The Last Kings of Elysium

By Edward LeMay

Psychologist and struggling aspiring writer Kris Bronson was just your ordinary hardworking guy. But that was the problem. He wanted more. Desperate for the search of finding the imagination he craves so badly for his own writing, he looks to the minds of the criminally insane, particularly two men who seem to have survived the annals of time. What started off as a job turned into one of the most fantastical roller-coaster rides Kris would ever experience. Carried by the tales of the Trojan War, to the demise of Julius Caesar, and even a nod to the Arthurian legend of Camelot, Kris finds the imagination he has been looking for. As he sees the magic of these two seemingly insane, dangerous men go to work on his mind, the stories of worlds within our own, guarded by monstrous and magical figures, he realizes that he is doing much more than finding a cure to his writer's block. He is being convinced that there is much more to this world than he ever realized, one that would inevitably be the end of the world as we know it by the hands of a modern-day terrorist that seems to have his own magical ties to Kris and the two men he conducts his sessions with.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781645442516

Book preview

Chapter 1

Dr. Bronson

After the recorder stopped, I stared at John hoping to understand his reaction. He sat motionless, collecting the words that had flowed from the tape. John?

What the hell is wrong with the world today? First your psycho on the capitol steps, then this asshole? It was only the second time I had actually heard the tape. It was an interview conducted by the state’s first appointed doctor. It laid out the step-by-step systematic process of the assassin as he killed the mayor, Arthur King. It was kept as evidence for the last few weeks, waiting for the multitude of opinions from those in higher tax brackets than myself.

I know. But rather than sit here and have a drawn-out discussion about it, I need permission to conduct. They can’t even start the proceedings until he’s seen properly.

Kris, the DA has been up my ass now for the last two months about this wacko. They can’t even keep him in a courtroom longer than five minutes without him going nuts and trying to kill everyone.

After the unnamed assassin was arrested, he was sent to the county lockup for the night and brought in front of a judge the next morning. Two correctional officers standing guard left with one broken leg, a shattered kneecap, dislocated shoulder, and a broken eye socket between them. I don’t remember which of them sustained what, but after the initial chaos, the man had to be stunned and clubbed by six more officers as the judge’s face was being smashed into the marble floor behind his desk. The more amazing part was the man acted as though he felt none of the strikes set on him. The guards dragged him off kicking and screaming as the onlookers in the courtroom fled from the chaotic mess. I hadn’t been there personally, but the video in the room provided enough to know that getting this man into trial wouldn’t be easy.

I’m aware, I said, nodding. But this appointed attorney of his is fighting for the insanity plea, and I need to evaluate him.

I watched as John sat there mulling over the situation. The last couple of months hadn’t been kind to him; it looked like he and his bed weren’t cooperating with each other.

Kris, John continued. I’m not even sure they’re going to let you near the guy, let alone do any kind of evaluation. They are going to convict and sentence the man before he even steps foot near another judge.

I filed a letter to the district attorney’s office three weeks ago, I said, thrusting a copy of the letter into John’s face, which only added more excitement to the case. They are going to delay everything until I speak to him.

How the hell… I don’t even want to know. John stroked his temple, which only amplified his stressed demeanor. Are you sure you want to do this by yourself? he asked me. I mean, this is a big case. Let me give you another person or two, especially after what happened to Nathan. He put in his resignation by the way, and he’s filing a lawsuit against the warden and the jail.

No, I stated. I’ve been doing this long enough to know my way around a person’s mind. Plus, more people would only complicate my sessions. I’ll be fine. Besides, I want this guy. There’s something about him I feel I can connect with.

I paused for a moment as John gave me a look of sarcastic disgust.

I thought Nathan would’ve filed something, I declared. I would’ve done the same thing if I were him. I shook my head in mild frustration. The guy put a hole in his hand if I read the medical report correctly. I only just got the recorder last night. It’s still crusted in blood. I still would love to know how the hell he got that knife in there. Are we sure there’s no one helping him out, a guard or another prisoner? I asked John.

I’m sure. We’ve had them all questioned, and given them all background checks and psych evals. The guards hate him more than we do. Apparently, Arthur had a brother in the corrections office. I’m surprised our assassin hasn’t been ‘killed’ yet.

The air quotes John indicated was only one instance of the feelings being portrayed about the man over the last couple of months. John was one among a large number of people in the city who wanted the man to suffer. Arthur was loved, much more than his predecessor; the people dubbed him a front-runner for presidential consideration, as premature as that actually was.

