EPISODE 7
Nightmares
Drin woke in a cold sweat, sitting up as fast as he could. He’d had nightmares of the battlemage again–the third time since the Justicar descended on Nemayr. Each night, the dreams became more vivid and more destructive. This time, the battlemage in his dream had a light sword to his throat, singeing the skin. Drin could recall the smell of burning flesh as if it were real. He reached for his throat and found nothing but stubble from not having shaved in a couple of days.
The quarters were dark, shared with three other Templars. A small light in between the bunk beds kept it from being completely pitch black. None of the other three stirred. None had the same problems with sleep that plagued him.
When he’d returned from Nemayr, Drin went to see Father Cline, both to confess his sins and to assure himself that he truly was doing God’s will in his fight. Thinking of how easily he’d slaughtered so many Sekarans in his last battle rattled him. It never had in the past. He couldn’t explain what had changed in him. Perhaps it was seeing so much devastation, so many helpless men, all willing to go to their deaths in order to slow him down. They had no hope of defeating him, but they fought hard all the same.
Father Cline told him that it was God’s will. The only way to ensure Yezuah’s triumphant return to rule over the galaxy would be for His soldiers to make disciples of all worlds. They had to prepare the way before they could reclaim Eloria for his glory. Without fighters like Drin, the universe would never see God’s desired plan.
But why did it feel so wrong?
Drin slid his feet back over the bedside, letting them dangle for a while before slipping down from the top bunk. He wore a long nightgown, but the nanites still pulsed through his blood. They could create a façade of clothing or armor, which left him no need for any form of material possessions. It was why the Templars shared rooms with the others. First, their shared space reminded them they were there to sacrifice everything, to not focus on the physical but the spiritual. Their fellowship in close quarters was pleasing to God, or so Drin had been taught from a young age. Second, it provided accountability. It was harder to sin when three other strong Elorian men were present at all times.
Baifed stirred from the bottom bunk. He sat up quickly when he saw Drin’s dangling legs. “Drin,” he whispered. “You shouldn’t be up past curfew, scaring people in the dark. You’re going to get yourself hurt.”
“Sorry,” Drin whispered back. With his bunkmate awake, he slid down to the floor, doing his best to remain quiet. “I can’t sleep. Nightmares again. Was thinking of taking a lap around the ship.”
“You need to get your rest. Big day of training tomorrow. Sparring tests.”
Sparring tests were physically demanding, pitting the Templars in combat with one another for a full day. Last time, Drin’s muscles had ached for days. He could barely walk from the strain. It was better than getting injured, but he still hated those days. “Thanks for the reminder. Maybe a jog will wear me out enough to sleep.”
“Suit yourself. Just be quiet on your way back,” Baifed said. He laid back down and put his pillow over his head.
Drin stepped carefully until he reached the door, not wanting to make more sound and wake up the others in the room. He tapped the control to open it, shielding his eyes from the bright hallway. When he stepped into the corridor, it was empty, eerie, with only the hum of the ship’s engines in the background. Suddenly aware of the fact that he still wore his nightgown, Drin summoned his nanites to form his suit of battle armor around him.
The nanites swirled, and soon, his body was covered in a way that felt more proper for being outside of his bunk. But he still didn’t feel comfortable. His face dripped with sweat, still rattled from the nightmare.
Once in the empty corridor, Drin ran.
He ran hard, as if it were a part of a battle readiness drill or formal workout. He ran from all of his frustration, his anger, his hate for all of the destruction the Templars caused in their holy crusade. Could it be that what they were doing was truly an affront to God rather than something that was right?
Drin didn’t know what to think anymore. But he knew he needed a change. Once out of breath, he stopped, doubling over to get himself the oxygen he needed. The running relieved his stress to some degree, but most of his doubts and fears still remained.
What were his options? He glanced around to get his bearings. A large set of double doors stood before him. He’d stopped right outside the drop shuttle bay. Was this a sign from God? Did he need to leave the Justicar to find peace? The ship was in hyperspace. It would be dangerous to take a fighter or drop shuttle. More dangerous when the others caught wind of his treachery and followed him. Traitors were executed. There could be no dissent in the ranks of the holy.
Leaving would be crazy but, for some reason, the thought compelled him. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. What if God’s will for him was to leave this life, enact a change that started inside? The holy book did speak of changing the way of the warriors to one of peace. Yezuah himself ended the fighting on Eloria so long ago. But it didn’t necessarily mean the passage applied to his personal situation. Drin needed space to think.
He scanned the corridor. No one was around. It was far too early in the morning. There would be a skeleton crew monitoring crucial systems but everyone else would be peacefully asleep in their bunks. At worst, should he decide to flee the ship, he would have one tech to deal with in the shuttle bay.
But could he do it? Could he exit the ship and abandon the way of life he’d lived since his youth? A sinking feeling overwhelmed him. On the other hand, he had been trained to be decisive. Templars had no choice but to act in the moment, go with instincts that were given by God. There were stories in the holy book about men who felt called, who were too scared to heed that call and ended up punished for it. Could this be one of those moments?
