Dreamcatcher

by Christian Rosnell

  A tall man, the King towered over his subject. His appearance surely wasn’t helping; clad in his usual all black with a silver-trimmed cape, to match his jet black hair shot through with silver and stormy-gray eyes – Decimader was often disappointed to see that he inspired more fear than hope. Surely the legends and mythologies about the centuries-old ruler preceded him. People just had to get to know him, he assured himself.

  “Yes?” Decimader asked the boy quietly. The boy just stared back, apparently frozen. “You said someone was here to see me. Who? I don’t recall setting up any appointments this evening.”

  “No… no appointment was necessary, Your Highness. Or… no, I mean… it didn’t have to be… you didn’t want us to…” The kid stopped, gulping. “The First Legend isn’t supposed to need an appointment… sir.”

  Ah… Decimader thought, closing his eyes. Yes, any kid would been nervous to not only see the Hero of the realm, but the First Legend himself for the first time. Quite understandable, considering the near-mythological reputation of the two men. Opening his eyes, he tried to give a reassuring smile to the youth, “You’re absolutely right, kid. Good job. Send him on in.”

  “But first”, Decimader said, stepping forward and grabbing the boy’s shoulder as he turned hurriedly to do as he was bid, “what’s your name?” Looking into the youth’s eyes, the tall King rehearsed the philosophy to himself – Respect is not earned, it’s given.

  Still trembling slightly, but a little more confident, the boy raised his head, “Nolan, sir. I’m named after the first of the First Legends. I’ll bring the name honor for you sir, I promise I will.”

  It works, the King thought with satisfaction. “I’ll count on it, Nolan. Good job carrying your message. Now, send the First in if you please.”

  Exiting with a bounce in his step, Nolan shut the door quickly behind him. Decimader smiled to himself. There’s something to tell his friends. Setting the book down on the mahogany desk in the study, he traced his finger across the ancient golden lettering on the cover. This book was showing promising results, looking to be the next in a long line of inspirational volumes that guided his leadership. Yes, respect indeed did seem like a promising strategy – if limited in application.

  The door opened, and then shut. Decimader turned, eyebrows raised, to look at the First Legend; his friend, vassal, and leader of the Legion. Though he was of middling height and middling age, the First was still in great physical shape. Of all the current active Legends (and surely some of the retired ones that worked in the Senate and elsewhere), the current First was far and away the most powerful. He was committed to his position with a tenacity and passion the King had rarely seen in a thousand plus years of his rule. His loyalty was unmatched; the man was immensely driven in his role of leading the Legion, and charismatic at that. There was just no teaching that.

  The First nodded to his liege, strolling over to peer at the growing darkness outside the massive windows. Though he was not often on missions anymore, he still tended to wear his battle gear when he wanted to keep up appearance – he must have been out in the city earlier. Adorned in the finest blue-tinted dark steel breastplate, with a matching mail shirt, gauntlets, and greaves, he forewent only his finely worked helm, which was simply too impractical to carry around. Decimader had to admit the man even looked like him; similar black hair and face, similar straight-backed demeanor. A bit shorter, but more muscled and athletic than his King. Were the King any normal man, he wouldn’t want to cross him.

  The traditional slanted L of the Legion was emblazoned in finest white on the First Legend’s breastplate and his deep blue cape. Sheathed on his broad back and protruding over his left shoulder was the great dark steel Warhammer that every First Legend carried while active – Justice. The weight of it, oddly enough, barely seemed to weigh him down. He truly embraced his post – physically and mentally.

  The King waited quietly, wondering what the First had to report. An informal, private meeting between the two was rare nowadays. In fact – Decimader didn’t think one had happened in over a year. No use in meeting when there was nothing substantive to report on First’s end, as it pertained to his and the Legion’s central mission. Frustratingly, it seemed like there never was.

  Finally, the First raised his head to the darkening sky and spoke…

  “I think we’ve found them.”

