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Description
Fire

The following day, when he approached Sarah, heart beating madly, he saw a man standing by her side, tall, with dark hair, some years older than Bishop. As he came nearer, he saw the man saying some words to her, making her flinch, then he purposefully strode forward towards Bishop, hands balled.

Without warning, his fist shot out, aiming for Bishop’s chin. But the hard training had not been in vain. Bishop easily dodged the blow, seeing Sarah running to them, clutching the arm of the other man, calling out to him. “Vincent, no, please don’t”, she cried, tears in her eyes.

Bishop dodged more blows as Vincent continued to throw him punches, hindered by Sarah, clinging to him, but some of the blows still found their mark. After a painful hit to his face, Bishop’s patience snapped, and his fist shot out as well, connecting with Vincent’s chin. The other man went down, dazed.

Shaking his hurting hand, Bishop’s gaze went to Sarah, who knelt besides the lying man, crying silently. “Sarah, who is he?”, Bishop said, his stomach frozen with fear. She looked up at him.

“My brother”, she sobbed. “I’m sorry, I did not want that to happen.”

“Your brother?” His relief was so immense, he had to close his eyes for a moment.

She got up and came to him, nestling into his arm, just as the man on the ground sat up, shaking his head to clear it. Bishop pressed a tender kiss on her hair, then pushed her away slightly.

“Go”, he had said. “Your brother and I will have a little talk.”

Her eyes were wide and fearful.

“I’m not going to hurt him”, Bishop said softly. “But I need to talk to him alone.”

She nodded and ran away. The other man – Vincent – picked himself up from the ground, scowling. “You’re not afraid I am going to hurt you?”, he challenged.

Bishop regarded him calmly. “No”, he just said, matter-of-factly.

Vincent stared at him, and Bishop could see the other man’s mind working, trying to decide what to do.

“I would suggest we continue this conversation at a less public location, but it’s up to you”, Bishop said, still in a very calm voice.

Vincent looked him up and down, as if measuring him up, then nodded shortly. They went back into small alley ending dead end at a wall. No one was here. Bishop turned to Vincent.

“What is your problem?”, he asked.

Vincent sneered. “You want to know what my problem is? I’m not going to let my sister fall into the clutches of one of this city’s trained killers, that’s my problem. You stay away from her! She’s worth more than a dozen of your kind. Find someone else to have your fun with! There’s enough whores here whose hearts are not going to break after you are done!”

“Killer?”, Bishop said, stunned. He knew it was true, he had become a killer, but that was supposed to be secret, wasn’t it?

“Yes, killer”, Vincent hissed, scorn in his eyes. “My sister does not know. She thinks this is love.” He spat out. “But I have my sources, and I have checked you out. And I say you keep your paws off her, or I’ll make you regret it.”

Bishop had his dagger out in a heartbeat, pressing the other man against the wall, the blade at his throat.

“Let me make this abundantly clear”, he said, quietly. “I don’t intend to hurt you. Or your sister. In fact, your sister is the only reason I have not left this wonderful city a long time ago. The only reason I’m still doing the dirty work you seem to know so much about. But I do not take kindly to threats. So keep it down. Understood?”

Vincent’s eyes had grown wide at Bishop’s swift attack. He stared at Bishop for some moments, seemingly trying to assess if he meant what he had said. Bishop could detect no fear in his eyes, only calculation. He felt a certain respect for the other man. At least he had balls, standing up to him like that, if he knew what his job was.

So he retreated a step, lowering the dagger, waiting for Vincent to make the next move.

Vincent’s gaze stayed on Bishop, the calculating look still in his eyes. “Sarah thinks you love her”, he stated.

Bishop could feel blood rising to his face. “I do”, he mumbled, staring at the ground. Nice killer he was, blushing like a maiden. He heard the other man chuckle and looked up, mortified.

“Unlikely as it seems, I think what you say is true”, Vincent said. Then he held out his hand to Bishop. Hesitantly, Bishop took it, not knowing what to make of that change of mind.

Vincent held his hand, looking him squarely in the eyes. “Now there is something I will make abundantly clear”, he said. “And this is no threat, just a fact. Sarah is the only family I have left, and I love her very much. If you hurt her, I will make you regret it. And since I’m no match for you alone, I will bring friends. I don’t believe in fighting fair if it gets me killed. Are we clear?”

Bishop stared at Vincent for a moment, then he had to grin. “Fair enough”, he said. The guy did have balls.

