Prologue

Guide My Sword

Some Years from Now

There was a golden light that touched the colored leaves of autumn in the rich tapestry of browns, oranges, and yellows. The chilled wind selected the leaves on their branches snatching them away, like a choreographer counting off her dancers to join their brothers and sisters in the endless recital. Sometimes the graceful leaf found itself a solo act, twirling and tumbling while the rest applauded in the rustle of their instructor's encouragement. Sometimes it was a group effort, figure eights, and a twirling orbit as they spun on taking their moment in the sunshine doing all they could do, before finding their everlasting rest on the sod with the rest of their siblings. They would be mulched in time and together nourish their mother through the winter, only to return again in the spring. It was an endless cycle, and yet a performance for the ages.

In the rustle of the wind, another solitary leaf the color of amber fluttered from high above the old grandfather of a tree in the clearing of the woods. Gently and coyly it sauntered on the chill looking for a place to land. Big innocent green eyes blinked open just in time to see the crescendo of its tour-de-force. They followed its path as it looked to be coming closer, then arc backward as if to land far away, then return. There was a simple pleasure in the trajectory, a refreshing randomness of wonder in where it might land. A quiet chuckle met the answer, when the tiny dancer fell with a crinkle on the stubbled face of the toddler's slumbering recliner.

The boy had a mop of black curls poking under a dark blue beanie, and little field coat of a matching color. The tiny tot lay against the large frame of a tall and broad man, who was splayed out under the tree, snoozing heavily. He had a ruggedly handsome face of designer stubble and a head of messily styled dark locks. Between the handsome young man and the toddler there was something in their facial features that had a quality of similarities, that was no mistaking that they were of the same blood. Sitting up from his reclined position, the little boy wobbled to his feet. Breathing audibly and biting his lip, holding a hand down as he stood. Balance suspect, he toddled unevenly with silent crunches over the chilled turf till he stood over the sleeping man's covered face. With some effort the small boy squatted next to the man and a chubby hand cautiously reached for the stem of the four pointed leave. With a giggle the toddler tried to grip his leaf. His soft hands brushed ticklish facial hair while the man sniffed and wiggled his nose at the feather touches. Once safely in the boy's grip, he unceremoniously plopped back down on the grass next to the man's head.

The leaf was bigger than his hands, dry and crinkled, and yet it seemed to be the most amazing treasure in the sight of one so innocent to the world of wonders around him. He lifted it to his face and gently gummed it for its taste. He frowned and crinkled his nose in displeasure, smacking loudly with a snorted shake of his head. Figuring that it was not something you eat, he next placed it on his face, making little noises of curiosity as he watched the world with an auburn tint. Suddenly the wind captured his leaf out his ginger grip.

With a whine of protest he watched it carry away from him through a thicket of smaller trees. Never before had the boy been up and about on wobbly untested legs faster than he was now. He almost ran several times, falling to the floor more than once, only to get up and follow away from the blanketed picnic area anchored by a full wicker basket filled with dirty dishes. In the dozens of multicolored leaves around him, the toddler's extraordinary eye for detail even at a young age hadn't lost sight of his special leaf that twisted and teased the little child as it was swept further and further into the forest.

There was splotchy darkness on the sunlit forest floor while the red colored cleaves rustled overhead. Their thin and bent white trunks offsetting with the leaves making it seem in the shimmy and shakes as if the entire wood was aflame. Within this embrace of nature and endless wonder, the tiny tot continued his pursuit till the wind called off its taunting. The four pointed leaf finally found its rest nestled in the hollow of a thick tangle of roots. With an exhilarated chortle of zeal upon his charge, there was a happy bounce in the toddler's sprint. Never had there been a prouder capture in a hunt than when the boy had reclaimed his solitary leaf.

This time would be different as he hugged it to his chest. Gently he opened his Jacket and slipped it inside carefully. When he was sure that his friend was carefully secure he looked around at his situation. Big eyes began to glimmer with just a hint of fear, as tears began to well, as they came so easily to infants. In his pursuit of the leave he had seemed to have lost his way, surrounded by dark shadows and oddly shaped patterns of light that cut through the canopies above. He didn't know what to do or how to find his way back, and now ever so afraid of what the next minute would bring without his protector.

