The longest kiss in history

[Ludovic]

All was quiet. Every living thing appeared to have gone from the once green oaken forest, in tide with autumn's passing. No birds, no animals. No sounds. A sea of lifeless trees awaiting summer's kiss.

Then, like the wailing of a banshee, a piercing sound rang out, which made the very branches shake, loosening the snow that nestled up against the bark. The sound of swords and shields. Clashing. Pure. True. Like a sound made by the finest violin, clear and sharp. Piercing down to the core. Moving any man that knew the art, encore.

In the distance, two figures fighting. Dancing. An armoured knight, that hinted at great, legendary deeds, like those in stories told by minstrels of the land, danced gracefully in his metal ballroom vestment. Though aged, his armour battered, dented, with his best years far behind, still a match for any mortal man.

The other, young, foolish and impatient, fumbled like a duck upon the mirrored ice. Shouting angrily as every swing he took, the air all around would slice.

It was cold. Every breath he took felt like a shard of ice puncturing his lung, an arrow to the chest and a cut across his throat. Every breath expelled, quickly turned to vapour before his mouth ever opened. Cold. Like the kind you feel atop the highest peak. Like the kind you feel when your heart is bleak.

His fingers, fused together with the metal of his grip. Not from the cold, but from his will to keep it near, to never be unarmed, to fight. To win. To be alive. What little armour there was, felt as if he carried a full grown man upon his back.

Now strike! said the armoured figure, waiting in a stance with shield thrust forward. But he couldn't strike. Not now. Exhausted, tired and confused.

Why must I do this? How can this possibly help me? I need a rest. He said, lowering the battered, chipped and dented sword by his shivering side.

This was a usual occurrence, day in day out. In perpetual training. Went on for years, when not training for combat, he would learn of the divine. When that was done, he would learn of lore. The past. His people, his history. His duty. Come sun, or when the heavens opened, raining.

Still, he did not know why he had to do this, day in day out. And sometimes he just lost his temper. A bellowed call, like men thrust forward in the heat of battle.

When you're tired, sick and jaded, that's when you make mistakes. That's when you say a thing you wish you hadn't. That's when you thrust instead when you should parry. That's when you fail to notice the dagger at your back. Said the armoured figure, in calm and soothing voice. But strong. And wise.

He knew his task; he knew he couldn't let anything slip. No mistakes.

You know your task and you know where you must go. You cannot make it known until you are ready, you cannot let it slip. You cannot make any mistakes. The armoured figure continued.

By now he was on the ground, completely drained looking up at the once magnificent armour that had long ago lost its shape and shine. But not its meaning. Ornate shapes could still be seen, the quality of work, divine.

Looking at him, the armoured figured went on: Get up. That's not how we fight. Get up. We never give in. Get up. Said the knight, thrusting that extension of his arm into the heavens.

As the man looked up, he could see the battered armour almost glowing. The knight by the sun appeared crowned and seemed to burn like a raging fire, embers throwing. He could see and understand, the power of this forgotten knight, all impressions – nothing real, more than that, he seemed to lead, inspire.

He got up, and took a swing. Carving across the hero's arm. Blood draining to the snow below, running down his metal, like a charm.

Hah! exclaimed the man. I got you and you're cut!

Yes, you cut me. The virtuous steel replied. But where is my sword? He quizzed the youngster. At my neck… came the reply.

At your neck. You cut my arm, but I would cut your head. Never strike in anger, fear, hate or disregard, as your foe, your life little would regard.

As the young pupil took his place back on the frozen, snowy ground, the knight put his sword atop his shield, rested at his feet. The wind was blowing, and although he wore a full-face mask, locks of white, shiny silver hair made their way across his back. The visage of this man, standing still, upright, chest forward, would inspire and astound.

He spoke, calm at peace with life. Ever wonder why? Why it was you? Why I saved you and countless other perished, when death was rife?

The young man stood, sitting still. He thought, and spoke, finally realised the fact and all was clear.

Because of destiny… he almost whispered.

Because of destiny. The knight replied.