Nathan will be okay, I stated. He might not be able to jerk off with his right hand for a while, but he’ll manage, I’m sure. I hope he wins his lawsuit too. County should’ve had that taken care of before he walked in there. Plus, it’s my understanding that our man has been kept away from the other prisoners.

John let out an exaggerated sigh. I understand you have a fascination in the man, Kris, but you’re the second person that’ll be talking to this guy. Are you sure? I know you work your ass off, but the magnitude of something like this…

John, I’m fine, I assured. If I run into any problems, I’ll let you know. I’ll give you a report in the morning when I’m done. I don’t think he’s as bad as his buddy, Ian. If I can handle that one, I can handle this guy just fine. Besides, there’s something in this man that may give me some definition to Ian’s mind.

You think they know each other? John asked.

In a town this small, there’s no such thing as coincidences, I said in answer. That’s what I’m here to find out, isn’t it? I grinned widely.

A piece of paper slid across the desk. That was faxed over to me this morning, John told me. Something tells me there is more to this guy than you’re letting on. It was a copy of an evidence request I signed when I was granted permission to take the recorder. This one was a separate request I had inquired about for the spear. Your little hobby is going to cost you your job one of these days. John reached over and set his hand on the back of mine. I know it’s been awhile since Kelli…I commend you for taking the case with Ian, but this one might be too much for you, he said, looking me right in the eyes.

Just the mention of her name made me uneasy, and the little uncomfortable shuffle in my seat was evident to John. I bit the sudden urge to snap back in a fit of anger. I tried to soften my mood by letting out a little chuckle. I’m fine, but I need to go so I can get started.

With a nod and an awkward handshake, I left the office.

I could hear the door open again behind me.

Good luck, Kris, John called after me. I’ll talk to you in the morning. The concern in his throat was palpable. He knew how bad a single word could sour a conversation. John had a good heart, just not a whole lot of sense behind it.

On the drive over to the prison, I let the first interview replay over and over again. If there was anything on this tape off which to go, I needed to find it. What took me back was the eeriness in his words, as well as the uncanny description of the entire event. The recorded walk-through was a hit man’s monologue, a how-to guide on political assassinations. The hours I spent watching the limited material I was given in his case file all made sense after hearing the man’s scary description. He took account of everything, the air around him, the colors of the vehicles he needed to clear, the structures which would affect flight. His words were sharp and callous.

Regardless, there was no more tape, so whatever transpired after the recording stopped was enough to set our assassin on edge. He pinned Nathan’s hand to the table with one of the most intricate and deadly daggers I had ever seen. The guards burst into the room and slammed the assassin against the wall, a wild grin stretched across his face. It took three guards and an hour of agonistic pulling to pry the doctor’s hand loose from the table. The amount of power it would take to lodge a piece of steel into another, yet more massive piece of steel was impossible.

To say my nerves were jumpy today would be a monumental understatement. This session would be the first with the man after putting him in solitary a month ago. I remember John asking me if I’d be interested in evaluating the copycat killer after watching his little acrobatic display across the news. They stopped showing the footage after a few days, but the whole ordeal replayed like a busted projector in my head every day since I found out I’d be talking to him.

I felt a sickening feeling after listening to our killer on the recorder, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for what would come next. This man was accustomed to the violent lifestyle. I dealt with people such as him on a regular basis—maybe not to the extent of this situation, but violent-natured men were my forte. The lack of any compassion in the man’s description of Arthur King’s murder sent bone-rattling chills through the very core of my being.

Two years ago, there was a man who had made a name for himself, killing his way from the west coast onward to the Midwest, eventually finishing his journey of blood in a small town in upstate Wisconsin. The nation built up a frenzy about the man, sparking a level of fandom I had never seen before. People cheered for a man who had accounted for close to one hundred murders. It wasn’t the mass number of documentaries or books written, or even miniseries they created in his name that caught the ire of the watching world. It was his final act of imprinted horror in view of the American world that inevitably led me to him.

Close to every state trooper and local policeman from five counties had chased him to a city capitol building. A matter of fifteen minutes passed before the man emerged from the double doors clutching the graying severed head of the city mayor. A line of blood gave off a twisted, dark Hansel-and-Gretel feeling as though it was a trail of bread crumbs leading to the mayor’s seizing body inside the revolving door of the building’s front entrance.

As the man walked zombie-like toward the steps on the outside of the building, he screamed something before loosening his grip of the mayor’s hair, the thunking sound as it descended each step followed by an ominous terrifying chuckle echoed from the most notorious mass murderer the world had seen. Suffice it to say, I was immediately drawn to him. John chalked it up to unhealthy habits, but this man was the spring-well of imagination I had given up on.

