Chapter II

by **Sighard** on November 17th, 2012, 6:40 pm

Fall 1st, 512 AV

And all the world was but a delicate dream. . .

The stage has been set, our protagonist, Sighard Beleld, sits, mired in the gloomy smoke of the Rearing Stallion and beneath the weighty presence of an ale, slipped marginally between two, bubbling lips. The jade of his eyes have lost their luster and the gain of his presence has deluded into the hulking slump of a boy pressed against the cherry oak countertop—or was it pine? He smiles as he allows his reddened fingertips to flow against the surface and the feel, to –feel-, the presence of creases and age in the wood. Here, he thought, here is an honest wood that’s attested to a life of purity and resolve. It did not have to lie to maintain its worth, nor did it have to cheat to regain its honor. To be the wood would be simple and less twisted than I. Sighard was drunk, and ambivalent. On the exterior, he presented the shining example of his family name, what dressed head to toe in armor that dignified the Beleld. To him, it was a hollow shell that endeavored to hide the swirling maelstrom of doubt and pity inside. It was a plague that resolved to settle itself through. . .

“Drink—bartender. . . drink,” wept the stumbling words of Sighard who shook his empty pewter mug angrily into the air. He received only indignation, the crowing of a few angered patrons and a bumbling barkeep that skillfully ignored the requests of the plastered and the criminally insane. Even the awkward jingle of spinning coin, as it pressed itself neatly onto the counter did not turn the head of the rotund, aproned individual. The sum of the boy’s efforts had earned him this lack of respect, although it had not always been this way.

There was a time, not at all too distant in the past where the ideals of chivalry coalesced into a sort of cult following that stimulated the young boy and drove him to excellence. It was at youth, when he was protected from the cruel realities of the world, and not yet driven into the meat of the human experience that he was at his finest. He was a natural, in many ways, to become one of the greatest ideological knights Syliras had ever seen, but he did not account for the grave amount of pressure that eventually drew him to dire straits.

The vicissitude of Sighard’s life experiences presented him with a series of morally grey challenges that both pressured his temperament and put his ideals into question until they seemed all but broken. The boy—soon to become man slowly devolved into one who blindly followed the shamble of his dream and became of a hollow vessel of such. In turn he favored alcohol to ease this imbalance of his conscience, and found it as a means of escape, if only temporarily of the pressures of both the Syliran Knights and familial expectations.

His father Darald—wait father? Sighard woke in a daze to the visceral jarring of his head and the resulting spinning sensation that followed. He felt a presence on his pauldron and a familiar face gestated in his peripheral.

“Your father. . . father. . . Bronze Woods. . . training. . . time,” spoke the phantasm of a man that shook the young boy vigorously. Absent of senses, the young man struggled to seize rationalization as his frame heaved forth from the table, a heavy swing of plated legs jarred unceremoniously on the floor below with a grating clatter and the world spun about, a chromatic diffusion of the dimly lit colors that comprised the Rearing Stallion.

“How could I forget. . . Father will be sore. . .” Sighard bellowed in long drawn tones that contain the subtlest slur. His gaze lolled heavily and bobbed along the knight that stood dutifully across from him with his arms crossed. He was a bald man with a beard peppered with gray. He’d a look of pity that disappeared as he turned to leave, his departure marked by the precision of his clattering, rhythmic step. The boy fumbled to grasp his cloak, cast idly off to the side and drew it about him before delving into the night after the man.

The cold was a sobering, bitter mistress which drafted from the creases in the stones and assuaged the man of his delusion by the prodding of its icy fingers. The divinity of its howl followed the boy as he staggered purposefully along the empty streets, uttering a “clack, clack, clack” that turned more than a curious head as the heavily cloaked figured rambled to himself along the winding passageways that lead to the gate of the place.

“A bit late for the woods, eh?” Inquired the gatekeeper who minded his partisan a bit too thoughtfully as he sized Sighard up and down with practiced bob of his head. “What be the purpose of this venture?”

