Lament for the End of an Era

    He awoke in a chair, his hands were bound and his mouth was covered with a dirty rag. It smelled of seafood and cheese, but tasted of mold, it tasted worse than it smelled. There was a fireplace in the center of the room and opened windows all around, drapes hanging aside them. In front of him lay a table, a lone knife on it, glowing in the firelight. The knife had clearly been sharpened very recently and he decided that he needed to find a way to get the knife. He tried hopping with his chair and surprisingly enough, it worked. He hopped over to the table but reached it just to have it flip, flinging the knife into the air and the blade plunged into his shoulder.
    He screamed through the gag and another man rushed into the room and glared at him. With a grunt, the man grabbed the knife and pulled it out of his skin.
    “Dammit Mark, You idiot…” he mumbled, gruffly.
    “Mmmhmmhm..!” Mark tried to yell. But of course no one understood.
    “Shut up, asshole,” said the big man as he walked out of the room, leaving the knife on the floor by the door.
    Still in the chair, his shoulder on fire, Mark hopped again and again, attempting his way to the knife, hoping he could free himself. But just as he reached the knife, the big man came back, holding bandages for his bleeding shoulder. The big man grabbed tightly to his shoulder and began wrapping the bandage around him. He tried to squirm out of the man’s grip but found he had no luck.
    “Calm the hell down will ya? I can’t have you bleeding out on me here,” the big man stated calmly.
    “Why the hell not?” Mark tried to ask, with no luck, as he was still gagged.
    “Shush.”
    The man finished wrapping Mark’s arm and picked up the chair, moving it back to its original position and flipped the table back upright. Then he went and grabbed the knife off the floor, putting it back on the table, right in the center.
    “Now don’t be goin’ for that knife again. It’s not there for you.”
    The big man left the room, and Mark was alone again, his shoulder wrapped tight. He supposed the bleeding had been staunched and hoped that he would avoid amputation or something. He didn’t know what to think. He had no idea where he was, what was going on, or why he was tied to a chair, but it was happening. He thought about the situation for a while, but could think of nothing to help him or explain the situation. After what felt like an hour, he heard a pounding on the wall, but no one came in. The big man continued to leave him alone. Mark closed his eyes...
    ...and opened them to see a hole in the ceiling and a pile of stone covering the floor. The sky was dark. What had happened? He’d clearly fallen asleep. He slowly regained his senses and felt gentle hands on his, cutting the ropes that were binding them. He tried to look at who it was but could not turn his head far enough.
    “Don’t worry pops, I’m here to rescue you,” the voice said, still light from boyhood, but with a slight taint of age on it.
    There was no mistaking. It was his son, Lance. But why was he here?
    “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he tried to ask his son, his mouth still gagged with the moldy cheese rag.
    Lance grabbed the back of Mark’s head and untied the cheese rag, pulling it out of his mouth and finished cutting the ropes on Mark’s hands. He started cutting the ropes binding his ankles as Mark bombarded him with questions.
    “Where are we?” “What is going on?” “What the hell are you doing here?”  
    “Well pops, I’m here to rescue you since no one else wanted to. We are in the Castle Serlacs in Sornheim and you were captured a few days ago by King Balthier. I followed them all the way here, and I suppose they had you out the entire time. I don’t know why they captured you, but I’m going to get you out of here,” Lance explained.
    “I guess it’s too late to fend you off from risking your life. Finish cutting those ropes and let’s get out of here.”
    The instant Lance finished off the ropes; Mark grabbed the knife from Lance. Then he stood and ran towards the door that the big man had come from and opened it, running out and then down the stairs, Lance closely behind him. They booked it down the winding stairs, careful not to trip and fall and found another door at the bottom, leading into a courtyard. It was empty. Mark looked all around, wondering where the King’s servants might be. But he decided it would be best to run for the exit than stand around, waiting to get captured again. He wasn’t going to risk his son’s life.
    “Where’s the exit?” he asked Lance, finally looking at him. The boy was tall, an aura of strength and confidence surrounding him, despite his fragile age of 13, the long brown hair drooping from his head down to his shoulders shining in the moonlight and his eyes a dark green in the light of the torches behind Mark. He was dressed in peasant’s robes, as per usual, since they were a poor family.
    “It’s there,” the boy said, pointing and bringing his father out of his stupor, they began heading down a narrow hallway towards another courtyard that landed them at the castle’s drawbridge, closed for the night.
    “Who goes there!?” a voice yelled into the night, clearly yelling to the outside.
