Fall of an Empire: Leon, I

The beginning of my story on the Kingdoms of Mare, told from the POV of the Prince of Westervell, Leon West. Have only written three chapters on him, and the hiatus will continue indefinitely; it's the cursed writer's block!

But anyway...

I

LEON

LEON WEST, like any other fifteen year-old young man, must do his duties. As the Crown Prince of the Kingdom of Westervell and heir to the castle at River’s Bend, however, Leon’s duties were to the realm and to his noble house.

His duty today was alongside his father. Several months ago, his father, King Arvin, had decided and commanded that he was old enough to be taken on a campaign to the East, along with them came ten thousand brave soldiers of the West and a thousand Western cavalry.

Leon was quite an ordinary young man; tall, sporting an unruly dark brown hair, so dark that it was almost charcoal. Beside that, there was a proud, tanned face lit by emerald green eyes, befit of the men as well as women of House West.

He wore a plain steel plate with a green cloak on his back, which fluttered as he broke his black stallion into a trot to catch up with his father at the head of the marching column.

The army marched in a narrow line along the winding roads that cut through the mountainscape surrounding them which is the Divide: the barrier between the eastern parts of the Kingdoms from the western. To their far right, the peak of Mount Mare, the tallest peak in the Lands could be seen through the clouds, behind hills and other lesser mountains, and behind the hundred meter canyon that span right beside the road, covered by a thick mist. To their left, a craggy cliff reached for the sky, the peak of its mountain encased by a veil of fog that also diffused the afternoon sunlight.

The army around Leon was a sight to behold; the ten thousand best fighters from the First Legion Vindex of the Kingdom of Westervell; the pride of the nation and the one that takes no command other than the Throne. The heavy infantry, arranged in ten cohorts as were the legions of the empire of old, were clad in shining steel plate armor, and above them, standards fluttered in the cold mountain winds, flying the red-and-green colors below the golden lion standard of House West. Along with them are the kingdom’s longbowmen, and at the very back came the mules that hauled huge siege equipments, disassembled for transport, their timber creaking as their wagon wheels dragged them along the rocky, gravelly path, along with the long, winding baggage train that carried the army’s provisions for the month.

The path was narrow and exhausting for the army—as if marching with full armor and equipment was not enough—rough stone cut into the mountain sides, the path bumpy and steep, though if luck arises they would find a patch of paved valley road on their way. Some of them were quite broad, able to fit ten knights riding abreast, but in some parts very narrow and quite crumbly, so that only three men can pass at a time. More than that, the height made the air cold in the steel armor. There should have been a safer, and much easier approach around the Divide, up north at the Traitor’s Pass right beside the sea; but to reach that road, the men would have to pass by the Grand City of Mare.

Mare—Once the Golden City and capital of the Empire, only rubbles, that’s what’s left of it. Since its sack almost a century ago, the shroud of darkness still encased the city, and who knows what devils live inside. Leon knew, a thousand kilometers to the North, somewhere among the sea of mountains, lay the dark clouds that will forever shadow the smoldering ruins.

Those days were all but stories to Leon, born in the recent, turbulent times. He heard them by his late mother in bed while he was young; as they were told by the wanderers and meisters, as they were chronicled by the the bards and the minstrels, the times where there were no quarrels between the Men of the Plains, where the Emperor on the Dragonbone Throne ensures peace. Even his father, scarred by numerous battles wars, only knew this from the surviving knights from his father's court, and refused to answer much to it.

What Leon knew was that Mare and the Emperor that sat there was the only thing that kept the whole empire together. It bonded the three kingdoms of Westervell, Newlane, and Hart, supported their campaigns and made fair trade with them, and together they expanded and subjugated the barbarians and infidels over the running rivers to the east and west, over the sand dunes and steppes to the south, and over the rocky mountains and forests of the Great Divide as well as the Eastern Ridge.

That is, until the rebellion started. The King of Hart managed to unite the Three Kingdoms of the Plains against the Emperor in Mare. When the siege of Mare ended with the interruption by Darkness itself, turmoil ensued and after years, civil war took place—this very war Leon is riding his horse in.

The current King of Newlane, Gallio of house Alynson, ambitious as his father, declared war on the severely weakened kingdom of Hart, that has lost its entire army and never did recover from the rebellion; but Newlane was weak as well, everyone knew. Only then, ten years after the first blood, Arvin West decided that it was best to join the war on Newlane’s side.    
    

Which led to the moment—King Gallio has decided that it is ripe for the time to invade the heart of their enemy, the seat of power at the castle Stormheart. King Arvin, as an ally, had been called to arms and he himself volunteered that he will lead the legion of knights and levies and bannermen he dispatched, and he brought along Leon will as the first taste of war he will ever know.

Leon caught sight of his father at the very front, the warrior king above his white stallion. The forty year old was talking to the general that was riding beside him in a great grey warhorse, the commander of the whole army. Leon saw his father nodding to some suggestion, and glanced back, and at the sight of Leon he smiled, beckoning him to join at his side.

