text: The next few days flew past for Christopher as he trained the soldiers in the morning and trained the corporal in the evening. His life was busy as ever and the note gathered dust in the drawer of his desk. Christopher rarely remembered it.
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  In the morning he came in from training and sat at his desk to rest for a moment. Christopher sighed and looked down. They are getting a lot better. He smiled and opened his desk drawer ready to start his work on the next project. What he found, however, was the note. Christopher paused and lifted it up again, rereading it.
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  Christopher shook his head, still unexplainable. He stood, walking out of the castle and towards the stables. As he entered the musty wood smell and the hay greeted him. With a smile, Christopher walked purposefully to his horse, Bartholomew’s stall. The great white horse neighed and stomped its hooves at the sight of its master. “There there, Bart, calm yourself.” The horse complied, the love for the young lord clear in its eyes and actions. He was a powerful thing, not even mud could cloud his purified look. Christopher murmured to the horse, “Ready for an adventure ride?”
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  Bartholomew neighed in agreement, approaching the saddles. Christopher smiled and buckled the saddle on, securing each part.
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  “Alright let’s go!” With a gleeful spring and a joyous grin, Christopher pulled the horse from his stall and swung onto the white, muscular horses’ saddled back. The two lone souls started to ride to the city gates. Soon a platoon of guards rode into line behind him and Christopher, disgusted by the extremities that the king’s battalion went to in order to protect him, urged his horse faster. I want to be alone!
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  Bartholemew obeyed, quickly picking up speed. The two raced through the town, scattering the townspeople. They watched as their lord dashed through the town, followed by around thirty soldiers on horseback trying to catch up. The ones who knew the young Wymond smiled, knowing the pressures of being a noble and enjoying the chase of the desperate soldiers, knowing they had no chance of catching up.
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  With a laugh and a whoop, Christopher burst from the Wymond settlement, blazing down the trails and looking back only for a moment as the following horsemen fell further behind. “I guess we should let them catch up a little bit at least… slow a little Bart.” The horse snorted and slowed. He looked at the dark-haired man on his back in a way that said, I could have lost them, you dolt. “I know buddy, but then it would have sent the entire Wymond Corps into a panic because I went missing and I had people trying to kill me.” You what? The horse curled an eyebrow, shook its mane, and slowed to walk a circle on the path while the dragoons continued to ride to them.
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  The mounted men arrived at Christopher's location and quickly surrounded the noble, all the horses facing outwards at the trees, the riders all bearing a sword at their waist and holding a flintlock in their hands. They aimed at whatever moved as if the leaves were going to try to attack.
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  With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, Christopher turned Bartholemew to the captain of the dragoons and regarded him for a moment. The man sat perfectly on the brown stallion, his balance perfected through long training. He held a slightly longer pistol in his glove marking him as an officer. His black-feathered helmet sits just right to make him look more intelligent. With a demanding tone, Christopher asked, “Okay… Captain, what’s going on?”
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  “What do you mean, Lord Wymond?” The man turned his steed towards the noble.
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  Indicating the soldiers around him Christopher sighed, “I mean,” he sighed, exasperated. “Why are your men (a) surrounding me, (b) aiming at everything with those pistols, and (c) armed as if going to battle?”
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  “Protection, sir. We care for your utmost safety and protection, nothing more.” The captain called to the squadron, “Dragoons! Form two lines behind five across, extras form the sides! Remain watchful. What is our duty?”
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  “Protect his lord Christopher Wymond at all costs, sir!”
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  “Get to it!” With a nod to the captain, Christopher started a gallop, not waiting for the dragoons to form up. He heard the quick claps of hooves falling in line and following him.
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  The horses raged through the forest, throwing dirt and grass from their hooves as they jumped and landed, ran, and slowed. Christopher was finally having some fun. He slowed Bartholemew when they arrived at his favorite place in the kingdom, a small upward hill to a simple tree and bench overlooking a waterfall and river below.
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  Christopher disembarked and patted the horse's neck in a good boy gesture. He went and stood at the edge, watching the water. “Disembark and secure the area!” The captain commanded the dragoons. They did so, taking up defensive positions and patrolling the forestry. Soon Christopher was on his back staring up at the clouds, not a worry touching his mind.
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  < - - - >
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  The group was heading back to the city with Christopher leading. His battalion of guards surrounded loosely, enjoying the sun and almost forgetting their purpose.
  Christopher urged his mighty horse past the others, speeding away, the others laughing, enjoying the competition.
  Ahead down the road, the unseen man sat in the bend of the tree, fingering his fine-cut blade. He smiled as the horse in the lead broke from the protection of the guards. He’ll never know who hit him. The man got to his feet in a low crouch, visually gauging when he would need to jump out to catch the unknowing noble. Right into my trap. He almost laughed at the simpleness of it all, but he refrained and waited quietly. His quarry drawing closer. With a quick, increasingly sweaty palm, he ran his hand over his bald head. Ready… wait for it, get set… GO!
  Christopher smiled to himself. This guy really thinks he can take me by surprise? He barely glanced along the road and had seen movement in the tree. Christopher laughed gleefully. He continued down the road at the same exhilarating speed, acutely aware of the ahead danger. As he drew near, he waited for the man to launch out at him. He did.
