Historia I

Moonlight beams down into the now open court. The cloudless sky serenades the dazzling openness this stuffy place didn’t have before. Still, there had been some drawbacks. Giant pieces of stone populate the abandoned throne room, and that disgruntled man left without much more than some poetic nonsense.

Dust from the collapse engulfs the inner webbing of my throat. “Koff! Koff!”

The dryness it caused wasn’t helped by any of the new dangers that surround this cruddy castle. Rumble litters nearly every inch of this once beautiful throne court. Pieces of the ceiling—once etched with stellar craftsmanship— lays around me. It’s history could be felt through the agitating dust it created. It’s triumphs chipping away under every contact it made with my sneakers. All of this would’ve been so fascinating if it wasn’t for the elephant in the throne room: why am I not crushed to death from this?

Checking myself head to toe, a full inspection had to be done. Cuts, bruises, blemishes, and worser possibilities; nothing too small a thing to not be a danger in this place— wherever ‘this’ is. Is it luck or was it fortune? To be in this archeology gear when I woke up here. That is one thing, but this ‘luck’ is something more strange. Everything is alright. Not alright— better than alright. Completely unscathed. In every sense of the word, not a thing was out of place. Not even dust covers me body…

Why don’t I remember what happened before the ceiling collapsed?

It is a thought that disturbed me— no, does and will continue to bother me. Something is definitely off. But, the calls of the wilderness roar out from beyond the shattered castle’s great throne room. Now isn’t time to dwell on this.

Quick to move, my hands react before I could order them so. They tap the many pockets across my survival jacket and my thin pants. Top down and every zipper in-between; the movement of my hands had to have generated their own winds. And, that certainly didn’t help matters.

The cool air seeps in from the more open court. It flows like a stream above the wall remnants. Like tingling of your ears when a whisper sneaks in from the dark, an undesirable edge wedges through my confusion. Fear. The chill runs down my legs, yet the patting of my hands distract from the shiver for a bit longer.

Canteen, protein bar chucks, and a bunch of Egyptian gems can still be found in the same places they were before. A familiar nagging rattles around in my brain. A lighter, Swiss army knife, and some bandages are found in a few other pockets. It’s a voice of a certain man I followed to Egypt once again. Indentions of a many other pocket-sized things can be felt further beyond that. Things could definitely be worse.

Thanks, dad.

This touch of reminiscent warmth shields me from this chilly present. If only for a moment, that boost is all I needed. Another drive; another reminder to take his lessons seriously this time. A chance to prove it again.

My eyes move up from the clean khaki jacket and onto what remains of the huge throne room. The light from the moon illuminates more of the area inside than before. Dull grey of the stone before transforms into a splash of twinkles among the caved-in limestone that clutters the floor below the throne. Deceptively grey from far away, a layer of green coats the top from the outer sections of the castle, and, now, it can be seen up close like this. Things around the circular center court below the throne of the room can be seen as well. Paintings of men, women, and beasts parade the walls that still stand. Their frames made from all different lusters of materials. Each as if a sign of their times. A green opaque coat overgrows them the further they recede back towards the tall, shabby throne.

One step, two steps; over the huge stones and in-between the tiniest of sharp pebbles isn’t as easy as one thinks. Slow and steady, the toes of the sneakers touch between the landmines that coat the ground between I and the throne the man was once in. A muffled squeak slips through my clenched teeth. Peebles bounce millimeters with the shift of my feet’s placements as the throne grows closer. I can see something new at the cushion of the throne’s comfy seat. Something familiar. Even still, distractions are disastrous. Fragile is the balance when it comes to places as precarious as this one has become. A balance that is— oh, so— easily shifted at the lightest nudge. Even if by nature itself.

A current slices through the wider openings of the wrecked walls. With it, the foul stench of the surrounding dead comes with it. The wind is picking up.

