Disclaimer: Ronin Warriors is © to Graz Entertainment & Ocean Studios. Yoroiden Samurai Troopers is © to Sunrise. All characters mentioned within this story--with the exception of a few characters of my own making--belong to them. Permission is needed to use my characters. This fiction piece is made solely for my own entertainment purposes, as well as for the entertainment of others. I'm not making any money or profit out of this. All rights are reserved. Comments, questions, and constructive criticisms are welcome and can be directed to me at Mishee926(at)gmail(dot)com.
Teaser: An oracle's prophesy spoke of the Demon Lord's demise, but told of a different fate for the Ronin Warriors. Now, thousands of years later, will her words light the Ronins to a new destiny, or will our warriors forever remain in the darkness?
This fiction is rated PG for some violent language and mature themes. You have been warned. Please read at your own discretion.
Candle in the Night
Written by: Mishee
-- Prologue: Part I --
Prophesy
By mid-afternoon, it was all over. Plumes of black smoke from fire rose from villages in the distance, helping to darken the already murky evening sky above. No more screams could be heard; only groans of the dying and the wounded. But even then, the painful noises were blocked by the faded cheers of soldiers and warriors as they celebrated their new victory.
Camp had been set up just before the clearing of the great forest. Campfires were scattered among the sea of tents that had been set up that day. The smell of sizzling meat, of which was to be that evening's dinner, filled the camp, and hungry men crowded around the flames ravenously, staring longingly at their would-be meal. A few were already eating, the fortunate ones who had made it to the camp early before the crowd had settled in.
Hours later found the same camp at rest. The majority of the men were already finishing up their meal and were now passing around drink. Raucous laughter broke out around the fire as the contented soldiers crowded around the licking flames, sharing wild stories and tall tales of the great battle, of soldiers killing fifty or so men at a single stroke, of the taking of the women, of—
And then a man stood, none the older or younger than the others, his face a mask of exasperation. He waved his arms about impatiently, and the noise quickly abated. He was a humpbacked figure, tall and slender, his face handsome but marred by scars. The younger soldiers stared at him in a mix of wonder and annoyance, but the man spoke. His voice was strong and deep, his words echoing around the fire.
The armor, he said. The armor of Gods and Men has been taken. The Guardian armors have been conquered. For it was the taking of the armors that had given them the victory. And from it, He had had melded them together to form the ultimate armor—the one that could not be stopped.
The Guardians had been strong that afternoon. Men could not defeat them, and neither could the soldiers. But then, at the stroke of three, a heavy shadow suddenly fell over the dusty battleground. As the darkness fell, the fighters stood at a hush. A great figure, a shadow radiating in white, stood atop the hill, malicious eyes glittering from the cap of his shield. It was a sight to behold, for who would have ever thought that a man would come to possess the armor of the Gods? On his hands, He bore the twin soul swords—the swords of fire, the storyteller whispered—which He raised slowly, the clanks of his celestial armor resonating from the movement.
Once the swords came down, it was death to whomever they had been intended for. The guardians fell that day, during that battle, at the stroke of three. The guardians fell, and their mystical armors taken—taken to be molded,the man rumored darkly, to be molded into an armor of ultimate destruction. And it was thus that victory had come to them. It was thus that the celebration was theirs to enjoy.
Finished with his tale, the man stood straight, basking in the warmth of the soldiers' attention. Yes, he whispered finally to break the awed silence, a new era had begun. The era of the new armor, whose name of the bearer shall go down through time and beyond...
The era of Talpa.
-- OOOOOOOOOO --
He fingered the pale blue crystal in his hand gently, feeling the icy touch penetrate through his rough, calloused skin. To think that such power can be held—he raised the crystal up, turning it on its axis to catch the light of the flames—under the security of a small jewel as this…
He stared at the jewel curiously as it glinted from the light, and then brought it back down to the safety of his hand. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the rough material of his robe rubbing against his skin, and fixed his eyes upon the dark room. There was hardly any noise, since the camp had finally succumbed to sleep. The ceremonials had finally ended just shortly after midnight, and the only sound that could now be heard was the crackling of the flames as they consumed the dry twigs that had been fed to it. Even his servants were asleep.
Sighing, he stood, running a quick hand through his shoulder-length, white hair. He was unnaturally tall for his age and mostly stocky in figure, blessed with a broad upper body and cursed, at the same time, with legs too long and too gangly for him to balance on. Still, he was a figure that commanded attention. His eyes, a pale, icy blue, shone in bright contrast to his pale skin. A straight nose and stubborn chin completed his handsome face.
The young man stood at attention for a moment, his firm mouth set into a slight scowl. Then, several footsteps were heard echoing down the corridor. They paused in front of the door, and then there came a soft knock.
