Tears and the Heated Steel
folder
Original - Misc › Parody
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
921
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Original - Misc › Parody
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
921
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Tears and the Heated Steel
Tears and the Heated Steel
There is a man, named by the few who have seen him to be an assassin, a thief, a night-dweller, even a demon. He follows the pilgrims in their journey for repentance and forgiveness. No, he is not among them. He is not one who seeks salvation, neither does he know what their journey was for; he just was there, within the shadows of the forest, curious as to where their quest for penitence will take them.
Without solid memories of his past, he is not truly aware of his existence. Somehow, he finds himself drawn to the lumbering crowd of individuals, who differed from each other. He sees a series of identities and finds himself amused by the sheer diversity. This feeling of terminal joy, he begins to wonder what it was. As it dissipated, he desperately tries to revive the fleeting amusement. He decides to follow the horde, as in truth, no thing ever allowed him to realize the presence of his emotions. As he journeyed along the pilgrim’s track, as he begins to feel a variety of reactions from the wondrous swarm, scenes of who he was suddenly interrupt his hunger for feeling. Then does he begin to remember a distorted collection of massacres, triumphs, and guiltless sins. The disturbing flashes of serial slaughters fascinate him, and he finds himself attempting to collect these memories. He pursues them cautiously, hoping they do not become aware of their ceremonious revealing. He stalks through his mind as he stalks through the woods, and as every traveler is seen, a memory resurfaces, and the haunting dance of regret and disgust begins.
The man is not a man, but a boy; not truly a boy still, but not a man yet. Eighteen years young, he is deprived of sympathy, of compassion, of fear, and of true knowledge about the world. He merely tries to spread blood-soaked wings, to see if he can escape a tormented series of remembrances. He sees himself as a child, born into a life of servile obedience in a secret council that served the throne. The group was not a lawful band of noble knights and holy crusaders, neither was it of divine paladins and sacred healers. This order was of murderous assailants, “invisible” pillagers, night-stalking spies, and malevolent conspirators; this was the order of “The Cloaked Fire.” In a way, those who have seen him are right, he is an assassin, even a thief, and in ways more than one, a monster, but never yearned for this nefarious reputation. No, he was not one who understood what a name truly meant.
He grew up, taught in the discipline of the hidden blade, of swift assaults, and of unseen pursuits, but to be taught to realize the entity of those he murdered? No, he was never made to recognize the existence of another life; neither does he know that the things he steal are deemed valuable. He was never truly considerate of the possibility that material things might have meant something to those they are taken from. He was simply fed if he obeyed, praised if he did well, trained more if he is still capable, made to suffer if he failed, and isolated for months if he questioned. This recollection permitted the young man to admit his life was meaningless during the time of his servitude, and now, with the Cloaked Fire dispersed, he is without an identity, without a purpose, without subsistence.
The young man tries to stop his apprehension upon seeing a knight, across the foliage, riding a steed. By his side, his son, a squire is talking to him, and immediately, a memory burns through the stalker’s sight. He remembers a man, wearing clothes like the knight’s; he was a paladin of the sovereign. He had a sword, glorious and magnificent, and the king desired for it. It was the thief’s task to take the sword, and in the process, stake a dagger through the owner’s heart. He succeeded, and the moment became his first theft, not of a sword, but of a life. Shifting his focus to the young squire, he recalls time he spent with another squire, a squire who was petitioned by the clergy to be ex-communicated; however, the pope was kin to the squire, so he refused. It was then when the young man received a writ asking for the squire dead in the middle of the town square during the fête of the pope’s refusal. In the night, when the celebration was at its peak, the squire danced with many maidens who were glad to have him. As his concentration centered on the graceful movements of the effeminate bodies, he blinks his eyes as if to rest it for a brief moment from the sight of this fortunate night, and upon opening them, an arrow was lodged through his head, and he fell to the town square’s grounds, just as the writ desired. The celebrants were pleased, while the celebrators gasped, horrified. The young man shrugs off the memory and returns to following the amusing clan’s endeavor for clemency where the young man sees a yeoman ahead of the knight and the squire. Behind the girth of trees, the youth recognizes the man to be of a craft; this became a source of another terrifying remembrance. It was of a carpenter, his work was known through out many a city, and the secrets of his tools and his techniques became an obsession to a particular noble. When the carpenter refused to work for the wealthy customer, for he knew that it was his lingering motive to take the knowledge of his woodwork, it was within days when the young man was in the carpenter’s shop, with the craftsman’s tools in his pouch, notes tucked under his belt, walking over an oblivious body lying on the ground, whose eyes were at a blank stare and whose neck was sprouting red darkness.
There were others in the journey: a nun, a monk, a friar, a merchant, and many others. They all served as reminders of acts drenched in blood, of deeds scorched in torment, and of a trail carved in deceit, in fire. As he saw every individual in the pilgrimage, he saw the pain, the anger, the agony of those he murdered, stole from, tortured, and held captive in the name of the monarch’s selfishness, of the clergies’ greed, of the nobles’ envy, and of the superior classes’ desire for supremacy.
