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Notes on More’s Utopia #2

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By: A.B. Timothy

Discourses of Raphael Hythloday, Of the Best State of a Commonwealth (Cont.)

We continue reading the introduction on the sixth page of my copy, beginning with the words, “As he told us of many things that were amiss in those new- discovered countries…”

This section, given from the mouth of Raphael Hythloday (a man we know to be a fiction and thus his words may be rightly attributed to Thomas More), is a dialogue on questions about Hythloday’s credibility and reasoning. Both Thomas More, himself a character in the story, and his friend, Peter Giles, question the good philosopher on his lack of public service. After Hythloday tells them all there is to be told about the “Utopians” and their state, “from which patterns might be taken for correcting the errors of these nations among whom we live…”, More asks Hythloday why he has not taken this knowledge to a king so he might be hired as an advisor of sorts, or be given riches. Hythloday explains that he has already given away everything he had gathered as a younger man, so he would not have to deal with dividing his fortune among his friends as older men often must do. Hythloday goes on to explain that he has his reasons for not going to a king. He says that they are all too concerned with warring and taking more territory for their nation that they would not be, and are not, interested in bettering the governance they practice over the lands they already own. On top of this, Hythloday is not interested in playing politics with these princes nor the councilors who serve on their courts. Some would be jealous of his new ideas, and others would try to get on his good side. The politics of it all bore him, and he would rather spend his remaining time how he sees fit.

My takeaway is this: Thomas More lived in a time when fiction required a great deal of believability before people were willing to indulge in it and engage with the ideas it presented. Today, we only must worry about believable characters when writing our fiction. Whereas, in those days, they must make the whole fiction as plausible as possible. This dialogue, it seems then, is an answer to those ministers, lords, kings, and parliamentarians who, when reading the story, would ask, “Well, why have I never heard of this ‘Hythloday’ character?” Thomas is anticipating this question by essentially asking it himself, allowing his readers to continue to suspend their disbelief. He will get into greater detail in this next paragraph, where Hythloday goes over his fictional time in England that, conveniently enough, occurred during the First Cornish Rebellion.

This next dialogue, which lasts ten pages, explores Hythloday’s relationship with John Morton, Archbishop of Canterbury, Cardinal, and Chancellor of England. Hythloday is at dinner with the Chancellor and some of his friends when they are discussing the execution of thieves, boasting that “there were sometimes twenty on one gibbet!” (A gibbet is a place where they displayed criminals they had hanged.) Hythloday (More’s thoughts) rips into the men. All this death was nothing to boast about. It was not only unjust that they killed them for something as petty as theft, but also that they had gotten to the point where they felt they must steal. Hythloday goes on to describe how rough the people of England have it. Many veterans, having lost limbs in the Cornish Rebellion and in other conflicts fought with France, have been forced into poverty from their lack of ability to work. He then goes on a several-page-long side tangent talking about the morality of keeping a standing army, before returning to the root of the thievery problem.

This aside about standing soldiers kept by lords to enforce their borders and capture criminals comments on what becomes of these soldiers. Many of them are hard men from the aforementioned wars and thus are preferred by the lords of the land to protect their assets. This is good because it keeps them from thievery (and veterans often make very good thieves). But it is not good because only the best of the best get chosen to be these guards, leaving the rest of the veterans to fall into the ways of thieving poverty. These men aren’t even good to keep around as a standing army, as they get dull and soft during their time away from war. When they get soft and effeminate, they fall, often times to crime, just to get a thrill. These standing armies have also been a bad thing in the past, he mentions Rome, Carthage, and Syria, as examples of what having standing armies that grow soft can do to a nation. Then he turns back to poverty.

Hythloday argues that it is landlords who have been buying up villages just to knock them down, force their inhabitants into the cities, and build pastures for their massive flocks of sheep. There is rampant inflation, and these poor villagers, who did not have much money to begin with, found that their money lasted an even shorter time in the city. Ultimately, Hythloday recommends a return to the Rural lifestyle and the forced sale of many of these massive and unnecessary land plots, back to the people so they can live in an independent but ultimately more secure way. This will alleviate much of the thievery problem and help the citizens of their nation. A win-win that will end much of the unjust killing of criminals who, Hythloday claims, these very men created by their policies.

Again, More is relaying his critiques of his own homeland, it seems, through a fictional surrogate in Hythloday. Some of these arguments appear to be progressive and almost socialist in places. This section is the first time we see one of Hythloday’s ideas, which is clearly influenced by his time in Utopia (No-Place). More is laying out an idealized vision for his home of England, how much of this More himself sees as feasible is yet to be seen.

Conclusion

I ended my reading on page 20 of the work as a whole, meaning I read 14 pages today. I am about 33% of the way through this section of discourses from Hythloday, after which, we will be getting into the vision of Utopia itself. If you want to read along, I would highly encourage it. I covered the first 6 pages of the work in my post yesterday. Go check those out and read along with a free PDF of the book from the internet. If this intrigues you and you feel inspired to go read some old literature, consider subscribing to my WordPress so you get emails whenever I post a new part of this series or any other I am currently working on. Or my Newsletter to get updates every week on Saturday.