“Business.” Sighard responded coarsely and with a visceral thrusting of his palms splayed open his cloak to reveal his armaments, clearly emblazoned with the insignia of the knights. The gesture, acutely presented did press the guard back uneasily but he called for the winch and allowed the boy to amble off into the night, along a dusty trail that penetrated the clawlike labyrinth of the woods.

by **Sighard** on November 17th, 2012, 7:42 pm

There existed a burgeoning fire within these gaunt woods, the epitome of charisma that brilliantly exhumed his area of darkness and misery and in its place garnished strength and power. These were the hallowed grounds upon which Darald Beleld stepped. The man was old in age, but infinite in his wisdom and fervent in his strength. He was a symbol, blanketed in the light of nearby torches that whipped viciously in the wind and seemed to dare to lick the man’s metal skin. In these estranged woods he was a haven. His impatience chipped away at this gratifying notion, though, hardening his features and forcing the corners of his mouth into a scowl. As time wore on the fires about him dimmed low and cast him in billowing shadow, echoing the reflection of developing anger that seemed to transcend physical expression and affect the very environment itself.

A lateral step ushered the silent whistle of air through treetops, and the apparition of a man that was Sighard conjured himself in the thick of the night air. Sullenly he stepped again, this time further towards the dusty trail that cast several feet into the clearing where Darald stood, his great arms encased in armor pressed against his large chest. Words were not exchanged between the two at this pivotal moment, rather the boy proceeded shamefully along—an uneven step marring his cover and a pungent scent of ale wafting generously from his pores. Sighard passed by his father, a motion that caused his stomach to drop and his teeth to chatter. With his gaze pressed forward he could still feel the steely look of disappointment upon himself. This pressure was only exacerbated by his condition and tempted him to vomit.

“You’re late.” The coarseness of Darald’s voice stung the boy as he tread nearer his position, it stunned him and nearly forced him to his knees.

“Right. . .” He could taste the spice of ginger and barley gnashing in his saliva as he spit the word into the dirt ahead.

“Disgraceful,” Darald’s word was synonymous with the sound of metal sliding cleanly, a grating of edge against edge that forced the hairs on the nape of Sighard’s neck to rise. There was a cold lethality to the movement, and this was pervasive as the boy struggled to turn and saw the tip of the engraved metal pointed aggressively at his face. For a moment there was fear, and then confusion that became lost in the cackle of air. Sighard thought he’d groaned, but it was only the uneasy churn of his stomach as his fingers fumbled loosely for his hilt. “It is time you faced me with a blade—and I shall have the fear of death motivate you to your full potential. . .”

The earth trembled and appeared to recede as Darald stepped forth, eliciting the quick, jerky motion from his son to unsheathe his blade and place it defensively across his features as he warily watched his father, stepping backwards as his father stepped forwards, and laterally to Darald’s own pivot.

The world was uneven, however. It spun on a new axis that was liquid and cut the attentive focus of Sighard in half. Everything spun unnecessarily and his movements were cluttered. Surely my father knows my condition, why is he doing this?

An evasive dance ended and a hulk fell upon a crumpled youth he raised his blade wildly and weakly to the onset of his parent. As the two blades met there was a large clangor in which the strength of the adult superseded that of the adolescent and sent Sighard staggering back. He balanced as long as he could then rocked, falling hard on his posterior and crying weakly out in pain. His blade loosened from his fingertips and flew outwards several feet behind him. The first blow had left him vulnerable and again he felt the urge to vomit.

Sighard’s conscience dicatated his reflexive crawl against the ground. His plated fingertips, trembling, grasped the blade but were forcibly extended as a heavy boot dropped heavily upon them. The boy watched, now sprawled, through a deluded blur, his father pick up the blade and cast it out into the woods, a disappointed sigh following.

by **Sighard** on November 18th, 2012, 6:40 pm

“Get up!” The command was quick and brutal and dripped with tones of displeasure that reflected equally within the taut lines of Darald’s face. He was not stationary, for he encircled his son like a hawk would encircle its prey from a superior position, it’s gaze cast hungrily down upon the barren ground. It watched Sighard bumble and rustle, listened to the distinct pitch of metallic joints moaning against each other as they grated in venomous unison and offered the discordant tones to the boy’s demise. Here the flames danced low and the arena and was captured nearly in shadow, offering only the powerful contrasting hues of the hulking man and his rhythmic step. “Get. Up!” Darald yelled, louder this time and more succinctly. Wads of foamy spittle purged from behind his prominent lips and veins began to pop from his neck as he spoke and eyed down his struggling son.