    “It is I, Altair, Knight of the Republic of Sornheim. I am returning from my mission!”
    Suddenly an arrow hit the ground next to Mark and a body fell from the top of the drawbridge.
    “Open the gate!” a voice yelled, and the gears began to creak and clank, the door slowly falling open. Mark and Lance moved to a safe distance from the opening, standing by the pillar as they tried to avoid being seen. When the drawbridge hit the ground, it was as if something had exploded with the sound that came after. Hundreds of horses came pouring into the courtyard, going in every direction. It was definitely not a returning knight, but rather an invading army.
    The horses and men that trampled their way into the castle continued to ignore Mark and his boy, their hiding place pristine. But they had to move at some point right? A war horn sounded from farther into the castle, the guards were being called into action. Soon there were the sounds of a battle going on to the distance, and Mark wanted to have no part of it.
    Despite the many enemy horses and men that were still gathered in the courtyard, Mark tugged Lance out of the corner and they began to cross the drawbridge, to escape some sort of fate that might befall them. Halfway across, an arrow came flying at Mark and hit the wood of the bridge, he urged Lance to run and they sped across the rest of the open bridge as they were bombarded with arrows, their attackers clearly relentless, without a care of who they killed.
    Of the many arrows flung at them, a single one pierced Mark right in the neck, directly through his lungs. The feeling was much more painful than anything he had ever felt before. He could barely breathe and he could feel the blood dripping down his neck and the sting of the arrow that had gone straight through his neck. He fell to the ground and landed on his back. The arrows ceased, the attackers clearly satisfied with hitting Mark. Or maybe they didn’t want to waste any more arrows. Mark had no idea; all he knew is that he was dying.
    Lance finally turned around; he was at least fifty feet away from his father as Mark lie dying on the dirt leading to the castle. He started running back to his father, but Mark made a motion to stop and turn around, unable to speak. Lance kept running to Mark.
    “Father!” the boy yelled, “Are you okay, Father?”
    Mark opened his mouth, but only blood poured out, his voice completely broken. But Lance reached him and Mark could tell he noticed the arrow in his father’s neck. He screamed. Mark opened his mouth again but still all that came out was blood.
    “Father...” the boy began to weep.
    “Go,” Mark tried to say, but only more blood came out.
    The world began to brighten as a beam of light appeared above him and Mark could tell that only he could see it. From the light descended an angel, with the most beautiful face, the most gorgeous body, and the long feathered wings, much like a hawk’s, but bright white and shining in the light, she was the most amazing thing he had ever seen. She had a circular golden object above her head, sort of like a collar, Mark decided it was a halo. He could still see Lance, but he was dim in the light.
    “Marklrind Frijallasson, I have come to take you to the heavens. You have lived a life of good and kindness, you have earned a place in our court and we will welcome you with open arms,” the angel extended a hand to Mark, “Grab my hand and I will lead you through the light to the afterlife that you have earned.”
    “But my son...” he mumbled, finding he could speak to her.
    “Your son will be fine; the king’s army will succeed and find Lance out here. They will take him in and take care of him for his life; he will grow to become a royal knight and he will marry the princess, among other things. We will allow you to watch him from the heavens.”
    “But...”
    “Come with me or you will descend into chaos. Hell will give you no choices, and you will burn, despite how you’ve lived in this world. You cannot stay with your son. You are dying. You have two choices, Heaven or Hell. Please, join me and rise to Heaven as you deserve, Marklrind.”
    Mark lifted his hand and saw it split from his body. He grasped the hand of the angel as she rose into the sky and as they flew up above the clouds, he watched his son, weeping over his dead body, the blood from his body covering the ground, his mouth wide open and his Hazel eyes blank. His long, dark hair having become matted with the blood and his beard covered in more blood. He could hear the sounds of the battle then suddenly nothing. The battle was won. The attacking army began to flee, some of them killed on their retreat while many escaped. Mark saw all of this from above. He could see everything all at once and somehow had no trouble trying to understand what he was seeing. It amazed him beyond human comprehension.
    Lance picked up his head suddenly, a fire burning in his eyes.
    “I will avenge you, father, they will pay for this,” Mark heard, clear as day. Tears streamed down his son’s face as the kings’ army came through the gate. Many of them went past the boy, chasing the army that had attacked them, but one, a knight of the King’s court, stopped and helped the boy. Together, they got Mark’s body on the horse and silently brought him back into the castle. Time sped up; Mark saw his  funeral, the King himself in attendance, and Lance, dressed in the fanciest clothing Mark had ever seen. Then he saw nothing, it was all over.