”Take the Sword. Rokan, take the sword, it is yours. Take it. Listen to me! Take the sword, accept the power.”
With a start Rokan awoke; the dream had come again. This was the twelfth night in a row. He could not seem to escape it.
“Damn it! What sword is it talking about? Alright just calm down; it’s just a dream. You just need to clear your head, stop worrying about the war and that dream for a while. Now listen to me, I’m talking to myself. Indala’s Wrath! I must be going crazy.”
Reaching beside him to the stool that served as a makeshift bedside table he felt for the quill and lifted it from its ink bottle. There in the blind dark of night he quickly and perfectly inscribed the ancient rune for light upon a scrap of paper that lay on the stool.
Before the last stroke was completed the paper began to glow, softly at first but ever intensifying as the symbol was completed.
With the small room lit, he looked around, surveying the sparse furniture; just the bed, the stool, a small desk and a chair. The room he occupied would barely qualify as a storage closet in the
Sketching has always helped me clear my head; maybe I can finally get that damn dream out of my head. Maybe I can finally get a decent night’s sleep
Rising from the small bed his full figure was revealed, his frame sinewy and lithe a frame that many had mistaken as scrawny, the muscles of his chest partially obscured by the matt of dark brown hair that matched the shaggy mane that nearly reached his shoulders. His stride as he crossed the room was confident and powerful; the stride of a man much wiser and more powerful than his twenty-five years of age.
The light also revealed his most striking feature, his eyes dark brown, nearly black. Both kind and menacing, the eyes of both a curious child and a wise old man. These were the eyes of a warrior ready to destroy any danger. The eyes of a saint ready to offer compassion to an impoverished soul. These were above all the eyes of an artist.
Sitting down at the desk he picked up the ragged book of parchment bound in worn red leather, the cover inlaid with flaking lines of gold that formed the rune for beauty.
“Well old friend we have been through a lot together, everything I have seen, everything I have experienced, you now hold.”
As he opened the book, the memories flooded over him. The first sketch depicted the day he first learned he had the source; this book had been presented to him that day by his father, just before he was sent from his house forever. His parents had always wanted him to join the military; they knew that it could bring respect back to the family. His family had once been a member of the noble class, that was until his great grandfather had squandered the family’s wealth. But he, a child with the source, he could achieve great things; he could restore the family’s respect.
Though it had meant leaving his house Rokan had been willing to join the military. It gave him the opportunity to see the world and to learn and do things he wouldn’t have had the chance to do otherwise.
Flipping forward a few pages; there was the day he discovered how unique his magic was, the day he discovered rune magic. A few more pages, a few more memories both cherished and detested. Suddenly he stopped flipping through the pages.
There it was, the proudest moment of his life, the day he and his fellow classmates with the source, his friends, had graduated from the military academy. A tear fell to the page smearing the charcoal a bit; most of those friends were dead.
Reaching to wipe away the tears he couldn’t help but brush the scar partially hidden by his beard; the beard he had grown just for that purpose; a futile attempt to hide some of the bad memories.
As quickly as the tears had begun they stopped and he continued to flip through the pages. A few pages later there was the portrait of the old king, Archard. Rokan had met him only once three years ago, but judging by the skill of the work it looked as if Rokan had known the king for years.
Exactly three years before the king died he had named Rokan and four of Rokan’s best friends the leaders of an elite military taskforce; their purpose was to defend those blessed with the source and investigate any suspicious crimes involving the source. Rokan would never forget the power behind Achard’s voice as he said “I name thee Rokan Sorion to the rank of commander in the armed forces of Saritinia. May Indala’s light shine through you always and through you may it protect my people.”
Enough of this. What am I doing to myself? I’ll go insane if I don’t stop focusing on the past. This isn’t helping clear my head; I need to just start drawing. That will clear my head.
Flipping to the middle of the book he hunted out the first blank page. Snatching up a worn piece of charcoal he began. His hand moved like lightning; a stroke here another there, then another. Soon the page began to take on the image of a portal radiating blinding light. There in the middle of the maelstrom was the most beautiful figure that could be imagined; a beauty that is indescribable and unfathomable to those who have not seen it; a forbidden fruit that man should not look upon. To look upon the image was both exquisitely painful and horribly refreshing.
Rokan could not stop himself, a stick of charcoal would break and he would pick up another; never stopping until the work was finished. It was as if the image itself had taken him over. It was always like this, in the past Rokan had theorized that his source partially expressed itself through his artistic talent and his frustrating need to complete any work he started immediately, more and more he was becoming assured of this.
Yet this time something was different. He worked with more intense strokes than he normally did. He took no time to stop and observe what he had drawn; he just kept adding more details. His eyes began to glaze over as if he had passed from the world of the living. No, this was definitely not normal.
Rokan’s hand finally stopped moving just as the first brilliant rays of day light began to outshine his simple spell. He stopped and looked at the sketch. There it was the same thing that had appeared to him for the past twelve nights, there was the dream. Written in perfect and beautiful calligraphy across the bottom of the page were the words “Take the sword.
Rokan could not stop staring at the sketch. A sketch he didn’t realize he was creating. Staring at words he couldn’t remember writing. Staring at a scene he vividly remembered dreaming; a scene repeated over and over again for twelve nights.
“Damn It. This is becoming a problem”