I begin to wobble. Back and forth. The weight upon my torso— all the heft collected in my pockets— sways my already odd leg angles to a far worse position. While it wouldn’t be particularly fatal if I fall onto the rocky debris here, the tiny injuries that would be caused from it would make me easier prey for the wilderness outside— and, the uncertainty of any nearby civilization didn’t help matters either. The wobbling bounces more violently. The time between each extreme taking longer than the last. Both sides of my torso inching closer and closer to the edges of the castle debris with every minute that passes. I could place my hands on the debris itself to catch my balance, but an injury to either hand would be deadly than simply falling in the long run. The throne is so close, I can nearly taste it. The wind isn’t backing down either. It only continues to grow angrier.

Dammit!

Teeth grit tighter. An idea begrudgingly digs from on out of my mind. Lips open; a grimace of foolish determination carves onto my face.

What if I make a jump for it?

My better self would probably be shouting at me for considering this. Call me an idiot and blame dad’s influence for this all over again. Enough of a thought to chuckle at another time, I suppose. Fortunately—no, unfortunately— they’re not here to say it. To see it…

Screw it!

I jump for it. Regardless of the poor positioning, I start flying through the air. In light of the full moon, above the rubble of what once housed a ruler’s proof of immortality, the makings of etchings amongst the fallen stone told a story. One broken by the actions of time. It’s breathtaking. Yet, I do not fall.

Am I floating or is this flying? Is gravity different here or is this something like before? Is this why I’m seemingly unaffected by the castle’s partial collapse or was it because of that scraggly knight? Nuh-huh, this is a strange medieval land. No, there’s a more important question I should be asking here.

Is this magic?

As that marvelous question strobes around in my mind, the gust of air starts to restrain itself. It continues onto the dark halls back behind this extravagantly mundane court of the throne room. My body descends. Specks of cotton vanish from underneath the stomach. Each letting out an high-pitch giggle as they dissipate away from my body. It drops inch by inch in dramatic fashion. This hovering lowers to eyeshot of the ledge onto the throne section’s area of the court. First my head, and then my chest; just enough to grab onto some smooth ground, yet not enough to prevent the rest of myself from hitting the rigid stone prior to the throne’s edge. As all of nature’s breath exhausts into stillness, I tuck as much of my body in as possible in the seconds that remain. Another idea too late.

Crack and a slice. A straggler was left behind. My waist hits the ledge’s dull point. The pain shoots through my bones. An annoying pain— to be sure— yet nothing to be too concerned about. No, that like the straggler a bit slower than the waist itself. The left leg dangles off the ledge and into the thicker debris below. Thin strips of air suck in-between my teeth; a whence whistles in the atmosphere for a trickling of liquid forms above my ankle.

Slowly, pulling up the procrastinating leg, it’s understandable to see the type of liquid it was gonna be. A gash runs just above the ankle bone— and one that picked up some of the green luster of the limestone while it was at it.

The blood runs gradually. Definitely not the worst case, but not ideal either. At least, the hands knew what to do. As I reach in my pockets to retrieve the bandages and repair the injury, a flash of needles ripple underneath my shoulder blades. Like something had its eyes on me in a way I couldn’t explain. Finishing up the treatment, I carefully got back up onto my feet and take a few steps towards the throne itself. Finally, these roughed up hands grasp the smooth jade-like surface of the throne’s arm rests. I’m here at last.

Then, a glimmer peeks out from the corner of these drained eyes. Not only the throne itself, but the treasure trove of goodies behind it, too. More grandeur for these eyes to sweat over. This tongue salivates. A find that could rival even Howard Carter’s Tut. The glimmer reflects in my own eyes— as if the deliverer of that mythical second wind they were in such desperate need of.

Nevertheless, the want overweighs the need. My sight is locked. The parchment is left untouched as the sneakers twist towards the shadow and glimmer behind it.

The throne won’t move anywhere. It isn’t alive enough to do so. I should be fine.

