Ral kept his face-plate up, allowing the cool breeze to pull the sweat from his too young face. His enemies must have thought him mad. Perhaps they were right.
Ribs crunched beneath breastplate, screams of the dying echoed across the field filling Ral’s ears with sweet music. Music that he made, with the help of the other soldiers of course, but they were secondary. He was the artist, the choreographer that put it all together and made art.
A maniacal grin split Ral’s face as he pulled his shield back from the destroyed foe, only to sweep at the man with his longsword, taking the stunned, stumbling, faceless man just beneath the helm.
“At our core, we are all creative beings. Whether or not you can see it now, is irrelevant. You will see it, as all do, eventually.”
The words came back to Ral at the strangest times. They would often snap him to attention, to a greater perception of himself. At those times, he would travel back and hear the words new again, as if they had been spoken only moments ago.
This short is a continuation of a previous #ShortTuesday. If you would like to read it, click here. If not, I think this short stands on its own. Either way, thanks for stopping by!
Rannal made his way down the busy Canal Street, stumbling left and right as he went. He would stumble into one person or another as they hurried to get home before the sun fell below the horizon, endure the cursing that followed, and carry on. Canal Street was a main corridor of the city and notorious for thieves, especially after dark, and no one wanted to waste time on a drunk like him. They just wanted to get home before dark, before the thieves appeared.
Good thieves did not need the cover of dark to rob a person though. A good thief just needed to make contact with the person they were robbing. A stinking cloak covered in grime accompanied by the smell of wine on the breath didn’t hurt either.
Malia punched her mattress and cursed.
“Please Miss, calm down,” her maid Talees said. Talees stood by the thick wooden door, ready to bolt from the room if Malia took to another fit.
The girl was far too aggressive and angry for a princess. Talees had learned over the years to always have an escape route at the ready when Malia was upset.
“Can you believe what that old, cantankerous fool said to me! That he will never train a girl. That it’s not proper for a woman to touch a blade. Women can’t handle a sword. Really!?” She stomped around her room, from one wall to another and back again. “I’ll show him! I will become a Blademaster. The first woman Blademaster.”
Ronald woke as he had done for years, before the roosters, walked the short distance to the basin and washed the sleep from his eyes with the cold water there. Fully awake, he shrugged his hunched frame into the long robes of his station, made his way through the dark, back to the bed to kiss his still sleeping wife goodbye before quietly exiting through the front door.
The cobblestone streets were dark, the torches lining the roads burned low or not at all providing more shadow than light, but it was a short walk to the gardens, and one that he did not need light to make. The path was burned into his mind so that his navigation did not require conscious thought, and his feet did not fail him. Just minutes after leaving home, the service entrance of the castle gardens came into view.
The King’s garden was grand in both size and beauty. The fact that they were brought indoors was nothing short of amazing. The feat itself could only be dwarfed by the beauty on display.
Princess Zara knelt near the casket that held her father, trying unsuccessfully to hold back the tears that streamed down her pale face to splatter the marble below.