The young man stops, finding his eyes streaked in salt water. He begins to drown, drown in the liquid his eyes kept flowing across his cheeks, towards his mouth, his chin. He tastes some, but most just fell into the ground. He falls; the thud of his knees was audible; his sobbing became loud, and his presence was discerned by the entire forest, but only a healer heard him.
Moments into his crying, he hears footsteps towards him. He ignores them, choosing to wallow in his despair, in his sorrow.
“Are you alright?” A voice asks.
He looks up and sees a woman; she is from the pilgrimage, a sorceress, perhaps a healer. The young man turns his back from her and curls into a stance where he braced his knees towards his chin, and his side laid flat on the ground.
“Do you need….” The woman begins before the young man unleashes a frightening snarl that made eminent she was not wanted near him. She begins to walk away, and then she stops upon hearing the young man speak.
“I deserve to die,” the he morosely says, through a choking break from his crying.
She looks back to the vulnerable body, sensing regret in the youth’s voice.
“Why?” The woman asks, although she knew he would not speak anymore. She smiles a sad smile.
“Death is not deserved,” she began, “no one earns the privilege of death; it merely takes them when it is time.”
She looks down onto the ground, maintaining the heart broken grin, “Death is a luxury that allows us to not have to try anymore.” She stops, attempting to speak loud enough to breach through the young man’s cries. “To die is not punishment; it is an escape from our discontent because we have decided never to try to change ourselves for the better; it is because we stopped our attempts to make a world habitable for every living creature that we choose to kill each other, not because of justice, or anger.”
The sorceress looks at the lying figure again.
“I don’t know who you are, but, maybe, you have done something you wish you had not. Death will not change that. Nothing will.”
She sees him wince at the consolation, sensing dissatisfaction despite the comforting words.
“If you seek to be redeemed in the eyes of others, to be forgiven by the hierarchy, to be assured by the clergy that you are not an awful person anymore, you can take the pilgrimage with us; but if you truly seek to compensate for whatever you have done, it is a much simpler task.” She sensed that the young man has stopped crying.
Her smile became sincere in its happiness before she continues, “to live, to learn from the wounds yesterday has scarred you with, to recognize what you have done caused pain, this is true atonement, not to revel in self pity and the fragile life you can easily take. For to not allow yourself to suffer any further, to not cause others to hurt any more, it is redemption transcending forgiveness and reassurance from those we call supreme.”
Ending her statement, she turns her back to head to the pilgrim’s road, and continue her journey, leaving a broken man to realize the consecrated expedition for deliverance and salvation is not for him.
There is a man, named by the few who have seen him to be an assassin, a thief, a night-dweller, even a demon. He follows the pilgrims in their journey for repentance and forgiveness. No, he is not among them. He is not one who seeks salvation, neither does he know what their journey was for; he just was there, within the shadows of the forest, curious as to where their quest for penitence will take them.
Without solid memories of his past, he is not truly aware of his existence. Somehow, he finds himself drawn to the lumbering crowd of individuals, who differed from each other. He sees a series of identities and finds himself amused by the sheer diversity. This feeling of terminal joy, he begins to wonder what it was. As it dissipated, he desperately tries to revive the fleeting amusement. He decides to follow the horde, as in truth, no thing ever allowed him to realize the presence of his emotions. As he journeyed along the pilgrim’s track, as he begins to feel a variety of reactions from the wondrous swarm, scenes of who he was suddenly interrupt his hunger for feeling. Then does he begin to remember a distorted collection of massacres, triumphs, and guiltless sins. The disturbing flashes of serial slaughters fascinate him, and he finds himself attempting to collect these memories. He pursues them cautiously, hoping they do not become aware of their ceremonious revealing. He stalks through his mind as he stalks through the woods, and as every traveler is seen, a memory resurfaces, and the haunting dance of regret and disgust begins.
The man is not a man, but a boy; not truly a boy still, but not a man yet. Eighteen years young, he is deprived of sympathy, of compassion, of fear, and of true knowledge about the world. He merely tries to spread blood-soaked wings, to see if he can escape a tormented series of remembrances. He sees himself as a child, born into a life of servile obedience in a secret council that served the throne. The group was not a lawful band of noble knights and holy crusaders, neither was it of divine paladins and sacred healers. This order was of murderous assailants, “invisible” pillagers, night-stalking spies, and malevolent conspirators; this was the order of “The Cloaked Fire.” In a way, those who have seen him are right, he is an assassin, even a thief, and in ways more than one, a monster, but never yearned for this nefarious reputation. No, he was not one who understood what a name truly meant.
He grew up, taught in the discipline of the hidden blade, of swift assaults, and of unseen pursuits, but to be taught to realize the entity of those he murdered? No, he was never made to recognize the existence of another life; neither does he know that the things he steal are deemed valuable. He was never truly considerate of the possibility that material things might have meant something to those they are taken from. He was simply fed if he obeyed, praised if he did well, trained more if he is still capable, made to suffer if he failed, and isolated for months if he questioned. This recollection permitted the young man to admit his life was meaningless during the time of his servitude, and now, with the Cloaked Fire dispersed, he is without an identity, without a purpose, without subsistence.
