What is one, lowly peasant boy in a world of implacable Kings and scheming, murderous Nobles?

One with a destiny beyond imagining.

Young Braen is a simple shepherd, like his father, and his before him. Nothing ever changes in the village of Stonesthrow, save for the turning of the seasons.

But when death finds him, the young man quickly learns that 'the end' is not so clear-cut.

At least, not for those granted the gift of immortality.


Author's note

(Some of the names and terms I've outright invented (which is most of them) might be confusing as far as their proper pronunciation goes, so here will be a (likely) ever-expanding list to aid you, dear reader, with just that!)

Braen - Bray-en (Celtic inspired)

Rion - Rye-on (Celtic inspired)

Meira - Meer-a

Patras - Pah-trahs (Mediterranean inspired)

Kleonic Marathon - Klee-oh-nik Marath-on (Kleon is derived from the Greek word 'Kleos' which means 'glorious'. 'Marathon' was the site of a famous battle during the Greco-Persian wars.

Urik - Your-ik (Anglo-Saxon inspired)

Obfuscationist - Ob-few-scay-shun-ist (Obviously not a 'real' word, but it damn well should be!)

11. Chapter 11

The days passed, the training intensified, and with every blow, every bruise, and every strike and counter, Braen slowly worked out his anger.


Gradually, however, he began to notice some unsettling things about himself.


Things that should not have been..


After several weeks of endless drilling in stances, blocking, parrying, and -eventually- dueling etiquette, he could now hold his own -albeit briefly- against his teacher, and the Angel slowly increased the intensity of the regimen even further, attacking his young protege with near-blinding speed and unnerving precision.


'Your performance has improved drastically' said 'Sir' Davin one day (a Title of Nobility he had insisted upon being addressed as, much to Braen's annoyance) 'But you are still lacking!'


Despite his attempts to speak with Davin about these strange new developments, however, the Faux-Knight simply brushed his concerns aside as if they were nothing more than summer insect bites, much to the Lad's frustration.


After another week of being ignored, said frustration had reached its zenith, and Braen reacted by throwing down his stick in the middle of yet another mock-fight.


'I TIRE of this! What is the point of any of this at all?! My Father's killer is as far away from here as one could possibly-!'


'PATIENCE, boy!' the Angel snapped. 'You are not yet 'meant' to face your rival, else disaster would ensue!'


Digging his nails into clenched fists, the bewildered peasant growled from behind gritted teeth.


'Ever since you dug me up, I haven't so much as pissed in weeks! I no longer tire, or sweat, or hunger or-or............!'


His face had turned red as a beet.




Sighing, Davin pointed his makeshift blade at his protege's feet.




Braen shook his head defiantly.


'I'm not doing anything until you-'




The being's eyes flashed dangerously, and he grudgingly plopped his rump down on the soft grass, jaw tensed angrily.


'You are not yet ready for what I am about to reveal' said Davin, seating himself on a rock, opposite Braen. 'but lying is anathema to the very nature of my kind, and it was inevitable that you would discover the truth on your own anyway' 


'What 'truth'?' said the boy, fists still clenched. 'What sort of cursed creature have I become?! Even my sleep has come to naught!'


'No!' said his mentor sternly. 'You are not 'cursed', Child of Man. You no longer require such mortal things, as they would serve only to impede your destiny'


'Enough!' Braen yelled, jumping to his feet. 'What is this all-important 'destiny' of mine you prattle on about?! You've said much, and yet you have said nothing!'


He was breathing heavily now, and Davin held his hand up.


'Peace!' he commanded. 'I am 'not' your enemy, boy: I am your guide. But for now, you must rest, as your ill-temper has stolen your energy'


Despite his anger, he felt a sudden wave of exhaustion hit him like a blacksmith's hammer.




'Thoughts and feelings of negativity will drain you of strength as surely as if you had run the Kleonic Marathon! 'That' is why I ceaselessly push you: you must learn to control yourself!'


It was likely to assume that only a handful of Men in the Kingdom even knew of the existence of that ancient foot race, and most of those were among the nobility, as the peasantry had nary a care for things outside their tiny world, and had little to no access to educational materials anyway.


Braen, however, was an exceedingly rare exception to that rule. Having been taught by 'Father' Davin to read and to write from an early age, the peasant boy who would have otherwise grown to be an illiterate ignoramus had quickly soaked up the knowledge like a sponge, eager to hear of the world beyond his isolated Nation. 


However, none of that mattered as the impulsive Youth collapsed, snoring even before he hit the ground.


Davin shook his head and stood.


His charge had a long road ahead of him, and as much as it pained the warrior-Angel, there was nothing he could possibly do to fully prepare his willful Squire for the coming storm. 

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