by Ivory Autumn
That was a good question. He felt a far cry from the prince he once was. Yet he knew in his heart that the cause in which they fought was one of the most worthy. It was a cause that was greater than trying to secure power for himself or his place on his throne.
They did not want to rally the people to fight for a meaningless war, or for possessions, or even for land. But to fight to keep back the tide of darkness. To fight to light up the world. For if there were no souls who desired light, it would only be a matter of time until everything, and everyone was consumed by darkness.
He ran his hand along the cold rock he leaned against, feeling its smooth surface, trying to imagine what it looked like. He could hear Coral’s soft voice as she spoke to her brother, Sterling. He could hear the weary voices of Zeechee’s men as they battled with the wind, trying to set up tents to keep out the winter chill.
He sighed and pulled himself onto the rock, feeling the gritty, cold stone against his skin as he pushed away from it and stood up. He straightened himself, now on top of the rock, and let the cold wind blow through his hair and toss his cape.
The freezing wind pricked his skin, threatening to throw him off balance. He remained tall as if challenging the wind to try and make him fall. He smiled and lifted his chin towards the sky, holding out his arms as if to welcome the tempest. He could smell the cold, fresh smell of snow on the air, and the hint of something else. The smell was something he could not understand. It was something altogether new, and fresh. Something that smelled of possibility. Something old as time and as new as spring. This something was powerful, stirring---startling.
He closed his eyes, though it made no difference in what he didn’t see. But, through the small act of closing his eyes, he heard the sounds clearer. The sounds were muffled, hushed and distant, growing louder as if they came from the wind itself. The voices were soft, yet powerful, and almost indefinable like a mirage that vanished if you looked at it too hard. He listened to the mysterious voices that glistened on the frosty wind as if blown in from somewhere that could not keep these words hidden.
The words hummed and swelled, mixing together into many voices. It was as if someone had opened a vault of forgotten unsaid, beautiful, sorrowful, powerful, true words, and these words exploded through the air so he could not be sure what he heard. Yet their power was not lost in the explosion, but tripled and multiplied by their sudden release from imprisonment. These words caused a stirring in Lancedon’s chest, a great transformation in both his body and spirit.
Something had been born. Something good, something kept long in the darkness. Now it had come to light. And no one could shut this something out.
Though he could not understand where they came from, or what they meant, it gave Lancedon assurance that something had been unleashed. Something good and powerful. Something with the power and possibility of softening hard hearts and moving men into action.
He raised his head to the sky, feeling suddenly not alone. An overwhelming sense of urgency and duty encompassed him. It was his job not to let these words go undetected. He and his men must gather them, must speak them. They must spread them, must hand them out and give them homes, and a place to reside.
No. These words would not be shut out.
They would spread and expand, and be heard. He would see to it that it was thus.
There was more power in these words than in his sword. He would use these words to ignite the souls of men with the beauty of these lost, unsaid words.
Chapter Twenty-four
Voices
The words Andrew had released into the world surged through the land at the speed of light. The words swirled through the air like swarms of swallows darting through the earth, cutting holes in the shroud of gray, looking for a home.
They coursed through villages, towns and streets, seeking rest. With Lancedon and his men’s help, some words found rest, and a home in the person who created them. Yet, for every person who was suddenly awakened by these words of truth, ten were ashamed and would hide from the words. If they saw or heard these stray words fluttering around in the streets, fear would grip them and they would run as far and as fast as they could to get away from them. Many would lock their doors, and plug off any openings within their house just to keep the words away. Despite all this, their unsaid words would follow them, and the unheard words if daring enough, would creep beneath doors and peek into open windows, tap, tap tapping for the occupants to let them in.
Fear, pride, and stubbornness gripped the people of the earth, and they would not listen, nor would they speak what they should say.
Stray words that might be otherwise embarrassing to their maker, were caught and placed in jars and boxes, and put under lock and key, hidden away once again. If one looked into the streets of many cities of almost any town on the earth, you might think that the people were trying to catch butterflies at the brink of autumn. Men, women, and even some children, could be seen with nets, chasing after the words to catch them, and hide them away, never to be heard, spoken, or seen again.
As much as it was a time of truth, it was a time of great sadness. For as this flood of unsaid, true words came to light, they were quickly captured, rejected, scorned, and even kicked into street corners away from the very ears that needed to hear them. Those words that had not been tucked away, or caught, wandered aimlessly through the streets, drifting like purposeless clouds settling on trees, like leaves, lingering only a moment to wander again, scorned, and ridiculed. These lost words swirled with the wind, tossed up like trash. Like orphans whose parents had left them to fend for themselves, these rejected words accumulated in streets, trembling in the cover of darkness fearing for their lives and freedom.
It was a time of deep reflection for those who heard the unsaid words and began speaking them. Those who accepted these words became changed. Their countenances became brighter. Their actions reflected the things they heard. The more true words that they welcomed to their door, the more they wanted. Those who welcomed these words quickly scoured the street corners, glad to give a home to the rejected words. But this action was not without penalty or danger to those who bravely welcomed these words.
