Acharius

Vivien Wittenmeier & Samantha Yearwood

The flames rose high in the air, the smoke suffocating him. Acharius searched through
the rubble of what once was the grand city of Sicambria, desperately looking for Edgar. Under
the velvet sky, wispy silhouettes of the invading Saxons writhed around him, their expressions
contorted into ghoulish, schadenfreude grins, freakishly illuminated by the fires they had set. He
pushed past them, ripping through the Saxons’ clinging grasps. Edgar was only a babe. If
Acharius didn’t find him soon, his brother would be taken, beaten…
There! By the remnants of their home, a shadow fled for the crowd, hunching greedily
over the bundle in its arms. Acharius chased the ignoble shadow, but no matter how speedily he
wrought his legs against the ground, he could not reach it. The shadow, and Edgar, disappeared.
Acharius stumbled through the crowd, squinting against the burning smoke. An arm wrapped
itself around his neck. He screamed, thrashing his arms and teeth at the aggressor. The rumbling
voice of his father, King Childeric, stopped him.
“Acharius, my son, your spirit is misdirected. Sicambria has perished with the humanity
of these savages we see before us. My grandest sentinels have been reduced to a mere five
soldiers. I do not doubt they would fight their lives out here if I would but give them the word,
but I am not so foolish as to think we could forge a victory from this plight. Come, Acharius, for
we must leave Sicambria’s ruins before our lives are divested from us. Where is your brother,
Edgar?”

*****************

Lights flashed. Under the warm sunrise, Acharius blinked his dreams away. Now an
adult, he was draped and clad in the leathers and furs of the many beasts he’d hunted throughout
the years. Acharius reflected on that incident many years ago, when his brother, Edgar, was
kidnapped by the Saxons, and his home had been destroyed.
Acharius lifted his body from the bench on which he’d rested for the previous three
nights, to wait for his father’s and Trojan commander Aegidius’ soldiers to arrive. His sinewy
form gave him the figure of something more than a simple man, but one of something
preeminent and god-like. He ducked through the hut’s egress and into the sunlight, determined to
unbind himself from the mistakes of his younger self.
The Trojans had an enormous empire, and their armies were, if amassed together as one
terrible whole, enough to bring almost any kingdom to its last breath. It had taken many years for
Acharius and his father, King Childeric, to gain the alliance of the Trojans, and their aid for this
fateful day. The goals King Childeric and Commander Aegidius devised to combine forces for
were the reclamation of all their lands taken by the Saxons, including Sicambria, the birthplace
of Acharius. Meanwhile, Acharius had his own goal.
 Months into planning the attack, he had scouted ahead of the soldiers, the king unaware.
He had found him; Edgar resided in the area where the invasion was going to begin. He hardly
recognized the man who once was the small child he cared dearly for. Acharius swore he’d
reunite with his only brother.
The march began shortly after the soldiers arrived and dined at what many of them
considered to be their last meal. All of the fearsome warriors marched steadily, metal clanking
in the wind. The sun was high in the sky; the soldiers would travel until dusk where they would
set up camp just out of sight of the Saxon’s largest village. They would strike when the last drops
of light vanished from the earth.
As quickly as the sun rose, it dipped below the horizon. Achatius led the soldiers to the
border, where they paused. The border protected them from sight by large hills and trees, but it
did the same for Saxon sentinels.
They took position. All was quiet. Swiftly, Acharius dispatched the army. Acharius let
Commander Aegidius lead the first wave. He would lead the second. Shouts could be heard from
a ways away.
Shouts littered the distance, and Acharius listened for the horn that would signal the
second wave. Commander Aegidius was an efficient leader, and soon the shouts were mere yips
in comparison to the start of the battle.
The horn sounded, the signal for the second wave to be sent in. With a mighty battle cry,
Acharius dashed through the treeline, wielding his mighty throwing axe, Francisgaul. Huts were
set ablaze, the night was just as the one many years ago.
A Saxon approached him, swinging a sword. Acharius dodged, faster than any man could
follow. With one swift slice, the Saxon’s swiped-wielding arm was cut from him. The Saxon
screamed. Another slice. Another scream. The man bled out on the ground. Gritting his teeth in
rage, Acharius crushed the Saxon’s skull underneath his boot.
The battle proceeded like that, more incoming soldiers, more screams, more blood as
Acharius searched for his brother. There through the flames, a masked Saxon warrior stood
parallel to him. He swung his axe with preciseness, nearly cutting off his head. Acharius caught
the hilt. This warrior was stronger than the others. He flung the man aside, taking his own axe
and aligning it with the man’s neck.
“Remove your mask and die an honorable death as a known man.” Acharius sneered.
“An honorable death is different to you than to me.” The man growled.
“Then I shall do it myself.”
With a swing of Francisgaul, the mask fell to the ground. Golden eyes glared up at him,
mirroring his own.
“Edgar…” Acharius whispered.
“How do you know my name?” The man demanded, eyes widening before narrowing
again in suspicion.
Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through left leg. Acharius fell to his knees, Francisgaul
slipping out of his grasp. He turned too behold the cause of his injury; another Saxon soldier
pulled the spear from his shin. Edgar towered above him, gripping Acharius’s axe.
 Acharius spoke quickly. “You… you are my brother. Do you not remember? You were
stolen into the night all those years ago, from Sicambria. How do you not know?”
“You are no brother of mine. You lie about your kin to escape inevitable doom? You
bring shame upon your people. You shall die not as an honorable warrior, but as a coward,
desperately reaching for anything that might save you.” Edgar satirized him.
The golden eyes stared deep into his soul. Acharius realized this was no longer the child
he loved. No longer his kin. The night the Saxons took him from Sicambria was the day his
brother died.
Edgar swung the axe.