LAST NIGHT I DREAMED OF OWEN DEATHSTALKER.
He was walking slowly through the empty stone corridors of his old Family castle, the Deathstalker Standing, on Virimonde. He was tall and rangy, with dark hair and darker eyes, moving with the quiet grace of long martial training. He looked like he’d had to walk forever to get home. His clothes were torn and blood-stained, topped with a great fur cloak. His face was tired and drawn, and his eyes were haunted and quietly sad. His footsteps made no sound at all as he strode slowly down the ancient flagstones; but then, he was a dead man, after all, walking through a castle that hadn’t existed for centuries.
He wore a sword on one hip and a gun on the other, though he always thought of himself as a scholar who became a warrior, almost against his will. Because he was needed. Because there was no one else. A man of peace and reason, destined and doomed to fight in one war after another, who fought for justice for all and knew so little of it himself. Not for him, the simple joys and comforts; of hearth and home and family, of children and grandchildren and peace of heart. Owen was a hero, and so he had died alone, far too young, and far from friends, saving all Humanity.
He overthrew the Empress Lionstone, destroyed her evil and corrupt system, and replaced it with the seeds of what would eventually become a Golden Age. He gave hope and freedom to all the people of the Empire, for the first time, and never lived to see any of it. Deathstalker luck, he would have said wryly, not complaining. Always bad. Destiny is a cold and heartless beast, and cares nothing for the pawns it sacrifices.
In my dream, I saw him walk into a gorgeously appointed chamber that hasn’t existed for over two hundred years, and I saw him greet his old friends and companions. Hazel d’Ark, ex-pirate and clonelegger, the one great love of Owen’s life. Jack Random, the professional rebel. Ruby Journey, the female bounty hunter, who never could resist a challenge. And the Hadenman Tobias Moon, who fought so hard for his own humanity. They all gripped hands and hugged each other, clapped each other on the back and on the shoulder, so happy to be together again. For all their differences, they were always friends.
Five ghosts, of the people they used to be, in the memory of a castle no longer standing. They laughed together, but I couldn’t hear them.
All gone now, long gone. Dead and gone, these two hundred years.
I miss them so much.
In my dream I called out to them, and Owen turned and looked at me. I tried to warn him, of the Terror yet to come, but he couldn’t hear me. Too many years separated us. Years, and more.
As I sit here writing this, burdened with memory, it’s hard to remember him the way he really was. The man, not the myth. The hero, not the legend.
Last night I dreamed of Owen Deathstalker and the way things were; and I wish, oh how I wish, that I could have slept and dreamed forever, and never had to wake up.