squire knew what hethought Breaton had to do. He just wanted him to remember that he is worth something... Thathe is somebody. He is not a blunt instrument to be used and then throw out like a usedcondom. He was unique, he was somebody. The squire knew. He knew him better thatBreaton knew himself. As Breaton turned and contemplated what had transpired, he then was brought back to histhought. Why? Who am I? What is my purpose? He was of noble heart but a lesser lord. Hewas considered a grunt or foot soldier. Even though, he showed more skill and talent than allthe lords in the land; they still treated him like he’s worthless. Born from a harlot of a noble lord,he was treated like worthless trinket. His mother hated him and chastised him for being a failureand his father was absent; both physically and emotionally. He lived as a shadow, only for people to be scared when they realized he would never leave. Breaton throughout his life wasfocused on being the best. Nothing else matter, but he has never gotten there. He has blamedand hated everything for his failures. His sense of achievement has crippled him, from trustinganyone. He is very loyal to the cause, but always weary of who will betray him. “Know that youare somebody,” took him for a shock. He was neither angry for those kind words, but didn’tknow what to do. He was a weapon, pure and simple. He trained for 12 hours a day to be thebest. Reading every book he could about tactics and strategy; training relentlessly with swords,maces, axes and knives. He was not going to be beaten by no one. As his mind wandered farther than he could walk, he was abruptly flung back into what wasgoing on at the moment. The lords were gathered. This was the morning tradition, or egoinduced madness. They would try to one up each other in a bout about who could win the battleor turn the tide. This usually would end in swords being drawn. Each lord that was there wore

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