Reality Scribe

The words held weight. The weight of tears, of dreams shattering. Cold filled his veins, he didn’t look back at her. He couldn’t let her see.

“I promised a lot of things.”

His fists were clenched, teeth gritted. 

“What did I do wrong?”

And it was too late now to turn back. He heard a laugh in the back of his mind. Didn’t hear it, felt it. Felt his failure.

“There was nothing you could have changed.”

A lie. It took everything he had to keep his voice steady. But the voice was still there. Whispering its evils into his heart. A sob from behind. It was right. 

“I just can’t be enough for you.”

He couldn’t be enough for anyone, that blackness in his heart grew heavy. His words did nothing to ease her pain, he knew. But they were all he could give her. Because he couldn’t be enough.

“Good-bye.”

The door held weight beyond the physical. But he pressed on. It was only a few minutes before he sank down. Beneath regrets already forming. Beneath a heart blackened and broken. But it was always there, always right.

Sometimes... I dream of freedom. And it is those dreams that startle me awake, drenched in cold sweat. Fearful. 

Because freedom, true freedom, is more frightening than anything else the mind can imagine. 

Someday I will fall. Fade into the dark. Until then, I will fight tooth and nail to hold on to the bars of my cage. And that cage will be your shield, from all the beasties and bastards in the night.

He remembered these three. Brothers not in blood, but in bloodshed. They had been but trainees when the last war ignited. By the end they were veterans, with as many scars as smiles. 

They were grim. Armored. They came with certain expectations. He could not blame them for this. Reputations like his rarely faded. 

Back straight, eyes forward, he was without armor. No need for such things. All that mattered was the sword at his hip and the ache in his muscles. He was tired. 

And when they finally reached his cottage, he was no less tired. 

“You know why we are here.”

Statement of fact. They were tense. With good reason. A familiar pounding began behind his eyes.

“Return to your king. He will understand.”

Calm, a mantra repeated in his head. It had been many years since he had felt this way. His fists clenched behind his back.

“You know we cannot. You are to meet with his majesty, it is royal decree.”

“You know I will not, not by choice.”

A hand fell upon the hilt of his sword. The ache in his muscles intensified, the pounding in his brain grew louder. They were only three. Three fools.

“You cannot take us alone.” He had once been so kind, so ready to understand. “Please don’t make us do this.” War changed people.

War had changed all of them. 

“What does it matter?” His eyes eased shut as he spoke. He would not let them see the pain.

“We aren’t here to harm you, but you must have realized this day would come.” The second spoke. A man he’d called his brother, a bond formed in battle. Memories meant so little. 

“It didn’t have to be this way. You could have left me be.”

Numbness filled his chest. Emotion faded. All that remained was the ache and the drumbeat. 

“You left us to fight alone. But we need you once again.” And the last spoke.

Three voices of condemnation. But alas it was not time for his crimes to come to an end.

He was cold.

The few things he still found familiar in life were not of the kind he hoped to see.

So he rose to his feet, walked with tired purpose back into his cottage. It took time to find what he sought. Almost as though he had hidden it, blocked it from his mind. The weight on his shoulders grew heavier.

A chest, rough oak with a dark finish. No lock. It sat in a corner, covered over the years by paper and discarded cloth. Trepidation sent his heart aflutter as his hands ran along the aged wood. 

He still held the knife. Pointless now, given what lay within. Gentle reverence, he found a shelf and set the weapon down. It had served as comfort, it would not serve as well in the things to come. 

The hinges creaked as he opened the container. Deliberate motion, like an explorer hesitant to see the treasures within. Everything was just as he left it. Meticulously wrapped and stashed away with a soldier’s care.

It had been four years since his eyes had settled upon these things, in his heart he had hoped they would remain as relics. Unused, forgotten. But his instincts screamed warning. Anxiety filled every crevice of his mind.

The sword slid. Blood sprayed. Not a drop touched him. Flawless. Fear so thick in the air. His heart soared, dark joy flashed in his eyes. For a moment, he felt alive.

His eyes snapped open. His heart was beating. Fast. The knife. It was in his hands. The steel shimmered despite the dark. The scent of blood still clouded his brain.

Midnight, maybe a bit later. Years, still sleep wouldn’t come. His feet slid onto the ground, his body rose. He held the knife tight. its weight was familiar. It took all his effort to focus on it.

Eventually his heart began to slow, the blood lust began to ebb. Three years, still it boiled just beneath the surface. He needed air, he needed to clear his head.

Rain was coming. He knew the moment the door swung open, the second the cool night air struck his naked form. Goosebumps. His eyes wandered across the fields. 

An honest man... 

In his heart of hearts, he missed battle and bloodshed. An honest man would admit that, embrace it. An honest man would channel that bloodlust. Perhaps to train the city’s untested militia. Perhaps to protect. 

