Legion Hearts

[Lewis and Simon]

This story is about three and a half years old now, plucked from my hard drive and originally posted on the Stage in the Tavern of the Morning Rose (LotWR forums). It was written for Zadown as a good-bye present as he left our Archmage guild (Legion of the White Rose) to join the Angels of Apocalypse. I almost hesitate to post this because it serves no real point, but it's probably one of the few pieces left in existence that proves I ever wrote at all.

 

A lot of random characters will appear that no one will know anymore, and some of you old people who actually did play Archmage with us might see a familiar name or two. Some of the plot-points with Kendricke will seem downright confusing (his backstory is really very nice, and you should all demand that he actually finish writing it one of these days). But try to not let that bother you too much.

 

Reflecting upon it now, it was probably the only piece that I ever tried to be semi-serious in. I revised it slightly because I hated the fact that I actually used to write in present tense.

 

-Isachar

[Lewis and Simon]

Simon grumbled as he trudged up the hill, a heavy gas lamp on his back.

 

“Oh the indignity of it all,” he muttered to himself. “I’ve got building knowledge that would take a library years to take down. Instead, I’m out here dragging equipment like a spoony pack mule!”

 

The squirrel gave sigh of relief as he finally reached the top of the hill. Isachar and Lewis stood in waiting. The mage walked over to the little squirrel and relieved him of his burden.

 

“Thank you,” he offered the little animal appreciatively.

 

“Remind me again,” Simon huffed. “Why you had me dragging a lamp across the Heartlands?”

 

Isachar was silent for a moment as he took a match and lit the gas inside the old lamp. “A promise to a friend,” he muttered quietly, watching the small flame dance and flicker…flicker…

 

…Flicker…

Edited October 6, 2004 by Lewis and Simon

[Lewis and Simon]

…Flicker…

 

Flickered. The torches flickered silently as a cold gust of wind passed through the corridor. Footsteps echoed through the Legion’s halls. The sound was soft, light, it’s echo like raindrops pattering against a windowsill. As the footsteps grew nearer, three distinct shadows danced against the marble halls, their images wavering in the torchlight.

 

Anywhere but in Terra, these three would have drawn fear, surprise, and bewilderment; but here, they were comrades; they were friends. The first was a boy; he could not be any older than thirteen, fresh into his teen years. The child’s dark brown hair fell against emerald green eyes as he walked down the corridor; he brushed it away.

 

The second figure was far more…interesting. He didn’t even truly cast a shadow; he just dimmed the light as it passed through his ghostly form. Spectral wings twitched behind his back, and he extended them for a moment, as though stretching, alabaster feathers disappearing behind solid walls. The ghost folded his wings once more and floated after the child.

 

A third figure stalked silently behind the ghost angel. Garbed in snow-white mail, the dominion did not make a sound as he walked. Even his steps were silent. His only focus was the two in front of him, or more precisely, the boy at their lead. The angel said nothing as he followed the child and the specter.

 

“Lord Kendricke?” the ghost’s voice broke the silence.

 

The boy craned his head back, while the dominion gave the specter an inquiring look…then catching himself, he turned away.

 

“Yes, Lord Zadown?” the child inquired.

 

“Where are we going?” Zadown’s eyes flicked expectantly down the corridor they had been following, as it continued to entwine itself further around the spire at the heart of the Legion’s Halls.

 

“…My sanctuary.”

 

In silence, the three trudged onward. Frigid air came in a gust from the tiny windows lined the passage, and Zadown knew he would have shivered were he still flesh and bone. The boy and the angel seemed to pay it no mind and simply marched onward. The ghost shook his head and followed after.

 

“Why?”

 

Kendricke did not turn back to the ghost, nor did the dominion spare him a glance. The boy only whispered, his soft voice barely carrying to Zadown’s ears, “I owe you something.”

 

The quiet that followed lasted till they reached the very top of the spire, where a great steel door blocked their path. The dominion moved to their point without a word and clutched at the handle with both of his hands. With a silent heave from the angel, the door groaned open. Kendricke walked in, sparing a moment to beckon Zadown to do the same. The dominion did not follow.