King Arvin West looked precisely like Leon, only an older and burlier, albeit a slightly little shorter version of him. He looked magnificent in his silver-adorned gilded steel plate armor; a red cape dangling in his left shoulder blazoned with the golden lion, moving along with the wind and his horse's sway. A simple crown, a silver band with gold ornaments, fit snugly in his broad brow, and framed his face together with the brown beard streaked with white.  “Father,” said Leon as he reached his father’s side and reined his horse, “How is war? I never understand it.”

King Arvin smiled. “Well, my young prince, you have still a million things to know about how the world works. War is just another little part in the everyday dealings of a king.”

“As your father's the king, my Prince, that’s his dealing, then.” said General Anto West, the man that had talked to the king moments ago, pulling his horse to Leon’s other side. The general’s nickname, the Longsword, came from his experience in a slew of battles with King Arvin, and he had lost none, thanks to his expertise with the weapon that now stands as his name. As the best warrior in the realm, he was also a close friend of Arvin and his Marshal, also being his younger brother by two years. “By the hells, war’s the only thing standing between you and power over the Empire.”

“Mare is forever gone, Anto, and our father along in its rubble.” commented the King. “Never remind me that.”

“But there—we see that with one power gone, the other must claim its place. What, are we just going to bow to King Gallio’s plea?”

“But so, why do we take sides with King Gallio, father?” asked Leon.

King Arvin took his time to think, scratching his short beard as he usually does while pondering on a matter. “The decisions of a king, my son. These are the decisions I made, and after me, you will make them too. As a king, you will have to see to the needs of your people, and what are the most beneficial for them. It will not be easy, it never was and never will be.”

“Heh,” muttered Anto. “Must be some thing King Gallio promised you, Brother. Else we would have stayed neutral, as we usually do.”

King Arvin scowled, earning a moment’s frightened glance from the General, but he shrugged the remark off.

“Then why did we stay neutral, father? It is the only thing standing between us and control,” again asked Leon. “How come Westervell got the smallest share of wars in the history of our Lands, for a thousand years?”

“I rule by one goal, and one goal only, I say to you,” answered King Arvin, his green eyes staring directly at Leon’s. “The people must come first, always. Since long ago our noble House ruled the lands to the West, and only by that goal that we pass down to each heir we have managed to keep our rule for so long—longer than any one of the other kingdoms, even the Empire itself." King Arvin reached out and put his hand on Leon's shoulder, and declared, "So now I pass this goal also to you, Leon of River's Bend, son of the West.”

Leon nodded, smiling at the honor, while he pondered deeply on his father’s words for a short while, for in time, it will be his turn to lead his people. Deep was his thoughts, it felt an eternity in his head. The host marched for an hour, and after that another hour and another after that, without antyhing of interest to Leon happening, besides one occasion of a man almost crushed by a boulder, as the cliffside seemingly became ever so steep and rocky and crumbly, even to become overhanging at one point, shading the heads of some fortunate soldiers for a moment from the blazing sun.

-o-

All the time, Leon was still on his horse’s back, his backside was still becoming accustomed to the hours-long march on horse, and the cramps still reached his thighs and his arms were growing stiff and tired. His father, uncle, and numerous centurions yelled commands each every while.

Then, the yell of one soldier behind him brought him back to the world from his long, boring ponder.

“DRAGON!”

General Anto looked to the skies above and scoffed, “Bah, I see no dragon—”

“Get down, everyone, down, I tell you,” ordered King Arvin sternly. His order was immediately passed, and as the drill is in the Legion when somebody yells dragon, a storm of metal clanking was heard as every soldier crouched down on his knee in the rocky road, which was mercifully quite wide on that point. Everyone readied his weapon, be it a spear or a sword, and put his shield above his head. The knights on horseback quickly dismounted, fell to his knee, and held the reins of their whimpering horses tight, weapons in the other hand.

Leon held his stallion’s reins tight as a blacksmith’s tongs. He saw to his left, his father the King is already behind his horse, calm in his eyes, but sternly barking commands and whispering encouragements. General Anto was gone; he seem to have seen the dragon, but he indeed had no fear of them, for he had rode for the very back of the line, giving out orders while others were taking cover. However, fear overcame Leon, making him unable to move for a moment's time. While the air was seemingly becoming ever frostier, the dampness of the mist covered his skin and it made his sweat profusely, droplets streaming from his brow. Most probably, the fear also made him sweat, as he could be fried in a matter of seconds from now.

Still, out of the flash of curiosity that suddenly overcame him, he managed to crane his neck above the saddle to look at the direction of the canyon.

Just then he saw it, the grey dragon—no, wyvern, seeing from the two legs the creature has, as opposed to a four-legged dragon, that is coming straight at the column. It was quite small for a wild dragon, only as big as a small house, probably a juvenile. Its wings stretched and buffeted, removing the thin wisp of fog around it; though it was still concealed well, as the grey colors blended well enough with the surrounding rocky mountainscape and the dull mist.