But he never had claimed honesty. Instead he claimed cowardice. So he buried that lust deep in his heart hoping and praying his denial would be enough. 

Virgil met the man’s eye. There was passion there, a fire. 

“Why does it matter?” 

They both stepped, their timing perfectly matched. No weapons yet drawn, though there was violence in the air. That electric tension Virgil used to love. They circled, their steps perfect and even.

“You were a hero in my youth. I have always wondered what purpose guided the sword of a man like you.” There was clear respect in those words. Virgil felt deep pity in his heart.

“You mistake me for someone I am not.” Virgil said it with a measure of sadness. “You mistake me for a liar, for a man who justifies sin with the guise of purpose.”

Silence, though the man’s footsteps stuttered. Just once, just a slight unevenness in the gait. But Virgil saw it, and in that he saw doubt. 

“What do you mean?” An oddness to that tone.

“I mean that I fight because I can. I kill because it is easy. And the purpose that drives me has no merit on fields of blood.” No hesitation. No emotion. Simple facts. “And anyone who cannot say the same is simply too weak to admit the darkness in their heart.”

Virgil drew steel, raised his shield. 

It felt like minutes passed.The bare soles of his feet scraped along the rough ground. Turning, keeping always the darkness at his back. He dared not even breath. Waiting. Eyes scanning across the walls of his room. 

“Put it down, Virgil.” Her voice had once sounded so sweet. “You cannot take us alone.” Now that was just a honeyed memory.

It’d been a long time since he had felt a sword’s weight. His muscles ached. 

“What does it matter?” His eyes eased shut as he spoke. He would not let them see the pain.

“We aren’t here to harm you, but everyone must answer for their crimes eventually.” A man he’d called his brother. It was odd how little blood meant.

“I face my punishment every day.”

The snow was shallow, a small bit of fortune. His heart was numb. He was cold. 

“The pain you choose isn’t the same as the pain you deserve.” And the last spoke. 

Three voices of condemnation. But alas it was not time for his crimes to come to an end.

He was cold. 

“He is in there...”

A statement, hesitant. Wild eyes, the agent saw the scientist’s fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of an anomaly in the system. Scientific fear, something with a frantic despair. Few thing unnerved the agent more than a cold man’s fear.

“And the rumors are true?

The agent said it softly. As though the subject could hear the two men, even through the three inches of steel. Perhaps he could, the agent knew nothing of this creature. Something so pressing that the Bureau had sent its finest to collect the data. This set the agent to caution. Never had he went on a mundane job, not in ten years in the organization.

“Yes.” No hesitation. “How certain can we be? We cannot afford any doubt.”

“Entirely. If there is one thing science has taught me... it is how to kill.” This one was said with relish, perhaps enjoying fond memories of torture and death. But then returned the fearful pallor. The next words were halting. “He... cannot die, this man... he can’t be killed.”

the agent gave cool regard, careful eyes to examine the scientist’s every thought. But all there was to see was fear. Fear and confusion.

“How thorough has the testing been?”

Now came up the clipboard. A shuffling of papers. Hands shaking; the scientist seemed unhappy to be looking over his own notes. Seeing again the thing that so deftly avoided logic. Knowledge was absolute, ignorance even more so.

“We began... in a gentle manner.” It was said to fill the creeping silence. Uncomfortable. But then came the proper sheet and the scientist paused. Petty attempt at drama; the agent was unfooled. “We did not want to kill the man if the rumors were untrue.”

“On July seventh of this year, we began with a powerful mix of sedatives to keep the subject quiet quiet. Then, after some discussion, at 2 p.m. we began the drawing of a lethal amount of blood. At no point did the patient awaken during the process, but at the end there had been no change in the vitals.” “How much blood was removed from his body?” Not in doubt of the efficiency. Just curiousity. It was odd thinking such a mundane method could kill a man.

“At first we meant only to withdraw two and a half pints before monitoring for any signs that the subject’s internal homeostasis was unbalanced, but as we noticed no change... we took liberties.”

The agent said nothing. Stared at the scientist. Waited. Liberties was never a good indication. Always indicated sloppiness, cruelty. “We took six pints. There was never any indication that the subject lacked the proper amount of necessary bodily fluid.” “Interesting. And this was the only test?” Such an extreme amount of blood loss would indicate an extreme survivability. The Bureau would be satisfied.

There was a moment of surprise. The scientest gave the agent a wild look, a look of mixed amusement and disbelief. “Of course not, we had to be certain. We had to know the limits this patient could endure.”

Disgusting. It was a knee jerk reaction. The agent was never fond of the sociopathy that bled through science into society’s veins. It was atrocious, an affront to civil culture. His job, however, was to recieve the report in full. Both through the paper’s and the scientist’s words, so again the agent opted for silence.

“We have... performed numerous tests to measure the subject’s physiological rate of regeneration. After the incident with blood, we decided it’d be most efficient for a quick executionary technique. To cement such immortality in fact more than odd evolution.”