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Notes on More’s Utopia #1

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By: A.B. Timothy

Discourses of Raphael Hythloday, Of the Best State of a Commonwealth

This first section begins with a great deal of people being introduced to the reader. King Henry VIII sent our author, Thomas More, to Flanders to be ambassador to Prince Charles. More was a companion to Cuthbert Tonstal, a recently named Master of the Rolls. It is clear that More holds Tonstal in very high esteem, as he says anything he would say about him would be like the proverb, “Show the sun with a lantern.” Almost a “you had to meet him” commendation. According to the introduction from the copy I have, Tonstal was a rising churchman, chancellor to the Archbishop of Canterbury (1515), later he was made Archdeacon of Chester before finally being made Master of the Rolls in 1516. Certainly, this is a man of great accomplishment. Next, we meet the Margrave of Bruges, who led the men appointed by Prince Charles to meet with More at Bruges. Even though he was not the leader, George Temse, Provost of Casselsee, “was esteemed wisest, and…spoke for the rest….” (More) He was also a man of law, much like More himself was, having studied law in London after leaving Oxford. After their meeting, the men left, back to Brussels to find out what the Prince wanted. More went to Antwerp and met with several visitors, among whom was Peter Giles, a man whom More cannot speak highly enough of. Such goodly was his company that it “lessened any longings to go back to [his] country and to [his] wife and children….”(See footnote 1) (This Peter fellow must have been quite the conversationalist.)

It was this Giles fellow who would introduce More to the roving Portuguese Philosopher called Raphael Hythloday, the very same spoken of in the title of this section. This man had traveled far and wide with an explorer of renown who is called Americus Vesputius in these pages, but we know better as Amerigo Vespucci, the explorer after whom the American Continents get their names. Having accompanied this great man on three of Vespucci’s four voyages, Hythloday chose, along with 23 other men, to remain ashore at the farthest place Vespucci would explore. However, Hythloday did not wish to die there, in some far off unknown corner of the world, and therefore set out with 5 men. They traveled through many countries before, by God’s grace, finding Portuguese ships to carry the philosopher home that he might return to his native country.

Note: Raphael Hythloday’s name means “knowing in trifles”. He is a fictional character, through whom Thomas More told the tale of his Utopia.

This philosopher is learned in Latin and Greek and has applied himself more to Greek because of his love of philosophy. More claims the Romans left no value in Philosophy, save Seneca and Cicero. I don’t know that I agree, but this belief, coming from More, makes sense given that the Renaissance was focused on a revival of Greek culture and philosophy, not Roman.

For the next few pages, Hythloday regales us with the story of his adventure. They travelled, furnished by some unnamed lord of some unnamed county, south, over the equator and down into another land. More uses a desert landscape as a sort of liminal transition place between civilized hubs. Perhaps the fantastical things seen by Hythloday as he continued south could be chalked up to heat stroke. There in the south, they found “nations, towns, and cities, that had not only mutual commerce among themselves and with their neighbors, but traded, both by sea and land, to very remote countries.” (More) At first, all they found were small, flat, perhaps fishing-style vessels, but then they found ships quite large and familiar to their cohort. Hythloday was welcomed quickly and warmly, for he taught these sailors, who already knew of Astronomy and navigation, the use of the “needle”, of which they were ignorant.

Note: The “needle” here is talking about a magnetic compass.

More and Giles asked Hythloday about the institutions and more noble things of the cities, but did not ask about monsters.

Conclusion

I have read and notated above 6 pages of the story proper. My E-Reader says I am about 8% of the way through the story as a whole, but that is only because I read the introduction yesterday, which I used for reference here today, but did not notate in its entirety. These six pages were a good introduction to the story and the device by which More intends to tell it at length. They are also about ten percent of the entire first-named section, “Discourses of Raphael Hythloday, Of the Best State of a Commonwealth.” I will likely read and notate the rest of this section and the book as a whole. I will see you all tomorrow with the next section.

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An Assassin is Brought to Justice

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A Short Story by A.B. Timothy

The grass of the forest floor tickled the soles of Fenreir’s feet as he stalked his prey. These forests had been Fenreir’s home for decades now, and he had called a little village his home for almost as long. When they found out about his hunting skills, they quickly welcomed him into their fold. Now, as he aged, his skills had begun to wane, but he still insisted on carrying his own weight. He told the village priest that he would hunt until the day the gods hindered his movement. Unless he was unable to hoist himself from his bed in the morning, he would hunt and provide for this place that had sacrificed so much for him.

There was a great buck before him now, a male of the commonly hunted deer species in these parts. It was likely twice the size of Fenreir himself, and if he could take it down and bring it in, it would feed half the village. Other hunters had offered to attend him on these hunts, but he felt they were only trying to pity him. A decade before, he had taken apprentices and had taught them the ways of the hunt: how to stalk, how to read the forest, and how to kill, but now they wanted to pity the old man and help him when he was the only reason they knew their blackberries from the deathfruit.

He raised his bow and drew back the fresh string on the old bow. His biceps tensed, and his brown eyes focused. His slim body tightened to steady his breathing for the killshot. The leaves of the bush he hid in did not so much as move in the wind as he loosed his fingers. The arrow flew true and pierced the chest of the great beast. Fenreir knew from experience that the buck was dead, even if that fact took several seconds to register in the brain of the great beast.

At that moment, a blood-curdling cry split the air from gods knew how far away. The hunter whipped around to look for the source of the sound; the knife slipped free from its sheath on his waist purely on instinct. When he saw no immediate danger, he looked up, through the canopy of the forest, back the way he had come, and saw a pillar of smoke rising high into the clouds.