A scourge was going throughout the land. Those who kept and nurtured outlawed, dangerous words were quickly punished. The penalty for such terrible crimes was death. But even at that high price, there were still those who disobeyed.
The effect of these words on the people was gradual, hardly noticeable. Yet word by word, bits of truth were heard more and more. Even though those who dared speak these words were few, it caused a great uncomfortable feeling to ripple through the earth. The truth was that the people had become so accustomed to the altered version of the truth that when the real, genuine truth did happen to show its face, it was quickly smothered out. The truth stirred an uncomfortable feeling inside their souls and made them feel something sharp in their hearts that they did not want to feel.
No, they told themselves. They were free. They had always been, and would always be. These who ruled over them were just, and good men. These were the lies they told themselves, even as the black mist swirled around them, taking from them their wealth, their children, and the freedom they thought they had.
Through all this, still these unclaimed words lingered, waiting for those souls brave enough to hear, and speak.
Morack had heard these voices, the product of the words Andrew had released, and he hated it. The people of the earth whose eyes had grayed from the endless lies they had consumed, somehow were beginning to see shafts of light. These shafts were small, and Morack, was quick to silence them. Any light, any truth was a threat. The Fallen was quick to silence such words, and so was Vargas. These three powers ruled the world with vengeance and disregard.
No matter how many people these unlimited powers put to death, the voices sparked up, fanned by some wind that stirred the dying coals, unable to let the words die. The words cried out, though muffled by the shadows, and suppressed by the viol
ence of those that did not want the truth to be heard. The voices called out through the night, like small sparks shooting out into the mist, sparkling for one brilliant moment before being silenced forever.
For every spark that went out, more seemed to come to life, glistening out through the dark world. Lancedon and Andrew, though unaware that each were fanning the flame, spread these words of truth in the same manner, catching the hearts of men on fire with a burning thirst for the truth. Both gathered these scattered sparks, welcoming them to their bosom like children without home, land or a country to call their own.
These blazing sparks, these voices, cried out at random, with all the strength that they had, speaking the truth however small, not caring if what they said would be their last words. With the outpouring of unleashed words and voices that carried these words through the streets, The Fallen decreed that Morack, Vargas, and the kings of the earth should double their effort. They gave free lies to anyone who would want them. There were great hunts, and burnings of both words and word bearers. The Fallen’s minions scoured the land, capturing the bearer of the freed words. Still the words came, undaunted---they doubled, and tripled in scope and power.
To keep up with the words, The Fallen’s efforts then doubled, and tripled. Just as the words and bearers of the words of truth were hunted, killed and captured, an outpouring of lies, whose strength and number superceded the amount of brilliant true words, were unleashed. It was a time where lies could be had at every corner. They were cheap, and could be easily bought, easily sold, and easily bartered. They were kept in constant redistribution. It was a time of great knowledge and great lack of it. Those who knew what could happen to them if they spoke the words that Andrew had unleashed, began to fear. May who knew the truth, hid it their under their coats, buried in their backyards, stored it in places where no one could find it.
Thus were the days. The caldron of darkness began to bubble and boil as The Fallen mixed the thin line of brilliant truth into its blackened mixture. Soon everything would remain as before. The truth was diluted. The voices that had flared up were, one by one, getting extinguished. The pot was being mixed, so that the truth was harder to come by, and even harder to find. There were so many just-slightly altered versions and models of the genuine thing, that no one could tell the real truth from fiction. And not many cared.
Yet for all the stirring, another kind of stirring was happening. Something was stirring inside men’s souls. What people believed, whether it was truth or a lie, they believed it stronger then they ever had before. A chemical reaction began to take place. And some began to wake up. Those who began to see again were few, but these few were strong, and would not let the cloak of lies smother what they knew to be true.
This was what was troubling Morack. This undaunted, powerful, unstoppable force of unleashed words that would not be mixed, would not be diluted or compromised, and would not be silenced.
Morack sat on his throne---hunched was more like it. He rested his face in his large hands, engrossed in deep thought. His face was twisted into a very ugly grimace. The lines in his forehead were etched deep into his skin, like tree rings, marking the years of his life. He clenched and unclenched his fists, as if thinking about something very irritating, breathing in and out in loud gusts as if he were a dragon, ready to blow fire out of his mouth at any second.
A side door creaked, jerking Morack out of his deep, angry reverie. He sat up and glanced behind him, hearing a faint inaudible whisper. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and a strange feeling of fear gripped him. “What do you want?”
There was no answer. The door was open only a small slit. Yet no one entered. Convinced that a draft had caused the door to creak, he leaned back on his hand, and proceeded to get back to thinking his dismal thoughts.
The door creaked again, and a small scraping sound glided across the floor. There was muffled whisper, then it hushed when Morack turned to see what it was.
