I just had to learn to kick my inner editor so hard with a frying pan that she shut the hell up. (Arrend is dancing, because he doesn't have to relive two million different chapters ones. He's very happy, and as evidenced by my silliness, so am I).

Also, my friend and I are going to begin a collaboration, just to add some "Freshness" to our writing experiences. Collaboration should be fun. Anyone else want to collaborate? XD

I'm still trying to figure out whether or not to make this chapter one, and the previous entries the prologue. I'm not quite sure if the entries beforehand are really prologue material, and was a bit worried about all the detail in this one, but ah well - I'm still experimenting, and I'm happy with how I've been going so far. This entry's rather small, but nothing big really happens. It just sets up the story for the next scene (which is big, and essential to the story. XD)

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Ever since Arrend was a child, Doxus had been the perfect way to release pent-up emotion. Since the first day he had learned to wield a sword, Doxus was a personal tutor of his, as well as a valuable asset to the kingdom of Eldhanan’s military. Aside from that, he served as a friend and guide to the young king, and was always there to lend his attention when all others failed to do so. In Arrend’s darkest times of need, he learned to turn to Doxus - the one man that had even come close to stilling the unbridled spirit of a broken youth.

When Arrend was struggling through some emotional crisis or other, he could often be found in the training grounds of Eldhanan’s troops, long after they had left the castle gates for home. Doxus would usually be the last to go, aware that the king might have had a rough day - and always willing to wait for him.

Arrend’s pain was very real. For three straight days since Alaya’s death, he spent almost all of his daylight hours in the training grounds. Like always, he expressed his inner turmoil to Doxus, all while the two released tension and excess emotion in the swings or the gestures of battle. Arrend’s torment, his frustration, his anger, his excitement - it was all expressed in the strength and the manner in which he used his weapon.

In fact, Doxus seemed unable to handle him lately. He fell more often, sweated more profusely, breathed harder - he even tried to dance away from the king’s reach more than usual. It shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise that he wasn’t quite the soldier he used to be. After all, Doxus was in his mid-sixties, and could have retired some time ago. Still, he should have been more than capable of standing up to the troubled king, but it would seem that Alaya’s death had given him a curious strength.

“Perhaps Your Majesty is in need of some rest,” Doxus managed between breaths as he laid on the ground, propped up on his left arm. He held up his free hand in request that the king stop advancing, then wiped his brow with the sleeve of his dirty tunic.

Arrend squeezed the hilts of his swords, trying to regain his own breath from his previous, furious attack. Though he held no anger toward Doxus, he felt the need to take out his frustration on something, and his friend was the only one that truly understood this need.

“Look at me, Arrend. Listen. Sleep. It will do you some good.”

Arrend was already looking at Doxus, but his eyes held no proof that he was truly listening, nor taking his words to heart. He simply stood there, silent, waiting for the general to rise.

“Arrend,” Doxus continued, “I know that fire in your eyes. It is too similar to my own. And I was such a reckless boy… such a foolish, reckless boy.” He came to his feet slowly, his eyes never leaving the king’s. “I knew Alaya as well as you. She wouldn’t approve of this.”

“I already know that. She told me before she died.”

Arrend noted with a certain, suppressed astonishment that he didn’t recognize his own voice. It seemed low and lifeless, and it came through clenched teeth…. Its youth was almost masked by bitterness.

“Then why do you continue?”

Arrend looked away, unable to find an answer.

“The Sacred Stone is a myth, Arrend. Your sister’s death is very real. Learn to turn away from your desperation, and not to it. Do you really think that stone will… solve your problems? She is already dead.”

“My people have problems, too. If that stone is really in those tunnels, Morry will find it. Eldhanan will flourish, just as Alaya would have wanted it to.”

“Eldhanan already flourishes, Arrend. Stop seeking out a legend meant to give our world a history. Work to make this generation a history of our own - one that can be remembered for beginning an age of peace and prosperity.”

Arrend took a step forward, causing Doxus to tense in preparation of a likely attack. “The gods owe me, General,” he said. “They took away my family…. And it wasn’t for nothing. I refuse to accept that.”