"My Lord," came the reply from behind the barrier. "Forgive me for bothering you at so late an hour, but we have heard news from the Gods' city…" The voice trailed off. Upon hearing the words, the young man raised his eyebrows slightly and raised his arm to signal the door guard. The doors opened automatically. A thin, short man walked into the room nervously, dressed in the rough armor of a courier soldier. He quickly walked down the pathway until he was just short of a few meters away from the throne. Then, he came down to one knee and bowed. The young man impatiently waved his hand, scowling even further.
"Get up, old man." The courier quickly consented to the command. "What tidings do you bring?"
"I bring news from Raoul's army from the west, as they are stationed in the Gods' city," the man stammered. "My Lord, he wishes for me to tell you that they have fallen the city. They have captured as many prisoners possible and have searched the local premises for any sign of the final armor."
"And?"
"With all apologies, my Lord, but it has not been found. The city is taken, but the black armor cannot be located."
The young man's eyes glittered angrily and he muttered a curse under his breath. The courier trembled slightly, but continued to stand nervously at attention. When the white-haired lord failed to say anything, the courier continued on hesitantly.
"Sir, if I may have permission to speak…"
Pale blue eyes met his own sharply. "What is it?"
"My Lord, many of the prisoners have been brought here from the fallen city. We have had barely any problems with them, since all male prisoners have been killed on your orders, and the women and children are quite capable—"
"State your grievance, courier!" the young man snapped impatiently.
"Well, yes, of course," the courier stammered. "We…we have lately been having trouble with one of the female prisoners, my Lord. She is quite obstreperous and riotous, inciting her own kind to rebel against you. She is quite stubborn."
"Then kill her," was the calm reply.
"She is of mystical background, sire," the courier continued haltingly. "An oracle, they have identified her as, from the fallen city of the Gods."
"An oracle?" The young man, who had seated himself back at his throne, leaned forward, a gleam of interest in his eyes.
"Yes, my Lord."
There was a pause. Then, the young man leaned back and gestured with a hand. "Bring her to me."
"As you wish, my Lord." The courier bowed deeply again and quickly rushed to the exit, calling out a firm command. Two soldiers appeared under the doorway and strode into the room, dragging in between them their female captive. Once they had reached the same designated space at which the courier had stood on earlier, they threw her down into the floor and stood at attention in front of their ruler. The enthroned young man waved them away and, bowing, they exited the room.
The woman was a young creature, her skin of an ivory tone, and she had long, curly locks of pale, strawberry hair that cascaded down her skinny shoulders. Her face was thin, set with delicate eyebrows and an obstinate mouth. As she struggled to get to her feet, she lifted her gaze to meet her opponent, and her emerald eyes suddenly flashed with hatred.
The young man's mouth curled into a sly smile and he greeted his lone audience with a nod.
"What do they call you?"
The woman was now at her feet. She wore nothing but a dirty toga, stained to brown from mud and gore. Her messy curls crowded her smudged face, and she tossed her head back to rid of them. She did not answer him and he narrowed his eyes slightly.
"They say you come from the Gods' city." He licked his lips slowly, a lustful gaze set at the young woman. "It has long been rumored that those living under the dwellings of the Gods are protected by them, as well."
She glared at him from her place. "The Gods continue to protect us, and it is within time that such will be shown!"
"Within what time, I wonder?" the young man responded languidly. "The Gods have never cared to listen to the pathetic cries of their human companions. I do not expect that now will be any different."
She didn't respond, merely threw him a gaze that may well put out fire. The young man smiled again and stood, beginning to walk closer to where she was standing.
"They also tell me that you are an oracle," he said quietly, his voice dropping to a murmur. He was now in front of her, penetrating her gaze with his own. She could feel his breath on her face, but she didn't dare to break her gaze. His hand went out to fondle a stray lock of hair. She flinched inwardly and was very still.
"Do not touch me," she said very quietly through clenched teeth.
"They didn't tell me," he said, ignoring her last sentence as his hands strayed from the hair to touch her face, "that you were beautiful…" his hands were now moving past her face—she was beginning to tremble in anger now—and down her neck, coming dangerously close to her chest, "…as well…"
She could feel his touch, the icy coldness gripping her body. She turned away sharply, repulsed, and her hand moved out on instinct, making sharp contact with the man's face.
"Do not touch me!" she screamed. "Murdering son of a cur—" She was met by a sharp strike on her face, and she fell sideways, gasping. The young man towered over her, shoulders shaking in all fury, a deep red mark on his pallid face.
"Little whore," he snarled. "You dare to strike the Lord Talpa?"
"You are no Lord!" she spat out hideously. "A monster such as you does not deserve to live on this Earth. A sick-minded, slaughtering little hellion you are, but you are no Lord!"
Snarling, he kicked her viciously and she sprawled away to the side.
"And you," he sneered poisonously, "are a sniveling little pathetic bitch. You deserve worse than death for your crimes."
"I welcome it with open arms," she jeered, despite her wounded state. She continued to glare at him. "It is mercy to die than to live under the tortuous rule of a demonic monster. It is well-deserved, the fate of your kind, for you will fare worse than death under the hands of the Gods that protect us!"