The buck watched as his killer leaped from the bush and ran through the foliage away from the kill. He groaned and fell forward into the dirt as he died.

Fenreir was back on the outskirts of his village, Konray, and orbited the place he called home, looking for the danger. Finally, through an opening in the homes that let him see straight to the village center, he saw that the temple was burning and the priests were on the ground. The whole village center was filled with villagers. Fathers, mothers, children, holy men and women, and elders watched as a company of soldiers surrounded them and held them all at swordpoint.

“…my father!” The man who looked to be in charge of the lot of soldiers held a knife to the throat of their high priest. “He killed the man who allowed these pagan practices to persist in our Great God’s land. He killed the source of the mercy you benefited from so greatly.” Fenreir recognized the voice but thought it was wrong. This man was dead; the hunter knew that. Could this new man be related to that old voice?

“Tell me where he is, or all of your holy ones die with their pagan temple.” Fenreir had moved through the alleyways to get close enough to see the fear in the eyes of all the women and children. “Tell me!”

Fenreir recognized the garb of the soldiers. These were imperial men, soldiers from the capital itself. What were they doing out here?

Fenreir called out, stepping out of the shadows, “Stop! Don’t hurt the old man!” He realized he was speaking in the Imperial tongue, which none of the villagers even knew. That was probably why they weren’t responding to the demands of this nobleman.

“Rek orj, thun, ojkat!” the high priest told Fenreir. It meant, “Don’t concern yourself, old hunter, run!”

In their tongue, Fenreir told the priest, “I can’t do that.”

“You, hunter! You would take this old man’s place?” the nobleman demanded.

“Who are you looking for?” Fenreir asked the man, his hands raised as he continued to approach the man.

“Take those head coverings off, man, let me see your face.”

“It seems neither of us can get a straight answer from the other,” Fenreir said as he took off the coverings that covered his forehead and mouth while he hunted. A breeze caught his hair and blew away a bit of the sweat that had been coating his forehead.

The Nobleman threw away the elder, unharmed, Fenreir thought from the lack of blood, and pointed his sword at the hunter. “It’s you! I’ll kill you! Guard, give him your sword. I will not kill him unarmed like some filth-ridden assassin.”

One of the soldiers near them, with a confused look on his face, tossed Fenreir his sword. A few of the other guards had stepped forward to help their lord kill the old hunter. “Stay back!” The Nobleman insisted, “This kill is mine, just close ranks, ensure he does not run. Rats are known to run when their lives are in danger.”

“Who are you, boy, and why do you desire death?” Fenreir asked the noble.

“You don’t recognize me? They say I have my father’s eyes. Look into them and see if you find the eyes of the man you killed.” The Nobleman took a step forward and brought his blade down to strike at the older man.

Fenreir parried the strike and side-stepped another blow. The old hunter was trying to look into his opponent’s eyes. Could it be true? Could some poor orphan that he had made in his old life have found him all the way out here? Then Fenreir saw in the rage-filled eyes of the Nobleman the eyes of the old Emperor. That made him stumble. His sword was knocked aside, and he felt a gash open on his chest. He fell to his knees.

“Know me! Ye people, know your emperor. I am Jonathan the First of his name.” Emperor Jonathan picked up Fenreir’s weakening body by the hair. He dragged the old man before the villagers, who had treated him like family for decades. “I name this man, Fenreir the Subtle, assassin of the guild, slayer of my father, and reuiner of the Empire. Know you of his past! I demand that you know! Would any stand for this man?”

“Fenreir, do you deny any of this?” asked the village elder.

The old assassin weakly shook his head. “I cannot.” Fenreir remembered it now. His last kill was over three decades ago. The Emperor of the Silver Throne. The only witness was the man’s son. That boy must have made him and spent his life hunting him.

“I speak for my people, my lord; we did not know of this man’s treachery. Do with him what you will, we will not resist you.”

“So, you savages do speak!” The man pointed at the gathered villagers and commanded his soldiers, saying, “Kill them all and make sure Fenreir can see each die. The Empire will no longer suffer the pagan to live.”

Fenreir felt his lifeblood seeping out onto the dirt. He would die with his people. “Oh, no, you don’t,” Emperor Jonathan hoisted the dying man back to his feet. After the horrors subsided and all the village had been slaughtered before the assassin, Emperor Jonathan spoke, “Look at them all, look at their innocent pagan blood, know, assassin, that this blood is on your hands. Now, with your final thoughts being the knowledge of the cost of your murderous ways, go and be with them in the fires of eternal damnation.”

Fenreir felt a sharp pain in his scalp as his hair was given to someone else to hold. The Emperor stepped in front of his father’s assassin. No more words were spoken, and the last sight that Fenreir beheld was that of his old life catching up to him.

January Goals!

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2026 has just begun! Let’s set some goals, shall we?

