William's Story: Hope in Purgatory?
The Highmarchman perched atop the volcanic rock and stared out across the beach in the direction he imagined the rest of the crew was slumbering fitfully. The inky blackness of the starless night sky made any attempt to see his fellows impossible, even at a range of less then 15 yards. It was another of the disconcerting effects of their recent island prison. One of many simple things that were just... 'off' about the place. It left a man uncertain at best, often unsettled truth be told, but most of all it made a man question things about his surroundings and even himself that he otherwise would take for granted.
Tonight was a night of questions for William McKormick... Or was it Eric Donoven... the man asked silently, to no one in particular. He had wandered away from the camp of shipwrecked sailors to try and find peace and quiet, but instead he had found nothing but unanswered riddles tumbling through his troubled mind. He felt very tired, limbs heavy, countless scars moaned in silent protest. What has happened to me? This question was focused, direct, and targeted squarely on his own shoulders. Images of his past flashed across his eyes. There he was with his younger brother, playing a childs game of seek and find in the massive stables of his family's ancient estate. A smile crept across his face as the game ended with the young lad discovering his older brother's hiding place and the playful laughter as the elder roared and chased the boy playfully through the mazelike building. Another flash and he was entwined in the arms of his first love, underneath the perfect blue sky and emerald horizon of his island home. The lovers' whispers drowned out by the crashing waves as they slammed into the sheer limestone cliffs overlooking the oceanside grotto. The highmarchman knew true peace at that moment. Faster and faster the images burned across his vision. He could feel his father's bones snapping under hands filled with the strength of pure hatred. The sadness of his final glimpse at the strong stone walls that had been his home for seventeen short years. The hope he had felt as his first ship set sail and his past faded from memory on the high seas. The elation of victory earned with the blood of his brothers and sisters, and blood of his own under the smiling flag of the Avalonion Sea Dogs. The deadness he had felt as the Montaigne Captain's saber fell and the shots that ended his crewmate's lives rang out over the shrill cry of the coastal gulls. The highmarchmen paused. His silent reverie interupted for the briefest of moments by the piercing call of an island bird. Slowly he drew his fingertips across the well worn leather grip of the massive metal blade that rested across his lap. "How many stories have you and I made together, old friend?" He mused, "How many more have we ended?" Like a fog, the memories welled up inside him once again. He was washed up on the shores of an enemy nation. Like a drowned rat he scurried through the warren of the Montaigne port. Hopelessly lost and out of place he had made the fateful introduction to an equally out of place Vodacce swordsman. Soon more puzzle pieces fell into place, a tapestry of friends and companions. Outgoing but troubled, his friend Reynaldo; the noble Valliere and and loyal Laurent; the headstrong but able Castilian, Enrique; the softspoken but startlingly wise Inish lass, Lia; always smiling, Peurto; reserved but determined, the archer Jenner; hopelessly bumbling but undeniably brilliant Coleson; Brutal, efficient, and every inch the Eisen warrior, Volker; dangerously beautiful and ultimately tragically misguided, Sabine; even the amazing youth, Talen, never at a loss for ways out of tricky situations. Each one of them he considered a friend that he would give his life for. For some, he would never have that chance. Lowering his head in memory of those that had fallen, his fingers traced further up the blade to the naked steel of it's well used edge. Each nick was a foe felled. Some had not fallen so easily, and some had not fallen at all. Fanatical, but honorable in his own way, the Musketeer Du Chevalier had been a worthy foe, and one still at large in the great breadth of Theah; Captain Karlson, who he had once embraced as friend but whose rain of pillage and plunder he had ended beneath his sword as foe; the daemon known only as Fellhand, whose path of death and terror followed the highmarchman's band like a rabid wolf, ever nipping at their heels; no less a daemon but one of flesh and bone, Prince Villanova; the shade of the father damned to walk Carleon for crimes too terrible to imagine, finally put to rest along with the soul of his innocent young daughter; the blind ignorance of the Inquisition itself in it's maddened attempt to burn that which it didn't understand; and even the skillful murderer and cold blooded assassin that had come to be known to them clothed in the guise of patriotism and nobility, the Castillian Pablo. He lifted his head as other memories crept unbidden into his thoughts. Not every moment of these last few years had been filled with conflict and blood, heroism and horror. The Highmarchman allowed the faint outline of a smile to seep into his brooding visage. He mouthed a single word in silence,"Miriam". He had found love where he thought he never would again. Fate bore that love a child, and fate would try to take the child away from them. That knowledge had driven the man to challenge the very might of the fay themselves. By either luck or force of will he still breathed, his love and their child returned to him. And then that accursed morning at the docks had changed it all... His crew had fired upon representatives of the Queen he held dear, the Queen he had sworn his sword to if not in deed then in purpose. His crew, his ship... his responsibilty. He knew not the fate of the poor fools caught in the crossfire, he knew not the circumstances around the incident itself that ill-fated morn. He had panicked then. That much he could admit to himself. He had lost control and that moment, as the Errant Venture sailed out from Carleon for what may well have been the last time, he had felt all he had held dear slipping from his grasp. The highmarchman knew the penalty for those who had done what he had done that morning. He knew that his Queen and his dreams of service to her and to his country were over. His love and his child were lost to him as well. How could he hope to be the man they deserved if he was branded a criminal? Invisible in the inky blackness of the starless night, the man's knuckles whitened as his hand tightened around his claymore. Sticky wetness welled up from between his fingers and sudden pain snapped him out of the veil of weakness and self doubt that had begun clouding his thoughts. "Fool!", he cursed under his breath, "How can you ever say you at least TRIED to set it right if you die here on this island?" At that moment he realized that indeed that was what was happening to him. Since that morning, through the storm, through the ship wreck, and while his friends and crew that counted on him slowly struggled and began to crack under the weight of their situation, the man who had become known to Theah as William McKormick was dying inside. The highmarchman's jaw clenched and unclenched in quiet rage at his own weakness. He had almost let himself lose hope. A fate worse then death as he was quickly starting to realize. He rose quickly, with more purpose then he had had in days. Pain forgotten, his blood slicked hand drove the claymore home into it's sheath over his broad shoulders, now set with determination. He could not afford to sink further into this quicksand when he had others that were counting on him. He hoped his companians could forgive his foolishness and even more so he hoped that he could find the strength to help them escape this cursed isle. He did not doubt their abilities. In fact he knew that they would probably find a way home in time. But with the bullheadishness that they had come to expect from William McKormick, he would be right there at their sides as the brave band of heroes pulled together to do what had to be done... one more time. "Captain si'ar," graveled the deep voice of McBride as William made his way back along the beach and into the muted light of the bosun's hooded lantern. "We seem to have a situation." In the darkness, William only smiled.Return to
Uncommon Valor