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  Christopher grinned again, and pulled back on Bartholemew’s reins, forcing the horse into a rear. The bald-headed man who had jumped in attack came crashing to the floor, but not before gripping the guard on Christopher’s shoulder, dragging him off his horse. He hit the ground with a thump. The noble rolled to his feet, turning towards his opposer. He struck out, fast as a snake, and connected his fist with the man’s ear. Stumbling yet managing to stay upright, the attacker wheeled towards Christopher. In an attempt to throw him off-balance, he drove his leg forwards before rotating his hips, and flat-palming Christophers’ breastplate. Christopher planted his feet and pushed against the force. He quickly struck the bend in his opponents’ arm before tripping him to the floor. He pulled his flintlock from his belt and held it levelly while he waited for his guard to arrive. They had seen what had occurred. “Stay on the ground if you know what’s good for you,” Christopher threatened. “I have about thirty guards and I have quite the aim as well.” He dictated the next words with sharpness, “You have no chance. None. Not even a sliver.”
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  “My lord! Are you alright?” The arriving soldiers quickly surrounded the noble and the prisoner.
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  “Yes, fine. This wannabe assassin was quite visible.” Christopher smirked, though it didn’t meet his stone-cold eyes. “Tie him up. We’ll have a little bit of fun with this one when we get back.” He quickly reholstered his weapon and mounted his horse.
  The plan worked perfectly. They actually thought he was the assassin. The hooded man smiled. He watched as the Wymond soldiers tied his ploy’s hands and feet together. The fools.
  The man smiled and raised the prototype rifle to his shoulder. He concentrated, staring down the sight for a long while. As he blew out he gripped the trigger and pulled carefully. With a final click and giant blast, the rifle kicked back into his shoulder and shot a hard, metallic ball at his prey. The billowing smoke was sure to give him away, he knew. The man quickly jumped from the rocky outcrop upon where he had sat. He didn’t need to see what happened next, his aim had been precise and the rifle had proven true. I’ll be rich.
  Christopher cried out when the round connected with him and tore through his flesh. The blood started immediately, gushing from the wound in his chest and saturated his cloak. He grunted and fell sideways off his horse. His body made a deep thump as he landed on the ground. He started to choke on his blood, the white liquid coming down his chest and to his lowered head. It filled his neck and dripped onto the dirt below him.
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  “Hofstetter! Reili! Get after that man!” The captain raced off, yelling more orders. “Help Wymond!”
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  Christopher barely heard the yelling and running around him. His eyes felt heavy and his ears were ringing. Wake up. Wake up Crìsdean. You will not die of this wound. With a sudden and painful gasp, Christopher opened his eyes wide and sat up. His hands groped at his chest, his hands finding the wound. The gaping hole, however, was not bleeding anymore. His hand came away, covered in the white blood that had covered his cloak and neck.
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  “Wait,” he croaked. “Why did you call me Crìsdean?” He looked around at the soldiers that remained with him. But they all gave him confused looks or shook their heads. Multiple of them were around him checking him over and making sure he was okay.
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  “Sir, I’ll need you to lay back. I need to check your main wound.” The soldier had a clean-shaven face, his uniform obviously younger than the others. Christopher looked the young soldier in his eyes and sighed, slowly laying back. He tilted his head forward to watch the man work. He was obviously very skilled in medical practices, Christopher noted. “Okay,” declared the soldier. “Your wound is pretty much healed, sir. We need to get you back to the fortress where you are safe. Everywhere else seems to be a battle of assassins. That’s for sure, sir.” He hesitated before standing up.
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  “Soldier,” said Christopher. “Who called me Crìsdean?”
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  “Pardon? I don’t think anyone did, sir. You may have hallucinated it… with all due respect… you should be long dead. That bullet would have smashed through your heart and you would have been dead in seconds.” The young soldier didn’t sound concerned that his lord had almost died, after all, he had almost died many times.
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  Christopher blinked. What? Nobody? “So nobody said anything to me? Nothing about me not dying?” The soldier shook his head and turned away. Then who…
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  Oh come on, Crìsdean, you aren’t that low-brained.
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  “Who said that?” Christopher’s eyes widened.
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  Angels and demons… Heaven and Hell… Holy and Fallen... Is any of this ringing a bell, Crìsdean?
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  Slowly Christopher stood up, “I don’t know who the hell you are, and I don’t know what you want.” His voice was icy, perhaps because of his near death.
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  Crìsdean Wymond. The name you hold is one of the holiest of holies. The meaning of Crìsdean is the bearer of the angel himself. You at least know who that is, yes? The voice held a taunting tone, but it had an underlying authority.
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  “Well… yeah. Of course. Everyone in the kingdom knows that! Easy, Angel Raziek.”
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  Archangel, the voice corrected, and he is lord of this entire kingdom. You, Crìsdean, bear him inside of you. When the time comes he will come down from the heavenly realm and will use you for his will. You are special, Crìsdean.
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  “Okay, but who are you?” Christopher gasped as a figure appeared from the trees. It wore gleaming golden armor and had flowy silver hair. His eyes, however, were more enrapturing than the rest of him, even his giant white-feathered wings. They were brilliant blue-gold with white pupils. The angels’ skin was a pure color of white. The angel spoke without moving his lips, and yet Christopher understood his words clearly.
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  I, Crìsdean Wymond, am your guardian.