Now I would encounter my second murderer, another man not so happy with the political powers at hand. This case wasn’t entirely similar to the one I dealt with two years prior. In fact, the only resemblance there was to Ian’s case was the target, and the fact that this was one life taken rather than a hundred. In a town this small, to have two men who obviously seemed trained in ways our military system salivated over, it was easy to call this man a copycat of the first. Criminals were rarely ever the master opposers especially the ones that get caught, unless you’re watching one of Hollywood’s freshest action flicks. Even then, there’s always a reason or method to the madness, a purpose of getting caught. That was the first thing I noticed, the work with his weapon, then the way he had virtually just given up. Cornered or not, he let himself be taken willingly. I had seen enough action movies to know that much at least. Though, I had to constantly remind myself that I wasn’t some pawn living out a movie for some viewing audience of the world. There was a movie I saw a few years back, Truman something. I couldn’t remember, but the premise felt the same.

I turned the rearview mirror to catch my full reflection, something I had done before every session. It was a pep talk moment, a steadying of the nerves, so to speak. My short wavy, curled-at-the-ends brown hair looked more tamed than its usual ruffled look. Thankfully it hid enough of the bald spot smack-dab in the middle of my head. There wasn’t enough bullshit infomercial hair growth remedies that would ever cure that. I still don’t know when it had even started. The slightly bagged skin below my gray eyes had been something I had grown accustomed to over the past few years. I was an average middle-aged unremarkable man. Oftentimes I would admire the scars and tattoos of the many patients I had over the years, remarking on their unique embellishments whilst imagining the journey each one symbolized. What monster did you strike down whilst rescuing the damsel in distress which placed their dying mark upon you, I wonder. Then, I would see the normalcy and boring exterior I had presented to the world on a daily. I lived a life of excitement and mystery through the bodies and souls of every man and woman I saw to. I hadn’t attempted any writing in months, just about giving up on my delusions of grandeur. As I closed the car door, briefcase in hand, I took a glance over the looming entrance to the jail. The hundred or so times I’d passed this place were meaningless, a monotonous series of interviews of men claiming to be unfit to abide by society’s laws. This time there was a new and ominous feeling in the air, and there was something about this eeriness I couldn’t quite shake, as if I was walking into some haunted ancient ruins…This assassin was already in my head.

So, Doc, why you keep takin’ these cases? one of the two guards escorting me asked. I wouldn’t even try and get close to any of them crazies. He had a strong Southern drawl to his voice.

I let out a little chuckle. Well, that is the difference between you and me. I get paid the big bucks to deal with the crazies, as you like to so elegantly call them.

The other guard added to the unintelligible conversation, chiming in with his assessment. Hey, at least this one isn’t as bad as that other guy you got ’cross town.

The first guard spoke up again. They’re both fucked up in the head. Doc, you should just give ’em both the death penalty. I don’t know why you wasting time talking to these fools. The conversation was strangling my limited patience.

We made it to the door of the interrogation room. Look, boys, I said, turning to the guards. I do what I do to try and figure out what makes these ‘crazies’ tick. You have jobs to do making sure these guys don’t get out. I also have a job trying to find out how to keep them in. So, please, let me do my job, and I will let you do yours.

Before I could go in, one of the guards put his hand on the door and his other on my chest. "Warden said you gotta talk to him before you go in. Sorry, his jail, his rules," he said, standing in front of the door with his arms crossed.

A long five minutes of agonizing rattle by the two guards passed before the warden came by and motioned for them to wait down the hall.

I don’t care what your rules are downtown, this is my jail, the warden declared. Nothing happens here without my permission first, got it? He thrust his meaty dirty finger into my chest with each passing syllable. The warden, a title that felt silly for a town this small in the first place; perhaps it made him feel more powerful than he actually was. Regardless, it was something he sort of gave himself and made everyone else call him. He was a walking movie cliché of wardens: overweight, handlebar mustache, almost always dressed in a gray set of slacks and coat with a black tie in the middle. I had seen him in about two dozen crime drama shows, and each one had displayed the same level of superiority and smug overconfidence that this one had shown.

I fought back the urge to snatch his finger and snap it in half; instead I just gave a little smirk and nod.

I’m glad you think this is funny. Be lucky you’re getting the time you have with him, he stated. The only reason I’m allowing you in is because I don’t want this jerk-off here anymore. He doesn’t belong in this town, or in my jail. If it were up to me, I would’ve shipped his ass out west where he can get a real punishment. He pulled his pants up over his large jutting gut for the fifth time in the sixty seconds I had been forced to talk to him. Get your crap done and leave. If another incident like that shit with the last doctor happens again, rest assured, your assassin won’t be walking out of here.