Pep in the step in an uneven rush, the distance between the glimmer and I shortened in a blink of an insomniac’s eye. A painting of a brooding boy with a birthmark across his right eye. He couldn’t have been any older than myself, older than a teenager. Yet, his old wounds would say otherwise. Scars to match the weight of the crown that’s also painted on top of the boy’s head. It isn’t gold. It is vibrant green.

Like grass— eh, earth grass. Is this even earth anymore?

The crown’s material looked more like jade than a man-made, layered texture of green. Quite an amazing painter this person must’ve been. It’s sad though. Another to be forgotten before the subjects within their works. Just like that statue in the Egyptian desert Dad would always quote. Hope they died in peace wherever they are.

Beside the boy king, there’s a skull of some sort. And, there are many more like it. Each harder to see than the last. The depth of these goodies extended back into the part of the throne room covered by the limestone ceiling that still stands.

I scour the rest of the old riches in the back of the throne room— beyond the court itself. Few window-like slits shine moonlight into the auxiliary sections of this area. Enough to get the jest of what I was looking at around the darker spots of the room. More paintings of people presumed dead, metal currencies I stuffed into my less utilized pockets, and, what looked like, macabre trophies of victory’s past. None of it specifically familiar to anything expeditions my father took me on. All of it seemed so surreal. Akin to an assault to all of one’s senses simultaneously, and every pore screams out towards the familiarity being wrong. But, you have yet to understand why. It makes my head hurt. That was until I passed an item unlike any other: a jeweled dagger.

The jeweled dagger, coated in gold, had various gems decorating its elaborate hilt. Sapphires, rubies, and emeralds form a circle around a material of a whole other gem. A gem incredibly rare to exist before humanity’s technology eventually interfered. In the center of the circle is a diamond. One made into a trilliant cut style type. A type of triangle too specific for nature to make. A type not possible at this point in time.

…?

I couldn’t think of any more ways to question this reality— this place. My brain is fried. The lack of rest is getting to me.

Unlike the knights basic winged hilt, this one seems more oriented towards ceremonial usages than combat. Quite a thing that someone else could answer for me if they saw it. Assuming that anyone here spoke my language— a concept I shook off as immediately as it enters my preoccupied mind. A problem for a future me, protection for the present me.

Only one problem: a half-broken box sits between the dagger and I.

The dagger sits high on the wall above this box. It’s true that the box would be the ideal step up towards the dagger, the overall location both are in is not. This is a black stone box that shades whatever lies inside of it and obscures enough by the shadowed location it’s in to hide a way around it. A hollow box, indeed. Another question atop a queue of too many now. My body reacts again.

An action not born out of muscle memory— no— just a body more energized than the mind that once controlled it. That, and the fear of what may be laying out there in the wild silver yonder. Feet move. Hands move. The body pulls itself onto a surface that holds the black box, and, then the hollow box. Hand placement be damned, the dagger commands my automatous body at this point.

One knee on the platform-like surface. Left hand on the top of the box. My right hand reaches in the dimly lit room; to a place that has transfixed my goals. The hand inches closer. The anticipation of self-indulgence pumps through my veins. Heartbeats thump against my eardrums. The world is silent. Not even the dead outside croak in this moment. First, the middle finger scraps the gold. Next, the index. The ring and pinkie rapidly follow. Suddenly, the wrong hand slips.

A small puddle of sweat pooled below the left hand’s palm. Absence of the mystical wind drew the heat of a time full of blossoming flora. Heat and humidity drew the hand downward into the bowels of the hollow box. Or, was it hubris and other such things? Nevertheless, it doesn’t matter now. A sliver of flesh rips away at whatever lies within the box. A thing bone dry amongst its grainy curvatures.

It felt old. Pieces open. Sections that stuff could be caught in. Sockets where things should be. It’s a thing I have felt many times before. It is a skull.

Although, it feels stranger. Things are where they should be, but there’s a difference. Not additional things, yet more of what should be there already. An elongated canine tooth from the side I felt. Even through the small trinket of blood coming out of my left hand, it’s clear that it was a tooth that did cut me. Another injury to wrap up. A lessening of supplies I cannot risk to be frivolous about anymore.