“Good”, Vincent said, letting go of his hand. “Let’s go for a beer.”

From that moment on, Vincent had become the only friend in Bishop’s life, even if he was several years older. He knew everything about him, and he still seemed to accept him. It had felt so good to have someone he could talk to, talk about everything he had had to keep inside for so long. Vincent never seemed to judge him, whatever horrors he was forced to commit.

“We all have to do things we’re not proud of, if we want to survive”, was all he said.

Bishop became a frequent guest in Vincent’s house. When he was with Sarah, he thought he was in heaven. When he was out there, pressed to do the dirty work for the people he hated, he thought he was in hell. And he could feel the barbarity of what he was doing eating away at him. He could feel himself growing numb against the suffering he caused. He could not afford to care, or he would go insane.

After a while, the hard shell he had been forced to develop became part of him. He really did not care anymore. What was the point? He was going to survive. If others could not, they were weak. Their pathetic blubbering in the face of death disgusted him. They had no dignity, no strength. They did not deserve to live.

He could feel the darkness growing in him, but mostly, he did not mind. It helped him to survive. It made him strong. That was good. So he embraced it. Everything that kept him alive was a good thing. Alive to come back to Sarah. She still was the light in his life, the only light left.

Only when he held her close, he sometimes thought that he had to quit, to stop what he was doing, as long as something of the man she loved was left. But he could see no way out. He could leave. He could even take her with him. But he knew he would be hunted for the rest of his life. It was not the life he would wish for Sarah. It was not the life she was made for. She was soft, and sweet, and innocent. Living a life on the run would destroy her.

Then the day came when he was initiated into the higher ranks of his “organisation”. He had become so good at what he did that they decided to reward him for that. That was when he learned what the initiation rites were about. He had to pick a village and burn it down. With all the residents.

That nearly shocked him out of the emotional apathy that he had cultivated. Pick a village, kill everyone in it? That was madness, even for Luskan standards. But then he just settled into the comfortable numbness again. It was just a question of picking the right village. A village that deserved what it got. A village of weaklings, of cowards.

His village.

The village with the people who had stood idly by as he was abducted for service in the Luskan army as a boy. Watched as his mother was killed, trying to defend him. The people who, with their cowardice, had forced him to become the man he was today. Did they not deserve to experience first hand what being pressed into Luskan service meant? What it could do to a person?

They would find out.

And they did. He remembered the blaze, the heat so immense he had to retreat, while the village went up in flames, accelerated by the fuel he had spread, turning the night into a red, flickering inferno. He remembered the screams, people trying to run, flames licking at them, and he only felt satisfaction.

See what you did to me?

He stood and watched, his face grim, when a woman tried to escape through the wall of flames that surrounded the buildings. There was something familiar about her... He saw her run into the fire, her clothes catching immediately. She screamed in pain and horror. Soon everything burned, even the gray hair she had in a bun.

An icy hand grabbed his heart and started to squeeze. Oh yes, he knew that face, now twisted in agony. The last time he had seen it was when she was being held back by a couple of villagers, screaming until her voice gave out, trying to throw herself at the attackers, begging to give back her son. Her hair had not been gray then, but it was her, no doubt.

But he also remembered one of his captors turning on his horse, throwing a dagger at her, remembered the soft, swishing noise the dagger made as it embedded itself into her throat. Remembered the little gurgling sound as she went down. He had dreamt of those noises for months, crying in his sleep.

How could she be alive?

His heart stopped as she made it through the flames, collapsing to the ground, her skin scorched and blackened. He ran to her, ignoring the searing heat, tried to smother the flames still licking at what was left of her clothes, and dragged her farther away from the fire, burning his hands badly in the process without even noticing. She did not move.

“Mom!”, he yelled, turning her onto her back and staring into her face, that miraculously had not been burned as much. Her eyes opened sluggishly, and he saw recognition in them. The corners of her mouth lifted in some travesty of a smile, and she seemed to try to say something. Then her eyes broke, and a last breath rattled out of her lungs. Then nothing.

He wailed in anguish, clutching her burned body to his chest.

What have I done?

Holding his dead mother in his arms, tears running down his face, the horror of it all hit him like a kick to the guts. He lifted his tear stained face, looking into the inferno ahead, where nothing moved anymore.

What have I become?

He was a monster.

He had killed his own mother.

Letting go of her body, he staggered to his feet, turning back to where the patrol was waiting for him. Walking, he drew his daggers. They were five. He would be killed. But he would take some of them with him.