Social Media Goals

Novel Goals

> X Growth
I intend to reach 220 Followers on X before the end of the month. I am at 190 currently.
> A Weekly Short Story
I plan to edit or write a short story at least once a week to release alongside my Newsletter.
> A Weekly Newsletter
I plan to put out a weekly Newsletter covering what I wrote for my blog that week and what I did in pursuit of my creative goals that week.
> Daily Motivational/Non-fiction blogs
I plan on putting out 4 or 5 blogs every week discussing writing, editing, and life.		The Shards of Arthur’s Shield <
█░░░░░░░ 12%
My goal for January regarding this novel is to have the whole of it edited to my standards so I can send it off to a professional editor by the end of the month.
The Early Years of a Great Mage <
I will be placing this on the back burner until I have TSOAS off to a pro-editor.
Brothers’ Feud <
I will be placing this on the back burner until I have TSOAS off to a pro-editor.

How’s it going?

January is just beginning, but with December behind me and the whole of 2026 before me? I am feeling hopeful for the first time in a long time. Please pray for me if you are a praying kind of person.

It’s all about sticking to it! Feel free to subscribe to this blog to see how my works progress, and also send your email my way so I can get you added to the weekly newsletter.

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Fortis: The Return of the Vulture King, a Review

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By: A.B. Timothy

Fortis: The Return of the Vulture King, by C.K. Kesterson, is a book filled with vibrant fantasy, explosive fight scenes, and relatable characters who feel real. Whether you are looking to buy a clean adventure book for a middle-grade reader in your life, or you are looking for an easy-to-follow, fun adventure to go on, this book is for you.

Kesterson does an amazing job writing boys who feel true to life. I remember what it was like being a tween and feel as though both Lucian and Tomas embody those memories with ease. C.K. Kesterson clearly draws on his experiences as a father to put his sons in the story, giving us compelling, if sometimes less than intelligent, characters. Granted, knowing how I was as a young boy, the lack of intelligence makes the experience that much more authentic sometimes.

The companions who come alongside the heroes throughout the story are very well written and true. They don’t just automatically go along with what the boys say because the boys are the main characters, and the plot demands it. They push back when two random children show up on their doorstep and try to get help from them.

The villain of the story, the titular “Vulture King”, is suitable for a middle-grade fantasy story. You will not see the depths of Jordan’s “Dark One” or the imbecility of Wiley Coyote, but you will also never feel safe in the presence of the villain, which is perfect.

I highly recommend this book for parents looking for a clean adventure for their children to read that isn’t one of the classics from the 20th century.

The Dreaming Pianist

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A Short Story written by Logan Peterson

Edited by A.B. Timothy

(For context: This was written by a man in the First Person Perspective of a young female character. This is about two characters from the Historical Fiction W.I.P., Cornelius: The Son of Peter.)

I sat at the piano, as I had every day for the last few months, typing the notes of this newly imported song. A boy I liked had come home from one of his adventures on the sea with his father singing it, and I begged my pastor, in secret, of course, if he would write to the composer and get a copy. Dueil Angoisseux, written by Christine de Pisan, was such a beautifully haunting song. Another plus to it was that Claes Cornelissen had seemed to memorize all of it during his recent time in France. That boy could make a sparrow faint with his tenor voice; no wonder Pastor was so anguished when he stepped down from the boy’s chorus to be his father’s first mate.

I wished I could go on these wonderful adventures and see the world… but my father was only a baker, and I, a poor baker’s daughter. Maybe he’ll take me on his ship and on an adventure, one day, after we are married and I’ve had our daughter, Elissa, and a son for his name’s sake. Then we’ll grow old together and… Then I heard him.

As I sat there, playing the beautiful notes and moving with the melody as it moved my mind from sorrow to love and back again, I heard him. A door shut at the end of a hall, and footsteps in time with the song. As if he’d been singing the entire song so far, Claes’s tenor voice rang down the hall, filling my ears with the hauntingly beautiful French lyrics: 

“Princes, priez à Dieu qui bien briefment,
Me doint la mort, s’autrement secourir…”

He continued the chorus even as I trailed off. My fingers were frozen from sheer enrapturement. My mother and everyone else I know would tell me I am too young to be in love, but how could I not be with a voice so sweet and inviting? How could I not fall for a man who so neatly embodied the knightly myth at such a young age? Fierce and adventurous but simultaneously gentlemanly and kind. I stood from the piano and turned to him. He’d just recently turned fourteen, and I had done the same. His beautiful tenor left the room with a resonance I felt down my spine.

I took a step towards him and he towards me as we sang the last line together.

“Et si ne puis ne garir ne morir.”

He pulled me into an embrace and bent his face down to mine. I closed my eyes and felt his lips on mine…

“Margaret!” I shot up in bed at the sound of my voice being called. “Margaret, are you napping again?” My mother opened the door to my room and caught me on my bed with bed hair. “Girl, get up, you can’t go and see that Cornelissen boy looking like a sleeping troll now, can ye? Besides, you need to help your father with the final loaves for the day before you can go anywhere.”

How Warsingers Fight

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A Short Story from the World of “The Battle of Johanna Valley”

By: A.B. Timothy

Zennith was a young lad sitting under the tutelage of a veteran warsinger. His attire was that of the standard youth, a plain brown tunic with trousers to match. His eyes were a deep, almost black, blue; his face was round and pudgy; his hair was blonde and well-kempt. His mother refused to let him out of the house if a comb hadn’t at least touched his hair.

The young man sat in a semi-circle that surrounded their teacher, the veteran warsinger. They all sat on the ground in an attempt to be as connected to the earth as they could manage inside this building. Around them were decorations that reminded them they were in school, tools of math, books of language, and implements of science. But now, all the young boys in the school had gathered here to learn from a master, just as the young girls of the school gathered in a different classroom to learn from another teacher, their secrets.

