Chapter I

✦Eternal Echoes of the Haunting Dream✦

Friday, April 5th 2019 appr. 0200 pm MDT, Bountiful, UT, USA 

People often share their dreams with me. They talk about their experiences about their sleep or discuss their aspirations and life goals. But when they so much as mention the word “dream,” my attention in our conversations wanes. Perhaps it’s because whenever I hear that word, it serves as a stark reminder that I’ve never experienced dreams like everyone else has.

When it comes to dreams or aspirations, it’s hard to relate when yours have been taken away from you night after night. You see, I’ve never really experienced any other type of dream because I’ve had the misfortune of having the same dream every day since I was very young. It started maybe when I was around one or two years old. Every time I go to sleep, it is always there, waiting for me, and today, I fear, is no different.

It always starts the same: I’m rushing down a darkened pathway surrounded by dense woodland, a place that I know I’ve never been to but that has still felt familiar to me since the first time I saw it. If I can describe it, it feels like a yearning for somewhere that has felt more like home than anywhere on earth I’ve found myself throughout my life: Utah, Texas, or my time at Fort Benning. It’s a strange feeling, considering that this dream is more like a nightmare than anything else.

Where was I? Oh yeah, the dream always starts the same, with me rushing down a darkened pathway. At first, I can barely make much out, except for the soft sounds of the riverbanks in the distance near the bottom of the docks. Always eerily still in the beginning, with the silvery moonlight casting an ethereal glow against its surface.

I proceed with haste along the path, donned in heavy, gleaming armor. My grip is firm on the hand of the pregnant nun, who wears a distinctive, albeit traditional, black and white robe with a black habit concealing her entire upper face. In all the years I’ve experienced this vision, her whole countenance remains elusive to me, forever veiled. Yet, I can discern from her exposed mouth a sense of elegance. It makes me wonder what color her eyes could be.

From what I could gather over the years, from my countless viewings of this vision, she was in hiding. Guess the church there, wherever there was, had rules close enough, if not the same, as the Catholic church did here, and by the way we are dressed, I’m betting some fool knocked the poor girl up, and she was to be executed. It made at least a little sense to me.

Apologies, I’m getting ahead of myself. As the crickets chirp and the cold air begins to get to us, I quietly and quickly guide her down the path. Her steps, however, are visibly slow and painful, but she does try her best to match my pace as we navigate the slick stone steps leading down to the docks.

Sounds of a dozen or so men in pursuit reach our ears from behind. By their sloppy tracking of us, I can always tell that they are loud and crass, untrained even. Where I’ve, or at least the knight in this dream has, always been able to move in a manner that keeps the armor quiet. The others seem to fail, the loud clacking of their equipment echoing throughout the night air.

Knowing that if we remain silent, it will decrease the likelihood that they will find us, I stop near a stone wall and peer over the top, watching their every move and giving my companion a much-needed chance to rest. My hopes are always the same; I naively think that they are either going to give up their search and call off this chase altogether or at least change their direction and search elsewhere. I know full well that they won’t, but I keep telling myself it still never hurts to pray or at least hope.

It’s during this vain moment of prayer that it always happens, even after all these years; I just can’t seem to get used to the amount of dread I feel from this. My heart always stops when what I could only assume was a contraction from her pregnancy causes her to let out a groan of pain; she does her best to cover her mouth, but they hear it. Turning back to look at her, I stare at her through my helmet, and I can tell that she knows exactly what she has done with how her lips tremble like she is about to cry.

Lowering her head in shame as one of the men shouts from off in the distance. “What in the celestial throne was that?” He questions, as another response pointing in our general direction. “I think it came from over there.”

The dread continues to creep upon us as I decide whether to make a run for it or stay still and hope they pass us by. It is, alas, during this second moment of vain prayer where the grand structure behind us, a castle, I think, swiftly erupts into an inferno, igniting the night sky and the surrounding area.