After all these years, who are you? Really. Asked the young man, almost surprised.

I am you... Came the reply, softer, quieter than usual. A rhetoric, almost wishful thought surmised.

[Grayle]

Poetry. The imagery is wonderful. You claimed to be no writer?

You're wrong. Lawful Good and wrong.

[Del]

Paints a great picture, nice writing more please.

I still cant shake the feeling that I know Ludovic from back in the day, but hes not saying.

[Starkwold]

You are skilled with the pen, sir. Do not stop now.

[Ludovic]

Thanks for the kind words. : )

[muletang]

great to see the stuff rolling out in this channel. nicely placed character. well done.

[Grayle]

Ready for more, Ludovic.

[Ludovic]

It was dark. Dark like the darkest night when no moon would show its crown, fearing the worst. Dark and all seems stark. Then, flashes, glimpses of something catching what little light there was. Flashes and the sound of battle, deep grunts like that of angered beasts. Echoing, throughout the caves, as more flashes sparkled like a timid firefly. A great axe came down, smashing against a shield, denting it. Pieces of the poorly crafted axe flew about, catching the light and glistened as sparkles from a pixie deep within secluded woods.

Before the beast could raise its axe to strike again, it felt the cold iron of a sharpened blade piercing its chest. Blood spilling, gushing like a broken barrel filled with pure, fine red wine. Covering its slayer’s face, and armour, drenching like an autumn torrent. Chilling. The beast wriggled in agony and pain, forced to stare down death’s advocate, before it could lock gaze no more, two great eyelids shut close. And close for good. The beast’s lifeless body lurched and leaned against its slayer, standing almost upright, as it slowly kneeled for one last prayer.

The man raised his left leg, and placed it upon the beast’s kneeling shell, close to where the sword struck and became stuck. He pulled back with all his might; a whooshing sound quickly sliced the gloomy silence of the cave, and the sword was free once more. Dripping crimson tears. It was free, and free of mortal fears. The beast was dead, the man alive, for he was the better on this day, and he would thrive.

Looking down upon the slain body of the beast, the man simply whispered I hate bugbear. And turned towards the light of day, to smell the scents, to see the sun, a ray. The man walked out, at normal pace, as if un-phased by what transpired and headed back towards the town. Towards the inn, some ale, a bath and well earned rest. For today, he passed the test.

The blood started to dry, turned a dark brown colour and smelled worse than a thousand beetles. He walked in, asked Roggins for the usual; a mug of his finest, strongest ale, tipped it back. Threw some coin upon the counter and walked upstairs to his room, all patrons staring at the man, drenched in blood and at his broken gear. The armour was missing a shoulder blade, and more dents than an armour that had seen a thousand battles. The shield almost cut in half, with pieces hanging, dinging as it rattles. Underneath the blood; blue eyes and white hair, tied in such a way to obscure the tips of his ears, and the faint features of his youthful face.

He was tired, weak and wounded. Entered his room, threw the sword and shield next to a wall and headed to a table, where some water was waiting to be turned, tainted by the drying blood of yet another vanquished foe. His face was clear, washed his hair and cleaned as much as he could of that battered armour. It would need repairs, but that was to be done tomorrow. Dusk set in, like fog rolling from the mountains, covered the land and creatures of the night took the darkness as the daylight glow no longer rippled in the fountains.

It was dark. Dark like the darkest night when no moon would show its crown, fearing the worst. Dark and all seems stark. A small fire burned within the room, sheltered by a dark stone fireplace, its light spread across the room and bathed it in a shower of dark orange mist. He got onto the bed, clad in armour, as he would never take it off, went to sleep and clenched his fist. Deep within the dark hours of the night, the fire barely spat a flame, then like the fanning of great bellows by a master smith; the fire grew, burned bright as if a gust of wind gave it the kiss of life. Its light made the room brighter than the morning sun, and all shadows seemed to shun.

He twitched, and turned, laying upon his back, facing to the ceiling. Drenched in sweat, vapours, slowly rising from cracks and cuts that adorned his plate, like great chimneys, in the winter smoke. He would twist, and turn, and choke.