 

Zadown floated into the room and…gaped. All about the place were swords, axes, breastplates, gauntlets, all manner of armor and weapons. The items lined every wall, each piece displayed nicely, never blocking one another.

 

“What is this place?” Zadown muttered, casting his gaze about the room.

 

“My sanctuary,” Kendricke repeated simply. “I come here to meditate.”

 

“Why here?”

 

Kendricke gestured to an axe that sat mounted against a wall. Zadown floated towards the item and examined it curiously. The axe seemed familiar to the ghost, but he could not place it until he noted the small heading beneath the item, pasted in intricately carved letters along the display. Abraxas, the description read.

 

“What?” Zadown exclaimed in surprise. “All these….” The boy guild master nodded.

 

The ghost flickered throughout the room. Mortanius’ blade, Quantos’ halberd, Nozradd’s staff, Tebrial’s gauntlet, and a hundred more items from people he had never seen nor heard of. Scattered throughout this sanctuary lay the weapons and armor of several he had called friend and several more he had only heard stories about. But all were departed from Terra…

 

Then Zadown took note of a weapon that seemed to be positioned at the sanctuary’s heart. The ghost hadn’t even noticed the weapon walking into the room, but it seemed so out of place that Zadown wondered how he could have ever missed it. It was an obsidian blade, long and slender. The hilt was intricately designed, with an almost spiraling handle that led to a ruby planted at its base. The weapon was smeared with blood.

 

“Angel’s blood never washes,” the ghost had once heard a necromancer say. Zadown grew even more curious and floated down to the weapon, hoping to find its intended owner. Kendricke rushed to block his path, a stern look on his face.

 

“Sometimes,” the boy whispered. “It’s best that devils be left for dead.”

 

Zadown nodded, not quite understanding. A long silenced stretched out between the two. The boy’s emerald green eyes remained fixed on the ghost. Zadown shifted uncomfortably. “What is this place?” he asked.

 

“The Room of the Lost,” Kendricke replied, his expression changing to…what was that, relief? “Here I keep the memories of all the departed Legionnaires, so that the nobility of their deeds might not pass completely from this world.”

 

Zadown stared at the place in wonder. “So every Legionnaire that has faded from Terra…”

 

“…has a place here,” the boy guild master finished.

 

“And why am I here?” Zadown asked quietly.

 

“Because I owe you something,” Kendricke repeated. With that, the child removed an undecorated helmet from its display, sparing a moment to examine it one last time. He held it up, motioning for the ghost to take it.

 

“My helm…” Zadown whispered. “Where did you get it?”

 

“I convinced GeldrinHor to part with it,” Kendricke said, smiling. “He has the rest of your armor still displayed at the Tavern.”

 

“So that’s where it…” Zadown started, then stopped. “But I’m leaving again, so why…?”

 

“Because,” the child replied solemnly. “We have not lost a Legionnaire in you, my friend. If anything, we have only lost a guild mate.”

 

With that, Kendricke departed, leaving the room the way he had come. Zadown, still clutching his helmet, gazed mournfully about the sanctuary, at the Legion’s past. He sighed, glancing at his item. Finally, the ghost followed after the boy guild master, floating out of the room. The dominion nodded after Zadown and closed the door behind them.

[Lewis and Simon]

“Zadown-san!” came Madoka’s slurred voice, a hopeful smile on her face. “You wouldn’t reconsider leaving, would you? I could use you as a knight-templar.”

 

Her voice seemed barely audible over the roar of the festivities. All about the Tavern, Legionnaires were drinking…and drinking…and did we mention drinking? The guest of honor, the one who all of this noise was for, sat secluded on a bar stool, taking a sip of his favorite cider. He disliked the attention, disliked the very idea of a party being thrown in his honor. The First Knight had sat beside him, slamming down a bottle of sake as she came.

 

“Gomen, Madoka-sama,” Zadown replied. “I’m afraid I’ve already made up my mind.”