Doxus opened his mouth to protest, but Arrend was already driving forward, swinging both blades at his opponent’s head. With speed nothing like what was expected of a man his age, Doxus brought his own sword up to parry the attack, meeting it with a heavy grunt. The power of the blow caused the older man to stagger, but he was back in a defensive position in moments. This was certainly a good thing, as he had hardly any time to recover.

Arrend was already swinging his swords at Doxus one at a time, each in succession. Every time metal met metal, Doxus cringed and took another step back. The king continued this until he finally struck with both blades again, pausing to breath as they once again met Doxus’ block.

Slowly, Arrend eased the tension in his muscles, letting the swords fall from Doxus’ own. He just needed a way to release his anger at the world, at the gods… but somehow, his attacks were doing little to ease his mind. It made him even more desperate to escape his pain.

“Arrend,” Doxus said again, holding the shoulder of his sword arm. “I’m not the man I used to be. I hope this experience with Alaya’s death has not left you without mercy.”

Arrend looked away. “Oh Doxus,” he said, “I can’t believe that she’s really dead… that she’s really left me alone in this world.”

“She’s dead. You have to accept that.”

With a sudden surge of anger, Arrend swung at Doxus without warning. “She didn’t have to die!” he screamed, thrusting upward with his blades and catching Doxus’ between them. As if he was a trained performer, he spun the blade like a fan with both of his own, balancing it as he directed it away from his opponent. Then, with the last strength of his weary muscles, he turned and slung the blade forward - off of his own - sending it like a javelin into the earth several yards away.

Morry, who had been approaching, yelped and danced away, narrowly avoiding getting his toes cut off. Arrend straightened in mild surprise, his anger now replaced with anxiety. He watched the man, rigid, his eyes severe. He hadn’t seen Morry since the day Alaya had passed away.

The scholar held a hand to his chest, staring at the sword in the ground with wide eyes. As he tried to catch his breath, he looked up at Arrend, his glasses settled precariously on the very tip of his nose. He resituated them, swallowed, and stepped away from the weapon.

“Your Majesty,” he said finally. Forgetting his traumatic experience in sudden excitement as he remembered what he was there for, he said, “I believe I found something!”

I'm sort of experimenting between lots of detail, lots of dialogue, etc., trying to find the right thing for me. So it might alternate each time I submit an entry. Hehe. Thanks for those that have read so far, I'm hoping that each chapter will get better and better, and that each time I continue to remember the details that work best with my writing. I have big plans for what is to continue. Hopefully, the next will be even better when it comes to what I work best with. Each chapter allows me to find the things that made writing so entertaining for me before.

Sorry if I got repetitive there, I find it hard to really explain what I mean.

I'm also trying to re-find my happy balance between detail, what kind of detail is best, dialogue, and having dialogue sound and flow naturally.

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The boy didn’t even have to finish. Arrend was already pushing through the men around him, coming dangerously close to catching one of them on fire with the torch in his hand. His sword hilt thudded rhythmically against his leg as he sprinted through the dark. Rubble and earth showered him as he moved, and his muscles ached and burned with fatigue from the previous two nights he had spent in these very tunnels. It didn’t matter to him, though - nothing had really mattered to him since his father died two years ago… nothing but his sister. Not even his people had taken precedence over her, the very same people that were supposed to mean more to him than his own personal torment.

Why were the gods so insistent on taking her away from him?

It was only a few moments before he caught the light of his father’s bedroom streaming through the tunnels. The path angled upward, which he failed to remember in his excitement, even when he noted that the rays of light were spilling over awkward ground. At the last moment, he could make out steps, covered in clods of dirt from the opening of something left untouched for hundreds of years. He tried to slow himself, but failed in this as well, managing to stumble over his own feet and fall unceremoniously to the earth.

“You Majesty,” called a gruff male voice from the opening in the wall, “please be careful. Haste means nothing when accompanied by constant error.”

Arrend looked up to receive a sharp pain in the eyes, the light of the room beyond something very different from the dimness of the tunnels. He reached up to shade his gaze, yet peered forward in attempt to identify the silhouettes of the three soldiers awaiting him. One was reaching out, holding onto the entryway as if he was afraid he would fall in.

Arrend took the man’s hand, clambering to his feet in hasty recovery. “My sister,” he managed to say as the men assisted him up the steps, “Where is she? I need to find her right away.”