Turning around, horrified, I gaze upon the tall towers and ramparts as they are consumed in the orange and yellow blaze. I feel my heart, or at least the heart of the body I inhabit during these dreams, break as we watch what I assume is his home, burning to rubble before us. At this point, I notice the light it is producing begins reflecting off my armor.

This nightfall is undoubtedly against me, I just know it, and I get to relive it every single damn night. All things considered, it is still a pretty invigorating sight.

Acting quickly, I pick up my companion, doing my best to not harm her or her baby, and awkwardly carry them as I begin running down the slick stairs to the best of my ability. As I do so, I hear one of them shout, “Look!” and I know the jig is up, that I have to keep running, knowing full well that even they have seen me.

Hearing the pitter-patter of a dozen or so sets of footsteps charging down the path, I can only assume they are rushing at great speeds to catch us as I do my best to beat them to the boats. About halfway down to the dock, I can feel them at the heels of my feet. I sigh as I gently put the woman onto her feet and turn around, drawing my sword and stepping in between them and her in one fluid motion. They halt their pursuit and stare at my sword with a tinge of fear. 

I believe it is because of this dream in particular that I have an odd fascination; some would go as far as to say I have an obsession with swords. This scene must have piqued my interest early in my life, and since then, I have been absolutely hooked. I even went as far as to learn how to fence and try to mimic what I watch in this dream every night, but I have never been able to physically do so.

The men glare at us, brandishing their weapons, each snarling as they eye us, being unwilling to be the first to step forward to meet my blade. All of them are dressed in the same red surcoats with the same black marking of a bear on their chests. Returning their stares, I look at their faces and into their eyes. I have always been painfully aware that they are nothing more than kids, most aged from thirteen to sixteen years old.

Beginning to encircle us, a voice that I’ve never recognized as my own yet has always felt like it was mine says the same taunt each time. I get so tired of hearing it every— single— damn— day. “Twelve against one isn’t very gentlemanly of knights of Dalich.”

It isn’t even what he is, or I am saying, that is the issue; it is how he, or rather I say it, the tone, the brash nature of flinging insults at boys who wish to harm me, and he, or I, insult them. It is the principle of the matter.

At this point, a more prominent man with fists the size of the other men’s helmets steps out from behind them. His face is covered by his massive helmet, and he is wearing a large, like gigantic, bear’s fur as a cape instead of a red surcoat like the others, perhaps a trophy from a hunt or something he had made for himself. Underneath that, he dons full, thick plate armor that looks like the blacksmith who made it had patched three different sets of armor together, just to fit him. I wonder every time that I challenge his honor if he would have stayed back there if there was no insult, like if this stupid comment is what brings this guy to the forefront of the fight. In the Army, we had guys like him who were too hot-headed and let every little insult get to them, but they never lasted too long.

It's the same every time; he begins by shouting at me with raw emotion, “Quiet traiter!” I often wonder what he, or I, did to him to get this kind of response. His words carry unexplainable weight like my presence is a personal insult to him, like we were once good friends and I did something unforgivable toward him. I’ve never had an idea of why I’m a traitor or what story lay beyond this scene. My only suspicion is that it has something to do with the girl.

Sighing, I look over my shoulder and shout at the woman, “Go! I’ll hold them off!”

With a pained expression from the bottom half of her face and an exasperated tone, she shouts back, “Not without you!” She has yet to understand what I realized when we first were spotted. Either one of us or neither of us is getting out of this, and I can always feel what the knight feels, his conviction, and over the years, it has become my own. We always both agree that we want her to be the one who escapes. Even if it’s just a dream, this decision feels important and heavy, and although none of this is real, it feels real enough to me, and I want her, every night, to be the one to live.

Another thing the knight and I always agree on is we just knew that there was no point in arguing with her. I leave her be and turn my full attention to the soldiers in front of me; I quietly mull over various plans of attack in my head and ponder which strategy would be the best to use here. As I devise my plans, I look at each of my would-be attackers and notice that each of them, except for their beast of a leader, is trembling at the thought of facing me in combat. I find it odd that they outman me, and they are the ones who are afraid.