Irritated, Morack hunkered down in his seat, and pulled his robe around him. “Brrr,” he growled. “It’s freezing in here. Servants! More wood for the fire.”
A thin man quickly appeared in the doorway. Without a sound, he tended to the fire, then exited the room as quickly as he had come in.
The room again was quiet, except for the snapping and crackling of the now lusty fire. Morack stared at the burning wood, turning once more to his troubled thoughts about the horrible words that had been unleashed and were now seeping in through his kingdom.
Whish, whoosh, whish, swish.
The feathery-soft scraping sounds started once more, then stopped. A haunting murmur hissed through the room, causing the fire to sputter and spark. Morack turned around in his seat and scanned the empty room. No one was there. The marble floors glistened and shone with the reflection of the fire burning in fireplace.
Frightened, Morack whirled around in his seat, and peered out through the room with wide eyes. “Ghosts?” he breathed.
The sounds started once more, swish, swish, tick, click, click, like a small beetle brushing against the floor, along with the same suppressed muffled voices.
More riled than ever, Morack stood up and whirled around, his great robes swirling as he turned. He thought he saw a beam of light as it swished past him, and lingered in a dark corner of the room.
Morack squinted, and peered into the dark corner. The thing hiding from him, though trying to burry itself in the darkness, glowed, an iridescent bundle of light. Low, hushed murmurings were heard coming from the light.
The second he saw it, Morack stood frozen in place. His mind whirled. He had ordered these bits and pieces of unleashed words to be caught, buried, burned, destroyed. Yet one had found its way into his abode. The nerve of such a thing! Even now his men were scouring the country, burning the words and locking them away.
How had this one come into his room? His own unsaid, unheard piece of light. Perhaps his last.
The beam flickered, frightened, yet still bold.
Unsure what to do with such an unusual item, Morack stood still, thinking. He was afraid of it, to be sure. What words with such light were in his power to say that he did not know? The thought caused him to tremble.
After a long moment passed, he bent down, and lowered his hand. “Come,” he breathed, his words dripping with overripe kindness. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s alright. Come. Come to me, and I will take care of you.”
The trembling beam ventured closer to Morack’s outstretched hand.
“That’s it,” Morack said, “It’s safe. You can trust me. No. Don’t be afraid. Yes. That’s it, just a little closer…”
The courageous beam carefully ventured onto his hand like a trembling rabbit.
“Gotcha!” Morack hissed, closing his hand around the trembling beam before it had a chance to dart away. “You should know better than to trust me!” The beam vibrated with noise, but Morack clenched his fist around the beam, crushing it.
A muffled cry escaped into the room, and words Morack would never say, or hear were suddenly silenced.
An eerie heaviness filled the room. Morack’s countenance seemed to darken. It was as if he had crushed the last bit of light he possessed. And now all that was left was total darkness. He opened his fist, and stared down at the shattered beam---a million silvery pieces of fractured words that he would never hear or say. Morack dusted off his palms, and then sneezed as the dust from the dead words fell to the floor. He thought he heard another scraping sound move across the floor. He swung around, breathing heavily.
Morack’s eyes clouded over, and he let out an angry shout. “GUARDS!”
Instantly a group of men rushed through the door, looking around for some kind of intruder.
“I want this place scoured for these unleashed words!”
“Sire but we…”
“I don’t care! I just found one in my very room. If one more enters this chamber, I will have all of your heads!”
The men look
ed from one to another in alarm. “But sire. We have already collected and executed, and scoured the grounds.”
“I don’t care what you have already done! You obviously did not do a thorough job! Let none enter the city, let us purge our streets of this virus before it spreads. Let people who house these, these…” he couldn’t think of the right words, “these escaped anomalies, these blighted words, know that to shelter such things, no matter how small or great, will be punished!”
The men nodded. “Yes. Sire. We will do our best. Yet I doubt that we can catch them all.”
“You doubt?” Morack queried. “I WANT EVERY SINGLE ONE DESTROYED! Do you understand?” With that, Morack exhaled and pushed past the men, and ushered himself into his bedroom. He stared at his bed that had ominous posts carved into trees, with hands holding an orb in their claws. He felt very exhausted. But the thought of another beam creeping up on him was more than he could bear.
Where a normal person would be afraid of darkness, he was afraid of the light. It caused a pain deep within his chest, caused him to feel restricted, naked, dirty, and wholly miserable and uncomfortable.
He was about to plop down on his bed, but thinking better of it, he hesitated, and lifted the covers with his thumb and forefinger and peered beneath the blankets, afraid that perhaps another beam might be lurking beneath them.
He smiled when he saw that there was no such monster, only darkness. Then, just to be safe, he peered underneath his bed, scanning the floor for any intruders.
Luckily nothing was there, only dust.
Thus comforted, he settled himself in bed. On second thought, just to be sure no beams crept into his ears while he slept, he placed a large pillow over his head.