It was then that something would happen that he would never forget. A moment that most people have at some point or another, something important, something unique that even at such an early age one never forgets. For the boy it started simply with the change of the winds direction. It's odd warmth on the chilly autumn afternoon that directed his curls and made him cover his coat in protection of his treasure. Intuitively, he followed the direction that wind had blown him and saw a concentration of light in a clearing within the first section of the colored woods.

He would never forget the strange pull toward it, the feeling of familiarity and safety the closer he came to it. With a growing sense of unexplainable wonder he trekked across the cluttered floor with the crunch of leaves under tread. He paused at the tree line and observed a natural gully that led downward into a circler field of perfectly wild grass.

The clearing was surrounded by the trees that stood like a curious audience watching a stage on some grand theater. There, in the complete center of the field stood a beautiful girl. The teen had familiar long curls that ran down her back like a glossy rivers of chocolate. She wore simple white dress of linen and was covered by a leather motorcycle jacket that was audaciously colored in purple. She stood motionless as if a statue, though he could see that she saw everything. Her golden orbs followed patterns of leaves, as her hand stretched out to feel the direction of the chill between her fingers. The toddler found himself entranced by this dreamlike state and curiosity of what she was doing. He crouched behind a root and watched her.

It seemed like hours that she did nothing but stretch her hands out to her sides and watch the leaves around her. What she was waiting for was anyone's guess, but it was the most curious thing the boy had ever seen … because, he never seen her do this before. But then he'd never forget what she did next.

Feeling the time was right, he watched the teenage beauty slip off her coat and gently place it on the ground with care. There was a mechanical grace to the way she moved, smooth and yet as if everything she did was choreographed, pre-conceived like a dancer. There was a disguising marker in her knee high black boots and matching belt that shined in the golden light as she removed them, setting them neatly next to her leather jacket. Finally, there she stood elegantly in her flawless posture. The wind captured her curtain of hair and white skirt, as she waited just a moment longer.

Then … she began to dance.

It didn't make sense, didn't have reason for why she did what she was doing. There was no music, no recognizable string of chorography in which she moved to, but to one in which the boy recognized. She moved and twirled as one of the autumn leaves that suddenly swirled around them. The wind whipped hard around the forest and hundreds of leaves of the likes the boy would never see again became air borne. They all shifted in perfect harmony with the wind, and twirled in time with the girl as if they had taken their lead from her.

A look of pure otherworldly wonder crossed his tiny features as he looked all around him, a gentle smile touching the boy's lips as he watched the leaves of the forest all flutter and twirl as if being conducted to the same invisible, unheard music that directed the girl's movements. If this was what she had been waiting for, calculating, then it must have been some divine chance that had led him here to witness this incredible indescribable scene.

But there was none that would say that it was chance that led the young man leaning on the tree behind the toddler to her. The boy wasn't startled in his glance around to the sight of such life to find the slumbering man now awake, clad in his double breasted leather coat and old jeans. His arms were folded across his chest as he looked upon the girl as if there was nothing else in the world. His eyes glazed over a pleasant smile plastered across his face. He looked at her as if she was some god sent creature and he thanked him every day for her being where she was, where she always wanted to be … by his side. To see this dancer, to touch her, to kiss her, and to have the toddler at his feet, it was all an irreplaceable happiness that he thought he'd never find in his lifetime.

The boy looked back to the girl, then back to the young man who loved her. The toddler knew little of the world, and the complexities of emotions he had yet to comprehend or feel. But never had he seen the likes of what he felt when he saw the two of them together. The way he looked at her, was something different, something deeper than what some had ever known in a simple romance. To the young man she wasn't just his wife, his lover, his partner. She was more than what she appeared to be, had been made to be.

She was his life.

Three Years Later

With a startled shudder, emerald eyes blinked open. Suddenly a gothic mansion sitting in a dark neighborhood went away; the frightened face of a pretty little girl was replaced with the dark vinyl to the glove box. Lying across the front of a muscle car's cab was a little boy. The black leather seats were hot against his bare skin and the cotton of his thin, navy colored hooded sweat shirt. Wiping sweat on the pant legs of his jeans, the boy slid to a sitting position with a troubled look in his sad eyes. His hood was drawn over his head as he slept. He was still shaking, as was always the case when he dreamt of the girl who haunted his nights. She wasn't always a little girl, sometimes she was his mommy's … had been his mommy's age. Sometimes she was older than that. But she was always afraid, and they always hurt her. His only consolation in the helpless compulsion to love and protect her was that she was nothing but a dream. It was the same strange nightmares that had been plaguing him since he could remember. But something told him that it was for the last time.