The wyvern was, he saw, magnificent.

He never saw one in the wild, probably because of his confinement in the castle of River’s Bend. Moreover, the dragons preferred to live in the mountains.

The great libraries of River’s Bend held many books and scrolls, of which many of them Leon had read in his studies. Among them are the yellowing tomes and records about dragons; the winged menaces that terrorized the lands. However, since the dawn of warfare, the kingdoms had always tamed and rode dragons into battle.

Westervell used theirs in their Airborne Legion, some small wyverns and larger dragons used to breathe fire from the sky, training their formation above the capital city of Riverside, clearly seen from the high position of River’s Bend just at the outskirts of it. Every day, some dragons usually come to the castle itself, bearing gifts, important messages, and visitors.

But none of them were as massive as this wild adolescent wyvern; none with wings this large, able to wholly envelop a trebuchet—and that beast was coming straight for them, fangs bared…

It was still coming for the legion, closer and closer still.

Come. A voice came out of nowhere, loud and clear in his ears.

“What?” Leon whispered to a soldier that is crouching behind his horse beside him, a young man he recalled the name as Cray. He looked at Leon, but immediately looked down as he did before, not going anywhere.

At the front lines, front, a horse whimpered and clopped its hooves loudly, causing other horses to join in its discomfort. Leon can also hear the shallow breaths of fear by the knight beside him, and everything seemed to be slowing to a stop, but what happened next came so fast it was a blur to Leon.

“Archers! Fire at will!” came orders from somewhere in the back of the line, his uncle, perhaps, or maybe a captain. He must have ordered his unit of archers to fire flaming arrows, as the drill is when a dragon comes too close. Instantly, hundreds of arrows whizzed past the heads of the front lines, its flames licking the black scales, narrowly missing the wyvern, while several others making its mark on the beast’s scales.

A moment after, another volley was fired, this time, more hit the great wyvern. It lurched and screamed, but small, puny arrows were never going to hurt past the thick scales of any grown dragon.

Two volleys were enough—as it always do—the juvenile wyvern roared at the column with the last of its dignity, spraying hot red flames at the lines, which thankfully did not quite reach the men, and, defeated, it took its wings and turned, for the dragon must have thought the onslaught was too much for a quick lunch; the legion has proved itself as a worthy dragon by sending a rain of fire. Leon could see, as the dragon posed its flank, a deep gash upon its long snout, mark from a battle long ago fought, a lighter pinkish white upon its grey scales.

The archers still tensed for a minute before finally the captain commanded at ease. The men pulled up from their crouch, and the knights returned to their horses, and soon they returned to their previous marching speed—slow as a turtle, but better as to stopping and becoming meals for a dragon.

“A valley wyvern,” said King Arvin when they had returned to their horses and walked at the head of the column. “You don’t see one too often these days.”

“Where there is a valley wyvern,” said General Anto, who had returned to the front, “There is always a valley.” He turned his great warhorse to face the marching column and yelled at the soldiers behind, “Men! Take heart of this event! Our valley is nearby. The gods above be praised—they sent the dragon to let us know that our time of victory has come!”

The column cheered in thunderous voice at the general’s speech, raising their weapons high in the air, and flying the red and green colors on the standards of Westervell.

“Our valley is near, up front. There, we will stay the night,” explained King Arvin to Leon. “Now, come on, we still have a long day in front of us.”

Leon caught up and called his father, and said to him, “Back when the dragon came, I heard someone very loudly yelled ‘Come’.”

His uncle came beside him and answered, “Must have been the wind.”

“The mountain winds are known to play queer tricks on our ears,” agreed the King.

Leon finally answered, “I guess you’re right,” and then followed close behind his father, the legion of Westervell tailed after them, its morale at the peak, and thus they pushed merrily to the descending fog, the commands and rhythms from the General carried over the entire line by the gusting winds.

Finished on 11 July 2015.

Short Story Assignment: Gaze the Sky

Several months ago, my Bahasa Indonesia class assignment was to write a short story (cerpen). This was what I came up with in three or so weeks. Originally in Indonesian and translated as an exercise for my SGU creative writing competition. Some amount of influence comes from Sword Art Online and Shigatsu wa Kimi no Uso, two shows I was watching at the time.

Gaze the Sky

By Nathan Hartanto

            To create is the essence of life. So was written by a Roman, who since long only his withered bones remain. Who his name was, Leo have already forgotten, even though he just closed his eleventh-grade world history textbook and stuffed it inside his bag. Everything were forgotten with the ring of the bell, including the sleepiness during the whole time the boring old history teacher lectured, because after the bell has rung, there is freedom.

          Except for that one sentence. Why? He did not understand. Was it because it was poetic? Surely not. There was something, something buried for long, inside him which was talking.

