The following is an excerpt from Plymouth State University senior, James Smith’s novel Meian: Of Light and Darkness. After three and a half years of writing this 300 page novel-in-progress it’s finally done.
The dream glittered like cut crystal before the startled eyes of the young elf: sharp, clear, beautiful. He was alone in a vast hallway that stretched beyond his vision. The walls glowed with a soft, silver radiance that banished all trace of shadow. The air reminded him of a temple or a museum, both ancient and reverent. Arkudel Kharaos reached out tentatively and touched the wall. It was smooth and cool beneath his fingertips, and he brushed it once with his palm. Then he shrugged. He didn’t know how we wound up in this place, but it really didn’t matter – long walk ahead lay ahead. His first step echoed like a clap of thunder, resounding down the hallway like a stone ricocheting down an endless well. Hours passed in silence, though they may as well have been years. One foot in front of the other, he moved forward. Occasionally a gentle breeze would pick up and blow past his face, granting hope of escape. But it was more like a traveling companion. It whispered encouragement in his ears, praised his bravery. But finally, the wind faltered. It sputtered like a dying candle, and then spoke clearly, “Turn back.” “No.” A gust nearly ripped him off his feet. He gritted his teeth stubbornly, regained his balance, and pushed on. The wind continued stronger and stronger, wailing like a mournful widow. The elf braced himself against the wall and inched forward. The wind pressed him to the ground, screamed for him to go back. He was on his belly, and the air was being squeezed out of his lungs. His hand stretched out and found purchase in a tiny crack in the floor. Painfully, he pulled himself a little further. The wind suddenly stopped. “Good luck,” it whispered, “we will follow you.” Arkudel stood up and absent-mindedly wiped a trickle of blood from a cut that had opened over his right eye. How the wind had cut him, he didn’t want to know. On the other hand… he kind of did – he was a curious boy, and his father often said that he had more courage than common sense. His father said it with a smile. Courage was the defining trait of the Kharaos family. Brushing thin strands of sandy brown hair out of his eyes and back behind his pointed ears, he looked ahead and his breath caught in his throat. He had reached the end of his journey. A vast dome embraced his vision. The silver walls were replaced by a soft blue barrier that danced in his amethyst eyes as it rhythmatically pulsed – the room was a living thing whose heart beat. The walls were draped in countless tapestries that depicted battles: epic and small. He recognized some of them from stories his father told him. Above his right shoulder hung a ragged banner emblazoned with the Kharaos family crest: a phoenix clutching a curved sword in its beak, wings stretched to their fullest, blotting out a distant sung that hung far behind the fiery bird. To his left, he saw his grandfather, Prio Kharaos, sheathing his sword on the steps leading up to the royal palace – the pristine white marble stained with sticky black blood that dripped from three horrifying demons. Prio’s passive face broke no emotion as the weaver captured the image forever in cloth. The elf stared around the tapestries in awe, but one shook him to the core. His father’s face was a mask of blood that stared down the palace hallway towards an angry mob of elves. A broken sword cast away in the corner was the vestige of the weapon his grandfather had been putting away in the previous tapestry. Elistan wielded a ceremonial spear he had ripped off the wall, and held it threateningly towards the aggressors. A figure dressed in the soft green dress that his mother loved slumped against two giant doors he recognized as the entrance to the King’s wing of the palace. Besides that his parents seemed to be in danger, what truly shocked the elf is that such a thing had never occurred; the idea of elves fighting each other seemed as impossible and absurd as the magic his sister Alyrin believed in. He forced his eyes away from the disturbing image, and they settled on the tremendous, unfinished one that lay straight ahead. Two eyes stared out at him, boring into his soul; one silver like winter moonlight, one purple… like his own. The silver eye half of the face was covered in impenetrable darkness – no feature remained save for the ghostly mirror. The other half of the face was set defiantly – it was a young face, but older than his. Tears poured freely from the amethyst gem, running rivers down the exposed cheek. Only the face had been completed, everything below hung ragged, unfinished. Behind the face, a war raged. Good and evil clashed, an angry maw of metal and teeth. Only seven stars blessed the twilight sky. With startling certainty that cut to the bone with a blade of frost, he knew the figure was he… or would be, anyway. “Are you ready, Arkudel?” a soft male voice called out. He looked for the source of the sound, but couldn’t pinpoint it. His eyes swept downward, torn from the visage of his own suffering, and stopped almost immediately. The altar in the center of the room had somehow missed his attention. It spun up from the floor, unfolded like a poem – a strange white stone that swam with black, engraved with constellations. With excitement, he spotted the one he was named after: Ark the Guardian. His eyes traced the slightly curving pattern up the edge of the constellation, star by star – familiar friends he pointed out on summer nights, laying on his back staring up at the night sky on the grassy hill outside the ancestral Kharaos home. Above the altar is truly what caught his attention, though. Tip down, a sword hung suspended in air, the precious jewels placed exactly as the stars shone in the Ark constellation – it was a perfect replica. A material he didn’t recognize formed the weapon – translucent, it reflected the surrounding light, casting a blue halo around the blade. The hilt was pure silver that beckoned him to touch its shiny surface. Startled, he realized he almost had. He jerked his hand back and looked at the sword suspiciously. Somehow, the amazement had dragged him across the room. Still, the Ark sword was so shiny. “What are you waiting for?” the voice asked. “You came this far… you are not one to hesitate. I know,” it added, with a touch of amusement. The elf glared about the room for his invisible enabler, “Who’re you?” he demanded. “I am the sword. I am…” the voice hesitated, “someone who knows you very well. The rest you will learn someday. Maybe.” “Why’re you here? What’s this place?” The sword seemed to let out a sigh, “I do not even understand fully. Terradyn explained it to me once, but I was not really listening… something about dreams, and waking, and the space in between. Magic was never really my subject.” “But there is a reason for you being here,” it continued. “The same reason I am, actually. For better or worse. Heroes are needed in every era, and a new one has just begun. Tonight.” Eyes narrowed, the elf asked, “What’re you talking about?” But the sword ignored him. “Fate has brought you to this moment. The tapestry above is woven only to a certain point though – you will suffer – but why? I am here to offer you the power to cut your own path through the entangling forest of destiny. We are all destined for certain things: you, me, the goddess, everyone and everything. But none of us are powerless. Will you take me up?” Shaking his head, the elf didn’t know what to do. Then he remembered. His family had all been heroes; 13 generations of Kharaos had achieved legendary status right down to his father. Even humans knew the legend of his father, who had traveled the world seeking adventure, despite the persecution elves faced abroad. He had drank in the stories, played on the legendary duels with his sister, and had promised himself he would surpass it all. Now it was his turn. “I accept,” he grinned and grabbed onto the hilt of the sword. The dream shattered like a broken mirror. In the few moments before darkness clouded his eyes, he glanced up at the ceiling. The tapestry was complete.