Ezekiel Bridestone

[wizardry101]

(Repost)

Several weeks ago in the Western Heartlands during the waning hours of daylight:


Zeke’s head bobbed like wheat caught in a breeze as the wagon rattled forward. If he didn’t know any better, he’d wager the plains stretched on forever.

The cart driver turned and flashed Zeke a toothy grin. “Take it in, mate,” he said as the wagon rolled to a stop under the shade of a giant oak. “It’s nothing but grass and fields to Scornubel from here.”

Zeke craned his neck. The oak towered above him, a hiccup in the otherwise flat landscape. It was a proud tree, he thought, its trunk arched defiantly against the wind. Zeke stood and circled the giant. He traced the contours of its bark, cracked and jagged like ancient scars boasting of victorious struggles.

“I’ll be like this tree,” he thought aloud.

The cart driver grunted and snapped the reigns. “Sure, mate, sure.”

“Persistent,” Zeke added as he hopped into the back of the wagon.

The sun dipped below the horizon, washing the land in crimson hues. Zeke studied the tree in the new light until it disappeared from sight. He swore he’d return to set things right — by any means necessary.

His roots bound him.

[wizardry101]

Zeke had thought getting away from Greatgaunt would stir the magic lying dormant within him. He could focus. He could purpose.

Or so he thought.

Instead of enchantments, though, Zeke summoned nostalgic memories of the people he tried so diligently to forget. He missed Renny’s warm embrace, Bran’s lively company, even Lucian’s stringent drilling.

Before long, mastering magic was the last thing on his mind.

Frustrated by what he deemed a deficiency in self-discipline, Zeke conceded and turned toward Greatgaunt. He was conditioned to defeat, and this was no different.

His head hung low, Zeke didn’t notice the pike in the middle of the path until it was right in front of him. He raised his head and immediately wished he hadn’t. A severed head — eyes rolled back and tongue limp like a dog’s in midsummer heat — punctuated the pike’s point.

“Inspires confidence,” Zeke muttered.

No sooner had the words escaped his mouth then Zeke felt a sharp pain in his lower back. Strange, he thought, as he tasted copper in the back of his throat. He pitched forward, landing face first in the dirt.

The base of a pike thudded into the ground beside him. Now this was cruel, Zeke decided. To die was one thing, but to have your last image be the very instrument that parades your head like an ornament; well, that was something else altogether. With that, Zeke felt the darkness take him.

A beat.

Faint at first, as if traveling some great distance. Then again, stronger. The beat grew with each passing, the foundation of a mighty song luring Zeke to consciousness. Then woodwinds! Initially raspy but soon smooth and steady, joining the melody.

When Zeke opened his eyes, he was on his feet. He felt the small of his back but found his fingers clean, the bleeding stopped by some inexplicable force. Zeke looked up to find an ogre hunched over his pack. He drew his sword.

He was in a trance now, a dance set to the metronome of his heart; to the rise and fall of his chest; to the swish of blood in his veins.

Zeke’s mouth moved to form words, but he didn’t know what they were or what they meant. Instantly, though, his sword felt more balanced. Zeke raised steel and struck. The ogre doubled over as the blade tore flesh, ripped tendons, and cracked bone.

“That,” Zeke hissed between clenched teeth, “is mine.”

Zeke tilted his head, for instead of the ensuing silence he expected, he heard music: the same stirring timpani and woodwinds.

Sudden realization shook him. What Zeke heard was the contraction of his heart, the rush of air into his lungs, the vibration of his veins. This was the melody within him, and from this — not nature, not books, not gods — he drew his magic.

“Life,” Zeke mused aloud, “is the greatest song. And it took death to realize it.”