 

Madoka looked disappointed, but that warm expression never left her face. She took another drink from her bottle, tilting it back almost all the way, draining the thing dry. She set it down and called for another.

 

“That’s too bad Zad…” the samurai stopped; her head slumped onto the counter. Zadown looked confused for a moment, then he sniffed the bottle. He pulled back in surprise, definitely too strong to be normal sake. He glanced around for a moment, looking for any possible culprits. He found Spartacus on a barstool a ways down, grinning as he watched Madoka. The warlord snapped his head away when he noticed Zadown, whistling innocently.

 

Spartacus stood up abruptly, dropped a few geld for his bar tab and took his coat. “All right,” Zadown thought he heard the warlord chuckle as he walked away. “At least now the kid’s been officially hazed.”

 

Shaking his head, Zadown started after Spartacus, but he was stopped as he bumped into someone. Alzorath huffed as the ghost knocked him back. He managed just barely to stay on his feet…until he backpedaled into a server. The both of them fell, dishes and glasses crashing as they hit the ground. The Tavern’s patrons barely even noticed.

 

Zadown picked the young mage up, helping him get back on his feet, and found himself reflecting upon the youth. He had barely been with the Legion for a single passing, but tales had already regaled him as a fierce fighter. He had gained more than a little bit of respect during his time in the pit with the Army of Darkness.

 

“My apologies, Lord Zadown,” Alzorath muttered. The reverent tone in the young mage’s voice flustered the ghost. The “Lord” preceding his name was bad enough, but when they actually meant it as more than a formality? Zadown sighed.

 

“Entirely my fault, Lord Alzorath,” Zadown replied, grinning as the young mage flinched. Have some of your own medicine! Zadown thought wryly. He turned to walk away, but Alzorath placed a hand on the ghost’s shoulder.

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t get the time to know you, Lord Zadown,” the youth said, genuine regret evident in his voice. “The Legion will be lessened without your strength.”

 

Muttering a few words of thanks, Zadown flickered away, hoping to find safety on the other side of the Tavern. Why did everyone have to raise him up on a pedestal this way. What had he truly done to make them respect him so. Zadown was still grumbling when Jakob caught up to him.

 

“You look as though you could use a few more drinks, my friend,” the sage offered jokingly.

 

“You look as though you could use a few more yourself,” Zadown smiled. “Is continuous soberness a requirement for being an elder?” Jakob chuckled and shook his head, pointing off into the crowd. Zadown followed the sage’s direction and found Fleetwood almost passed out; one of his gremlins waved a bit of smelling salt under the Administrator’s nose, and the elder coughed a few times and batted the creature away. Jakob and Zadown shared a laugh over the spectacle.

 

“We’re really going to miss you, you know,” Jakob muttered somberly.

 

“I need to be out there, Jakob,” Zadown replied, almost longingly.

 

Jakob nodded. This wasn’t the first time they’d been over this. “I’m afraid I just don’t have your wanderlust, my friend,” the sage replied after a moment. “But you know I wish you well.” He sighed. “The guild just won’t be the same without you.”

 

The ghost froze. Even Jakob? “The Legion will manage,” Zadown said indifferently. “It’s done it before.” Jakob nodded dismally.

 

“Pardon,” Zadown gave a quick excuse and flickered out. He just needed to get out of there, to be done with this.

[Lewis and Simon]

Zadown managed to flicker just outside of town, away from any late night pedestrians that might recognize him. The angel took a moment to gain his bearings and found that he had materialized just outside the Northern Gate. Perfect.

 

The ghost stared back a moment at the town he had left, the Legion’s Halls casting a majestic shadow over it in the bright moonlight. He gave a sigh and turned away. He’d come back for his things later and make a few final good-byes.

 

“Far be it for me to judge,” came a voice. “But leaving your own farewell party isn’t exactly good form.”

 

Zadown searched for the voice’s source; he found it in a tree just off the road, where a young mage sat perched on a firm branch. He held a pair of binoculars closely to his eyes, intensely scanning the landscape. Isachar.