          The dry smell of dust and wood. Piercing eyes, watching. His clothes soaking from perspiration.

            He shook his head. Why must he remember that event? Leo stood from his seat and slung his bag. He scanned his surroundings. In the class, there were only several students left at the very back, doing some form of project, whatever it was—even if that project was given during the world history lesson just then, that memory had already flown away with the ring of the bell. Even if that project was due at Monday, usually only at Sunday he started it. The end of a Friday should always only be filled by releasing the stress built up during the week, as if he already sworn to do so.

            Usually, in the end of a Friday such as this he was one of the people to first exit the class as the bell rung. How long had he sat there, thinking? No one woke him up from his daydream. Sure, there was nobody in the class he could call as a “friend.” Sighing, he strode outside, to an already empty corridor.

            Leo was late for the bus. School ends at half past three, then usually he walked to the bus stop and used the bus at three and three-quarters. However, due to his mind that flew away back then, he needed to wait another fifteen minutes.

            There were no school buses heading to his home, as there should only a handful of students living near there—maybe even only he, himself. Maybe that was also why he didn’t have many friends. As the other students hang out together on weekends, going to the mall or somewhere else, he only has one way to freshen up, alone in his house.

            He disembarked in front of his complex, then strolled lightning-fast to his home, a small house beside a small street. He opened his door’s key and twisted the knob, pushing the door to dimness. There was nobody home. His mom was out for a business trip, while his dad indeed always went home late each weekday.

            Closing the door behind him, quickly he ran to his room at the second floor. Inside, the blinds were closed shut and there was not a ray of light that enlightened the room. But he did not need light to do something he remembered like the back of his hand.

            He didn’t have to lock the door. When dad arrives home, he already knew not to disturb his son until the next morning. As usual, Leo felt his way to the end of his table, and clicked a button. Almost instantly, his room was bathed in the light of three monitors, arranged side-by-side. He sat facing them, in a simple but comfortable chair, and covered his ears with headphones. Thus, he severed all connection with the outside world. His world was not the boring lessons, all puzzling tests which will determine the unknowable, constantly flowing future. No, his world was the three monitors in front of him right the moment.

            Not long after, he opened his online game. He needed not to command his fingers, which danced over the keyboard, inputting his character name and password. He was left waiting after the OK button was pressed, as the world in front of him was painted slowly: from the green mountains all the way over there, trees with each of their leaves flowing with the wind, the dusty dirt path under the character’s feet, and medieval-styled buildings to each side of the street. The small village was filled with people, both living characters like himself, or program-controlled shopkeepers and other people.

            Leo moved his character. In this world, he was not an average eleventh-grader with average looks and average achievements. Here, he was a warrior, a knight in shining armor. Here, people looked up to him as one of the greatest players, unlike in the ‘real’ world where he was only an average player whose name never appeared as someone who achieved something.

            How can I, after the disaster I made ages ago? That memory again. Enough!

            He looked up. He gazed the sky which was not more than codes and program—as were the case with the mountains, trees and their leaves, dirt road, medieval buildings, shopkeepers, even his own character and the other players’—which seemed so real. This is his world, not some other world where his body sat now, going through each monotone day without purpose at school.

            Here, in this world, he knew his purpose. Is that so?

            SLASH!

            That was the sound Leo’s sword made as it cut through a bandit, which dematerialized into thousands of colorful polygons as he died. Usually he loved the sound; the exciting sound of battle made by a studio somewhere and replayed as the program commanded. Usually the sound stimulates the adrenaline, however this time that memory haunted him, distracting. Words caught in his throat. He couldn’t say anything intelligible.

            He sheathed his sword, a high-level magical one. He was not at all a newbie in this world, if only at the time his mind was completely in the zone. His life, which could be seen in the top-right of his field of vision, had decreased almost two-thirds in the fight with the five bandits, which shouldn’t have been much of a challenge at all.

            Here, he destroys, but haven’t he heard that to create is the essence of life?

            Suddenly he noticed something. Huh, he thought, Weren’t there eight of them?

            “Leo!”

            He turned to the voice of the boy, which he could hear clearly through the headphones. It could be nobody else, the character standing before him now is none other than Rob, his neighbor, his old friend from primary school until Leo moved for secondary. He didn’t know what to say; that particular friend also stirred up unwanted memories. Why should I meet him now? He forced himself to give a little laugh. “So, that’s why there were five bandits left,” he said through the microphone.

            “Hey, hey, we were taught to share! Why should only you get all the fun?”

             Rob laughed and started to run, followed by Leo, wordless. They ran side-by-side, across the little path beside the little stream that ran along with them, into a forest not far from there. Yesterday they have agreed to hunt at the place.

            Then Rob’s character suddenly stopped, then he asked, “By the way, what’s up? We agreed to meet fifteen minutes earlier, didn’t we?”