The one that had initially spoken rubbed at his short-cropped beard, his weathered face now taking shape as Arrend adjusted to the new lighting. The four of them emerged into the spacious, lavish bedroom of the previous king, its marble floor marred by the scratches of heavy boots. Though it had gone untouched for two years, its crimson and gold furniture was tended to as if his father had never left. Even the fireplace had fresh ash smoldering within it. This scene sent a pang of nostalgia through Arrend’s heart, for he remembered spending much time with his father in this very room.

“Your Majesty,” the bearded soldier was saying, “did you hear me?”

Trying his best to keep attention away from the room around him, the king grabbed a hold of the soldier’s shoulders and gave him a rough shake. “Tell me where she is,” he ordered.

“I said she’s being tended to in her room, Your Majesty,“ the soldier replied. “You know she hasn’t been moved since her condition worsened. She is not well.“

Without another word the king broke free of the soldiers’ grasps, relieved to be away from his father’s room. He pushed past those making their way through the hallways, causing a good deal of protest and commotion. The staff all watched him as if he was insane, yet each brow seemed to be affected by their concern for him.

“Your Majesty,” began one of the couriers at the base of the winding steps, holding out his hand in attempt to stop him. Arrend ignored him, as well as the many eyes watching him… all accompanied by whispers of those concerned or curious. They soon disappeared as he left the dome-shaped vestibule, lingering only as distant, inaudible murmurs in the back of his busy mind.

“Alaya!” he shouted even before he reached her door, sweat trickling down his face from the anxiousness he felt for her. He swung the door open forcefully, revealing his sister’s pink-frilled room. Inside were three nurses working busily to provide her with as much comfort as possible, and not one of them stopped to even spare him a glance.

Laying across the canopy bed was a woman that had once been gifted with glorious beauty beyond compare. Yet now, this sickly-colored female was hardly recognizable, her tiny frame laying limp beneath the satin sheets. Long, hay-colored hair spilled over her pillow, and over the lap of the healer sitting beside her. This woman, sweating as much as Arrend probably was, was stroking Alaya’s hand tenderly, watching the bed-ridden woman with the gaze of a saddened mother.

“Oh Arrend,” Alaya said to him when she recognized the figure in the doorway. She wore an astonished, pained expression that tore his heart to pieces. “What have you done?”

He moved toward her gingerly, then fell to his knees beside her. He took her hand from the healer and clutched it in both of his own. Hot tears fell down his cheeks.

“What do you mean, Alaya?” he breathed.

“Look at yourself,” she explained softly. She took her small hand from his, lifting it to rest on the side of his face. Yet she found little strength to keep it there, and slowly it drifted downward, tracing the roughness of his jaw before it fell back to his own again. “Arrend,” she said, “You mustn’t do this to yourself. I fear for you, my brother. Where have you been?”

Arrend hesitated, well aware that his sister would not approve.

“I summoned for a scholar from the school of Dhima,” he explained gently. “He said that he didn’t know the origins of our family’s illness, nor what decided who inherited it. He said that he knew of only one thing that could cure it….”

Alaya squeezed his hand. “Arrend…”

“Listen to me,” he demanded, giving her hand a gentle shake. His voice was full of pain. “He said that there was a thing called the Sacred Stone, something that disappeared long ago. But his studies directed him to some hidden passages…. The entryway is in father’s room; it was behind his wardrobe. He thinks that the stone is hidden there, and he’s looking for it as we speak! Alaya, all you have to do is….”

He faltered, realizing that tears were trailing from her eyes. He watched her, incredulous. The air was so still that he could hear his own ragged breathing…. In desperation he leaned forward, placing his forehead on her torso. Even through the sheets she was cold… so very cold.

“Alaya,” he said, “please.”

He could feel her arm against his shoulders. It was so light… almost as if it wasn’t even there. She then began to stroke his hair, silent for a long moment.

“Look at yourself, Arrend,” she finally said. Her voice was but a whisper. “Look at what you’re doing.”