Sighard managed, eventually to his feet, under the hawking glare of a father and generous pounding of baritones on his now sensitive eardrums. He watched the shadows dance and spin in front of him, the phantasmal presentation of his father twising in the light the most prominent and eeriee image that convalesced in what illumination existed. As he stumbled forward a step he extended a palm outwards—pointing towards Darald to balance himself. It was met with vicious response, the whipping of the man’s blade upwards that, upon impact pushed the light plate of his gauntlet inwards and resolved to send a splitting pain through his entire arm. He shattered my wrist. . . He shattered my wrist. . . A delayed response accorded a registered cry in pain which ushered the swift procession of the phantom, a series of convoluted images that came closer until Sighard felt the cold metal of gauntlet upon his throat.

“You disrespect not only your father but a superior knight. YOU ARE A SQUIRE!” Darald’s words were shuddering, empowered solely by rage and so ear shattering that it forced Sighard to sink back in his grip before he realized he couldn’t breathe. His arms swung wildly to and fro absently reaching from the stump that connected to his neck and an inaudible gurgle emphasized the motion. His eyes bulged and for the first time in a long while he truly feared for his life. “I have raised you better than this, you were a better soldier! Now look! You are a drunken mess! You will never become a KNIGHT!” With powerful emphasis Darald roared the final word into his son’s face, and threw his soon several feet back into the dirt.

Sighard heaved, hard, attempting to gain air from what he presumed were crushed windpipes. Through grated breaths there were piteous snobs and sniveling, much to the dismay of Darald who apathetically looked on in silence.
“You. . . knew?” Sighard managed through labored breaths as he cast his sight upwards to see something that he did not expect. It caused his lips to quiver and palms to shake.

“Where do you think you picked the habit from?” Bitterly Darald retorted, and from his words flecked drops of liquid that could be sourced only from the flask that now hung in his hand. He seemed calmer, in a way, though the extended breathing and tightened lines remained. He managed to walk, in a circular fashion about his son as he spoke in somber, and reminiscent tones. “Our family name is tied to the greatness of our efforts, but for all the gallantry and presentation there is darkness in our deeds. . .” A sigh, this time sadder paused his speech as he looked onto his son with pity and disgust.

“And the Belelds have been notorious for suppressing our reaction to the darker part of our job with alcohol. It is a curse that has embedded itself in our very hearts, but numbs us from the darkness of the world to become what we are!” A pause again before he fell to his knees and drank heavily from the flask which caused his features to crumple and a single tear to jerk free from his eye. “You were supposed to be the breaker of this curse! We kept you from this evil, and resolved to raise you honorably and still you have fallen. You. . . son are my greatest failure. . .” And for the first time in his life, Sighard watched helplessly as his father wept, and his hot, heavy tears dripped and steamed upon the icy ground and matted his beard with moisture. The sound was divine, a powerful baritone that cascaded into nothingness and uncontrollable sadness. It was a depressive state exacerbated by the alcohol which he took intermittent swigs of and then threw the empty flask to the ground.

“Father. . .”

by **Sighard** on November 18th, 2012, 8:43 pm

And then the stage collapsed, the scene faded out of reach and became swallowed by the annals of Sighard’s active conscience. The vision of weeping father was replaced with leaky ceiling and the pain which once burned vigorously in his throat and palm expelled as if released by some haunting spell. Still, though the memory remained a venomous stain that played to the dismay, even when the only things Sighard could see were the shadowy precipices of his room, and the only noises he could hear were the jerking snorts of a few nearby knights. Why then, could he still feel the dwindling firelight and the pain of his father’s judgment? Why then, was there a knot that threatened to force the boy to vomit and tear him from his rationality as he had after that pivotal night? This was Sighard’s price, and so he desperately desired a drink.

He moved from his bed to stand, feeling dizzier than usual he stepped outside where he was met with the crispness of the cool night air. Subtly he urinated off into a dingy corner and moved back into his barracks where he found all the men around him were still sleeping. Instinctively he began to search through his things for a flask, though the painstaking memory of his withdrawals showed that he’d had no such thing for a long while. How easy it would be to give the Rearing Stallion a visit again. . .

Swiftly Sighard shook his head and dismissed the thought. Any efforts he made in that direction would send him spiraling downwards once more, and he’d promised to stay away from the vile stuff until he had become a knight. The ultimate aspiration burned in his memory and drove away any demons of addiction. It calmed the storm of his nightmares and guided him back into bed where he slept contentedly once again, a final, abstract thought pushing him back to sleep. All the world is but a delicate dream. . .