That sounded quite close to a threat, Warden. I observed. Need I remind you that he is here awaiting trial, and my letter of recommendation? I alone determine what happens after this is done. I would be careful with your words, if I were you. Just one is all it takes, and then he’s stuck with you. I patted the warden on the shoulder. No worries, everything will work out accordingly. The only thing I ask of you is stay off my ass. Can you manage that?

The sarcasm in my words set the warden on edge a bit. Get this done, he stated strongly. You have one hour, then your ass is gone again. Got it?

As long as you haven’t carelessly missed another one of his little toys, I’m sure that will be manageable, I answered. The smile on my face left him without any retort. An uncomfortable nod followed by a brisk walk away ended the meeting with the warden. I gave a wink to the two guards coming down the hall as I entered the room. The warden wasn’t accustomed to being told what to do in his own home. He was protected by the city board and their governing officials, enough so that he could essentially do whatever he wanted with complete impunity.

I closed the steel door behind me, and like the first burst of heat after a full week of dormancy, I was buffeted hard with a wave of the same terrifying silence I felt at the entrance to the prison. I shuffled my way across the room and sat down on the opposite side of the table from my new patient. His eyes transfixed on me immediately, piercing through my gaze with a spine-tingling shiver. Beyond the feeling that consumed me, the man’s eyes seemed to take my breath away. They were the most frightening things I had ever seen. It was the kind of sight that only comes out of a fairy tale: one eye blue like the waves of an ocean, the other so red that even the most magnificent ruby paled in comparison. I sat dumbstruck and in awe for a minute before my consciousness forced my senses back to reality. I was so caught in his spell that the room could’ve had twelve other people with bright exuberant colors, and I still would’ve missed them.

I shook my head as if awakening from a dream. Good morning. My name is Dr. Bronson. I’ll be your doctor for the remainder of your sessions. Hopefully, I’ll have better luck than my predecessor. I let out a little laugh as I attempted to crack a smile on the man’s face, a sort of awkward release to break the tension I was clearly exhibiting from my creepy stare. The man didn’t so much as blink. Okay then. How about we start off with a name? I asked him.

The man across from me sat emotionless, still as a statue, his multicolored eyes studying me, burrowing his feelers into my mind. A few minutes of the most fear-inducing staring contest I’d come to remember passed before I asked again. Still nothing. I dove into his eyes, trying to examine the little flecks of random colors which freckled the magnificent unique colors which dominated his features. I wondered briefly, how many others had he taken with that look? How many women, and even men, went weak the moment they found his gaze? Medusa had been reincarnated as this man before me. How long would it be before my body would crack and wither as the forces of nature went about its business around my stone figure? I had broken away from his eyes when his lashes twitched, as if he had recognized the obsessive struggle happening behind my own boring brown eyes. We sat in silence for about twenty minutes while I skimmed through the notes in my folder, a tactic I’d thought of doing in a case such as this, patience at its most extreme. In reality, I had no clue what I was even doing. Usually, I could walk into a room and command the attention of anyone. This time, I was very much over my head. Though, there was something about being in the presence of this man which put me at ease surprisingly enough, a feeling I had thought lost to me completely over the last few years since Kelli left. I felt a sense of calm and reassurance, as if this place was where I was meant to be. I didn’t sense evil in the man, and I had conducted enough sessions with true-born cold-blooded killers to know there was something just off with this one.

The weapon you used, very interesting, I continued. Do you mind if I ask where you got it? I only ask because I’m a bit of a collector, a hobby of sorts—rather expensive too. I chuckled loudly before noticing the man’s continuing statuesque expression. That spear is antique, the shape the steel is in…remarkable. I’ve never seen anything like it, not in any museum I’ve seen. If I had to make a guess as its origin, I would say Greek. The engravings give it away a bit.

A slight twitch of what could have been surprise on the man’s face came through finally.

I studied ancient Greek civilizations in college, I told him. I don’t quite know what the words say, but in time I’m sure I’ll figure it out. That dagger we pried from our friend’s hand was Greek also. So my question is, in a purely curious personal interest, how the hell did you come by them?

The slight spasm in the man’s face seemed to be the only sign I was making any kind of progress. The attempts at conversation were getting me nowhere.

Fine, I said, shrugging my shoulders. I was hoping I could get something out of you, but I can’t win them all.

