Short Story: Crimson Arrow

“But when certain visitors came, we were as if driven by an inward, secret panic

There are no marble arches and no lighthouses. The river has dried up with the memory of the empire and the bones of a dead leader have long since turned to dust. Colossal galleons and crowds to greet victorious soldiers are no longer even a memory in the minds of those alive today, simply words on paper in books gathering dust in the darkest corner of a room. There is no-one to remember the beauty of the vast city; no-one to describe the sight of the lighthouses and no-one to recall the crisp aroma of the once majestic river. All that remains are the few paintings and statues that did not dissolve with time. The dust of the bones of men, women and children long since dead has faded from existence. There is no-one left to remember the man selling wares in the street or the woman grieving over the soldier she loved. Nobody holds the memory of the child playing in the park or the servant bringing a pitcher of water to his master. The meaning behind the statue has faded from everyone’s mind. The man, whose wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command secured his victory in every battle he fought, has dissolved into nothing more than a story in a book.

"We are on the move now. The burning of our churches will not deter us.

“When his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys. This was an extensive and magnificent structure, the creation of the prince's own eccentric yet august taste. A strong and lofty wall girdled it in. This wall had gates of iron. The courtiers, having entered, brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts. They resolved to leave means neither of ingress or egress to the sudden impulses of despair or of frenzy from within. The abbey was amply provisioned. With such precautions the courtiers might bid defiance to contagion. The external world could take care of itself. In the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to

It looked like the sun had given up on trying to break through the iron curtain of clouds that it decided to lounge behind them. As we nervously walked towards the battle of our lives, the castle silhouetted behind us like someone faintly saying goodbye. The narrow barren streets were scattered with muculent mud and broken decomposed parts of the castle lay beside it reminding us that danger was slowly approaching. The street was a skeleton, stripped of its flesh. All that remains was the broken parts of the concrete structure. Quiet and derelict. The street was a river of the rusted burnt charcoal like concrete parts of the castle. Perhaps years back this street was immersed in pools of yellow light from the assaulted street lamps. Walking past the street lamps made the scent of burnt smoke go inside me like a barren soul. The street lamps were concealing us and we were inferior to the street lamps. The street lamps were covering us with darkness reminding us of the danger ahead of

"After what seems like hours meandering through the cryptic woodlands, the road takes a sudden turn to the east and a castle looms ahead. The sight before you is barbaric, with aging towers of stone and the reek of decay present all around you. Eyes seem to follow you, keeping a silent watch over

      These mythological elements are thoroughly enmeshed within the structure of the poem; the image of fire springs up several times, the figure of death roams the City, and the general notion of the City as a terrible prison or place of horror is consistently conveyed.  Therefore, we can use the poem's mythological basis as a springboard into several different readings of it.

“A mighty fortress is our God, a bulwark never failing; Our helper He, amid the flood of mortal ills prevailing.” Here is the classic English translation of the first two lines of Martin Luther's famous hymn “A Mighty Fortress is Our God.“ Indeed, it is famous among Christians who unashamedly identify themselves with the Protestant Reformation of the 16th century, which until today continually inspires them to appreciate their roots in the ancient paths (Jeremiah 6:16) of biblical Christianity over against that which is only built on man-made traditions.

Where he stood, Tocharian begins scanning the villager’s homes, halting his gaze on one: similar in shape and size to the detailed descriptions, listed on the parchment given to him by Royal Seeker Gawin-before the first commander and his men left the castle. He double blinks, due to the extra folds above his eyelids, and breathes in the bitter stench of decay, wafting through the air, from the parts of the land, which has never healed-even after the battles have long since ended. He continues to stare forward, eyeing children whose parents are pushing them away from the small, glassless, cutouts in the wall of their peasant’s home, which made up their windows.

As the men, women, and children of the small village of Schokland lay hiding, waiting for any sign of peace, Theodoric and his men stand guard contemplating their next move. Hushed anxious whispers erupted over the men, wondering if it was safe to venture from their safe haven. With weapons gripped tightly in their hands, the men awaited Theodoric’s commands.

As the sun rose over the fortress it cast a vibrant orange light across the gentling swaying water. Young Fortinbras, perched in a watch tower adjacent to the water, was awestruck as the rising light revealed incoming Danish warships quickly advancing towards the fortress, pushed along by the howling wind. As the ships parted the water with their shear force he scrambled down the winding stairs to the court yard, crowded with weapons in preparation for the inevitable invasion, and sounded the warning bell. As the echoes hammered through the castle the knights rose and the king paced out of his chamber into the courtyard. “What is it my son?” questioned Fortinbras, the words stumbling out of his mouth.

The evil influence on Indham had finally peaked with the rioting. Edoma had taken refuge inside Enlil’s Temple, along with as many who sought refuge. The priestesses and a number of the city watch guarded the temple’s gates. At first, they had only fired warning arrows at those who had come bearing arms. The warning shots hadn’t deterred those who wished to see the Council brought to justice. The carcasses of such men and women were scattered outside the walls, food for the carrion birds.

“Did you really think you would escape that easily?” the Duke asked. He slowly approaches them. Looking at the gun Christian has, “Did you have intentions on killing me?”.

“Christians have lived here and walked these streets for over a thousand years. But today, there’s no one - they're all gone. Driven out by fear. And one of the most striking things that you notice is the silence”

The kingdom and all other close lands were depicted on the thick parchment. Brodd Ahlstedt wasn't alone. At his side were three knights and a red faced adviser. At Adalrik's intrusion all five raised their head from the conversation to look at him. About to acknowledge him, the prince cut the commoners off. "Leave," The dismissive tone had caused the king to frown deeply. His arms crossed his chest and every slight movement shook his appealing black garb. The four looked to him for guidance.