A Short Story by: A.B. Timothy

Claes ran. The stone walls of Kalmar Castle kept elongating further and further. There, up ahead, was a door, and under the door some light. The sword in Claes’ hand grew heavy and awkward as he also felt his stature shrink. He rammed his shoulder into the door, and after he got through it, he saw, in the torchlight, King Sigismund laughing with a wicked smile on his face as he held a bejeweled dagger over a female. Claes threw his sword in front of him to try and cut down the man, but his blade, like smoke, passed around the man. Claes looked at the woman, no, girl tied up in the chair. It was his beautiful Margaret, “Claes, run!” She screamed even as the bejeweled dagger was plunged into her heart.”

Claes blinked as he fell back in shock, rather than landing on his backside, like he expected to, his back was propped up by the stone wall of the hallway. He straightened and began running again. As fast as he could, his gait returned to normal, and the sword no longer felt awkward in his hands.

Over and over, every door his wife, young, old, how he knew her that day, dying over and over. Each time being killed by that traitor! Immolated, defenestrated, hung, blown to kingdom-come, all by the hand of that… that king who would dare call himself a Swede! All but one. Or so Claes remembers it. The last image he beheld before screaming himself awake, in a peaceful fluttering of eyelids, was this:

Margaret’s lightless eyes stared at him in horror as he held the pike that had run her through. The only evidence of the king’s presence was his wicked laughter somewhere in the distance. Her eyes stared into his, piercing his soul, as he screamed bloody murder.

His eyes fluttered open to the sound of peaceful birds chirping outside, somewhere in the distant trees, his beautiful wife lying peacefully, in her fullness of child, right next to him. Whole, and more importantly, hundreds of miles from the influence of that traitorous king.

Claes felt the sweat drip down his brow. He still could not escape that kind of dream unscathed. He looked down at his hands and saw blood. The old soldier shoved down a scream of terror, swallowed, blinked, and the blood was gone. “God is my refuge and strength.” He murmured to himself, as a tightly held breath left his lungs.