He could not live with himself anymore. But he would also end the life of at least some of those who had turned him into the beast he was. He would give them a taste of what they had created.

Sarah would wait in vain for him to return. Thinking of her pierced his heart, but it was probably better this way. Vincent had been right. She was much too good for the likes of him. And if she had known who he really was, she probably would have fled with revulsion.

He walked up to the patrol that had accompanied – observed – him. With a fluid motion of both hands, he slit the throat of two of them with his daggers, before anyone noticed something was amiss. They went down with wet, gurgling noises. The others jumped back, drawing their weapons.

One against three. And he had only daggers. He stood no chance. But it did not matter. What mattered was that he put an end to all of this.

One of them jumped forward, swinging his sword in a wide arc. Bishop ducked and moved past his attacker, taking a swipe at his body with the dagger. Hitting something, he heard a groan and whirled round, just in time to parry another sword coming at him with the other dagger.

That left the third adversary unaccounted for. Bishop felt a sharp pain in his shoulder as the third weapon bit into him. With a yell he jumped out of the flanking position they had him in, kicking viciously at the knee of one of them, and as the man sagged, Bishop brought his dagger up, thrusting it under his chin, up into his mouth. This one went down gurgling, clutching at his throat, too.

The other one had used the opportunity to bring down his sword onto Bishop’s back, leaving a deep wound. Bishop could feel the blood flowing down. He yelled again and turned, facing his attacker.

The first one, holding one hand to a deep slash in his belly, was back as well, circling Bishop slowly, trying to get him between him and the other one. Bishop tried to move out between them, but they attacked simultaneously. He blocked one sword with one dagger, stabbing the already wounded attacker into the chest with the other. The fourth one down.

That left one that was still uninjured. And he had used the opportunity to deal another heavy blow to Bishop’s back.

Bishop started to feel dizzy from the loss of blood. He was bleeding freely from multiple wounds now. He did not have long. But there was only one of them left. He turned, facing the last man, wide grin on his face and a mad glint in his eye.

The blade of the man wavered for a moment when he saw the expression on Bishop’s face, and that was all he needed. Screaming at the top of his lungs, he jumped forward, impaling himself on the other man’s sword, but getting near enough in the process to bring his dagger down and slit his throat as well.

He saw the look of utter disbelieve on his adversary’s face as they sunk to the ground and felt the urge to laugh wildly. He had taken them with him. All of them. But there was no breath left in his pierced lungs.

Lying on the ground, the world grew dim around him.

Goodbye, Sarah, he thought. You were the only good thing in my life. Be happy.

Description
Fire

The following day, when he approached Sarah, heart beating madly, he saw a man standing by her side, tall, with dark hair, some years older than Bishop. As he came nearer, he saw the man saying some words to her, making her flinch, then he purposefully strode forward towards Bishop, hands balled.

Without warning, his fist shot out, aiming for Bishop’s chin. But the hard training had not been in vain. Bishop easily dodged the blow, seeing Sarah running to them, clutching the arm of the other man, calling out to him. “Vincent, no, please don’t”, she cried, tears in her eyes.

Bishop dodged more blows as Vincent continued to throw him punches, hindered by Sarah, clinging to him, but some of the blows still found their mark. After a painful hit to his face, Bishop’s patience snapped, and his fist shot out as well, connecting with Vincent’s chin. The other man went down, dazed.

Shaking his hurting hand, Bishop’s gaze went to Sarah, who knelt besides the lying man, crying silently. “Sarah, who is he?”, Bishop said, his stomach frozen with fear. She looked up at him.

“My brother”, she sobbed. “I’m sorry, I did not want that to happen.”

“Your brother?” His relief was so immense, he had to close his eyes for a moment.

She got up and came to him, nestling into his arm, just as the man on the ground sat up, shaking his head to clear it. Bishop pressed a tender kiss on her hair, then pushed her away slightly.

“Go”, he had said. “Your brother and I will have a little talk.”

Her eyes were wide and fearful.

“I’m not going to hurt him”, Bishop said softly. “But I need to talk to him alone.”

She nodded and ran away. The other man – Vincent – picked himself up from the ground, scowling. “You’re not afraid I am going to hurt you?”, he challenged.

Bishop regarded him calmly. “No”, he just said, matter-of-factly.

Vincent stared at him, and Bishop could see the other man’s mind working, trying to decide what to do.

“I would suggest we continue this conversation at a less public location, but it’s up to you”, Bishop said, still in a very calm voice.

