C. R. Robinson

The dark figure was on his knees, panting. He wouldn’t beg for his life, even if he could have caught his breath. His body ached, but the pain was an old friend; it centered him.

He had done what was necessary to survive. It was easy for these two self-proclaimed virtuous warriors to punish those they didn’t understand. Those they despised. His adversaries were no different than himself, except they clung to a lie to avoid the discomforting knowledge of their deeds. But he didn’t lie to himself. He embraced his decisions.

He had been a holy warrior until the Society betrayed him. He had believed their lies, prayed their prayers, and trusted them. Now they have sent executioners to ensure he couldn’t intervene anymore. Once he had seen the light, he realized it was darkness. He had been following evil, nothing more.

The blood flooding his eyes blurred his sight as he stared at the ground. Frothy spittle discolored by blood dripped from his mouth. He ran his tongue across his teeth and recoiled as his tongue traced the jagged edges. No matter, his death grimace would be his last farewell to this world. Glory and peace would await him on the other side of the veil.

A woman stood over him. Her silvery tunic glimmered at the periphery of his dim vision. Her sword’s tip near his face emitted a faint golden aurora. The other warrior said, “Should we pray for his soul?”

“No. This fiend sold his soul a long time ago. Now’s the time for justice,” replied the warrior standing over him.

“Justice? You know nothing of justice,” he seethed.

Anger was building within him once more. Their insufferable prattling was driving him mad. He wanted it to be over; he was ready. “Just do it, you ignorant girl!”

The warrior kicked him in the back of the head, slamming him forward into the ground. He tasted the dirt, mingled with blood. Almost losing consciousness, he pushed against the ground and rocked back onto his knees, feet under his butt. Slumping forward, another glob of blood and spittle flowed out of his mouth onto his leg.

The woman standing over him raised her sword with alarming speed. He could hear her inhale a deep breath and mutter, “It will be my pleasure.” There was venom in her voice.

The man took a deep breath and felt no fear at all. He dropped his head forward, eyes closed. It was hard to maintain consciousness, and the pain was unbearable; an old friend saying hello. Memories raced through his mind, flashing across his vision. A life he hadn’t asked for, a life taken by the Society. A burning hatred filled the pit of his soul.

Something came to mind. A recollection of meditation, an incantation, and mumbled the words, but the woman standing over him didn’t care. No amount of begging could save him now. He didn’t want her pity.

The woman let out a grunt as she swung her sword downward, aiming for his exposed neck. The second warrior’s sword gleamed and hissed as it grated against her blade. Fire rippled along their edges. He turned to see that the flats of the golden flame-kissed blade had runes. An ancient blade.

“Stop!” exclaimed the second warrior. She, too, wore a bright-colored tunic with a lion’s head in red blazoned across her chest. “Listen. Listen to his words!”

They stood staring at the man who remained on his knees, leaning forward, hands resting in his lap. His shoulders slumped, and his head bowed. “For such an evil creature that had wronged so many, he seems at peace,” replied the first woman.

“Listen,” said the second warrior. There was a pause, then he started mumbling again. Both women’s eyes widened with recognition!

“I swear to be fearless in the face of your enemies. Be brave and honest to seek your love. Speak truth, even if it means my death. Protect the helpless and do no wrong. I pray you will give me the wisdom of a saint and the guile of a warrior.”

Hearing the Paladin’s Rite shocked the women. They had been hunting him for years, and here he was reciting the Paladin’s prayer. The man slumped over onto his side, breath shallow, while he continued to mumble the sacred words. Memories played out like a movie, his movie, though he felt detached from it all.

He sat at the dining room table. A chocolate cake with ten candles was on the table before him. Wrapped presents sat on the opposite side, near his father, who was toying with a camera. His dad loved taking pictures of special occasions.

His mom was lighting the candles. He recalled her flowery cologne and the feeling of her soft lips brushing against his cheek as he prepared to blow the candles out.

In an instant, the festive scene turned to chaos. A man appeared in the living room wearing black clothing, so black it repelled light. A jagged scar ran from his right temple along his jawline to the corner of his mouth. It made the man look like he was always sneering. Scarface grabbed the boy’s father by the shirt and threw him into a wall.

The boy sat there, motionless, as fear immobilized him. Scarface looked at him and smiled, but it wasn’t a warm smile. The father rose to his feet, weak, and tried to grab the intruder. Scarface was fast and slashed across the father’s chest with a sword. The father slumped to the floor. A short sword was in Scarface’s hand, a menacing black glint along its edge. The boy looked down at his father’s pale face in shock. The light in his father’s eyes faded as his gurgling ceased with a final spasm.