 

“Looking for me, Isa?” Zadown growled, a little annoyed at the mage’s presence.

 

“Not in the least, Z. You popped in on me,” Isachar replied, never even glancing at his friend. “I’m waiting for another truant right now.”

 

Zadown gave the young mage a look of skepticism, but Isachar beckoned the ghost up to him. Zadown complied grudgingly, floating up to the branch where the youth sat. Out of nowhere, the young mage produced a second pair of binoculars and offered it to Zadown. His curiosity got the best of him, and the ghost accepted them.

 

“Ah ha,” Isachar exclaimed in triumph. “I knew he’d try tonight.”

 

“What?” Zadown whispered.

 

“Just inside the Western Gate, off to the right behind the barracks.”

 

Zadown followed the youth’s instructions and found a small wagon being loaded with a few supplies. Dakeryas! The mage piled the last of his personal items and sighed. He was trying to sneak off!

 

“Did you manage to get it?” Isachar asked.

 

Zadown was puzzled for a moment, until he heard someone else’s reply. “I couldn’t remember which one you said he’d use, so I pulled them all.” Zadown recognized the voice. Lewis, one of Isachar’s rabid squirrel lieutenants.

 

Isachar sighed. “It’ll do.”

 

Zadown took his eyes away from the binoculars and glanced at Isachar. The young mage was accepting some sort of bolts from his minion. Zadown’s eyes widened as he recognized them. “You didn’t,” the ghost declared in surprise, not really believing it himself. “You WOULDN’T!”

 

“Of course I would,” Isachar replied simply, looking back into his binoculars. Zadown did the same. Just as Dakeryas urged his mount forward, the wagon crashed behind him. A few citizens rushed out to find the source of the commotion, and when they saw the mess, they looked at Dakeryas questioningly. The mage sighed and started to explain. Looks of alarms turned into frowns, and they just grew deeper and deeper.

 

“…you did,” Zadown said at last, returning the binoculars to Isachar.

 

“Yep,” the young mage replied cheerfully. “Serves him right for trying to sneak away without a proper good-bye.”

 

Zadown gave a tired sigh. “He deserved that party tonight more than I did.”

 

Isachar looked at the ghost quizzically. “But then he would be the one staring at me disapprovingly while I sabotaged your efforts to leave under the cover of night. But don’t worry, Dakeryas will get his soon enough.” He drifted off, and a wicked grin soon sprouted on his face.

 

“I don’t see why everyone is making such a fuss over my exit,” Zadown muttered quietly.

 

“Ahem,” Lewis interrupted, breaking Isachar away from his daydream. “You’re leaving, Zadown; heaven knows when you’ll be back. Why shouldn’t the Legion be throwing you at least one last farewell party?”

 

Zadown looked up into the night sky. “Because I’ve never been the kind of member the Legion should be proud of.”

 

Isachar and Lewis traded startled glances. “What on earth are you talking about,” Isachar sputtered.

 

Zadown mutters something and raises his hand. A dim light shimmers in front of it, and Zadown is suddenly holding the partially completed version of the Legion’s Code of Conduct. “You’ve seen these rules, Isachar. You KNOW me. I’ve never followed these.”

 

“Pish posh,” Isachar grumbled, blowing on the paper. It crumbled and dissolved, returning to the earth from whence it came. “Written words are just for people to argue with. You’ve been a fine Legionnaire.”

 

“What led you to that conclusion?” Zadown muttered.

 

Isachar was silent for a moment. “You were my example,” he matter-of-factly.

 

Zadown stared at his young friend, a pang of guilt echoing through him. “Tell me,” he asked in genuine confusion. “Why?”

 

“Well you see…”

 

”You’re not going to tell me that honor is a state of mind again, are you?” Zadown cut him off, recognizing the speech from an old chat they’d once shared.

 

“Not anymore!” Isachar quipped. Lewis sweat-dropped.