(To be continued)

[ChikenKannon]

*applauds*

[Grayle]

All of that and internal rhyme, too. Very 'classical'.

I hate bugbear.

Haha. Me, too.

[Ludovic]

For all the pain upon his face, the man was calm, at ease with what was going on, still twisting. Turning. Like a willow caught within the centre of dark and brooding tempest. He was asleep, cradled in his bed. Drenched in sweat as if a bucket had been tipped above, and his breathing heavy, as if tied down by lead. The eyes, under shut lids, moved around in their sockets, danced. But at the past, they glanced.

In his mind, he is awake and sees shapes rushing by, all blurred, obscured by a mist whiter than the blankets of snow that hug the highest mountain peaks. It's like a dream, but real. Lucid. A lucid dream. Slowly, he begins to make out shapes, and give them meaning. A small town, stone and wooden buildings, a great hall. Inside, adorned with wooden carvings and idols of old gods. Girru, Utu, Marduk. Ea, Ki and tucked away in a corner, as if looking from the shadows, Anu.

Then. Sharp. Painful, the screams of a woman, surrounded by men and women, old and young. Her belly bloated, as if about to burst, as she screams in pain, Giving life. A child is born, came into the world with a full head of hair, but whitened as if he'd lived a lifetime and much more, crying, calling. Bright blue eyes moving in perfect timing with his arms and legs, squirming, as if crawling. As the hair moves about, the pointed tips of ears are revealed, and the men and women too, back off. Some, calling devil, others crossing their hands and fingers in some symbol that is meant to ward. Some, ready to put the new born baby to the sword.

… what is he? He must be tainted. Scourge! Demon! Devil! No, he's special. He must be killed. He's just a child! An omen… A chorus of voices, some calm, others shouting, others frantic. Others, just sitting, were witnessing events almost romantic. Then, the large carved door of the great hall swings open. A man, 7-foot tall, with the sun at his back, seemed to glow as if coated in gold, came in from the bitter, freezing cold. His eyes were white, and a golden beard weaved its way across his face, with a golden crown, flowing down across his back, and past his shoulders, as if a fine silk evening gown.

All stood aside as the bear of a man swung close the door with his right hand, dragging it behind and carving through the mass of fervent people. He looked down, bent over and picked up the child. Holding him high up, as if an ornament placed upon a holy steeple. He spoke, … he's one of us… his voice booming, penetrating, echoing through the great carved wooden hall. Then all other voices silent fell, and two men rushed to ring a bell.

All becomes covered in the white veil of memory; shapes go rushing by again, blurred and indistinguishable. Years pass, perhaps three or five, perhaps four. A child is playing in the courtyard of a small wooden, thatched roof home. Gazed upon by the loving eyes of a yet again pregnant woman. Mother. A man, up atop the roof, holding straw and slowly weaving it into the canvas of the darkened roof. Father. When a horn sounds from the great wooden gilded hall. The man stops. Stares at the caring woman, and lets go of his dry yellow straw. Jumping, grabbing branches of a cherry tree that just borne buds. Rushed inside to find an old chest and dusty, locked tight by two black leather straps with copper buckles and black iron studs.

The bell is rung, as more people dart and scurry like livid honey bees, preparing their stinger to repel a yet unseen force that marches to bring doom. Upon the faces of all men, an expression filled with angst and gloom. Few minutes pass, and hundreds are huddled, just outside of the great hall, in front of a wooden porch, two feet above the ground. They look around and stare at each other, waiting for something to happen. The great door swings open, smoothly, not a creak and not a sound. From within the darkened hall emerges a man, the same 7-foot man, dressed in old and battered armour. It was grey, and lost its sliver shine, the proud golden symbol of a crown upon his chest was missing its left prong, another in the centre was bent, about to break. It had been long since it had seen the light of day.

A silence fell over the land; that dreaded calm before the mighty storm; before trees are torn no matter how deep their roots may go. The large man glanced at the huddled men, took his time to choose his words and spoke at last, with a reverberating voice, despite the lack of walls. Strong, though kind and warm.