A cacophony of his mother’s screams filled the room. While he had been watching his father die, Scarface had grabbed her. The boy snapped his head towards the sound, unable to move his body. Time was so slow. Scarface gripped her neck, her feet off the floor, and her back against the wall. She flailed her fists against her attacker’s arms, to no avail. The boy watched in horror. Her beautiful face turned a reddish-blue, and her swollen tongue protruded from her mouth, eyes bulging. With a crack, her hands fell to her sides.

The man let go, allowing her body to fall to the ground in a heap. The boy looked at Scarface, then forced himself to look back at his mom, whose head rested at an unusual angle. She looked like a discarded rag doll. Scarface turned, and the boy knew it would be over soon, but he couldn’t close his eyes. He looked at Scarface and realized the man had a light complexion and dark black hair. His jaw was square with a dimple, and his close-set eyes were a brown, so dark, they looked like lumps of coal. Then there was his jagged scar.

The boy tried to scream, tried to move. Nothing. It would be over soon. The front door blew open. Shards of wood scattered into the living room as two men entered. They wore silvery-looking clothing with red wolves on their chests. Scarface looked at the boy, then back at the two figures standing at the front door, then ran into the kitchen.

The two men in silver pursued the murderer. The boy looked down at his birthday cake, candles flickering, coagulating white wax making little pools in the dark chocolate icing. His dead father laid to his left, a crimson pool forming around his head. A bloody halo. His mother laid to his right, her soft lips blue. Both parents were staring at him. Accusing him. Why didn’t you save us?

The two men in silver walked back into the dining room, where the taller man nodded at the other, who turned and walked through the house with trained precision and unemotional execution. The shorter man searched for something as the boy looked back down at his father’s face, which was staring back blankly, his accusation clear. Why didn’t you try?

The tall man used his fingers to extinguish the candles. The candles snuffed out… like his parents. The man, knight, warrior, whatever, grabbed the boy by the shoulders and looked into his face. The man had a crew cut and cold ice-blue eyes.

“Are you harmed?” The boy looked into his eyes, searching for comfort, compassion, something. The man’s breath smelled bitter and felt hot against his face. The boy said nothing and looked back down at his mom. He would never experience her tender kisses again. She needed me, and I didn’t even try to help her.

“Boy! Are you hurt?”

He was numb and wanted to die. He didn’t deserve to live. The second man walked back into the dining room. “The house is clear.”

“Okay, you know what to do. I’ll take the boy. We have little time.”

The tall man grabbed hold of the tablecloth and yanked hard. Everything on the table crashed to the floor. The cake flopped onto its side and tumbled to the floor. Some of it covered his father’s eyes. Everything went black. The boy could see a pattern. He realized it was his mom’s favorite tablecloth as light danced through the fabric. The tall man threw him over his shoulder. He could hear the voice of the second man. “It’s done. They won’t discover our presence here.”

The boy bounced as the man carried him out of his house. The only thing he could hear was the steady breathing of the man holding him. He considered yelling for help. Why bother? He didn’t help his parents and deserved whatever happened to him. The boy had no way of measuring time. It must have been a while because his ribs were hurting from being slumped over the man’s shoulder. He was thrown into a vehicle after several minutes.

He was afraid to move. After some time, the car became motionless, and the motor stopped. Voices drifted through the fabric, but he couldn’t make out the words. The click of the door latch boomed in the silence as someone grabbed him and removed the makeshift hood. He found himself in an old commercial building or warehouse. The tall man stood nearby, tablecloth in hand.

“You are in the Society now. The Society will be your family. It has saved your life, now you must learn to serve it.” Fatigue and grief took their toll on the boy as he sobbed. The tall man slapped him across the face. It was a stinging blow that snapped his head to the side. The man glowered at him as the boy rubbed his reddened cheek.

Sneering, the man said, “There is no room for weakness. You will learn.” The man raised his hand and motioned to a man in a cloth tunic. His complexion was dark, almost blue, with a beard of silvery-white whiskers across his chin. His eyes were a light almond, piercing like a bird of prey, and his off-white tunic had the same red wolf across its chest.

The tall man turned and walked away. The boy thought, hoped, that someone would help him. Explain why. Why did his parents have to die? Why was he there in that dismal place? He would learn all too soon.