Vincent looked him up and down, as if measuring him up, then nodded shortly. They went back into small alley ending dead end at a wall. No one was here. Bishop turned to Vincent.

“What is your problem?”, he asked.

Vincent sneered. “You want to know what my problem is? I’m not going to let my sister fall into the clutches of one of this city’s trained killers, that’s my problem. You stay away from her! She’s worth more than a dozen of your kind. Find someone else to have your fun with! There’s enough whores here whose hearts are not going to break after you are done!”

“Killer?”, Bishop said, stunned. He knew it was true, he had become a killer, but that was supposed to be secret, wasn’t it?

“Yes, killer”, Vincent hissed, scorn in his eyes. “My sister does not know. She thinks this is love.” He spat out. “But I have my sources, and I have checked you out. And I say you keep your paws off her, or I’ll make you regret it.”

Bishop had his dagger out in a heartbeat, pressing the other man against the wall, the blade at his throat.

“Let me make this abundantly clear”, he said, quietly. “I don’t intend to hurt you. Or your sister. In fact, your sister is the only reason I have not left this wonderful city a long time ago. The only reason I’m still doing the dirty work you seem to know so much about. But I do not take kindly to threats. So keep it down. Understood?”

Vincent’s eyes had grown wide at Bishop’s swift attack. He stared at Bishop for some moments, seemingly trying to assess if he meant what he had said. Bishop could detect no fear in his eyes, only calculation. He felt a certain respect for the other man. At least he had balls, standing up to him like that, if he knew what his job was.

So he retreated a step, lowering the dagger, waiting for Vincent to make the next move.

Vincent’s gaze stayed on Bishop, the calculating look still in his eyes. “Sarah thinks you love her”, he stated.

Bishop could feel blood rising to his face. “I do”, he mumbled, staring at the ground. Nice killer he was, blushing like a maiden. He heard the other man chuckle and looked up, mortified.

“Unlikely as it seems, I think what you say is true”, Vincent said. Then he held out his hand to Bishop. Hesitantly, Bishop took it, not knowing what to make of that change of mind.

Vincent held his hand, looking him squarely in the eyes. “Now there is something I will make abundantly clear”, he said. “And this is no threat, just a fact. Sarah is the only family I have left, and I love her very much. If you hurt her, I will make you regret it. And since I’m no match for you alone, I will bring friends. I don’t believe in fighting fair if it gets me killed. Are we clear?”

Bishop stared at Vincent for a moment, then he had to grin. “Fair enough”, he said. The guy did have balls.

“Good”, Vincent said, letting go of his hand. “Let’s go for a beer.”

From that moment on, Vincent had become the only friend in Bishop’s life, even if he was several years older. He knew everything about him, and he still seemed to accept him. It had felt so good to have someone he could talk to, talk about everything he had had to keep inside for so long. Vincent never seemed to judge him, whatever horrors he was forced to commit.

“We all have to do things we’re not proud of, if we want to survive”, was all he said.

Bishop became a frequent guest in Vincent’s house. When he was with Sarah, he thought he was in heaven. When he was out there, pressed to do the dirty work for the people he hated, he thought he was in hell. And he could feel the barbarity of what he was doing eating away at him. He could feel himself growing numb against the suffering he caused. He could not afford to care, or he would go insane.

After a while, the hard shell he had been forced to develop became part of him. He really did not care anymore. What was the point? He was going to survive. If others could not, they were weak. Their pathetic blubbering in the face of death disgusted him. They had no dignity, no strength. They did not deserve to live.

He could feel the darkness growing in him, but mostly, he did not mind. It helped him to survive. It made him strong. That was good. So he embraced it. Everything that kept him alive was a good thing. Alive to come back to Sarah. She still was the light in his life, the only light left.

Only when he held her close, he sometimes thought that he had to quit, to stop what he was doing, as long as something of the man she loved was left. But he could see no way out. He could leave. He could even take her with him. But he knew he would be hunted for the rest of his life. It was not the life he would wish for Sarah. It was not the life she was made for. She was soft, and sweet, and innocent. Living a life on the run would destroy her.

Then the day came when he was initiated into the higher ranks of his “organisation”. He had become so good at what he did that they decided to reward him for that. That was when he learned what the initiation rites were about. He had to pick a village and burn it down. With all the residents.

That nearly shocked him out of the emotional apathy that he had cultivated. Pick a village, kill everyone in it? That was madness, even for Luskan standards. But then he just settled into the comfortable numbness again. It was just a question of picking the right village. A village that deserved what it got. A village of weaklings, of cowards.