That day, the warsinger, Master Henry, was teaching the children a new song. This song was a song of protection. Henry began in a low baritone, as he had spent the last week teaching them all the fundamentals of Warsinging, strength is found in the deep bass notes. “Oooh shield strong, shield wide, brush our enemies away and put them aside.”

The melody stayed in the lower register of young Zennith’s voice. He sang the song and tried to follow his teacher’s vocal footsteps. The veteran’s voice became manifest in their air, a blue shield sprang into being, its color was a deep, barely translucent blue. Zennith knew that this meant the shield was strong and unlikely to break. When the young singer tried his own, it too became manifest in the world. A small blue shield floated in front of him, almost the same color as the sky, very easy to see through. His voice was not deep enough, his notes were pitchy, but the air heard his song and granted him protection.

Henry looked around the small semi-circle of young boys who were trying their part in the song of protection. Several of them managed to create a little shield, like Zennith, but others were not getting low enough with their voices, or their notes were too pitchy. He sang the song for them again, and again they all tried. They did this call and response for an hour before Henry called it for the day.

“You all have the gift of Warsinging, children, but some are tenors, and some are basses, and some are baritones. Take young Jor, his shield is light and you can almost not even see it, for his voice is naturally higher than most,” Jor blushed at first, but then Henry continued, “but now look at Zennith’s shield. Strong, and it got darker with each attempt, for his voice is naturally lower than most. However, next week, after I have given you your lore for the day, we will be learning a new song, a song of speed. I can say with certainty that Jor will be outpacing all of you before the day is out, and Zennith may be behind the group. This is not to belittle nor to bolster Jor or Zennith,” Henry explained, “rather this is to help you all understand. Each gift is different, but all are needful in the fight. Sopranos, altos? Those ranges are even more vital, some argue, than we bass clef ruffians. Your sisters or mothers may have learned some of those skills in school. Can anyone tell me what they do?”

A boy named Ramth raised his hand. Zenith knew he had three sisters and a very influential mother. “Yes, Ramth?”

“Well, sir, the higher voices are able to move things even faster than tenors, which allows them to bind wounds, light fires, and restart hearts,” Ramth said.

“Very good. This is why most hospitals will be staffed with alto nurses and soprano doctors. You will rarely find bass surgeons because of what some true basses have learned they can do with their gifts, but those men are rare.” Henry stood from his teaching chair and straightened his blue tunic, and swept the legs of his pants clean with a few brushes.

“That is enough lore and training for today, boys, now go home and be good sons.” Henry returned to his desk and began marking things off on a sheet of paper. Zennith stood and followed the crowd of students out of the classroom.

Zenith returned to his home, where he prepared for his extracurriculars. Mostly, his brother, who was five years his senior, would be home soon, and he would continue to teach his younger brother swordplay. It was good practice for Hock, Zennith’s older brother, as he was on the dueling team at the local youth school, and it was good foundations practice for Zennith as he hoped to join his brother on the team next year.

Hock was a tenor and ran in the yearly tenor race, so he had made Zennith promise not to use song in the duel. Duelists on the team had to wear mouth guards that muted them to prevent a tenor from merely outrunning a bass. Dueling was not about who could Warsing the best, but rather who knew the duel the best. This, they had been told, prepared the boys for real war. In those real battles, they did not wear mouthguards, but neither did the enemy; to tenors and basses used their voices to counteract each other. Shield walls grew from the ground in front of choirs of basses, and tenor soloists would have to run around the wall before they could close the gap and do any damage. At least, that’s how the stories went.

Zennith was practicing sword forms in the field behind his home when Hock arrived. The two brothers clapped their wooden swords and took their stances. Zennith was warmed up from the forms and Hock from the practice at school. They each put in their mouthpieces and went at it. Zennith was smaller, but sometimes faster than his brother, so he was able to win a few points, but the points that Hock scored were draining. Zennith received a bruise on his calf from a smack Hock gave him with his sword. The bruise drained his energy and sapped him of strength. It was less than five minutes later that Zennith surrendered the duel.

“You’ve got to work on defense. Your speed is good, Zennith, but if I can land those hits, your speed does not matter one bit.” Hock tapped his brother’s calf with the point of his wooden practice blade.

“Well, in a real fight, I’ll have my Warsong to defend me.” Zennith protested.

“And that’s why we practice with these,” Hock gestured with the mouthpiece he was still holding. “In a real fight, your only hope against a Tenor Assassin is your skill and instinct with the blade. He’d cut your vocal cords before you could get a single bar of a protection song out. Come on, let’s go again.”

They both took sips of water before putting their mouthpieces back in. Zennith attacked first. His sword flew from targeting one of his brother’s temples to the next, his hands twisting in the air. Finally, his brother caught his blade and threw it up, pushing Zennith back and pressing the offensive.

Hock pressed his brother hard, using up a reserve of energy he found to force his brother to practice his defence. To Hock’s pleasure, Zennith held his defensive line well. Hock tried all of his usual tricks and feints, but Zennith had been ready for each one. He stabbed at an opening in his brother’s right guard, but his thrusting sword was met with a sweeping reposte. Zennith’s blade knocked Hock’s aside and, in an impressive display, the young warrior brought his sword around in a defensive twist and put it right under Hock’s chin.