I make a mad dash for the dagger.

Grabbing it off the wall, a small hop off the stone platform that held me up shatters on my way down. The breeze has died, but the foul odor of the corpses begin to entrench itself throughout the ruined castle. Such a taste of death permeates my poor tongue to the point of feeling the sour meat under my skin. It’s time to leave. As I begin to hustle towards the crumbled side of the castle walls, I twist back to where I originally meant to see. The throne.

In as quick of a motion as I could, the uninjured hand reaches over to grab the parchment on the seat of the throne. It was a near blur. From the seat and into upper zipper pocket, the parchment went in one fell swoop. Not would not be all either. As if a kleptocratic by nature, the same hand returns for the comfy cushion that finds its way under my jacket as these legs take me to the vault-able walls across from the empty throne. Nature in the front view again.

The height of the throne room from the grassy land a first in spite of the rest of this night. But, not without its dues.

That horrendous smell explodes as these feet touch grass. A taste, a smell so putrid that one could almost hear how bad it truly all can be. I pull the cushion from being the protection over my chest to the makeshift filter to cover over my mouth. Pleasantly, not all is as bad as it seems.

This drop from the castle wall the first respite of the night. Nothing more than mere inches off the ground outside. Nice wave of joy shoots through my spine like goosebumps on an off day. The first big break all day, and hopefully not the last. Sadly, the sight outside isn’t any prettier on a initial glance. More of the same horrors of war congregate the back of the castle as it did the front. Dismay fills the space around the stone monument that should stand for order; creatures of the night can be heard in the tree-lines that the castle once kept at bay. Now, only the decaying organs and flesh hide me from whatever may lay out there. A perfect getaway for a cynical opportunist, too.

Tired eyes scan across the silver fields. Across the feral tree-lines. Past the corpses and adjacent to the ransacked castle, these peepers catch the second stroke of luck of the night. The dirt shipping path continues. Passing the castle and a way through the tree-line, this large trail goes left through some trees before where the creatures can be howling from. Albeit, as dark as the rest of a dirt road under a full moon’s night.

At least, the moon still looks like the moon I know.

These sneakers step quietly across the grass. Wider the space away from the bodies; a mere few minutes in distance from the dirt road is all I am from this awful smell and unseen hungry eyes in the uncertain distance. This feeling of fear wasn’t helped by the visages all around.

To see into the soulless eyes of face a man’s face amongst dozens in a blink or two. Some of these corpses becoming less recognizable as a being than the last with each passing minute. Whatever happened on the rear, must’ve dealt with the brunt of the defenses the castle may have possessed. I shudder to think of seeing it as it was happening. To what any of their loved ones would be feeling. If any of them knew that their loved ones had fought here? If any were unaccounted for? Any missing for all of their family’s time?

The walk was easier than expected, yet the dirt clumps on the road pose a new trouble. Sound in a windless forest. My irises soon stay glued to the spaces my feet are to step next. The scenery become secondary as to my escape to wherever isn’t here. Step after step, the further away I go. As I turn onto where the dirt road will take me, a sound echoes out from the field of corpses at my back. My blood runs cold. Hot breath escapes these lungs at the scariest instance of an animal noise like this.

“Ka-Kaw! Ka-Kaw!”

Callings from a single bird cry out without a reply. Yet, it wasn’t completely upon deaf ears. I turn my head carefully. Slowly enough to not startle a thing— or, so I hope. And, what do I see? A bird that fits the same uncanny valley that terrified my senses. Now, personified in front of me.

The red bird has feathers as fine as silk. A size or two bigger than a crow. Yet, the beak is all wrong. The beak has the same appearance of a toucan’s beak. Except, the color is all wrong. There isn’t color. Just pasty white coats that beak until the blood vessels pump red lines throughout that large beak. In isolation, this would be an cool sight. Visceral gore hanging out of its mouth? Not so much. So, I turn my head back down that dirt road and continue to walk for a place that must be better than this.