The young man tries to stop his apprehension upon seeing a knight, across the foliage, riding a steed. By his side, his son, a squire is talking to him, and immediately, a memory burns through the stalker’s sight. He remembers a man, wearing clothes like the knight’s; he was a paladin of the sovereign. He had a sword, glorious and magnificent, and the king desired for it. It was the thief’s task to take the sword, and in the process, stake a dagger through the owner’s heart. He succeeded, and the moment became his first theft, not of a sword, but of a life. Shifting his focus to the young squire, he recalls time he spent with another squire, a squire who was petitioned by the clergy to be ex-communicated; however, the pope was kin to the squire, so he refused. It was then when the young man received a writ asking for the squire dead in the middle of the town square during the fête of the pope’s refusal. In the night, when the celebration was at its peak, the squire danced with many maidens who were glad to have him. As his concentration centered on the graceful movements of the effeminate bodies, he blinks his eyes as if to rest it for a brief moment from the sight of this fortunate night, and upon opening them, an arrow was lodged through his head, and he fell to the town square’s grounds, just as the writ desired. The celebrants were pleased, while the celebrators gasped, horrified. The young man shrugs off the memory and returns to following the amusing clan’s endeavor for clemency where the young man sees a yeoman ahead of the knight and the squire. Behind the girth of trees, the youth recognizes the man to be of a craft; this became a source of another terrifying remembrance. It was of a carpenter, his work was known through out many a city, and the secrets of his tools and his techniques became an obsession to a particular noble. When the carpenter refused to work for the wealthy customer, for he knew that it was his lingering motive to take the knowledge of his woodwork, it was within days when the young man was in the carpenter’s shop, with the craftsman’s tools in his pouch, notes tucked under his belt, walking over an oblivious body lying on the ground, whose eyes were at a blank stare and whose neck was sprouting red darkness.
There were others in the journey: a nun, a monk, a friar, a merchant, and many others. They all served as reminders of acts drenched in blood, of deeds scorched in torment, and of a trail carved in deceit, in fire. As he saw every individual in the pilgrimage, he saw the pain, the anger, the agony of those he murdered, stole from, tortured, and held captive in the name of the monarch’s selfishness, of the clergies’ greed, of the nobles’ envy, and of the superior classes’ desire for supremacy.
The young man stops, finding his eyes streaked in salt water. He begins to drown, drown in the liquid his eyes kept flowing across his cheeks, towards his mouth, his chin. He tastes some, but most just fell into the ground. He falls; the thud of his knees was audible; his sobbing became loud, and his presence was discerned by the entire forest, but only a healer heard him.
Moments into his crying, he hears footsteps towards him. He ignores them, choosing to wallow in his despair, in his sorrow.
“Are you alright?” A voice asks.
He looks up and sees a woman; she is from the pilgrimage, a sorceress, perhaps a healer. The young man turns his back from her and curls into a stance where he braced his knees towards his chin, and his side laid flat on the ground.
“Do you need….” The woman begins before the young man unleashes a frightening snarl that made eminent she was not wanted near him. She begins to walk away, and then she stops upon hearing the young man speak.
“I deserve to die,” the he morosely says, through a choking break from his crying.
She looks back to the vulnerable body, sensing regret in the youth’s voice.
“Why?” The woman asks, although she knew he would not speak anymore. She smiles a sad smile.
“Death is not deserved,” she began, “no one earns the privilege of death; it merely takes them when it is time.”
She looks down onto the ground, maintaining the heart broken grin, “Death is a luxury that allows us to not have to try anymore.” She stops, attempting to speak loud enough to breach through the young man’s cries. “To die is not punishment; it is an escape from our discontent because we have decided never to try to change ourselves for the better; it is because we stopped our attempts to make a world habitable for every living creature that we choose to kill each other, not because of justice, or anger.”
The sorceress looks at the lying figure again.
“I don’t know who you are, but, maybe, you have done something you wish you had not. Death will not change that. Nothing will.”
She sees him wince at the consolation, sensing dissatisfaction despite the comforting words.
“If you seek to be redeemed in the eyes of others, to be forgiven by the hierarchy, to be assured by the clergy that you are not an awful person anymore, you can take the pilgrimage with us; but if you truly seek to compensate for whatever you have done, it is a much simpler task.” She sensed that the young man has stopped crying.
Her smile became sincere in its happiness before she continues, “to live, to learn from the wounds yesterday has scarred you with, to recognize what you have done caused pain, this is true atonement, not to revel in self pity and the fragile life you can easily take. For to not allow yourself to suffer any further, to not cause others to hurt any more, it is redemption transcending forgiveness and reassurance from those we call supreme.”
Ending her statement, she turns her back to head to the pilgrim’s road, and continue her journey, leaving a broken man to realize the consecrated expedition for deliverance and salvation is not for him.