 

Zadown stared at the young mage expectantly. Isachar sighed and wiped the smile off his face. “Ever since I’ve met you, you’ve been nothing but courteous and friendliness,” he said in all seriousness, remembering their times on the Blitz world. “Your dedication to the Legion has been almost unwavering, sparing only that quick jaunt to the Pacifists. You’ve gone all out for the Legion every passing I’ve had the honor of knowing you. Now despite whatever a piece of paper that tries to outline how we should act tells you; you’ve been a fierce fighter, a valiant comrade-in-arms, and good friend. Distill all the semantics involved with defining honor, and I think anyone would get something similar.”

 

Zadown looked at the young mage thoughtfully. Isachar turns from the ghost’s gaze and shrugs. “Let me ask you something, Zadown; if you really don’t think you’re a good Legionnaire, why’d you come back.”

 

Zadown didn’t answer immediately, even though he’d thought about a lot himself. Finally, he gave Isachar the only answer he could find himself. “It’s home.”

 

“And we’re family?” the young mage asked. Zadown shrugs helplessly; Isachar continued staring at the ghost, refusing to let him go that easily. Finally, he gave a reluctant nod, grinning.

 

“Then how can you deny a family the right to say good-bye to their prodigal son?”

 

Zadown sighed and held up his hands in defeat, but he was smiling now. Isachar returned the smile and said, “Now I think some people are looking for their guest of honor.” Sure enough, lights had begun going up throughout the town.

 

Zadown nodded. “Isachar,” he said, almost as an afterthought. “I’m glad I could be such a great role model.” Isachar grinned wryly.

 

With that, the ghost flickered…flickered…

 

…Flicker…

[Lewis and Simon]

…Flicker…

 

…flicker…flicker…

 

“Isachar?” Lewis’ voice stirred the young mage from his reverie.

 

With careful precision, the youth held the lamp up to a tree, looking for a place to hook it. After a few moments of searching, he found a place suitable to hook it. Closing his eyes, Isachar offered a few quiet words:

 

“Mortanius, Moribank, Dakeryas, Zadown, and everyone else I called friend…Nozradd, Guenevere, Skwyd, Abraxas and all the others who I never had the opportunity to meet…I just wanted to say, well, the door’s always open, and I’m leaving the light on. Come back home, some day,” he could feel a lump forming in his throat. “If ever your travels make you weary, if ever your world grows too hectic: Let the light guide you home, and let us help you find your peace.”

 

He hung the lantern on the tree and turned away, trudging wordlessly back to the town. The squirrel duo looked at each other for a moment, and then they followed after their master.

Edited October 6, 2004 by Lewis and Simon

[Zadown]

I've often wondered if I'd see this story again. It is one of the finest gifts I've ever received from anyone (I cried actual tears when I read this, at work, so deeply it affected me back then - and I don't cry often), and also the most accurate use of any of my characters in somebody else's story.

 

I'd really like to see you write more, Isa. Great talent's a terrible thing to waste.

[Peredhil]

Yes yes yes! Write more! I've never understood insecurity in presenting one's own works at the Pen... NOT!

Heh, I think there are only about five people here who unhesitantly think they're good writers if asked. I know I'm not one. (Which actually *is* true. I'm more of a Polite guy instead of a good writer. )

 

*hugs* Thanks for posting this! I'd wanted to read it again, but I'd said I wouldn't go back to the Legion site when I left (yo-yo departures cause too much strife and despite implementations, I did believe in much of what the Legion stood for. Hard to be disappointed if you haven't dreamed.)

 

-Peredhil

[Lewis and Simon]

Thank you for the kind words. I hesitated to post this because it feels so out of context now, not because of my insecurities (though rest assured, they are there). But I posted it because it's probably the only piece I've ever completed.

 

I believe I've started somewhere in the range of five stories, all of varying lengths, and not one of them has ever gone past the middle. Sure I've done spoof work -- I especially enjoyed my coverage of the Legion Awards Festivities that Kendricke always held in IRC after resets (well, twice anyway). But there's just not much creativity involved in that.