Another shuffle of papers, this one shorter. Still with shaking hands. Still the scientist writhed beneath the weight of his nervousness.

“Electrocution. Swift, of high voltage. No effect. Not even pain responses. Perhaps we had overdone the sedation however. It was several hours before the patient stirred. We began to believe the rate of regeneration exacted rest as it’s toll. We are still uncertain, even now, of that theory. After this we rotated through acts of drowning, lethal stabbings, and even on one occasion the application of a blender to the patient’s left hand. All wounds ended in a full regeneration in less than twenty minutes. The patient is beyond any percieved rate of cellular regrowth as of yet observed in nature or in labs.”

And there it was. Immortality. Not in those words, but the agent didn’t fear it. An immortal. Brought into custody under the influence of fifteen milligrams of elephant traquilizer. Two inch steel manacles pinning him to a wall. Trapped in a lightless box, walls thicker than a bomb shelter’s. An immortal kept as a pet, a specimen for torture.

It took a moment, as those thoughts settled in his mind, before the agent could speak. “Very... thorough. I will need the documents to return to the Bureau’s care.” Hesitation. The scientist held the papers against his chest. “What about the patient? What will be done with him?” It was a false worry, the agent knew beyond doubt there was ulterior motive behind the question.

“I imagine the Bureau has plans for him.” No commitment. The answer was undecided.

“May... I continue my investigations after you have left...?”

Again, disgust. This time righteous, this time angry. But still in control. An agent must never lose control. It was the motto and the law.

“Until ordered otherwise, refrain from such activities. Treat him as you would any other prisoner of war.”

“But... there is so much the patient could teach us?” “The patient is a person. And will be treated as such. Desist your tortures until ordered to do otherwise, is that understood.” Now there was an edge, a punishment wordlessly promised for disobedience. The agent would allow nothing but loyalty to the regime.

“You don’t understand, you agents never do. We can learn things from this subject. Perhaps we could even learn-”

“If you ignore my command, you will learn what happens to those who defy our leader.”

I need prompts

a really late response to a prompt javinpilotte gave me. Summer, music, mountains were the three words.

*****

It was summer again. Which meant the cicadas would bitch about the heat far louder than anyone else. Sweat dripping across his eyes, the father lead his son through the thick forest. The bugs were buzzing, but the only one that really bothered him were the damn cicadas.

The bird cawed softly. A vague complaint. It knew what was coming, the father knew it. The son didn't, the son was alone in ignorance. It was summer again, and the bird had wasted too much of their time already.

Rough stones were overgrown with moss and grass, hard travel even with the road. Few went outside the walls these days. No reason too. Everything they needed was inside. Few families kept traditions that lead them to the wild unknown.

Theirs was a proud family, a family with a long lineage and deep set tradition. A family of bird tamers. A family without equal. No other family could breed the crows the king used as messengers, and it seemed the son would soon surpass his father in the art. 

The crow shifted on the son's shoulder. Its wings were pinned to its back, no running for the creature. Maybe if he wasn't so annoyed at the shrill screech of the summer forest, the father might have felt pity.

It wasn't even a mile yet to go, but it would be a long way yet. Stinging sweat and bitter memories. The father wondered how long it would be before his son felt this way. After that day perhaps. He hoped not, his son was still young enough to deserve innocence.

They were an old family, however, and in old families innocence had to die young. And that is why they were their, to weed out the weakness. The son pet his bird, whispering soft words. Calming words. But still the crow complained softly.

It knew what would have to come next, even if the son did not. It was a smart bird. Too smart to carry message. A clear sign of the son's overwhelming talent. No other could have raised such a creature.

They were there. It was just a clearing. Small and round, with a stone pedestal in its center. No words. The father gestured, the son set the bird on the pedestals center. A silent prayer, a whispered command.

The bird had wise eyes. Old eyes. It was smart. And it stared so kindly at the son. As though with sympathy. It stared at the tears running down the son's cheeks. It stared at the shock in the son's eyes. And the father sensed it understood what had to happen.

An apology. The father drew out his knife. Handed it to his son. It was an old knife, older than the family if legends were to be believed. It had seen blood in the war. A weapon, a tool for violence. 

The son held it lightly. No different than any other knife. It was a tool. The son knew it was his now. If only he performed one task. The father turned away. Walked back to the woods to the river.

Minutes went by. The screeching of the cicadas had died and in the distance lay the mountains. They peeked up at the end of the river, a sign of the unknown. A world no human would ever venture to again. Because mankind had the walls and there was no reason for the mountains anymore. 

He counted his breaths. Waited. His son would do the right thing. There was no doubt of that. And his son came walking, swaying back to his father. Bloody hands. A crow's foot in hand. 

And they walked home together. The silence was the elegy for a bird too smart.