            Leo was still silent, unsure what to answer. He tentatively started, “Back at school I taught about something…”

            He could hear Rob’s sneer, trying furiously to cover a laugh, before settling back to seriousness as he understood that his friend wasn’t trying to make a joke. “Hey man, what’s up? You seem very different today. Much quieter.”

            Leo didn’t know how to answer. In the moment where he should shine, he couldn’t say a thing. “Remember when we were in sixth grade?”

            From his voice, Rob must’ve been surprised. “Wasn’t that when you…”

            “Yes.”

            Now Rob was the one being silent. Seeing that Leo didn’t continue his explanation, his game character nodded. “Oh well, no matter. Let’s move!”

            Still absorbed with his thoughts, Leo followed suit.

            While he never entered a forest, he just knew that the forest he entered must be close to the real thing, with leaves dancing in the howling wind, the rays of sunlight peeking through gaps in the foliage, and cheerful chirps of birds everywhere. Very tranquil, at least for now.

            “There it is!” exclaimed Rob, as he saw the giant shadow between the trees. Leo saw it as well. The shadow moved as they inched closer, accompanied by thunderous, ground-shaking footsteps.

            Then the owner of said shadow appeared: a high-level giant, with a body eight times of that of a player’s, its head a chimera of a dozen apex predators. Its claws were held high, ready to strike. There couldn’t have been any mistake—this is indeed the rumored monster boss-class enemy, which they were hunting.

            Without much thought, Leo unsheathed his blade, then charged.

            “Leo, wait!” came the yell from his friend. But he didn’t care. He must do this, simply must, venting his stress and frustration from after school. Isn’t this the real world, where he really felt alive?

            But do you really live here? Something in his mind called out, forcing its way out after so long. In the middle of his attack, his eyes blinked.

            Why?

            Slowly, his mind flew, taking him somewhere with it. It flew to the far past, somewhere hidden since long in the far reaches of his mind. Something he would have always liked to forget. His mind landed at the certain dry smell of dust and wood above the stage. The piercing gaze of the judges. Yes, this is indeed the memory of one fateful science competition which he forced himself to forget since five years ago.

            He already prepared everything to utmost perfection. He knew what to present. However, he started to break a sweat. Why? He remembered, it was Rob that walked, proudly, beside him as the very dedicated partner on the project. What was his project? No, he wasn’t ready to remember it now. One thing he did unfortunately remember, that project was paraded throughout his school as an enlightenment, so there he was, at the prestigious competition where thousands from throughout the nation gathered for a medal.

            His name has been called. His feet echoed as he stepped over the stage, in sync with his ever-amplifying heartbeats. He stopped in front of his project, that cursed machine. He knew that Rob was beside him, and will talk his part smoothly. He, himself knew that to speak. What he will speak, will determine whether he will win or lose, his future.

            But, the gaze of the five judges watching him, was as sharp as his magic sword. The sword that will butcher his success. He felt it again, the cold sweat all over his body. It flowed like a river, which swept the neatly arranged words prepared in his head. Why?

            The bell that sounded the start of the presentation rang, the shrill pounding his head, breaking what remained of his comprehensive mind, the same thing like the Friday bell that made him forget world history. “Good morning,” he should’ve started speaking, but he froze there, looking at his shoes. Maybe time froze as well.

            He sparsely remembered how the judges commented, sniggered, as Rob manged to convince him to open his mouth by calling out, “Leo!” But even then, he must’ve presented in a stutter, without anybody understanding.

            Why? Why is he so satisfied with himself? After the competition, his desire to create was completely extinguished. He was satisfied with the average, which will not be remembered by anyone, even by himself. He lived without a goal, except for a false dream inside an online game.

            He thought—no, lied to himself, it was probably better that he was forgotten forever, rather than to make a fool of himself once more on a stage.

            But still, why should he be satisfied? Didn’t he just hear, that to create is the essence of life? Why is he satisfied with average, satisfied with such a mundane standard?

            Because I am scared. Scared to not be able to speak on my moment.

            Leo shook his head. He just noticed that his character was in the verge of death, because it seemed that his flurry missed, giving the chance for that beast to get back at him, attacking with one great sweep of the claw.

            The monster was still in front of him, its eyes flashing bright red full of programmed hate. Not long, it will surely resume its attack. Leo prepared once more, lifting his sword.

            But suddenly, somewhere, was the voice of Rob, which called to him. “Leo!” he said, with the voice of concern, trying to convince him to act.

            Like then.

            He remembered once more, the efforts Rob made to convince him to talk, calling his name as his part came to explain. He was indeed still fully conscious, however it seemed like he was drowning, drowning in the dark depths of cowardice, not able to do anything as he waited for his fate.

            But even then, in what remained of his consciousness to the outside world, somehow he managed to record Rob’s actions. He continued to present his part without a hitch, then tried to make Leo produce words as he helped explain some of Leo’s slides. He knew, and Rob must’ve known as well, that there will not be any chance for them to win because of his own blunder.

            From that time on, he swore never to embarrass himself anymore.