 

In terms of actually finishing what I set out to do, Legion Hearts is it. My one finished work. As far as future writing is concerned, I stared at about a half page of something I might've wanted to start once for a while, then I gave up and went to sleep. I just can't get myself into a place where the writing actually starts to flow, and every time I try to force it, it just looks ugly.

Edited October 7, 2004 by Lewis and Simon

[Peredhil]

Oooh. I know that "ugly" look. Before Zool browbeat me into posting at AM, I used to try to write what I "saw" in my head, and would either delete (if on a computer) or burn (if on paper) because it was so horribly inadequate. I never thought anyone would like them at all.

 

Come to find out... (Muahahaha!) THEY didn't know what I was seeing, they only got to see the distorted poor reflections which were transcribed, and some people liked them.

 

I do know that the more I write, the more I can write. Sometimes for me, it's like priming an old pump - have to let the "bad writing" flow to get it out of the system before the good pure writing appears.

 

Persistent Peredhil's Polite two-cents.

[Kendricke]

Greetings to Lord Isachar, Lord Zadown, and Lord Frond.

 

I bear long overdue tidings of good will and hope that this missive indeed finds you well.

 

Regarding the story recited here and within, the ultimate irony, of course, is that Lord Isachar revisited this story almost 6 years to the day after the original founding of the Legion of the White Rose. On that day, nearly one year ago now, the Legion was embroiled in yet another exodus' eve. We were planning yet another departure from yet another home.

 

At the time this particular contribution was being added to the collection here, the Elders were already setting up rosters for a new Chapter of the Legion to be founded within the lands of the Shattered Lands of a future Norrath that we'd not yet laid eyes upon except only in dreams. Many within the Guild would be left behind yet again, and once more we'd find our way to a new world only to start over at what it is we perpetually seek: perfect harmony in Honour.

 

Some call it a fool's errand of course, but as with all fools, we are truly blissful in our ignorance of such criticisms, as we deny the idea that our very purpose could well be in vain.

 

After all, we know that the goal itself may be unacheivable and beyond any mortal (or near mortal) reach, but it is, of course, the journey which matters more than the destination. Only in the striving for perfection can such perfection truly be found. So, again, we found ourselves looking toward a new horizon.

 

Truly we maintain a history still...a guild built upon stories and cultures which stretch far beyond our mere physical prowess or abilities. Indeed, it is the very reason for our continued existance, though some would offer alternative explanations, of course.

 

Yet, even now, we come upon another year of this grand experiment we call the Legion of the White Rose, and once more we find that we're looking back to learn from lessons long ago taught and yet only now fully understood. Indeed, in the past month alone we'd suddenly received word regarding several of our former members from Terra, Sanctuary, and Norrath. Though we now call the Shattered Lands our home, it is with a mixture of both awe and envy that current Legionnaires look upon the legends of our past. Awe in the bond that seems to continue to pull across all boundaries to find old friends and comrades and bring them back to us...and yet envy in that some of our "newer" members were not there to witness the youth of this now old codger of a Guild.

 

We're famous now - quite so in fact. It's attracted all manner of younglings and greenhorns to our ranks hoping for a chance to become the next Lord Rorrak...the next Lady Madoka...the next Lord Grimrose. These new members are attracted to the spirit of this guild, and to the stories the veterans tell. It's become tradition to pass down stories of great battles or raids to the younger members and to encourage them to tell their own stories of greatness - or better, to create for themselves a bit of adventure that they may find a new story to tell through the very process of living. This, to most in the guild, is truly what it is to be a Legionnaire - to strive, to push, perhaps to fall...but never to fail.

 

It's good to hear these old tales from time to time, and I'd consider it a personal favor were Lord Isachar to grace again our Stage with it's retelling once more. Though I still look to be that young lad and my voice may still not carry the weight of manhood, I can assure you that it would be a treat to this old man's young ears to hear your voice once more within our Tavern.

 

Yours in Comraderie,

Lord Kendricke,

Guildmaster, Elder of Respect,

Legion of the White Rose Destiny Chapter