  Decimader’s breath caught in his throat. Them? He had formed the Legion over a thousand years ago to find one very specific individual. They never had. Decimader knew that this person had to be alive now, out there somewhere. Decimader knew, he could just feel deep inside him that this person was out there. He was far away, distant… but Decimader just knew he was there – like he knew the sun shined on the rest of the land, that the wind blew and the birds sang. He didn’t have to be there to see it, he just knew.

  Seeing the King’s reaction, the First grew seemingly uncomfortable and raised a hand to the back of his neck. “Right… sorry. No, I mean…. Not them. I mean the two Dreamcasters my Legends detected. From the region of Hope. The first ones ever from that region. The last two we need to complete the requirements of the Covenant.”

  Ah, Decimader thought, disappointed. He should’ve known, shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. He had held out hope for the last thousand plus years that one he sought would be finally identified by the Legion and brought to him as planned. He had, after all, formed the organization for that very purpose. Decimader couldn’t know, of course, when the Legion was finally going to be successful in their mission. He simply had a very strong feeling that it was going to be soon. Very soon. And if Decimader Vuruman knew one thing from long experience, it was to trust his intuition.

  In the event that the Legion failed to complete its central objective, the King felt he had a backup plan. Not too long ago, a mysterious engraving under the earth had been discovered and brought to his attention. Etched in a fading black on an underground cave wall in a boiling magma pit, it did seem a very odd place for an original religious manuscript. The religious manuscript actually – after the contents had been recorded only Decimader knew in context how important the text was. It was the lost message left to his people thousands of years ago. It held their future in its hands. And he had found it. He loved that thought.

  And this Covenant did promise two individuals that would lead a second Ascendance.

  “I apologize, First, my mind got carried away”, Decimader said.

  Respect – he has to know he’s done a good job. That’s where his drive comes from. He’s earned your respect. Give it.

  The King of the Dreamscape continued, “However, I would like to offer you my sincere thanks. This may be the best news I’ve heard from the Legion in quite some time, assuming these two are the ones described in the Covenant.”

  “They both fit the qualifications perfectly”, the First pointed out. “Apparently, the first two Dreamcasters from a domain who had had none in all of history were to be the two last Legends, who would find the Heir and lead the Ascendance. Considering the circumstances, this certainly seems to be the case.”

  Decimader walked over to the window to stand next to his most loyal and powerful subject, and opened the revolving door set into the clear wall, leading out onto a wide balcony. Resting his arms on the railing, he breathed deeply stared out over the now dark capital. He could feel him out there, like a distant heartbeat – easily tuned out but never forgotten.

  Don’t worry, I’ll be seeing you soon, old friend.

  The King turned his head to look down at his loyal subject and smiled. Clapping him on the shoulder, he began to laugh. “Lighten up, man, you just made the most important discovery of your tenure as First Legend. This has the potential to transition the Legion into its final and critical phase. If these two recruits pan out as the Covenant would indicate, the Heir should be found and eliminated. That would be something quite legendary you accomplished.”

  The First still looked less than pleas
ed with himself, though Decimader couldn’t figure out why. This was surely the moment he’d dreamed of, right? “I’m still not sure what to think about the Covenant as it is…”, the First started hesitantly.

  “You must have faith in the Covenant. Faith is what gives life meaning”, Decimader proclaimed with confidence, reiterating one of his favorite volumes – Belief: A Mental Fire. Another guiding principle of his reign. Sometimes he wondered whether he had too many ideas and guiding principles. Other times he felt like he needed yet more guidance.

  Regardless, it was time to go. The King needed to follow up on something that was nagging him. He needed to go somewhere where he could focus quietly and intensely. He knew just the spot.

  Jumping up on the balcony with a flair, The King of the Dreamscape spun and looked down on the First Legend. “You’ve won a great victory today. Know that you’ve rendered the greatest service to your nation, to the Legion, and to your King. This will not be forgotten, I promise you that. You’ve created a historic, lasting legacy today.”