“I yield!” Hock cried, spitting his mouthpiece out. That made the score one-one. They each took a few moments to ready themselves for the inevitable tie-breaker.

They took their battle stances again and put in their mouthpieces. Just as Zennith went to move in, they heard, “Boys! Dinner!” They both sighed and lowered their blades; they would have to have their tie-breaker another time.

Christian Fantasy in History

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By: A.B. Timothy

Have you ever thought about what real Christian Fantasy would look like? Did you immediately imagine King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table? Well, what about everything else?

The Smiting of the Assyrians

The first place we can look for Christian Fantasy is no further than the Bible and all the epic battles of the Old Testament.

One comes to mind that was very fantastical. In 2 Kings 19, the Assyrian army was gathered to war with Jerusalem, and all hope seemed lost, until the angel of the Lord swept down with one mighty strike and slew 185,000 Assyrians.

The Heroism of Christ

Moving forward in history, we can look to the heroism of Christ. All stories throughout time converge on Christ. Time itself is split in two by his coming. B.C. “Before Christ” and A.D. “Anno Domini” (which is, being interpreted, “Year of our Lord”).

His heroism in laying His life down for the sins of the World, paying a debt He did not owe, for unworthy people, laid the foundation for every heroic sacrifice since and was the fulfilment of every heroic sacrifice before.

Constantine the Great

Moving forward in time again, another example of Real Christian Fantasy is Emperor Constantine. This man was the first Christian Emperor of Rome and oversaw the Council of Nicea, but how he got there from paganism is something straight out of a Fantasy Novel.

Before the Battle of Milvian Bridge, in 312 A.D., it is said that Emperor Constantine the Great received a vision from heaven of a cross and the words “In Hoc Signo Vinces,” which means, “In this sign you shall conquer.” He did just that, going on to win the battle and become known as a Great Roman Emperor.

The Salvation of Vienna

Forward again we march through time, this time landing on a legendary battlefield, one that likely inspired the charge of the Rohirrim at the Battle of the Pelennor Fields in “The Return of the King.”

In 1683, the Christian city of Vienna was under siege from the Ottoman Empire, and all hope had been lost. In spite of their hopeless state, the men of Vienna fought on for nearly two months. Until, at last, on September 12, Vienna was freed by a decisive charge by the Polish-Lithuanian Winged Hussars. Who rode with power in their lances and Christ in their hearts.

Conclusion

In conclusion, Christian Fantasy has a unique bend to it, in that it is a subgenre of fantasy with a supreme wealth of historical backing and amazing references to draw from. Time fails me to mention the heroic pursuits of the Crusades, the exploits of the Spanish Conquistadors, or the Christian miracle of even modern wars like the First and Second World Wars. Perhaps this blog will need a sequel at some point.

What is your favorite moment from Christian History that could read like it’s from an Epic Fantasy series but is real!

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The Mad Man of the Tower

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Taken from The Shards of Arthur’s Shield

Written & Edited by A.B. Timothy

The room was filled with those same glass instruments Thomas had seen in his dream. They covered arched tables that lined either side of the circular room. Thomas looked around and saw a man in small clothes huddled against the wall near what appeared to be a chest that had been flung open. Thomas recognized the chest and then turned. Across from the chest, there was a table with a dozen books open and strewn about. There was a space in the middle of the books where the sword he had seen in that same dream must have been recently.

Thomas took note that the only sounds were his knightly armor creaking and shifting as he moved, and the sobs of a man in the corner. “You, man, you aren’t the one I saw in my vision. Who are you?” Thomas asked the man huddled in the corner. He was covering his face and weeping.

Thomas heard him say, “I betrayed my king and killed so many of my people. I am nothing, I am dirt, I am the worms beneath the dirt, I am the invisible creatures upon which the worms feast. Oh LORD, GOD, Forgive me.” His ramblings were those of a madman. Not another one. Thomas silently prayed.

“Come to man, the chest is open, you are free. If you wish to atone, start by helping the Lord’s servant in his quest.” Thomas took several steps closer to the man.

“NO!” The man cried. He flung out a hand, and Thomas felt a force of air crash into him. It almost threw him backwards, but he managed to recover his balance before falling. “Don’t come any closer! You are his spirit returned to kill me. Old Friend, I’m sorry, PLEASE HEAR ME, what I did to you, and the weakness of my flesh, they torment me.” He broke into sobs, “plea-e-e-ese.”

“I assure you, I have not come to kill you.” Thomas put his sword away as a sign of trust. “I’ve already killed one man, and watched a good friend die, I don’t intend to suffer the sight of another man’s death, at least not this month.”

“You, aren’t you him? I recognize his spirit in you.” The man uncovered his face and pointed a shaky finger at Thomas. “Arthur, please, return to your place in the West. I-I will join you there once Merline says I have atoned. Go, please.”

“I can’t do that, Lancelot.” Thomas realized who he was speaking with. Arthur’s best friend turned betrayer was the madman of the tower. “I have come for the shard of my shield that resides here.”

“Your shield?” Lancelot clawed at his head, like he was trying to physically pull a memory up from the depths of his mind. “No, no, you can’t have that!” The man was suddenly furious. “I won this piece from you in our battle at Alnwick. It’s my prize!” The man went from mournful sobs to screams of rage in a flash.

