The Order of the Ashes

A young boy Bartholomew was sent to find a man on the grounds of a grand Manor House. Sent to fulfil a role only he can take to save others around him.

The 'present time' being set in the 1920s with the rest of the story shifting time. We follow the man's lifetime of secrecy and service and discover his past and truth.The winding road of his life that was headed towards the boy.

Unveil the secrets guarded by death and dare to delve into history...


1. The Man with the pin

          He gathered all of the strength in his body to lift his eyelids: he saw sharp flickering glimmers - then nothing. All he could see was the mesmerizing colour of emerald shards. He couldn't tell whether it was the deep reflection of his eyes or a haze of the blurred swishing grass together with the spring trees. As the brightness of the abyss around him pierced his eyes he was stolen back into unconsciousness again...

          Bartholomew stood taking in the man who was collapsed in the churchyard; he must have stumbled out of another time, with his pin striped waistcoat and grey top hat (with a velvet black trim). He never saw anyone dressed like that, but he supposed being outside a church the man wouldn’t look too conspicuous. In fact if he wasn’t draped over a headstone for a curious reason then the man would look rather apt: stood tall wearing his tails like dinner silver: smooth, sharp and polished, with his hat perched respectfully tucked in the crook of his arm with the top just skimming beneath the pinned sprigs of purple flower buds.

However, the embossed pin the man wore with three intertwined copper leaves was particularly peculiar to Bartholomew. The copper was rich and looked like it would be cast for the hair of a Celtic princess’s statue: positioned in a challenging stance, strong, defiant and flaming (in appearance and demeanour). But there was something that was quirky and unique about it, the design, or the tales behind it...  It looked like an identity badge, maybe a badge of honour? Whatever it symbolised he decided it must be relevant to the church service, it didn’t look like a medal, not like the ones his father had kept. Although it still looked prestigious: like a shining ember of pride struck upon his lapel, even on the man who was asleep in the church’s graveyard. 

A gust of breeze trickled through the branches and picked up dust from headstones and dry earth from tree stubs, as it scratched Bartholomew’s eyes he was violently hurled down (as if from an unknown force inside him) to the earth and grass that accepted his fall softly despite the speed he was falling initially. It was like the forceful hands stroking fingers of the wind were cradling him slowly down to the bed of grass go to sleep. His senses were hit again, but with a waft of floating spring fragrance, like a bottled scent of blossom and a lemon leaf. (He only thought of a bottled scent as his mother always gave off a similar aroma to what was tickling his nose now. Moreover, he had never come across anything in real life that had truly smelled as beautiful, delicate but present as one would hope but never found in nature.) As the blossom and lemon danced into his soul through one more peaceful and drowsy smell he let his eyelids drop as the soft grass caressed his senses too. He thought he remembered hearty bells ringing out, seeming distant and echo-y to him, although in a state of falling into the abyss as another awoke, he couldn’t be sure.


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