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Fiction: Elegy
Jan. 26th, 2006 10:27 amIt seemed a peaceful enough day, there among the graves.
A young man, dressed in work clothes, was walking with a limp (for no apparent reason) toward one of the stones jutting up from the ground. He reached it, then sat painfully down upon its base.
"I was wondering," he said, "whether they'd manage to get your body away from the hold. Sorry I couldn't make it here sooner than this, but . . . things got in the way. You know how it is."
"Things like that bastard Dartoine. I don't know whether you can hear this, wherever you've gone on to, but I got him. He paid the price for what he did to you, in full and in blood, just like I swore to him."
The young man leaned his head against the stone, wincing a bit (like his limp, for no apparent reason,) and looked upward as if listening to a question from behind him.
"I wish I could say I did," he said, as if answering, "but no, I've been on the run ever since. No matter where I've gone, they've tracked me down. I've managed to see them coming, though, for the most part . . . for the most part," he repeated, reaching up to rub the heel of his left hand against his temple.
"So, anyway," he said, "I just wanted you to know."
"Well, isn't that sweet," a voice not so much replied as oozed through the air. "He got to see his Baron again. I'm sure that will make him feel so much better when we're through with him." And mocking laughter from a number of throats was the reply to that.
The young man nodded sadly to himself at the sound. Just what I foresaw, he thought, as he pulled himself painfully to his feet, the pain at last having an apparent reason. Gone were the work clothes, replaced by a mixed assemblage of torn, burnt leather and corroded chain, both stained by the blood a score of wounds (his own, and others') had baptised them with.
"I am Shandor Caed," he spoke, all pain and uncertainty fleeing his voice as he drew his swords, "Blackened Falcon of Gwydion. I have traveled the path of blood, and become Death's messenger. I am the Reaper . . . the Riever! Men leap onto my blade, thinking that death is an end to their fear and yearning . . . but it is only the beginning! I am a wind of knives!"
And he charged forth to meet his destiny.
A young man, dressed in work clothes, was walking with a limp (for no apparent reason) toward one of the stones jutting up from the ground. He reached it, then sat painfully down upon its base.
"I was wondering," he said, "whether they'd manage to get your body away from the hold. Sorry I couldn't make it here sooner than this, but . . . things got in the way. You know how it is."
"Things like that bastard Dartoine. I don't know whether you can hear this, wherever you've gone on to, but I got him. He paid the price for what he did to you, in full and in blood, just like I swore to him."
The young man leaned his head against the stone, wincing a bit (like his limp, for no apparent reason,) and looked upward as if listening to a question from behind him.
"I wish I could say I did," he said, as if answering, "but no, I've been on the run ever since. No matter where I've gone, they've tracked me down. I've managed to see them coming, though, for the most part . . . for the most part," he repeated, reaching up to rub the heel of his left hand against his temple.
"So, anyway," he said, "I just wanted you to know."
"Well, isn't that sweet," a voice not so much replied as oozed through the air. "He got to see his Baron again. I'm sure that will make him feel so much better when we're through with him." And mocking laughter from a number of throats was the reply to that.
The young man nodded sadly to himself at the sound. Just what I foresaw, he thought, as he pulled himself painfully to his feet, the pain at last having an apparent reason. Gone were the work clothes, replaced by a mixed assemblage of torn, burnt leather and corroded chain, both stained by the blood a score of wounds (his own, and others') had baptised them with.
"I am Shandor Caed," he spoke, all pain and uncertainty fleeing his voice as he drew his swords, "Blackened Falcon of Gwydion. I have traveled the path of blood, and become Death's messenger. I am the Reaper . . . the Riever! Men leap onto my blade, thinking that death is an end to their fear and yearning . . . but it is only the beginning! I am a wind of knives!"
And he charged forth to meet his destiny.