            For what reason do I try?

            From that time on, he closed his books at home.

            I won’t get anything if I embarrass myself and my friend.

            From that time on, he delved into another world, a world where he could pretend to be brave.

            Then he remembered something, something which since long had also been hidden in his mind, something he wanted to forget from embarrassment and regret. For what reason do I try? The question was already answered by Rob himself after the one and only competition they went to together, which they didn’t won. “There’s no matter in trying,” Rob’s words five years ago echoed in his mind, “While I did know that we’ll never win, while I myself am afraid, there’s no matter in trying to change the world with our machine!”

            Leo didn’t know why did his good friend’s advice, his only good friend since ages ago, could escape his memory. Perhaps that was entirely his fault, he himself in his shame and fear to present for a second time. Since then, he lost his passion to keep learning, to create.

            Yes, probably he’ll never change the world. Perhaps he’ll never be as brave as Rob that charges in with the presentation while they shall never win because of his fault. At the very least, he should try, if not for himself, then for Rob that had always been his friend, his only good friend since childhood, who followed him to this world in a game as he knew that he was his only friend. Because to create is the essence of life.

           

“Leo!”

            His eyes opened again from his thoughts. The beast was right in front of him, its vast arms raised, ready to flatten him against the ground. His life is in the red zone, nearing his death. He still hasn’t moved from his earlier position, and now it is too late. Unable to escape what is about to happen, he faced Rob.

            “You’re right, Rob, five years ago,” Leo said to Rob who was unmoving behind the monster. “Maybe I need to study first.” He sheathed his sword. “Thanks,” he said, as the claws of the monster slammed into him. His character faded into thousands of little polygons.

            In the house across the street, Rob must be smiling. His old friend has returned.

           

            That very night, Leo shut his computer down. Usually, only after midnight the three monitors shone his room with the blinding light.

            He peeked through the blinds. A night sky, with a crescent moon hanging high along with a handful of twinkling stars. This is indeed not the same sky as the one he just saw in the flat screen. No, this is the real world, the world where he was once embarrassed on the stage, the world where he was only a student. A student which could do many things if he would like to.

            To create is the essence of life. Yes, he remembered that. A quote from a Roman that changed the world. Outside, the sky is the same as the one that Roman saw millennia ago. The sky above the world he changed, the world which Leo could change too now.

            That night, for the first time in almost five years, he opened his notebook on a Friday.

           

Created for “Projek Kumpulan Cerpen Bahasa Indonesia”

Jakarta, 24 November 2015

Translated to English

Serpong, 5 November 2015

Shigatsu's Kousei

Never have I imagined that I'll be dragged in by anime. Started by the desire to judge my friend, and well well... look who lost the debate.

Shigatsu wa Kimi no Uso was the second anime I watched, drawn in by the music (and people at school screaming for me to watch this). Still can't get over the feels; it was completely emotional. It really did resonate ("響け!", Hibike! -Emi Igawa, Shigatsu wa Kimi no Uso) for myself. More on that on the following short story I'll post.

Thus I decided to draw some.

I was never good at drawing people. Guess these new shows gave me some inspiration. For starters, I tried following other drawings. This was the first one I properly finished. Perhaps I'll try to draw more and post more of my drawings here. There are already some in my DeviantArt, inh99.deviantart.com. Oh, my profile picture is also him; 'tis a later drawing.

I'll be off. There are final tests tomorrow.

Justice

This is quite an older story of mine. Now, for some time I've been conceiving my own fantasy(-ish) world... well, probably read too much of George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire. Shame the third book is on hold. And that story too. Too much anime. But that's for another time, perhaps.

So... this short story is set in the Lands of Mare, an empire consisting of three kingdoms: Westervell, Newlane, and Hart. This story is set, I believe, a hundred or so years before my main story-on-hiatus.

Justice

 By Nathan Hartanto

As he flung open the heavy oaken doors that creaked loudly as he walked past its great arch of a frame, he saw his father on the far side of the grand hall, clad in golden robes and shadowed from the back by the brilliant sunlight that filtered through the great stained windows behind.

       His father, the King, sat up from the Throne of the Dragon, his arms pressed against the dragonbone armrests to help lift the thin, frail frame under the flowing robes.

           Except for the two of them, the grand hall was empty. Even from afar he can see that his father is different than the last he saw him, when he was given the Legion to destroy barbarian campings to the mountains of the Divide. When his captain informed him that Mare has fallen into anarchy brought on them by the doings of the King, he rushed at once.

           The man upon the throne was not his father, King Riga the Great. He could not be.

           Prince Valerius dared step closer, his steps echoing in the cold marble which is the floor of the hall. Step by step he took, bringing him closer and closer to the throne on the high dais, every step seemingly heavier than the last, as if the sword and dagger on his belt grew heavier, and his gilded steel armor ever more cumbersome below the piercing, icy gaze of his father.