He sat in the passenger's seat of his father's car. Sliding his hand further into his sleeve, the boy began to wipe away the condensation on the window. He diligently rubbed away the moisture with several squeaks as he cleaned in a circle. When he was done he was treated to the view of the most idealistic sight of the tallest mountains the boy had ever seen. If he hadn't known better, in a passing fancy, in the dark they might have looked like massive, shadowed clouds. His father had told him once that if there was ever was a good place to hide, it would be the Pacific Northwest. He hadn't told him that lately. In fact, he hadn't said much of anything lately. The boy hadn't exactly said a lot of things either. It was hard living this way, trying to continue on when something was missing. It was like in school, reusing the old puzzles during rainy day recess and constructing the picture most of the way to only find that there was just one piece missing that ruined the picture of a clock tower. That was the way he felt, but it was more frustrating, and much sadder than a ruined puzzle picture.

He rubbed the sleep away with his sleeve and drew back his hood. A tumble of loose raven curls fell into his eyes when he freed his hair. He pushed back the moppy black hobbit curls and exited the car. It was a brisk and clear night that smelled of fresh air and Douglas Firs. Above, the stars were painted on the dark sky, and a milky layer of illumination touched just above the glowing snowcapped peaks of the majestic mountains on the dark horizons. All around the small boy there was a rustling ripple of the wind shimmying and crackling the vast forest land on either side, and far ahead of him. His breath was visible in the air and that made him smirk just a little. He liked the cold, it always reminded him of Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Halloween. When you're a child the most exciting time of the year was when it got cold. But after a moment standing in the clean air, the new smells filling his lungs, he thought better of just stepping out in his thin pullover. Folding his arms over his chest and reached back behind his seat where there were over a dozen duffle bags stuffed in each nook and cranny. Which was nothing compared to the arsenal they had in the trunk. He retrieved a black miniature field jacket that had been a replica of his father's. On the breast pocket was a little shiny pin with a golden "R" outlined in black on a red field. Even with his hoody on, the jacket was still a large fit. His parents always bought him clothing that were a size or two too big for him. He was just wondering at this stage if he was ever going to grow into them.

Closing the door behind him, he paced to the front of the car, his sneakers crunching on the asphalt. He was a little nervous, because even though there hadn't been a car this way since they got there, he was always afraid of standing on the road. His mommy stressed the statistics and likelihood of being hit by a car in Los Angeles, and the great expenditures and financial burden it would cost her to put on a funeral for him. This reminder every time he didn't want to hold her hand when crossing the street, trying to convince the golden eyed girl that he wanted to be a "big boy" had more than stayed with him. Her repetition in lecture in turn created an anxiety every time he approached asphalt without a slander hand to hold. But now safely back to the driver's side, the raven haired boy perched himself on the hood of his father's Mustang.

Curious eyes searched innocently through the long stretched tree line on both sides for any sign of his father. The man had told him that he was to stay put, guard the car, and not leave for anything. They had come all this way, and seemed strange of all the many miles they traveled it was just to meet Catherine Weaver. She didn't stay and barely spoke a word to his father. As for him she merely asked if he was okay. He nodded, and she picked him up, comforting him with a cold, awkward hug and a word of advice that "Children are nothing, if not resilient." She disappeared into the woods after that and it was the last they saw of her. He guessed he didn't blame her for leaving when she did, the boy's father was not happy to see her, and even less happy to see her holding him.

Passing the time, glassy orbs turned the roadside into deductive grids. There had been three vehicles in the area in the last week. The oldest was a big rig, hauling lumber. It pulled over to pick up a passenger. The footprints were made by size six lady hiking boots that were pacing, accumulating a collection of burned out cigarette butts in their wake. He figured that she was on a camping trip. Someone made her mad, someone she knew for a longtime and had a bad history with, which is why she was stress smoking. She must have been an attractive lady which is why the lumber man stopped to pick her up on her way back home to Seattle. The second car was an SUV, it arrived before he and his father. One person, size four heels, she was carrying something heavy which is why the imprints are more defined. This must have been Catherine, carrying whatever it was that his father wanted returned to him. The last vehicle was theirs. It was a 1973 Ford Mustang, black with chrome stripes. It had been bought when his parents were younger, which they rebuilt by hand, together. It was his Mom and Dad's first and only car. The rumble of the engine, the leathery smell of the seats, and the shine of the chrome on a sunny California morning were all as familiar to the young boy as one might recount a beloved childhood home. From the driver's side was an imprint of motorcycle boots, size thirteen. The man had big feet, the boy often wondered if he would ever be as big as his daddy.