Thomas stepped back as the man stood from his cowering state against the wall. As Lancelot rose, he went from wearing rags to being covered in gleaming steel armor. He and Thomas were transported. The room around them fell away, and Lancelot grew distant. The place elongated as it filled with sand and dirt. Above them, the roof disintegrated to reveal a bright grey sky. In the middle of the room was a long railing. At either end of the railing were horses clad in haraldry, one the three bendlets of Lancelot’s own and the other had the mended shield on a field of blue, almost black, speckled with stars. Thomas also realized that his armor had gone from the shining grey of steel to a stained dark black. His Lady Alice’s favor was still on his arm, its decorated white stood out against the black.

Thomas looked to where Noah was standing off to his side and saw that the boy was holding a helmet and a lance. The helmet had a wreath around it that was black and white. He took the helmet and put it on. The first thing he noticed about the jousting helmet was how limiting the field of vision was. He worked through his instincts and mounted his horse before taking the lance from his squire. As he settled into the saddle, he felt a strange extra object hanging from his belt on his backside, a dagger? He did not have time to check.. Noah stepped back, the shock on his face slowly diminishing into acceptance. Thomas looked down the field and saw Lancelot take his helmet and lance from the air.

Thomas mounted his shield onto his shoulder and, when a horn blew, he kicked his horse’s side. The mare started on a trot. Lancelot had begun his own trot. Thomas had to calm his nerves and empty himself again, just as he had done with Sword Breathing. He let the horse, the lance, and the field take all the space in his mind. He called upon some deep instinct, the same that had given him words to say in times past, now guided him as his horse began to gallop.

Thomas lowered his lance and felt the tip strike true. In the same moment, he too was struck in the shoulder with a mighty blow. Both riders were thrown from their horses. The squires ran and found the reins of the horses before they could trample their riders and pulled them off the field.

Thomas was groaning on the ground where he had landed. His shoulder was blackened; he could just tell from the pain, and the air had fled his lungs at the impact. He steadied his breathing first, then began to rise. When he rose from the ground, he found that Lancelot was already on his feet and walking towards him. The knight of legend had lost his helmet, but Thomas’s had remained attached to his head. The difference in fields of vision would be apparent in the fight, so Thomas quickly threw his own away.

The next motion was to take his sword and shield from Noah, who had brought them to him. He flexed his grip on the sword and stood ready for Lancelot’s attack. Lancelot continued marching towards Thomas, now having collected his own sword and shield. Thomas had not realized before, as the mounting of the horses and the joust were so quick, but the stands around the arena were not empty. They were filled with people Thomas recognized: his family and friends from Alnwick and clergy who had ministered to him both in Alnwick and Camelot. Even Jonathan and, strangely enough, Darek. The Steward of Camelot presided over the duel, and his family was there too, including Princess Alice.

Thomas heard the creaking and groaning of Lancelot’s armor as he raised his blade to strike. That warning was enough to allow Thomas to raise his shield. The Mad Knight’s sword bounced off Thomas’s defense.

“Sir Lancelot, you would risk your life for a souvenir? A piece of a shield that does not even belong to you?” Thomas asked.

Lancelot had no words, only striking at Thomas again. This time, the young knight caught his opponent’s blade with his own and carried it around so he could get close and shove the man. Thomas managed to put Lancelot on the back foot. As this old man stumbled back, Thomas saw a vision, no, a memory. He had shoved him like that before. A rage filled his muscles as he began an offensive. “You betray me, then raise an army against me?” Thomas yelled, indignant. “You would rebel against your king who so graciously let you walk, a free man, out of his castle. I could have hung you!” Thomas struck at the old man’s defense. This was not right, this was not him. Thomas was a spectator in his own body, but the pain and the rage felt so real.

He took in a deep breath, sucking in all of the pain, anger, and betrayal. He let them go and saw only a weak, frail old man whose defenses were dwindling. Lancelot had acted on lust, Thomas could recall the story now: Lancelot had bedded Queen Guinevere and emotionally crippled his king. The rage that filled him made sense with that revelation, but it was not made right by it. Forgiveness is The Way. Punishment, by God, inflicted by His church, on both the Queen and the knight, and perhaps a stripping of rank, were due, but death? That was for the Church to decide, not Arthur.

Something broke through his practiced breathing and screamed. “I showed you mercy before, I gave you grace after you sold me for less than even thirty pieces of silver. What did I get, poisoned? Cursed to die away from my beloved home, because of your lusts.”

“Perhaps you had first betrayed your wife, neglected her as her husband, always waging your constant campaigns in the north and against the Saracens. Your wife was cold. I just gave her warmth.” Lancelot pushed back, youth returning to the frail old man.

They went back and forth like that for several minutes. The duel became one of silent ice-cold hate. Thomas knew that this would not end peacefully. He also agreed with Arthur. Lancelot had been given grace twice, and both times he had gone behind Arthur’s back. First to raise an army against him, then, after that army had been crushed, he fled the field of battle, Arthur specifically commanding the archers not to kill him while he fled, and went straight to Merlin in this very tower, only to disappear and never be seen or heard of again. His cowardice and dishonor enraged Arthur. 