          No—not icy, Prince Valerius saw as he reached halfway the length of the hall. The blue eyes, both of which also borne by his son, had been icy once, and unflinching, he remembered. That was over three years ago, when he last saw him. These eyes were empty, sunken, and… he could not believe it, no…

           Mad.

          Could it be these eyes that threatened the King’s court into fleeing? Could it be these eyes that commanded his men to pillage the great City of Mare, its white stone sprawled wide below him? The Prince could not—no, did not want to believe such.

         And yet he saw enough proof of that, when he saw the City Guard collect gold and burning stalls on the streets below, in the name of King Riga. He called for the guarding Pledges to open the gates of the Citadel, and they refused on the orders of the King.

The Pledges, known for exactly their namesake, have been pledged to unwavering loyalty to their King, thus the Prince ordered his Legion to storm the palace. Inside, he saw the keep very well guarded, save for himself, his loyal guardsmen, and bloody bodies, perhaps the courtiers, long dead from the smell, and for the flies have left them to rot. He barely made it to the throne, with his guards covering his advance and bought time for him by fighting the Crownguards.

           He drew his sword, pointing it at his father the King as he continued to take his steps. The King did not respond, not a word, not a movement, but still the empty eyes followed Prince Valerius.

            He noticed there were no more Crownguards in the hall, his father sitting alone. Is he mad?

           Justice must be done, he finally thought, and answers must be drawn. “What have you done?” he asked, his voice trembling, and not by his own will.

           Silence. Just the echoing steps of steel sabatons on hard marble disturbed the peace in the hall.

           “What have you done?” the Prince asked again, louder, and trembling more. He suddenly felt a chill on his spine.

          “Justice,” came the answer from his father’s mouth. It sounded older, wearier than he last heard it.

         “By torching half the city and pillaging the other? This—this is not justice,” answered Valerius, each word heavy on his tongue as his legs are to his steps.

         “Justice,” the King echoed his words, “The word of the King is justice.”

        The chill on his spine grew colder. Those were the words with which his father taught him when he was a mere child. Now he was a man grown, with the power to take the life of his mentor—no, he does not want to think about that possibility.

     Then Valerius remembered. There was a mail his father sent to him while he was still campaigning in the frigid mountains of the Divide. His mother, the Empress, had passed away in peace. “Is it… mother?”

         “Justice,” again came the answer.

        “What?” screamed the Prince on the top of his lungs. By then he was at the foot of the throne, with legs trembling and hand shaking, but still managing to hold the sword to his father’s thin throat.

         “The gods are cruel.”

         Leon thought about these words, words that again his father used to teach him. He could not say that his father was wrong all those years ago, and nor can he now. The gods are cruel, for them to take his father and wound him with madness. Even more so, they let him watch his father’s madness.

          Cruel, the gods were, their eyes bore on the Prince’s back.

      Prince Valerius fell on his knees, sword clattering on the floor, echoing loudly. Half of him wished he died at the hands of barbarians. It was a good thing that he ordered his men to guard outside the hall, for they should not witness their future king on his knees, defeated.

        “It was mother,” said the Prince finally, realizing what made his father’s descent into madness.

        “The gods took her from me. I take what would be the gods’.”

        As afraid he was, the other half of Prince Valerius knew of the dire need to stop the King. “This is madness.” He noticed his voice; it did not tremble so anymore. He dared look up. King Riga had stepped down from the dais and looked at his son heartlessly, like an executioner at his victim. Truly, this was not the man that once was his father. This one is a mad demon, with skin as pale as moonlight and withered as an old fruit; not the once-strong warrior king with a tanned face that attracted every good woman in his realm, the face his mother loved and the Prince inherited.

      “Madness,” King Riga agreed. He stepped right in front of his son, and with his long fingers grabbed the Prince’s chin. “Madness of the gods exchanged by mine. My Love will rest in peace.”

       The King bowed low and grabbed at the sword once held by Prince Valerius, the long steel blade perfectly forged both to stab and to slice, with its hilt decorated by silver. He held it against the light streaming from the vast windows of the hall and said, “Your blood spilled by this sword will make a grand offer for the gods in exchange for my love.”

       So he is mad. A madman is unfit for the Throne of the Dragon, the throne that held the good Emperors of old: Marius the Conqueror, the wise old Valerian, Ignus that was called the Lion, even the valiant Marcus, slain during the Rebellion of the Three Kings. No king shall ever murder and steal from his own people.

            His great House of West claimed this great city of Mare, who was found the most suiting for the position by the other kings of Newlane and Hart.

           And his dynasty must remain to be trusted. Justice needs to be done, Prince Valerius knew. The King held the hilt with both hands, and heaved it back, ready to strike.

            My duty is to my realm, he knew. His father told him long ago. “Justice,” he said softly.

            King Riga, with all the might left in his wizened body, swung his son’s sword for the neck.