Then something jumped into my mind, as if someone were telling me what to say, like a ventriloquist controlling his dummy. If I can get your buddy to talk to me, I figured I could get you to do the same. Oh well, it looks like our session is done for the day. I closed my folders and pushed my chair back before pounding on the door to have the guards let me out.

Wait! The man shot through the eerie quiet with the single decisive word. The inner struggle not to jump from his intimidating voice was a feat of its own. Never mind the gooseflesh entrenching my body, his voice was both melodious and petrifying at the same time. There was a slight rasp behind his tongue as well; it was the hum a person made when he had decided to break through his bout of long wordless silence.

Ah, so he does speak. I was thinking you had taken a sudden vow of silence on me. I tried to mask the quiver lurking in my throat as the words escaped my lips.

You said my buddy? he said it as a statement rather than a question.

Yes, I did. Why does that interest you?

I have my reasons. I suppose now we can bargain. The calm demeanor within his voice only added more to the fright from those eyes continuing to pound away at my soul.

Bargain…What did you have in mind? I asked, motioning for the guard to wait a moment as he began to unlock the door. I sat back in the chair and crossed my arms, basking in the satisfaction that I had finally made him talk, while at the same time keeping my confident demeanor present by masking the fear.

The spear, he stated. I will tell you everything you need to know about it. The dagger as well. I can make sure it’s yours in fact.

I let out a little laugh. You are attempting to bargain with something you no longer have. That spear is locked up in police storage as evidence. We’d be lucky if that spear is ever seen again.

I can ensure that the spear is turned over to you, he said with confidence. Only I know its worth, its secrets, and its capabilities.

I sat in silence for a minute. Okay then, what would I have to do for you in this bargain? I asked.

Permit me to the Institution. He said it so fast, it was clear he already had this conversation prepared just for this occasion.

You are aware of why I’m here, right?

Yes. You want to know if I’m crazy or not. Clinically insane. Unfit for trial. Is that about right, Doctor?

In a matter of speaking, I answered. It’s a little bit more complicated than that…Are you?

That’s the mystery here, isn’t it? he agreed. A man comes out of nowhere and kills a political figure in broad daylight. No one knows who he is or where he came from. All they know is he’s dangerous and wields an old spear impossibly heavy for any normal man to heft alone. He has no clear motive and no patience for the law and its abiding system. If you don’t declare me insane, I can play the part well enough.

The man leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on the table with the intensity in those eyes growing. I watched as the chains around his wrists clinked against the solid table. A part of me wondered if I would repeat the same mistakes as Nathan did and end up leaving covered in my own blood. They must have replaced the table, because my visceral scan didn’t show any signs of the damage I had been told about. The veins on his forearms bulged wildly; he reminded me of a baseball player in the midst of a testosterone-induced steroid pump. A twinge of fear tickled at my senses as I realized how easily he could snap through those restraints.

Have you been playing the part already? I asked, feeling a bead of sweat begin to form on my forehead. The whole assassination, the incident you pulled with your last doctor, your courtroom etiquette. Are you saying that you’re trying to be put in the Institution on purpose? If that’s so, then I have no interest in your weapons. I would much rather see you behind bars with the rest of the murderers.

I hadn’t realized until my last word that I was shouting. The notion that he would act like he was crazy just so he wouldn’t be punished to the full extent of the law, especially after everything he did, infuriated me. It shouldn’t have been entirely shocking. I was an officer of a system that recognized and granted asylum to men who had feared the real punishment for their actions for years.

Dr. Bronson, you’re looking into this a bit much he said. I assure you, after I’m done with everything I have to tell you, you will have a very good idea of my mind-set. The man said everything with such surety and with no pinch of expression on his face. His sweet talk was so much like Ian’s that these two could be related.

I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll see what I can do, I said. I would like, however, one stipulation in this bargain.

That being? he asked.

Two things, I corrected myself. First, I would like to know what your last doctor did to you that pissed you off. I would much rather not have repeats here. Second, I need your story. Although I have a fascination in ancient weapons and such, there are the usual legal matters to attend to. In order for me to get in someone’s head, I find it best to learn everything about a person. Do you have a problem with that?

Oh, no, not at all, he answered. The look of complete pleasure plastered across his face took me by surprise. I had fallen into his web, a master spider comfortable in its domain awaiting its next bite to eat.

Then please tell, I said, wanting him to continue.

Your fellow doctor insulted me, he recalled. Where I come from, insults don’t go unpunished.

Insulted you how? How did you get your dagger in here?

