OPEN THE CASEMENT, AND UP WITH THE SUN
DEATH OF EMIL BARCLAY
The boy read, “He who rests, rusts.” It was etched into the plaque above the entryway to the keep. The words had always been there, but it seemed the boy never put much thought to them. Now, though, he stood like a statue as he gazed upon the words, and a spark ignited within him for the first time.
The little soldier’s bright smile widened as he brandished a new wooden sword before his brother. In the boy’s eyes, it seemed to gleam under the light of the fire– shining just like a real sword. “Vater made this for me– for Tuvsmas, see?” The light of the fireplace reflected the proud shine within his eyes as he presented the sword.
The father gazed upon the baby with some sort of uncertainty as he laid resting in his cradle. “..Leon. Would you like that name, hm?” He then gathered the bundle into his arms, and the weight against his chest warmed the father to his core.
The squire grasped on tightly to his halberd as it breathed a blaze of bright flames into the darkening sky. “Behind me, son– stay behind me!” The squire gasped to the blonde boy beside him as the assault continued upon the large tendrils the isle had sent out to harm them. Yet even as the stream of flames eventually dwindled, the flames within the squire’s soul burned ever brighter.
The aged knight mumbled to himself as his attention remained fixed upon the tree’s foliage. He urged his horse onwards then, rounding the corner that blocked his vision from the figure sitting before the fire. “...Who dares?” A slouched, dark figure sat cross-legged before the tree’s base.
. . .
The struggle between the pair continued even as the leaves of the tree wavered from the wind, unbothered by the frenzied ongoings below its boughs. “...there is a place promised for you that acts as escape from me. But maybe I shouldn’t allow it.”
A flame– ever-burning within the depths of his soul– ignited at that moment, and rage seemed to course through the aged knight as his intense attack upon the figure continued. The tip of his halberd caught upon the figure’s battered chestplate, tearing it free from his body.
. . .
Even as the aged knight’s eyes dimmed, the flames within them gleamed. Then, he finally slipped into darkness.
Ser Emil Barclay