            The Prince was young, and agile, and strong in comparison of the old King. In the instant, his heart leapt back, filling him again with power. Just before the steel bit his neck, he grabbed the hilt of the sword, wrenching it free from his father’s hands.

           “Justice needs to be done, in the name of the gods.” He declared. “For the sake of our people, I do sentence you to death.” His hands and his words did not tremble. He lifted the sword, aimed, and thrust it to the heart of the mad demon. He did not miss.

         In an instant, fresh red blood gushed from the hole, staining the cloth-of-gold that made the King’s robes. “My love, oh gods,” he murmured, gurgling, before he fell to his knees as his son did, and he passed away when his son removed the sword, dead before his face hit the marble floor. The golden crown, which Prince Valerius just noticed to be on King Riga’s bald head the whole time, clattered on the floor as the King fell, and rolled until stopping at the foot of the Prince.

          Prince Valerius cleaned his sword and sheathed it back to where it had been when he entered the hall. “No madman is fit for this crown,” he declared as he bowed to pick up the crown.

        Without looking back at the body in a pool of red, he strode back to the heavy oaken doors where he came in through, his shoulders heavy not of grief, but of duty he carried with his father’s crown and that which he will carry on the Dragon Throne of the Emperors.

           

A short story in the lore of The Kingdoms of Mare

Jakarta, 19 April 2015

Creative Writing: The Last Job

Several weeks ago I entered an English creative writing competition in Swiss German University. From eight themes, I chose 'A Cosmic Adventure." This was what I came up in ninety minutes, and this was what won the gold medal.

...Shameless bragging. I still think this could be improved.

The final tests are near, and I may not have time to continue refurbishing this blog. For now, I hope this writing is better than what I did several years ago (As in 'Planet Colony' and 'Criminal Unsuspected'). 

The Last Job

By Nathan Hartanto

           In this universe, only the most heartless will survive. So has been my way of living for years and years.

            Until that fateful day. The day when I did my last job as bounty hunter.

         It was a rainy day as usual in my home planet, I remembered, the torrent blurring the lights from the huge skyscrapers and sky-cars passing overhead. My usual shady employer gave me that job. “Destroy this,” he said tersely, handing me the coordinates. I questioned him no further. He has his reasons and I need the money.

          The guards of the spaceport were not a problem for me. They never were. While usually one needs to fill in all those boring paperwork to leave the planet, I simply boarded my beloved quick little freighter. With an ever-satisfying roar of the ion engines, I quickly escaped the busy planet’s atmosphere and headed for the Moon, where the coordinates were.

        The Moon was no less a commercial center than the planet, fueled by mining companies in search of precious metals. And the coordinates took me to one of the mines, to the far north. I nimbly maneuvered my freighter through the array of spotlights and sensors, until finally I landed in a crater of jagged grey rocks. Around were conveyors and pipes, from the mine I was heading to. So far, everything went well, like they always do.

            Everything, except for my mind. Why am I feeling that something’s off?

          To get to the core, I went through a winding cave system, inching forward with an exo-suit. The adrenaline made me almost unaware of the seeping cold and eerie darkness. Indeed, it was not the first time I would raze a factory, filled with thousands of poor souls, for my own profit.

At the end, there it was, the airlock that led straight in the core. Inside, I opened my helmet, grateful for the warmth, and readied the explosives. There it was, in front of me, the core, which brightly glowed blue, and hummed an electric whir. I immediately rushed to it and planted the charges. Everything was well—
“Dad?”
I turned around. I did not notice the engineer coming in. And for a moment, nor did I notice that the engineer was my own son.
“You haven’t changed.”
“Nor have you.” That was why my son abandoned bounty hunting. He just did not have the stomach to forsake a thousand people in order to destroy a building, just for money.

“If I couldn’t change you back then, then I suppose I can’t now.”

I could have left, and pulled the trigger, and forget about all of this.

“Go on. Pull the trigger.”

I hesitated. Indeed, I am getting old.

“Forget us.”

I gave up.

I turned and disabled the explosives, and started to haul it back when my son hugged me, tears in his eyes.

For another hug, I will forsake my shady employer and his shady jobs.

          I hardly remembered the trip back through the cave, but when I got out, I did notice, for the first time, that the billions of stars are brightly shining down upon me, illuminating this darkness.

           

Made for SGU creative writing competition, which won 1^st place.

Re-written by memory and edited.

Serpong, 21 November 2015

Renovation: My Hopes

Wow, my old posts are quite childish. Acceptable, I guess, from an eleven year old. Now, several years later, I have gathered some stuff. I just hope these stuff will be much better.

I'll try to renovate this blog, starting from the title. I have no idea why "A Field of Several Stars" sound good, but i would think that it could mean that there, i hope, could be some good value in these posts.

What can I post, now? Perhaps my stories and my drawings? I hope I can find the time to post things here. Oh, and to not be disheartened. As said by Julius Caesar, "Creating is the essence of life."

NOTE: I, myself, am not sure about the quality of posts older than this.