He could feel her moving - could hear the sound of wood against wood as she pulled a small mirror from the table beside her. He looked up with the instinct of doing it for her, and was met with his own reflection. He watched it with disbelief, unable to recognize the man that looked back at him. He was no older than twenty-three, he knew, but this person seemed to have aged further, somehow. A once regal, handsome face was pale and grey with fatigue, the jaw darkened by a five o’clock shadow. His unnatural, yellow/green eyes were dull, and the skin beneath them was sunken and purple. His dark brown hair was so dark it was edging on black, yet it seemed wild, untamed; uncared for. He turned away from the image, finding it easily comparable to the woman lying in bed. He shuddered.

“Don’t do this, brother,” she pleaded. “Let go.”

He gripped her hand more tightly now; closed his eyes. “I can’t,” he protested. “I love you, Alaya. Just a little longer…. You’ll see. I can save you. Everything will be all right.”

Again, her hand was against his skin, this time directing him to where he was facing her. Fondly, she stroked his cheek, and through his anguish he found the strength to open his eyes and look at her. When he realized that she was smiling - even in the face of death - he found himself astonished… and perhaps a little unnerved.

“I am not afraid,” she assured him. “My time has come, and I am more than ready. The only thing that worries me is that you will not let this go. Tell me, Arrend - tell me that you will not let the past linger?”

He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t make a promise that he knew he wouldn’t keep.

“Arrend.”

Everything fell deathly quiet when finally, Arrend’s sobs became audible. Even the nurses, who had been oblivious of his presence up unto this point, balked in all movement to stare at him in disbelief. Arrend had been known to be completely void of expression on the day his father had died - he had not cried, he had not frowned, he had not even spoken. On the day Alaya had been diagnosed with the same condition, it had happened the same way. For two years, Arrend had been devoid of most emotion, carrying on from day to day as if life itself held little meaning.

And now, he was like a child, clinging on to his dying sister as if for his own dear life, his slender body racked with constant sobs.

“I love you, Arrend. And I accept my death, as should you,” came the woman’s voice through the silence. “You need hope, dear brother… and believe me, I know that it will come to you, even in the darkest of moments. I know this, because it’s given me what I need. I’m not afraid anymore.”

“I need you, Alaya,” he choked.

“No,” she said. “You don’t need me anymore, otherwise I wouldn’t feel death so near. You have so much more left in your life. Don’t be afraid of going on without me.”

Then, she placed her free hand atop his own, and her smile faltered - but the love in her eyes did not. With one last gaze into her brother’s eyes, Alaya’s breath fell still.

Arrend found the strength to lift his hand and close her eyes - but immediately after, he crumpled onto her lifeless body, swallowed by the despair he kept deep in his heart for over two painful years.

Arrend found everything to be a distraction. The scuff of boot against earth and stone, the steady murmur of voices as they echoed through the darkened corridors… even the flicker of torchlight as it danced along the walls, forming the shadows of the room into what appeared to be shapeless, faceless creatures of some merciless, ill intent.

His mind was spinning… his heart was beating precariously on his sleeve. He couldn’t let her die… he wouldn’t. There had to be some way to defeat his family’s disease…. His father had succumbed to it, so why did his sister have to inherit it, too? He would find some way to save her; he would find a way to end the battle against this mysterious curse of pain and death. Though, he wasn’t sure what he would find in such a lifeless place, deep below Avalon’s surface. Its stagnancy brought him little comfort in the wake of a troubled and turbulent night.

He brushed at the ancient walls of the earthen tunnels, which seemed to have been coated in some sort of stone or cement. Large chunks of dirt were sent tumbling over his gloved hands, only to blend into the earth at his feet. He held his torch closer to these walls so that he could read the runic symbols etched upon them…. They glowed faintly beneath the flame, but despite this, they held little meaning to him.

“What do they say?” he murmured. His youthful voice was hoarse, struggling between ragged breaths. It was soft, as was necessary, for its impact was increased twofold by the emptiness of the halls.

The four men around him all stopped in their careful inspection of the area. Three were soldiers, clad in chain armor and armed with standard issue weaponry. One, however, was small and thin, wearing a loose-fitting and rather luxurious robe. His blonde hair was combed back, his skin was fair; delicate glasses rested upon the bridge of his hawk-like nose. He was studying the text like a child with new toys, murmuring to himself so excitedly that he almost didn’t hear Arrend speak.