I believe you asked for two things, he reminded me. How I got my dagger in here is a third question and thus not part of our arrangement, but I assure you at the end of my story, you will know how that dagger came to be in this room. I don’t hand out information without a price. There’s no value in that. As for the insult, I suppose you wouldn’t know. When the tape stopped, his persona changed. I’m sure you’ve seen it differently, or perhaps he didn’t like me much. His choice of words about what kind of parents raised me and such didn’t really sit well. You’re a smarter man, I hope. I don’t expect you to make the same mistake.

It wasn’t the first time I’d heard complaints about Nathan’s way of practicing with his patients. He played the bad-cop role far too comfortably and often. Nathan was a friend, but it was only a matter of time before his mouth got him into some hot water.

I see. I nodded. I’ll take note of that. On to the second part now. I pulled out a blue tape recorder and set it in the middle of the metallic table.

What would you like to know? There was a willingness in his question that caught me off guard.

Motive would be nice, but I feel that would be too soon, I answered. Tell me why you want into the Institution so badly? The question was more personal than professional. Eliminating Ian from the equation, the answer would have been too obvious. But there were chess pieces at play here, and a game in full swing.

He paused for a moment and started with his piercing glare again. He interlocked his scarred fingers. I will in time. He is still there, right?

When exactly will this time come?

When you answer my question. The agitation became evident on the prisoner’s face.

Who are you talking about? I lied. I knew full well he was referring to Ian, corroborating my suspicions that the connection with Ian was true.

Look, you don’t seem to be incompetent. You want answers from me, and I want them from you. Let’s not continue to insult each other’s intelligence, he declared.

Fine, I agreed. Yes, he is. He’s been in the Institution for some time now. I’ve been attending him over the full course of his stay. In time, you may join him, or you’ll join the population of other murderers on death row. One or the other, we will find out.

The man sat and stared in his usual creepy manner.

Motive, he said, pausing and putting his hand to his chin in thought. I didn’t really have one to be honest. He was merely the key to a door. A means to an end, as you would say.

A means to an end? You really expect me to go with that? It can’t be that simple. The furling on my forehead pulsed.

He let out a quiet laugh. Why can’t it be simple? Not everything in life has an ulterior meaning behind it, he said. Sometimes, things are just black and white, Doctor.

I had let every television courtroom drama reenactment take over my thoughts as I tried to answer his question. This was going to be rough. Did you give yourself up? I asked. I had read the report of the fight in the alleyway more than a dozen times, but I still felt it important to hear his reasoning.

I had no choice. I didn’t feel the need to kill innocent people. It’s not my style.

What about the mayor, is that more your style? Were you playing judge, jury, and executioner for a man that wronged you in some way? I asked him.

It was never anything personal, I can tell you that much at least, he said matter-of-factly. He was simply a means to an end, as I’ve said before…stepping-stone in my path.

I see. This story of yours is going to give me more insight than what you’ve just given me so far…I hope. Because you’ve literally told me nothing other than you felt like doing it. That’s not going to do much to help your case in the slightest. The man sat and nodded in silence. In order for this to continue, I need to know who you are. A name would be a good start.

A long pause ensued. My name is Polemistis, he finally stated.

Pole…mistis? Can you spell that for me? I asked.

As he spelled out his name, I couldn’t help but admire it, even if it sounded like some fairy-tale-inspired manifestation. Okay, we’ll pretend that’s a real name, I said.

It’s the name my mother gave me before she passed into memory.

The threat in his voice sparked a feeling of supreme embarrassment within me. If there was one person someone shouldn’t mock, it was this guy. Something about him put me off, something I couldn’t explain. The shifting of ease to fright the man brought out within me was exhilarating.

I replaced my cocky demeanor with more of a sympathetic one. I apologize, I said humbly. I meant no disrespect. It’s just not one of those names a mother finds in a baby book or anything.

The man leaned over, peering into me. This was how the conversation with your friend started. Tread carefully, Doctor, these chains will do little in keeping you unscathed. A moment of awkward silence drifted by. I was born in Greece, a very long time ago. I get the occasional nightmare from time to time as you can imagine. When you’ve lived a life as tumultuous as mine, nightmares seem to be the only thing reminiscent of a somewhat sane life. It reminds me of where I came from. He leaned forward again. Never forget where you came from. You lose all touch with reality, with yourself, with the world. You become fake, a shell of a man so easily manipulated by the social perversions of the world. He said it the way a father says to his child when he’s trying to teach him some lifelong lesson. I could almost feel his hand on my shoulder as he filled me with fatherly wisdom.