  The First just looked bemused at the impromptu speech. Decimader just grinned slyly, “That’s what a King should say. Something inspirational, or the like. Well, that’s not my style. Just… look on the bright side, you know? You could have done something more mundane today, like not saving the world. Or not doing something revolutionary. How dull would that be? I shudder to think of it.”

  Giving one last incline of his head and raising his left hand in goodbye, Decimader Vuruman jumped off the railing, plummeting through the night with his cape flying in the wind, and looked up contentedly as the acid rain began to fall.

  Chapter Seven

  Lyght lay back relaxing in his woven hammock strung up in the shady tree-line along the beach, sipping on a cold citrus and coconut drink from his friend Milton’s bar, feeling the bitter yet warm aftertaste of alcohol in the funny mixture. Your first drink as an eighteen-year-old was always a much anticipated occasion, as it was highly taboo to drink underage anywhere in the domain. Lyght personally felt it was a little anticlimactic. Eyeing the drink curiously, he tilted his head back and looked at his bartender friend standing behind him, waiting for his reaction. Lyght decided to be nice about it, “Smooth mixture”, he said appreciatively, “odd combination of flavors, but very nice. You’re of master of this stuff, my man.”

  The old, grizzled bartender smiled at this – well, as much as he could anyway. “Got to pull out all the stops for the birthday boy. Well, man, I should say, as weird as it sounds to me. I can’t believe you’ve been around here ten years, Lyght. It seems like yesterday you wandered into my place, asking for directions. Now look at you! You and your friend here have an entire holiday celebration in your honor.”

  Lyght glanced over in Mikael’s direction. He was playing a game of sandball with a group of young men interspersed with some adolescents – a sort of keep away game with assigned territories, a ball, and a flag. Lyght didn’t understand it completely, but knew the strategy and conditions of the game changed as the tide came in and out, along with the fact the teams could – at some cost apparently – take a risk to change the location of their team’s flag. As Lyght watched, Mikael, barefoot and shirtless, snuck around the side and made a run at the opponents’ flag – and the sixteen-year-old guarding it. He easily powered through the teenager and whipped the flag out of the ground, launching it towards the foamy surf. As far as Lyght knew, once your flag went under water, your team lost. Although an opposing-team member caught the flag mid-flight, Mikael went flying in to upend him as he landed, stealing the ball from his feet to pass back to his team. He stood over his fallen opponent, smiling.

  Show-off…

  “Oh yeah, Mil. As you can see, ‘my friend’ over there is celebrating himself – no holiday needed”, Lyght said with a hint of irony. Nonetheless, he jumped up from his hammock and clasped Milton on the shoulder. “Really, though, thanks. I have a hard time believing I’m eighteen myself. I certainly don’t feel that way.”

  Lyght looked at the celebrations and games ranging up and down the golden beach, warm sea breeze blowing through his hair. “But come on, it’s the New Year that we’re really celebrating here, right? The year D1120 is tomorrow. It’s just lucky for me and Mikael that our birthdays fall on national holidays. It lets us pretend that people celebrate for us, even when it’s not true.” Lyght turned to the older man Milton, putting an grateful note in his voice, “This is really your celebration anyways; people like you are who raised us from the lost kids we were to the men we are now. I’ve got you to personally thank for that Milton.”

  Milton the bartender waved a hand airily, but looked appreciative all the same. “That’s the sincerity that I’ve missed, young man. Though I don’t feel I deserve your praise, I can’t help but be refreshed by your compliments. Thank you.”

  I wonder when I became insincere, Lyght thought wryly, looking at Mikael running circles around the same kid he got past before. It seemed odd to him that, inseparable as they were, he and his best friend were virtually opposite personalities. Mikael was loud and carefree, but openly kind and outgoing (if a bit overly competitive at times). Lyght himself was more reserved, reflecting, and preferred his small circle of trusted friends and family. Lyght didn’t hang around half the villagers like Mikael did, but he did trust the few people in his inner circle with his life.

