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User:Batfan13

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Revision as of 19:46, 25 June 2024 by imported>Batfan13
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Little About Me


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Assassin's Creed Literature

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Order of the Ancients

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Animals

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Pieces of Eden

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Works I Edited The **** Out Of

Assassin's Creed Literature

Assassin's Creed Development Team

Assassins

Hidden Ones

Templars

Order of the Ancients

Ranks (Organizations)

Eivor's Story Arcs/Chapters/Quests

Individuals

Real-Life Sites (Inspirations)

Games' Locales/Locations

Children of Danu

Bellatores Dei

Sinmara's Chosen

Fuladh's mercenaries

Journals Pieces

Books

A dream. No. A nightmare.
It's always been a nightmare.
Fire crackles to the unsteady rhythm to the wind.
You recognize a small village, brighter than a beacon. Everywhere, the flames gnaw through the wood with a crackling sound. The fire spews up waves of smoke and sparks that vanish into the air with a shimmer.
Something is moving: a dark, gigantic shape. It looks like a predator and blocks the clouds, which fly above houses with the same slowness as the stars.
Everything is a mixture of threatening light and darkness, each seemingly fleeing the other.
The sound of a cracking beam reverberates. More embers fly away in whirlwinds.
A cry rings out.

The nightmare goes on forever.
People are running in all directions. They are only dark, fleeting, inhuman shapes that wail in the night. Sometimes the cries die out suddenly, as their owners are caught in the glistening smoke and flames. Sometimes they get louder and even more terrible.
They tear through each night.
On the ground lie the dark, abandoned, and trampled masses of those who have been silenced. All around them the embers of the burning houses whip around.
The shape that is moving through the smoky darkness comes into focus. It is getting closer and closer. By the glow of flames, and to the rhythm of its heavy and terrifying steps, you think you see deer antlers.
As they move towards you, the air is filled with more screams of terror.
Again, the beam cracks.
And that cry. Always the same cry.
Where is it coming from?

The nightmare becomes more tangible.
The huge stag moves slowly through the smoke and ash. His eyes glow at times, hotter than the flames that greedily devour the village.
The animal lets out beastly grunts that vibrate as loudly as thunderstorms.
When the wind blows away from the black fumes, it looks like a hungry wolf on the trail of its prey.
The cries are less and less numerous, but more and more atricious.
At the foot of a building eaten away by fire stands a small child. His clothes stained with blood and soot and part of his red hair is burned. He cries silently.
He chews his lip with all his might to keep from screaming.
He knows what awaits him if he were to make noise.
The open eyes of the lifeless body lying before him keep reminding him.
He doesn't hear the crack above his head.

The nightmarish loop is nearing its end.
Black shapes, piles of soot and blood, crawl on the ground and leave trails in their wake that gleam by the light of the flames.
The last cries turn into moans. They ring out after another in a final gasp of horror.
The beam has just given way, taking with it part of the frame. For a moment the sky lights up, full of new stars―embers that vanish silently.
The stag continues to wander with its slow, rattling step. It doesn't stop its roaring, spitting hatred and bloodlust.
Beneath a cart devoured by fire, a child firmly holds their mouth with both hands to keep from moaning.
The heat from the fire gnaws at their back, but they don't move. They stay stuck there, petrified, despite what it was costing them.
Despite this beam that they keep staring at.

It's all over.
There is only fire, the smell of ashes and blood in the ruined village. The night is getting lighter and the sun will soon rise.
The deer walks away, howling one last time.
A hooded man pulls the child from under the cart and tries to calm his tremors. He whispers a few words of comfort in his ear, without success.
The little one doesn't say anything, doesn't struggle and doesn't cry anymore. His eyes are empty and his mouth hangs open, in the middle of his sooty face.
He clings to the shoulder of his savior as he sees a charred rag doll lying on the floor.
He wants to speak, shout even, but his lungs are on fire and his throat is so dry.
So he clings on tighter and, with his little finger, points to a collapsed beam.

The dark furrows of the fire blew to the unsteady rhythm of the wind.
"Hide under there and do not come under any circumstance. I will find Ailéas."
Fillan obeyed without taking the time to look one last time at his mother's face or to kiss her. He slid his little body under the cart cluttered with straw, canvas bags, and hid. She released his hand after a final squeeze that panic only allowed him to do with his fingertips.
By the light of the flames that lit up the night, he saw her boots walk away from the carriage in long strides. The ground trembled in a pounding of hooves, then a sharp, heartbreaking cry rung out and he saw her slump to the ground around the corner, broken.
He waited for her to get up, watched for a movement, but another galloping horse trampled her. She rolled two yards before falling still, covered with earth.
New tears mingled with those that had already flooded the child's cheeks when he heard the first screams.
Under cover of the soft light of twilight, he had been playing in the street, not far from the well and his house when the tumult had erupted. The warriors had arrived in a whirlwind from the north of the village and had massacred the first members of the clan without asking any questions.
From his hiding place, he could not help but watch the horror that was spreading everywhere. Everything was just a mixture of menacing lights and fleeting darkness.
A smell of urine filled his nostrils. It was his own. He felt ashamed, as he hadn't done that in years. What would the warriors of the clan say if they saw him like this, his hose soaked? His father would be furious when he found out.
People ran in all directions. They weren't just black, fleeting, and impersonal shapes that howled in the night. They were people who, every day, he rubbed shoulders with, played and laughed with, and yet in their terror and suffering they became foreign to him. Death had this curious power.
"Fillan!" whispered a small voice.
He turned his head and his heart jumped when he saw Ailéas across the street, under the awning of their house. She was squatting under a pile of crates attached to a barrel.

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