(To be continued)

[KoolestLoser]

I finally had a chance to read through your stories Ludovic, I must say...

Woah.

Great stuff, looking forward to the next addition.

[Grayle]

Grr...What a place to leave us hanging! Your writing has this dreamlike quality to it. Like, looking at the story through a frosty window. I think your writing is really...

(To be continued)

[Ludovic]

There comes a time, when the day ends. A time when the sun sets and darkness takes with the coming of night’s cold gaze, and through our body, a chill sends. The sun has set on the day of Dasaria, and the night marches towards us, the only candle left alight!

But may my bones turn to dust upon Druaga’s table if I give up without a fight! Our kingdom’s fame, indeed its name, rots as a mighty, fallen tree. And with it too, its people shall fade into obscurity. Join me tonight! Stand at my side and we shall gain immortality through death and be forever free!

Those, the words he spoke, in front of nearly three hundred men. All of whom, Kingseeker Knights that dared stir Varana’s hive and as quickly as word spread of unrest, the Emperor sent forth four thousand troops to crush what little hope had sprung; that was their quest. Four thousand… as the horns of battle rung.

Dusk was setting in, yet dust from marching troops rose faster still, making night come quicker than it could, and the four thousand strong – blood would seek to spill. As if in concert with the moon, they stopped just outside the little town as night welcomed back its nightly bluish crown. It would start, rage, and be over all too soon. And the very earth, would sight a dreaded, reddish bloom.

The silence seemed to last for hours, as both sides, simply watched and waited. The Kingseeker Knights knew this day would come, so they made sure that many of those who wished to end their lives would walk through hell before a blade was even crossed, and bloodlust sated. The commander of Varana’s forces knew, so he sat back and gazed at the defenses, inspecting, as an eagle scans the ground for any pray; he, for any weakness, keen, with all his senses.

Then finally, as the last muffled whispered cries of the sun fade into obscurity, serenading night’s eternal queen, large war-drums stir and spit with callous hate, their dire song of doom. And men, thousands march, driven towards their cold, unforgiving tomb. A steady line of swords and shields crept along the ground, making steady progress, ever near to the wooden battlement reinforced with stone.

The freshly dug earth, veiled by moon’s faint glow, lay there, unspotted by the men, and as they step closer to their death, that trap is sprung. Hundreds fall bellow into the pits, onto sharp pine needles, piercing and breaking bone. A chorus of such screams – a thousand banshees, would never hope to match. A man, impaled onto a spike, was writhing like a worm when placed onto the fisher’s hook. Another, fell face first onto a tip. Another still, came to rest upon his back, between two spikes, as if asleep in a comfy hammock – this time though, the cloth was he. The pits that night, many lives would snatch.

Despite the screaming, pain, agony and torrid death, the Varanite commander clad in gold and black, would send forth his men until a bridge was built across the chasm that had filled with blood. A bridge of flesh and steel, a chasm filled with men’s last breath.

Then came the arrows that glided upon the cold, cruel breath expelled by death’s archangel. And one by one, they bit the Varanites as mosquitoes bite the cattle. And hundreds more, forever left the battle. A soldier caught one in the eye, he dropped his shield and sword, clutching at the shaft, his hands awash with blood, before he kneeled and prayed to a false god. Just behind, un-phased, stood the Varanite commander, who took his sword and cut his head, leaving him for dead.

And so they get closer, almost reach that town, that dragon spiting flame, and stand before the walls as rain begins to crush against their heads. But not with rain of water, no. This rain had stone for drops, and many skulls would crush before it stops. Another line, when crushed by stone, like grapes, lets flow its mortal wine. And hundreds more, would never see their home, would never dine.

But there they are, standing at the gates. These gates that looked as the gates that hold back the nether realm itself. And then, all stops. Not a whimper, sound or whisper. The commander waves his hands, and simply waits.


(To be continued)

[KoolestLoser]

That's some powerful imagery. Great writing.