Curiosity gripped the young soul as he followed his father's trail from the trunk of their car out into the woods. He had been specifically ordered not to leave the car, but it began to eat at him why he had been gone so long. The sun had been setting when he and Catherine had disappeared, but now it must be at least three or four in the morning. He slipped off the hood of the car and hesitantly began following the tracks. He paused at the tree line which swung and snapped at him in the wind. There was something scary about the way the trees looked in the dim moonlight, their branches like clawed fingers, and the miserable and fierce faces that were twisted by aged bark. Also, with what happened to the beautiful girl in his dreams still fresh in his mind, he hadn't forgotten the basement. There was something about the way the shadows were thrown by the silhouettes of the forest in the starlight that reminded him of the dark abyss filled with classical music that echoed over the screams of the tormented "princess" in his Nightmares.

He could've turned away and would've only a week ago. But he remembered his failure that night, the night he lost … his …. He remembered the fear that stopped his retribution, that let "The Woman" get away after what she had done. After that night, watching a two story house of brick overlooking the city scape, the only home he had ever known burn to the ground. The boy swore that he'd never let it happen again. He swore he'd never be afraid again. Never let fear stop him … never again. With a deep breath of cold, pine-scented air, he trudged forward into the wild.

All around, the sound of animals and nocturnal birds filled his ears. He knew the risk of what could happen if he lost his way. Even a couple of steps into the dark woods and he might have already been lost. He compensated for this by keeping his eyes downcast. Making sure he followed his father's tracks from the road all the way to where he was now. He paused one or twice, the rustle of the trees, the hooted owl call that sounded like his name. His response was to draw his hood up and continue to sneak forward, to always keep moving.

A woman had told that to him, "Always keep moving." She was someone very important once, though he had no recollection of her but for feelings that came residually. She had always been sad, forever trapped in the cellars of some deep unshakable sorrow. It always somehow made him love her more, hoping that his deep affection for her would help. But it would seem his young struggles all came in vain, for now she was all but a shadow in his mind. A lingering nostalgia for a beautiful faceless woman who left one day and never came back. Her leaving had left a wake of anger and sadness, but in time the abandonment led to a stronger and more dependent love between two people who now needed one another more than ever with a toddler to raise by themselves. In the time his mind had lingered on this mystery woman, the boy had come upon a tiny clearing within a thick tangle of white trunked pines.

Hours of hacking, clearing, and cutting with a grief fueled focus had cleaned away space for a constructed bed of white pine logs. In the sky a passing wisp of obscuring clouds pulled away like stage curtains on the final act of a Grimm's Fairytale. When the full moon's purifying, silver light broke, the film of frost forming on the rare trees surrounding the clearing began to glint and glimmer like the falling of mourning tears in the sight in front of them. A man knelt at the side of the pine bed, as a man of faith might at the altar of his savior. He was tall and broad in the youth of his early twenties, though sudden grief and sadness seemed to have aged him. His dark hair was disheveled, a streak of white marring it overnight. His bearded face lay pressed to a lifeless hand in his impossibly tight grip. He seemed to be heaving heavily, his other large hand gripping a silken material over a taut torso. Upon the bed was the lifeless body of a young girl that had barely seen her seventeenth birthday … or so it had seemed. Her beautiful face was muted to color and emotion. Despite her skin tone it seemed as if it had only been a few hours that she had been alive, for there seemed to be nothing visible to say what had killed this angel who had run aground. Her glossy chocolate hair tied in a bun seemed to contrast with the array of white around her, including the elegantly strapless wedding gown she wore.