"I tremble at the thought," Talpa replied back sarcastically. "Though I do not regard your 'gods' as any threat."
"Your words hide your cowardice," she hissed. "You hide under the great armors, yet you are powerless without them! The armors belong to those that command peace and charity."
"The armors are mine!" he snapped violently, "And I would advise you to keep your little mouth shut before it is stuffed with your own innards."
"The armors were never yours," she whispered cynically, becoming very pale. Her lip was bleeding and a dark bruise was beginning to form over her already swollen eye. She was still on the ground, but she was sitting up and supporting herself with one hand, the other hand covering the place where she had been kicked. "The master of the white one had passed away years ago—"
"But his descendants lived," Talpa pressed, eyes glinting dangerously. In his hand, he was tightly gripping the icy crystal. "As his son's child, I am the only living blood relative. The armor is linked to me by blood, and it is me that it has chosen!"
"The armor will be your downfall," she said softly, her eyes becoming very still. "And forever you will suffer afterward in the land of unliving. The armor has chosen you, but it will use you, and it is then that you will meet your fate…"
"Shut up!" he commanded, by now thoroughly spent with her. His face was livid, the bruise of her slap still apparent, and he kept flexing his fist, as if meaning to strangle her then and there. Her words, however, had sparked the slightest touch of doubt that had lay hidden for so long and his eyes shifted nervously.
The young woman closed her eyes. Her ghostlike appearance made her seem as if she was dead even while she was sitting up. However, after a few moments, a deep calm seemed to go over her. She opened her eyes, and Talpa could see that there seemed to burn a new flame within the emerald depths. Her face had become completely stone, and she now stared at Talpa with frightening intensity.
"The armors will become your undoing," she whispered. "Oft sun and rain, one will rise to meet you…"
A tree for his weapon, friend at his side
To give light to shadow, under laws abide.
From the maiden, a flame shall spring;
From hence, a child of light she brings.
Of man, yet blessed with the ancients' gift,
Cursed with a burden no will can lift.
An end she brings, of light she calls
--yet, for man, will bring her fall.
Hope shall prevail, five more to be borne,
To give aid to warriors in battlefield forlorn,
Armed with rites from where holy armors dwell;
But of the heart, a most powerful spell…
The words were strange, but deathly ominous, and Talpa went pale with fury and fear. Clenching his fists, he raised an arm up swiftly. The heavy double doors to the chamber slammed open and the guards appeared once again.
"Take her away!" he commanded, shaking. "Do not spare her!"
"My Lord—"
"Do it!" he screamed. The guards bowed hastily and took the girl roughly between their holds. The woman, her face completely bloodless, smiled strangely, her mouth still moving, and she stared at him.
"You can't escape fate," she said quietly as they picked her up. "I am Celeste, oracle of the gods' city. Heed my words, demon lord…"
"Shut up!" Talpa boomed, raising his arms as if to strike her again. To the guards, he shouted, "Make sure she is not spared! I wanted her head brought to me as proof!"
The guards nodded and began to drag the woman away. But, even with the death sentence, Celeste continued to stare at Talpa with her strange intensity.
"Heed my words…" she repeated.
With battle over, nine of them all
Of five spirit guardians, each standing tall
Shall break the stronghold, whose greatness we pretend—
The soldiers were already at the door. Talpa lifted an arm up swiftly, and the barriers began to close. Yet, even as the oracle's face disappeared from view, her voice echoed on eerily in the chamber, and her prophesying words burned forever into his mind, eliciting the first shadows of his fear to be revealed.
Shall break the stronghold, whose greatness we pretend
And through the ruin, the demon's rule end…
A/N: Ah, the infamous Author's Note. I think I deserve to offer you guys an explanation for my re-write. I began writing the original Candle In the Night when I was about 14 years old…ninth grade. I was a bit naïve then, being that I was a first-time writer, not knowing about those dreaded Mary-Sues or the repeated clichés that are now often seen in fan fiction of all genres. When I finished it, I was pretty proud of myself, and became even more so after I began receiving very positive reviews and comments from a lot of readers. However, I've grown. Going back now, three years later, and reading what I'd written, I'm not pleased with it. As a writer, I think that I'll always end up being my harshest critic.
And so, I thought about it for a while. I had numerous sequels in store for CiTN, but I immediately put a hold on those. I did not feel like continuing CiTN with sequels, when I was not happy with the original story itself. So, with patient research and much thinking, I finally decided to do a rewrite. I do not know if this will attract the same kind of "popularity" (if I could even call it that -grin-) as the original CiTN, but I hope it will. This rewrite basically tells the same story as the original CiTN, except there are more twists, and a lot more to leave you actually thinking.
I really do appreciate comments, and I especially welcome criticism—as long as it's constructive. None of those, "I hate you. you suck ass!!" type of things that I sometimes get. Always give me the why as to why you hate/love it, okay? Thank you for listening to me, and I apologize for this super long a/n. I won't do something like this again. I just thought that I owed all my readers an explanation.