Starting a new series here, going to focus more on Jackson. Hopefully it'll turn out well, likely not going to be as long as my other series. Enjoy!
During the events of the Marthus Finale
Jackson watched as Marthus dashed into the mass of maddened ruffians, blade flashing and flickering like a silver flame, spelling death with every strike. Jackson began to unsling the rifle from his back, the wood and metal in his hands feeling like an old friend.
"Stand aside, Marthus. You do not want to get hit by this."
The next few seconds were a blur of smoke, the smell of spent powder, and the screams of injured men as the bullets cut through them. Jackson turned, and locked eyes with a crazed man, who lifted a rusty crossbow, and sent a bolt hurtling towards Jackson. The bolt was cold, and then burned like fire, going straight through him. Jackson let out a cry of agony, and fell to the ground.
Hot. Cold. Hot. Cold. Jackson knew a little about medical terms, enough to know he was going into shock. His vision was blurry, but he could make out the face of Marthus leaning over him. A sense of overwhelming peace came over him. Marthus' hands glowed green with healing magic, but Jackson didn't need it. He reached up and pushed his friend's hand down.
"It's too late for that. Let me go, Marthus. Let me go. Please, stop this madness, but let me go…"
Jackson fumbled in his pocket for the grenade. It might help. His lungs struggled to draw breath, so he lay back and gazed up at the night skies. The stars were so beautiful… So very beautiful.
==O==
The stars were shining. Jackson could see them through the window of the house, through the small, dirty window that was his second floor bedroom. He pushed the blue blanket on his bed back, and stood, walking over to the windows, eyes sticky with sleep. He looked down, across the garden, to where the forge in the back was lit. He could hear snoring from his mother and sister's room, so he quietly crept down the back stairs.
As he walked across the cool, dewy grass he looked ahead to the glowing forge. It was in the back of the small plot that the Luther family owned. If he squinted, he could make out the vague shape of a large man, his father, silhouetted against the glowing flames. The closer he got, the more he could hear the bell-like tones of metal on metal. He jogged the last few meters to the entrance of the forge. As he entered, he looked around. The regular barrel of scraps was holding the door open, while the rack of tools hung on the wall to the left of him. Directly ahead, the furnace glowed and his father stood at the anvil, with his back to Jackson.
"Dad!"
The heavyset, shirtless man turned, rivulets of sweat from the hard work and heat of the forge running over well-defined muscles. He towered over Jackson, but his face was nothing but kindness. His mother always said Jackson's smile came from his father. His eyes reflected the orange of the glowing forge behind him as he walked forward to scoop up his son. Jackson laughed as his father swung him around gently, before depositing him on his broad shoulders.
"Daddy, why are you working so late?"
"Your father has a project that is very important, coming straight from the people I told you about before. They're planning something very big, and they need Daddy's help."
Jackson looked up into his father's dark face, and laughed at the very serious expression his father had. "Will you come tuck me in?"
"I will in a moment, but I need to cool the metal first, or else it will break. Do you want to watch?" Jackson's father smiled, knowing his son's answer before Jackson even opened his mouth.
"Yes!" Jackson was practically bursting with excitement as his father pulled out the stool that he kept just for this occasion, and Jackson sat on it and watched as his father walked back to the anvil, carrying a pair of tongs to lift and douse the metal.
The man lifted the intricately beaten, cherry red piece of metal, and with the practiced hand of a professional, doused it cleanly, the cloud of steam that rose obscuring most of Jackson's view of the small room. His father placed it on a rack among other complicated-looking pieces of metal. As Jackson gradually dozed off to the sounds of his father cleaning up the forge, his last feeling was of his father's strong arms picking him up and carrying him into the realm of dreams.
Echoes. Echoes of dreams. Echoes of lives. Echoes of loves. Echoes of enemies. Echoes.
Jackson drifted back to consciousness. But there should have been no consciousness. He had died. He had felt the crossbow bolt. He had seen the stars wink out one by one. Where am I? He opened his eyes. He was lying in a bed. It was made of some kind of dark wood. No, wait, are those stars in the grain? He got up slowly, unsure of his legs. But they held him.
He walked unsteadily to the door of the room. The walls seemed to be made of some strange substance, not wood, stone or metal, but something else. There was an archway leading out into a corridor. He followed it. The corridor lead to a huge set of doors, made of the same wood as before. They swung open silently, and after a moment's hesitation, he stepped inside.
The room was huge, built as a great hall. The entire back wall had large openings that showed an amazing view of a night sky, but not any stars that Jackson recognized. The openings were shaped like the phases of the moon, as far as Jackson could tell. The main centerpiece of the room was a throne, directly ahead of him. A woman in a deep blue dress, decorated with stars, sat on it. Her dark hair was adorned with a silver crescent circlet. She looked up when he entered, and locked gazes before speaking.
I am the Midnight Queen, and I have a proposition for you.
What do you guys think? This series will likely be slightly different than my others, going more into backstory and memories than present, but I'm gonna likely be going more into the Barr Rebellion times, given that Jackson grew up during that time. Hope you enjoyed, more to come!