It had been weeks, he wasn't sure how many, since the last time the boy had seen her. Though, he'd never forget the last time as long as he lived. She had been lying in the middle of the living room floor. He could remember the shine of her pink night slip reflecting off the blank television screen, and her eyes, golden and blank as they stared up at the ceiling. He had shaken her, tried to wake her up … but she didn't and she never had since. He remembered being so desperate and afraid that he shook her so hard that it turned her lifeless head. There, stained on the living room rug was a massive pool of blood from where the top right of her head was missing. All he could remember in that moment was wires, so many blood soaked wires spilling out of her head like the guts of a pumpkin that was being carved for Halloween. Sometime before their neighbor Kacy carried him away as his father torched their house, to the time the man had kicked open the front door with his gun drawn. The boy had come to the realization that his mommy would never wake up. So he laid his head against her belly like he always did, knowing that it would be for the last time.

His father tiredly, weakly, pushed himself to his feet. He might not have ever gotten up again. He'd pick a spot next to his wife, his arms around her and let go of all the destiny and prophecy that had made him. Let some poor hiker find them the way they were meant to leave this world, together. It wasn't for responsibility, or destiny that kept the man from joining his wife, it was all for the boy watching from behind a tree. Shaky hands short on food and sleep in the past weeks quietly folded his wife's hands to her chest, his in between them. He struggled to say anything, his voice coming out in a sobbed chortle of a weakened voice, tear drops falling on the bare skin of her chest. When all the things he wanted to say didn't come, he bowed his head in defeat. In their last moments together the broken man summoned all of the years that had come and gone, all the blissful moments together, and all the hard times that had yet to stay when the nights were spent in the arms of a love tailor made by impossibility. He let all of it crowd around him, allowing it to fill everything that made this man. Then, for the last time, he leaned down and captured the lips of his first and only love. Passing through him to her was all the "could've been" and yesterday's when they might have loved and found peace in the seclusion of their many future years together. And when they broke apart he left all of it within her. Like the rite of a last blessing he filled the beautiful girl with every last joy that could be had in the young man's life yet to be lived. There it would stay, to be burned away to ash with their love. It was a promise, a vow never forgotten as long as he drew breath. And when his heart squeezes its last beats under some decaying ruins of a dead city or nightmarish battlefield of scorched skulls and ash it will be calling her name forever.

There was a pop and then a fizz that broke the mourning silence that had been cast over the woods. Emerald eyes squinted away from the brilliant flash of light that erupted from a tossed road flare that landed on the wooden death bed. The smell of Thermite overpowered the clean air as a blinding flash created strange strobing shadows against the tall soldier pines. Though the boy looked away, his father didn't. He watched the flames, heard their roar as they lit the night. In their dancing light, slowly, like a hole in a volume container, the humanity in the widower drained away in the light of his wife's pyre. He would no longer be the man that came to this place. The young boy watched as his father reached for something around his neck, its silver, untarnished body glinting in the violent light. Emotionlessly he ripped the chain from his neck and held it to his side. Slowly, as he became entranced by the flames, it fell little by little from his grip, till it thumped onto the ground.

When he could no longer stand it, the young man, tired and seemingly drained of all human feeling, turned. The boy moved quietly, hugging the pine tree he used as cover, shifting unseen away from the man as he watched him go. In his passing, the boy held his gaze toward where his father had disappeared till he knew he was gone. Carefully he emerged from his hiding spot and moved below toward the burning pyre where what was left of his mother melted away. Strange shadows, and patterns of light danced over a small hooded face. He couldn't see her within the angry flames and maybe that was a good thing, but then was it any better than the last time he saw her? Lying on the floor, murdered in cold blood?

The boy didn't stop till he reached the spot where his father had been standing. There was a sad curiosity to the small boy as he crouched down and picked up what his father had abandoned in the grass. It was his silver pocket watch on a matching chain. He knew it well, his daddy had never gone anywhere without it. His mommy had made it for him when they were young and his father had carried it like a totem wherever he went. Tiny little fingers grasped the ice cold pocket watch in a small fist.

He remembered the last time they had come here. It was a bit hazy, but he did remember the picnic. But if he could choose one memory that he might never lose it was the one that had been made here. He'd never forget the day his mommy had danced with the leaves. The tight spins of her white linen dress as the autumn surrounded her, twirling and floating in the chilled air like some great choreographed performance. Her long curls capturing the leaves as the wind sounded through the trees, dancing to nothing, to something that only she heard, that she knew. He guessed his father hadn't forgotten it either, that moment when she became something more in his eyes, something not special, but magical. That's why it had to be here, not just any place, but here. Her remains were to be carried amongst the branches and leaves, forever to dance like she had on that one perfect autumn day.