“It’s a story,” he began, brushing vigorously at the dirt that cached the walls. “I told you! This is the answer, Your Majesty! I believe this is the solution to saving your sister! I can‘t believe this….”

Though Arrend’s initial reaction would be to deny the man’s claims, the lack of other choices - and the hope that now surged through his veins - drove him to have faith in this new discovery.

“What do you mean?” he choked, resisting the urge to reach for the scholar’s shoulder and shake it. “Tell me what it is!”

The small man turned to look at Arrend directly, a slight hint of nervousness flickering in his eyes. “Well, it doesn’t have any proof that stone exists…”

“What does it say?” Arrend urged impatiently through clenched teeth. He lifted a shaking hand to his chest as if he needed the information to live, then took a step forward, causing the scholar to push up against the wall in fright. The king probably looked like a crazed man at that moment, a desperate hunger evident in his eyes. “Dammit, Morry,” he pleaded, “tell me!”

“Well, it - it‘s the history of Man and Avalon,” he stammered, “Or most of it, anyway…. You see, it begins with the fact that Avalon was once a whole, rather than a conglomerate of continents and isles….”

“Details, details,” Arrend breathed. “I don’t care about details.”

“All right… well…” Morry turned, continuing the process of clearing the dirt away from the walls’ surface. “Remember when I told you that there was a stone that could probably do something about your family’s illness?”

“That’s why we’re here, Morry,” Arrend growled. “You told me that these tunnels would tell us where it is. We‘ve spent two days unearthing this long-abandoned segment of paths under the castle because you said they would give us answers.”

“Well, they do… to an extent,” Morry explained hurriedly. “You see, it says that during the first wars of man, the five children of the four elder gods imbued a normal rock with a touch from each of them, giving it the power to, possibly, “persuade” the races to stop waging battle against each other. But the elder gods weren’t very happy about this power being so readily available to just anyone, and ordered them to destroy it. But each of the five younger gods had created it, and together they had to destroy it. The problem was that the goddess of chaos, Phersai, believed that the stone could give her the power they needed over the races of Avalon. She wanted it for herself, quite frankly.”

“So? What does this have to do with me?”

“I’m getting there, I’m getting there….” Realizing what he had said, Morry coughed with embarrassment. He glanced to Arrend in apology, but noting the frown on the king’s face, turned quickly away again. “Anyway,” he continued, “The elder gods knew what trouble would come about if Phersai had the stone, and they couldn’t simply destroy or unmake it. At this time, many of the gods had disciples… so they entrusted these disciples with guarding the stone.

“Then, the gods… disappeared. Their disciples stayed, but they never explained a thing. I suppose the gods themselves decided that they were no longer needed. I’m… not quite sure. It doesn’t say here… Phersai…” He fell silent, muttering to himself.

Arrend shook his head, clutching at the folds of the cloak that gathered at his chest. His head hurt, his body ached, his eyes burned…. His patience was wearing thin.

“Morry,” he began warningly.

“Oh!” the man bolted upright. “Right, yes, well… as I was saying, Phersai refused to leave. She remained on Avalon with her two infamous disciples… the Brothers Chaos, as we know them. And, of course, she was intent on getting the stone. She thought of it all of the time, plotted endlessly to take it. Yet one of her disciples betrayed her. It doesn’t say why….

“You’re not making any sense.”

“But it makes incredible sense! When she sent the First Brother to take the stone, the Second Brother reached it first and hid it. Later, he assisted the other gods’ disciples in locking Phersai into another plane of existence. When Phersai was imprisoned, the disciples dispersed, never to be heard from again…. This was over a thousand or so years ago, though, and I -”

“Morry,” Arrend exclaimed, “What about the stone? What exactly does it do?”

There was a long moment of silence, during which the soldiers and their king all watched the scholar intently. The small man turned to face them, removing his glasses as he did so. He began to wipe them with a piece of his robe. “Well,” he explained, “if I’m reading correctly, the stone was imbued with power from each younger god, and it could magnify one’s own power a great deal, as well. The problem is that it, too, disappeared - as the disciples did. But.”

He raised a finger, replacing his glasses. “My guess is that it was hidden here. According to these texts, there is an entrance to something - somewhere - within these underground corridors. It’s unclear, and it’s all in riddles, but it sounds as if it’s a gateway to something very important.”