Bringing my sword up with one arm, I threateningly point it toward the leader. He responds by gesturing for the others to begin attacking. Hesitant at first, two men from either side quickly move forward, attempting to use a pincer maneuver on me. Their fear gradually becomes replaced with clear murderous intent.

The fight that ensues never changes, but it is truly spectacular even to this day; I have never witnessed anything like it in any shows or movies. We fight each other with fierce determination, the skills of the knight I am inhabiting are those of a true swordsman, and in this dream world, they are on full display. Deflecting and parrying their strikes extremely easily while landing several powerful killing blows that send their bodies reeling. The sight always gives me a rush. Not because I enjoy killing them but because the adrenaline that I feel is very much real; the constant brush with death in this fight just brings it out of me.

Becoming enraged by the death of their comrades, the rest of the soldiers let go of their fear and jump into the fray. I block their strikes with my gauntlets and sword to the best of my abilities, even using the sword in unconventional ways to dispatch a few more of them. But like always, despite my best efforts, they become too much for me to handle alone and overwhelm me, stabbing me repeatedly in the back and gut. I guess there are limits to how many a skilled swordsman can take on at any given time.

Regardless of my injuries, I stand my ground, fighting on as my breaths begin coming in ragged gasps, my eyes beginning to flicker between the woman and the attackers that have bested me. With a half-smile on my lips, I manage to deflect one more attack before falling to my knees, feeling most of my strength spent and utterly defeated.

This is always where the dream ends. This is where I wake up in a bed full of sweat and fear. At least most nights, but tonight, for some unknown reason, for the first time in twenty-four-odd years, the scene refuses to conclude and continues playing. I haven’t jolted out of my slumber, there is no sweat, no screaming, and I haven’t rolled off my bed in agony, scaring my poor cat half to death. For the first time in a long time, I remain here, in this dream and witness something new about this mysterious world.

As my vision continues to grow fuzzy, everything I hear begins becoming muffled. My head starts aching with a terrible migraine as I turn to look at the nun. She is kneeling on the ground ardently praying, weeping a stream of tears. My best guess is that she’s probably praying for me. It’s nice knowing that someone out there was praying for me so fervently, even if it wasn’t really happening and only happened in a dream.

The veil of her habit begins slightly levitating by some sort of magical means. Even in a dream, this is the first time I’ve seen magic firsthand. It doesn’t shock me as I expect it should have, but it feels oddly familiar like many other strange things in my life. As it lifts away from her, I see her face for the first time. 

At first, a strange sense of calm takes hold of me; I am captivated by her; although my vision is blurry, and the pain is intense, I can make her features clear as day. I can feel something deep inside of me, something I’ve never felt before. If I can describe it, it’s a weird feeling, and I don’t fully know if it is the sensation of dying or something else, but for the first time in my life, my heart feels heavy and suddenly full of… regret? Overtaken by sorrow and grief to an extent I have never known before, I stare at her, at her ivory hair levitating in the air above her and tear-filled bright yellow irises, glowing with brilliance, looking into my eyes in the same way I’ve seen my parents look at each other. Tenderly and full of love. As I stare back, all I can feel is immense longing. 

Her glow is magnificent, casting an aura around her that made the other men back up a little from me. They are probably as lost as I am, not knowing exactly what kind of magic she's using; it could be anything. Right? I’m not really a magic expert here, so if they aren’t lost, I still am. As she prays, I see my hands in front of me beginning to glow in the same manner as she is. A sharp pain begins on the back of my head, behind my right ear. It doesn’t really bother me, as I am already in immense pain; it’s just a few more drops in the bucket at this point. It’s still strange, though; I can feel the pain digging something into my skin in the same spot where my eight-shaped birthmark is.

Looking back at the leader, I watch as he begins cackling, his hoarse voice mocking us, “There ain’t nothin’ ye’s can do fer him now, ye rotten tramp whore.”

Continued in Part II