  Speaking of which…

  “Milton, can I ask you do to me a favor?”, Lyght said thoughtfully. Milton nodded. “I haven’t told anyone this yet besides my sister, but Mikael and I are going away for… a few days after the party wraps up tonight. You know more than anyone how hard we’ve been working and developing our skills for the last ten years. Well, we figure that now is the time to put our abilities on the line. I can’t say much about it, but… well, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I was hoping you would be able to keep an eye on my sister for me while I’m gone. I know she’s got mom and dad there, but to be honest I sometimes think that I’m the only one preventing her from doing something extreme.”

  “Extreme?”, Milton frowned. “I’ve never got that impression from Sky.”

  “Well…” Lyght paused, “Mikael and I were captured by pirates – yes, pirates in the Southern Ocean – on our way back from our outing last night. Turns out they were just wannabes from around here, some villagers, but Sky has been running around with these idiots who pretend to be pirates. I know she’s got an insatiable taste for adventure, but even you have to admit that even pretending to engage in piracy is extreme for anybody to be trying, let alone a sixteen-year-old girl. We both know what the King does with pirates. That’s why there aren’t any more pirates, for the most part. I just –”

  Milton grabbed Lyght by the shoulders, looking him in the eyes, “Look, I’ve got you. No need to say any more, I’ve got you covered. Your sister will take care of herself, we both know that. Yes, deep down you know that too, even if she’s given you more than anyone else less than a reason to trust her.”

  Milton turned to walk down the shady beach path, crowded with people making their way this way and that for the various festivities all around town. Lyght followed, still listening to Milton speak, “No… I’m more worried about what you’re trying to do. Why leave now? You know, as a man, you’re supposed to have a sacred responsibility to the village. You know the Creed – ‘A man of the Southern Spirit does his best – for himself, his family and friends, and his village’”…

  Taking a deep breath, Lyght finished “the Creed”, as the phrase was called – the same one he would utter at tonight’s initiation, “‘Warm as the wind blows, calm as the sea, this man truly knows the Summertime Dream.’” The concept was burned into his memory, holding pride of place in his memories of the seaside village where he had spent the last ten years of his life growing up. And now that he and Mikael were legally men by the laws and customs of the village, they would be expected to live up to the ideal

  Lyght loved that Kona had a
truly unique and powerful, yet very achievable, ideal. To be a man or woman of the “Southern Spirit” (the Creed did have a lot of Dreamcasting references), one had to simply do his best for himself, his family and friends, and the village as a whole. The positive, collectivist mindset of the village that had so astounded young Lyght at first was rounded out with the second part, connecting the warm, tropical experience of living in Kona with the sentiment about the “Summertime Dream” (more Dreamcaster lingo). This was intended to be the objective or end-goal of living with the “Southern Spirit” – to create a lasting, warm and inclusive life experience to the current and future generations of the little village. Truly an idealistic, inclusive society more than any other Lyght had encountered it in his travels; Lyght loved it to death.

  Lyght looked his friend and mentor in the eyes, recently having caught up to him in height. Another sign that he was growing up, whether he liked it or not, “I know, Mil. Believe me, I know. It’s just… although I can’t give away our plans, believe me when I say that what we’re attempting to do is for the greater good of all of us. In a way, that still follows the Creed, doesn’t it? I’m not abandoning my responsibility; I’m just meeting it… elsewhere.” Lyght paused. What was he doing? If he was so sure of himself, why was he seeking validation like this? He shouldn’t need support to do what he knew he needed to do.

  Shouldn’t, but apparently still did. Milton stepped off the shady path into the sun, Lyght following. It seemed they were headed back to Milton’s place – a small bar in a palm grove between the docks and town. One of Lyght’s favorite places in the world. “I don’t know, Lyght, I just don’t know. I won’t pretend to be a role-model in this respect, or to speak on what Southern Spirit really means. I guess I’m just more worried about the practical issues here. Why can’t you at least tell me of your plans?”