“The stone,” Arrend breathed. The hunger in his faltering voice made the party look to him, peering through the torchlight as if to make sure he was really the king they knew.

Nervously, Morry continued. He made sure not to look at Arrend directly. “Yes, well, this is all in theory. There is a heavy chance that we may open a burial tomb, or some sort of… of…” He wove his hands in circles, searching for the right examples. He didn’t finish, however, turning back to the wall and losing himself in a fit of inaudible mutters. He returned to his careful inspection of the runes.

“Your Majesty,” said a middle-aged soldier as he stepped forward, his brow creased with worry. He was running a hand through his dark hair, collecting cobwebs with his fingers as he did so. “If I may intervene.”

“What is it, Eli?” Truth be told, Arrend was hardly listening to him. He was studying the walls closely again, as if he might understand them now.

“Sir, I… I hardly believe that this is an answer. For all we know, this stone could be a myth. And even if it isn’t, how will you know what to do once you have it? How will we not attract attention we don’t want? It could cause trouble - war, even.”

The words fell on deaf ears. Anxious to have a hold of this stone, this one chance to save his dying sister, Arrend turned to Morry. The scholar paused to return his gaze, his eyes alight with confusion. He seemed to note the pain and emptiness in the king’s face… the inward struggle that wrenched his heart to pieces. He was desperate. He needed something, anything.

He needed a miracle.

“What now?” Arrend whispered.

Morry licked his lips, frowning. “I don’t know, Your Majesty. I’m… hesitant.”

“What for?” the king urged. “Morry, this is our chance! Think of the discoveries you’ll make! Think of the fact that the royal family will finally be cured of this disease…. Imagine!”

Morry shook his head, carefully withdrawing as the king began to make him uneasy again. “I doubt that this… doorway… can be opened right away, Your Majesty,” he admitted. “Whatever it’s to, it isn’t just a simple -”

“Can you figure out how to open it?”

“Well, I suppose that with time I can, Your Majesty.” Morry removed his glasses again to wipe them on his robes. “But you must give me at least a few days.”

Arrend cringed, his heart falling into his stomach. His sister could die at any time. He needed her, and he was afraid for her. ‘At least a few days’ may be too much.

Morry, seeing the hesitance in Arrend’s eyes, replaced his glasses and frowned apologetically. “Your Majesty, it is all I can give,” he murmured. “There is nothing else.”

Arrend averted his eyes, his teeth clenched and bared in a noiseless growl. “I want you tell me as soon as you find something - anything…. No matter how small it is. Do you understand me, Morry? Do whatever you have to do, hire whoever you have to hire. I want that stone as quickly as possible!”

“I, um…” Morry faltered, obviously still hesitant about the entire situation. Yet as he turned upward, taking one good look at the king’s desperation, his expression softened. He opened his mouth, closed it - did this many times in succession - until finally, he found the words to say.

“I will do what I can, Your Majesty,” he said softly.

Arrend watched Morry for a moment, searching his face, as if he didn’t believe the words that escaped his lips. He probably seemed like a monster, slightly hunched in the dim, musty tunnels, his ragged breathing almost a sinister warning as he inspected the nervous scholar.

“I know,” he finally said.

The soldiers began to shift once more, as though Arrend and the scholar’s conversation had paused all animation. Morry opened his mouth again, but he wasn’t able to voice what he had in mind, for everyone’s attention was drawn elsewhere, to the sound of hurried footsteps in the distance.

“Your Majesty!“ came a young male voice, echoing through the tunnels. The party fell still again, watching the darkness, Arrend fingering his brooch anxiously. In moments, a blonde boy no older than seventeen emerged, garbed and armed as the soldiers around him. He paused to catch his breath.

“Your Majesty,” he managed to say, almost stumbling to his knees, “It’s your sister.”

Arrend froze, a sudden chill crawling over his skin. In reaction to this, he shivered, pressing his hand to his chest in attempt to ease its pain. No, not yet. She couldn’t be gone - not yet, not now. They were so close. He could save her.

“What about her?” he managed to choke.

“She needs you right away, Your Majesty. She asks me to request that you hurry.”