As if roused by the spirit within the smoking timber and metal, a strong wind came swirling from the west. A tide of loud rustling of branches swept all along the tree line of the clearing. It was applause of an adoring audience calling for an encore to the rising smoke that touched the outline of the full moon. A single tear fell freely from the little boys eyes at the sentimentality of the moment and all the little memories that broke his heart in sight of his mother's unmarked grave. All he could think as the red, orange, and yellow leaves of autumn came floating to the clearing once more, was how much he wanted her hugs, her tilted head, confused frowns, tightening cheeks … He wanted all of it.

The boy only wanted his mommy back.

A large hand reached out from behind him. The callous palm and cold fingers gripped the narrow shoulder of the small child. Tear stung eyes turned to meet the man that he knew was waiting. His matching green eyes were tired and worn beyond their years. He had a stubbled beard and his hair seemed disheveled. The grief and madness within reflected in the rugged appearance. But even when lost in the blackness of his worst fears, there was a dignity and strength within the man that he cursed. For it was a strength that helped him carry on one day at a time, living robbed of a family that once surrounded him and a love that completed him.

For a long moment the small boy thought that coming here, seeing this, exactly what his father didn't want him too, would land him in trouble. He was ready for the passionate snatch of the scruff of his neck, the angry command for the boy to look the man, the hard lecture of what he did wrong. Though there were many of passionate lectures to come over the years, it would not happen this night. The tall man instead knelt in front of his child, coming to eye level with glassy eyes. He saw the sadness within his father, as he felt it inside himself. He looked down at the trinket in his hand. Opening his small fist he held the pocket watch to the shell of a man. It had been his prized possession, one of the only items made by his wife on the earth. To the boy it was too precious to be left forever on the floor of some forgotten forest.

The man reached for the watch, but halted. His hand shook the closer he came to touching the item, but he never did lay his hand on it. Instead he placed the outstretched hand back against his forehead and closed his eyes. The man feared that even the brush of skin on the cold metal would unleash all the crippling emotions that he had buried and burned away with his wife's body. He gave a deep shaky breath before he opened his eyes again. For a long meaningful moment they rested on his son offering. But instead of taking the item, the man reached out, his hands pushing back the boy's hood, freeing his grown black curls. Retrieving the watch from his boy's hand finally, he took the chain and clasped it together again. But instead of his own, he looped the silver watch around the boy's tiny neck, letting it lay against the child's breast. A tiny hand reached up and clasped it again, looking down at his inherited watch one more time.

There were no words then, no proclamations. The man in Sarah Connor's double breasted mahogany coat simply held out a hand toward the boy. Little green eyes looked from the outstretched hand to the watch, then back. The watch was part of an agreement, a promise the he would never again part from it, to wear it in remembrance of a shared wound that would never heal. Determined green orbs of a raven haired child took all he could of the large hand, giving it a shake.

As a father hoisted his child up into his arms, walking away from the last of their old life, the solemn night sky above was suddenly filled with motion. The sullen quiet of the forest was broken by the rumbling noise of jet fuel and smoke trails. Great shadows darkening the tall tops of trees, shaking the ground in their passing as the silhouettes of giant rockets emblazoned with Russian symbols crossed in front of the silvery full moon above. For miles and miles the roar of mighty explosions could be heard from the other side of the echoing peaks beyond as the sky glowed with fire and death.

That terrible night father and son made a silent vow like a knight and squire of old. The flaming pyre that consumed the one they loved the most was their altar, the ash their anointment oil, and the smoke their holy incense. They alone, the last of a family, of a legacy, would continue on till this grievous atrocity had been avenged. They would fight till all of humanity was saved from the terror that was created in the name of peace between human and machine. Together or alone they would never give up, never let go, until the endless paradox of death, destruction, and loss was finally ended once and for all.

"Father, I have failed you for these last twenty years. Now our misery can end. But I need you. I need you, please, father … Guide my sword."

-Inigo Montoya (The Princess Bride)

Acknowledgements to:

"Guide my Sword By Mark Knopfler"