What kind of nightmares do you have?

He let out an exaggerated sigh. That’s a lengthy story, I’m afraid to say. It would take far too long to tell it.

In case you haven’t noticed, you have nothing but time. I motioned my hand around the room in a sarcastic manner.

A long silence filled the air. As you wish, he conceded. Where to begin…In the beginning, the dreams were intense, elegantly speaking. At the time, I knew very little about the world I was in.

I turned on the recorder and listened as Polemistis began to weave his magical tale.

Chapter 2

The Lost Warrior: Part 1

It’s been the same dream every night for the past two years. The details vary from time to time, but the people are all the same, as well as the end result. It almost always starts with hooded figures, three on some nights, more on others, but they’re always chasing me. There are times where I fight back, but it’s as if I’m attacking air for all the good it ever does. Really, it just expedites their capture. The other characters in the play consist of two men and a woman. One of the men is always clutching at an injured midsection, as if trying to cover a wound of some kind. I never see his face, just the prone helpless rocking of the back of his shaggy brown hair. The woman seems to be the focus, her beauty unsurpassed by any in the world. Her alluring purple eyes and radiating fire-orange hair only begin to describe her heart-stopping visage. She is being beaten and tortured in front of me, by the other man of the dream. He is the most vivid thing about the dreams. He has wavy black hair that just touches the top of his shoulders, only slightly covering the scar twined vertically across his left eye, which seem to be the most striking of his features; they were the darkest green I had ever seen, nearly black in fact. In every instance of the dream, it ends with him killing the red-haired woman, each time a more creative and unique way than the time before. I always get a good final look at the woman’s face; she’s peaceful and elegant, even in her final moments of life. As I watch her motionless body on the floor, tears begin to well up in my eyes.

The man who stabs her approaches me, each time with a taunting grin, all while being held down by the shrouded figures. Before I can ever react, I wake up. On this particular night, it’s a bucket of water.

Get up and row, soldier, land ho!

As I looked around, I realized I was still on the large wooden boat in the Aegean Sea. I sat up and made my way to the deck. I peered around to see the dozens of other boats loaded with strong-willed soldiers. I looked to the incoming land and caught gaze of the yellow shore as hundreds of men fought on the sand. From this distance, it was impossible to tell who held the upper hand. Blood was the same color no matter who bled it, the red which dominated the shore did little to show which side held the advantage.

I grabbed an oar and helped propel the boat onward, nerves still rattling from this morning’s dream. The bucket of water had released me from the torment this time. It was always something else that woke me, ending at the same point, right before I could raise a hand to react. I couldn’t understand why I was so hurt by it in the first place. I often wondered if it was all a premonition of some kind. Maybe a punishment by the family. Maybe I was going mad; it was something not too uncommon in times of war. Enough dead bodies would do that to a man. Whatever the reason, the redheaded woman held some kind of bond on my heart.

For the past two years, I searched for answers to who I used to be. The past was indistinguishable as though it were behind a locked door in my mind devoid of any capable key. I drifted from town to town with no name or background, possessions I wasn’t sure were even mine: a sword on my belt, leather armor, a pack of your basic survival gear. The mystery of my past wasn’t the only thing that vexed me, nor the identity of my red-haired mystery woman either. I would often see images of dead men during my commonplace daydreams. Their faces would stare at me, waiting, clawing at me to drag my soul with them in their eternal slumber. I felt their shadows following me, stalking me like a wild animal does to his dinner.

I happened upon a little fishing village several leagues away from where I started my lost journey, arriving at the onset of war as men were fitted with armor and spears, thrust onto one of the many boats which would be swallowed up by war. The moment I walked into the village I was put to work preparing the ships’ departures into the expansive sea. I suppose at the time, I needed to find something to occupy myself. Something other than wandering aimlessly.

I eventually was pulled onto a boat as hundreds of waving wives and children said goodbye to their husbands and fathers. I could see the pain in one woman’s face as she knelt, cradling her weeping face. Her display of love stung me. This woman cried for her husband—cried knowing that she would possibly never see her love again. The remorse in my chest billowed up and forced my own tears upon my face.

The days passed into oblivion with the cold sea air as I watched the stars of Callisto and Arcas stretch out over the still, black nights. The story of the Greek myth pierced my memory as I gazed up and wondered at the sight.