Thomas had resigned to the fact that this man must die. He has lived an unnaturally long life, and it must be ended. The pair were in each other’s faces and had been pressing into one another with their shields. Thomas broke away from the press only to grab Lancelot’s shield and twist it off his arm. Even after that, one-handed, the legendary knight kept up his defense. Thomas had his own shield ripped off his arm, the pain leaving him groaning as he fought on with just his sword.

Thomas knew that he alone was no match for Lancelot and was, at that moment, thankful for his spiritual heritage. Arthur’s spirit maintained the combat, Thomas reasoned, as nothing else would have explained it. In the last moments of the duel, Thomas had his sword stripped from him, and he rushed inside Lancelot’s defense to wrestle the older man to the ground. Thomas’s youthful strength and Arthur’s know-how managed to disarm Lancelot and tackle him to the earth. Thomas straddled the knight and began laying punches into the man’s face. His right would strike the hardest, and Thomas knew the heart of Arthur was in those strikes. His left hand would hit almost as hard; those coming from Thomas’s own convictions.

“You betrayed my love for you.” His right fist fell.

“You betrayed the land of my fathers.” His left fist fell.

“You poisoned me.” His right.

“You killed the best of them!” His left.

“You broke my shield.” Right.

“You nearly killed me in the joust.” Left.

With a scream that was produced from centuries of pain, rage, and betrayal, Thomas ripped the dagger from his back and raised it into the sky. Both of his hands held the hilt as the sun glinted off the blade. Together, Thomas and Arthur plunged the knife downward. Thomas fell forward as his dagger sank into the sand where Lancelot had been.

In a blink, the blade was gone, the sand was gone, the arena was gone, and the spectators were gone. The world dimmed as the only sources of light became the tinted glass window of the tower’s room and the torch Noah still held. Thomas was in the middle of the room, kneeling, his fists holding one another as the dagger had vanished from his grip. Thomas looked and found the old knight sitting by the chest again, bloodied and bruised but breathing. The young knight stood to find his sword still at his side. Had the entire duel been an illusion? Clearly not, the old man was full of bruises, and Thomas could feel his own shoulder again, hot with pain from the jousting bruise.

“I have decided you are to die, Lancelot. I will not change my mind now that the dream is over. You are still at my mercy.” Thomas pulled his sword from his scabbard and readied himself to run the old knight through when someone tapped his shoulder.

“Sir Thomas,” It was his squire, Noah, tapping him, “open your eyes, look.”

Thomas blinked hard and saw that the old man had propped himself up against the wall and was holding something out in his hand. “You’re right, of course.” Lancelot coughed up blood. “You were always right, Arthur. All those years ago, your wars were just and true, your bed was cold because your people needed you elsewhere. I conspired against you and betrayed your love and trust. You trusted me with Camelot itself, and I… I failed you. My lusts overwhelmed me, and your wife did not resist me. I do not pretend to know her motives, but you were so benevolent. You let me leave with my head.” He shook that same head and bowed it.

“You are dying, are you not?” Thomas asked softly as he began putting away his sword.

“I am. When I fled the battle of Alnwick and watched my castle burn, Merlin offered me penance after I confessed to him. He told me my penance was to stay in that chest,” He gestured at the chest that was still open near which he had been huddled when Thomas first entered the room, “until the time was right. I offered him the piece of the shield I had taken from you, but he told me to keep it and to only give it to you.” 

“He knew me?” Thomas asked.

“Not by name,” Lancelot explained. “Well, at least he knew you not then. He said that there would come another soul who, like the Baptizer and Elijah, would embody the spirit of Arthur, noble and true. He also said that it would be someone willing to kill me for what I did.”

“That doesn’t sound like Arthur,” Thomas admitted.

“No, it does not.” Lancelot agreed. “But have no shame in that, Thomas, I knew Arthur when he was a lad, he was not always so noble and pious. He killed Sarcens for less than what I did.” Lancelot began spitting up blood. When the fit passed, he spoke again, “Take the shard, boy, and remember the story of Lancelot the Betrayer.”

Thomas reached out and took the shard.

“Become the Arthur Britain needs you to be.” With these words, Lancelot, the four hundred and seventy-three-year-old knight, passed away.

Thomas said a prayer for the man’s soul, hoping that his penance had truly been paid and that his soul could rest with God. “Go with God.” He said. The young knight watched as Lancelot’s body fell to dust in a blink, armor, skin, bones, and blood all just faded into a cloud of dust. At that, he stood with the shard, a much larger wooden piece lined with silver and covered in Celtic decorations, and turned to thank his squire.

“Thank you, Noah. You opened my eyes and saved me from the rage that threatened to consume me. You may yet sit at the round table.” Thomas approached the boy and showed him the shard.

Noah did not even look at the shard as his eyes grew wide, “Really?”

Thomas scruffed the boy’s hair and laughed, “One day, when you’re taller. For now, say a prayer for the dead and let us be off. The Shield of Britain must be mended.”

Announcment: Keeping the Beacon Lit Show

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By: A.B. Timothy

Good Day to all! I am happy to announce that I will be starting a weekly podcast-style show on X called “Keeping the Beacon Lit, with A.B. Timothy”. It will be all about how you can stay creative and remain inspired even when the darkness surrounds you.

The First episode will be this week on the 15th at 5 PM Mountain Standard Time!

That is all for today’s blog. Be sure to tune in over on X @ABTimothyAuthor and follow me there to stay in the loop!