Callisto was cast into the sky after her son Arcas tried to kill her. She turned into a bear, and several years later Callisto made an attempt to be reunited with her son; however, not recognizing her, Arcas sought to kill this black bear. In an attempt to prevent Arcas from killing his mother, Zeus thrust them into the heavens. Zeus’s vengeful wife Hera, in a fit of rage, bargained with the rest of the family to make sure that mother and son would never be reunited. I recalled many of these stories as I continued my voyage across the sea; how I knew them only added to the mystery that was my life.

The water sang out across the expanse, dominating the world as it enticed any listener to come closer, into the watery depths to live out their short-lived existences. There were nights where the faintest tune of a song could be heard echoing off the rippling waves; it was slight but also powerful. I knew any man would fall victim to its song the closer we moved toward it. The stars disappeared every night, replaced by the burning sun until finally arriving at our final stop; we were on our way to war. The men on my ship knew very little of the reasons for it all, consensus being something sparked by a woman pushed by the family to betray her own country for lust. Whatever the reason, it was just another excuse for men to display power over other men.

My commander ordered me to stay in the rear part of the defensive unit. The men here had never experienced close combat of any kind. They were farmers, bakers, men of all sorts who had never even touched a piece of steel in their lives. There were no organized formations set up for attack. There was no killer instinct, just fear. I scanned the faces of the would-be soldiers and saw no signs of confidence. The smell of genuine fright was palpable, a stench that would follow them to their final resting places. As if I had any room to talk, besides the short sword I had strapped to my hip when I awoke from my mind-erasing slumber, I wouldn’t have known anything about warfare myself. As I rolled the handle through my fingers, I couldn’t help but marvel at the perfect balance of steel and pommel. It wasn’t just your average piece of weaponry hanging up in the local armories, the ones that were often fitted for newbies to war, that much I knew. It was stronger, more durable, while also being lighter than any other short sword the others shakily donned. It just felt right in my palm, as if it were merely an extension of my own arm. I didn’t feel the level of fear that exhumed from my shipmates, rather an uncanny confidence, as if everything would be okay, that I would be okay.

When the ship hit the shore, all but myself and four others jumped off and into battle. Arrows showered the deck as I took cover behind a couple of barrels at the front of the ship. The others joined me while they waited for the raining death to subside. As I remained crouched, I watched as body after body hit the bloodied sand with wet thumps. I caught the dying glare of a man as he lay a few feet away from the boat. The tide flirted with his dying evaporating life-form as he dipped into death. At that moment, a sense of true sadness overtook me; this man so ready to give his life for an unknowing cause stung deep within me. The blood pooled under him; a lone tear fell from his face as his life extinguished. I snatched up two shields and held one on top of the other, concealing most of my body behind it, then leaped over the edge of the boat into the shallow water outside the ship. Arrows pelted the mud as I sprinted to the closest trench I could find. Loud cracks filled the shield, a barrage of sharpened pellets pummeling the wood as I sprinted to safety. After a full minute of running and near deadly stumbles over the prone dead bodies on the beach, I found my first bit of cover, a half-sand, half-grass lump in the beach that allowed me to catch my breath and plan my next move. The four men that were waiting with me on the ship had duplicated my success, using the two shields as their own shelter to the raining massacre. They, in turn, found their own resting spots in similar trenches along the shoreline. I scanned each direction of the expansive sea and gawked at the dead, their corpses littering the golden sand, now dyed crimson by the waves washing the ruddy blood along the shore.

I peered over the hill, looking for the barrage sources. I checked my shields and discarded them as I realized one more shot would splinter them. I pulled my sword from my hip, not realizing the subtle twirl I made in my fingertips until after I had felt the warm grip in my palm. I picked up a spear that was impaled in a dead body nearby, again giving it a little twirl in my offhand, scanned over the hill one more time, and took flight into the line of fire. The archers didn’t see me at first, the bulk of their fire still concentrated on the arriving ships crashing into their part of the world. It took only a few seconds for them to notice a sprinting man breaking through their first line of defense. The arrows whistled by as I dodged one after another. I slashed away the ones I couldn’t escape as I moved closer to the first set of firing soldiers. The arrows seemed to almost be moving in slow motion, and it also seemed to be progressing as I continued to track their movements. At first, they thrummed from the bowstrings in a blinding storm, but as I continued to watch them, they grew sluggish and slow, as if somehow, I was learning their trajectories.

I thrust my spear into a man’s face. As he reeled back, his arrow penetrated the face of a man next to him. This was the first man I had killed, and the satisfaction of the crunch of his skull as I pierced through it sent a shiver down my spine. I split the throat of a third man before he could even blink. I strapped my short sword back to my belt and let go of the spear embedded in the first man’s face, then snatched an arrow cleanly from the air with little effort, seeming