His village.

The village with the people who had stood idly by as he was abducted for service in the Luskan army as a boy. Watched as his mother was killed, trying to defend him. The people who, with their cowardice, had forced him to become the man he was today. Did they not deserve to experience first hand what being pressed into Luskan service meant? What it could do to a person?

They would find out.

And they did. He remembered the blaze, the heat so immense he had to retreat, while the village went up in flames, accelerated by the fuel he had spread, turning the night into a red, flickering inferno. He remembered the screams, people trying to run, flames licking at them, and he only felt satisfaction.

See what you did to me?

He stood and watched, his face grim, when a woman tried to escape through the wall of flames that surrounded the buildings. There was something familiar about her... He saw her run into the fire, her clothes catching immediately. She screamed in pain and horror. Soon everything burned, even the gray hair she had in a bun.

An icy hand grabbed his heart and started to squeeze. Oh yes, he knew that face, now twisted in agony. The last time he had seen it was when she was being held back by a couple of villagers, screaming until her voice gave out, trying to throw herself at the attackers, begging to give back her son. Her hair had not been gray then, but it was her, no doubt.

But he also remembered one of his captors turning on his horse, throwing a dagger at her, remembered the soft, swishing noise the dagger made as it embedded itself into her throat. Remembered the little gurgling sound as she went down. He had dreamt of those noises for months, crying in his sleep.

How could she be alive?

His heart stopped as she made it through the flames, collapsing to the ground, her skin scorched and blackened. He ran to her, ignoring the searing heat, tried to smother the flames still licking at what was left of her clothes, and dragged her farther away from the fire, burning his hands badly in the process without even noticing. She did not move.

“Mom!”, he yelled, turning her onto her back and staring into her face, that miraculously had not been burned as much. Her eyes opened sluggishly, and he saw recognition in them. The corners of her mouth lifted in some travesty of a smile, and she seemed to try to say something. Then her eyes broke, and a last breath rattled out of her lungs. Then nothing.

He wailed in anguish, clutching her burned body to his chest.

What have I done?

Holding his dead mother in his arms, tears running down his face, the horror of it all hit him like a kick to the guts. He lifted his tear stained face, looking into the inferno ahead, where nothing moved anymore.

What have I become?

He was a monster.

He had killed his own mother.

Letting go of her body, he staggered to his feet, turning back to where the patrol was waiting for him. Walking, he drew his daggers. They were five. He would be killed. But he would take some of them with him.

He could not live with himself anymore. But he would also end the life of at least some of those who had turned him into the beast he was. He would give them a taste of what they had created.

Sarah would wait in vain for him to return. Thinking of her pierced his heart, but it was probably better this way. Vincent had been right. She was much too good for the likes of him. And if she had known who he really was, she probably would have fled with revulsion.

He walked up to the patrol that had accompanied – observed – him. With a fluid motion of both hands, he slit the throat of two of them with his daggers, before anyone noticed something was amiss. They went down with wet, gurgling noises. The others jumped back, drawing their weapons.

One against three. And he had only daggers. He stood no chance. But it did not matter. What mattered was that he put an end to all of this.

One of them jumped forward, swinging his sword in a wide arc. Bishop ducked and moved past his attacker, taking a swipe at his body with the dagger. Hitting something, he heard a groan and whirled round, just in time to parry another sword coming at him with the other dagger.

That left the third adversary unaccounted for. Bishop felt a sharp pain in his shoulder as the third weapon bit into him. With a yell he jumped out of the flanking position they had him in, kicking viciously at the knee of one of them, and as the man sagged, Bishop brought his dagger up, thrusting it under his chin, up into his mouth. This one went down gurgling, clutching at his throat, too.

The other one had used the opportunity to bring down his sword onto Bishop’s back, leaving a deep wound. Bishop could feel the blood flowing down. He yelled again and turned, facing his attacker.

The first one, holding one hand to a deep slash in his belly, was back as well, circling Bishop slowly, trying to get him between him and the other one. Bishop tried to move out between them, but they attacked simultaneously. He blocked one sword with one dagger, stabbing the already wounded attacker into the chest with the other. The fourth one down.

That left one that was still uninjured. And he had used the opportunity to deal another heavy blow to Bishop’s back.

Bishop started to feel dizzy from the loss of blood. He was bleeding freely from multiple wounds now. He did not have long. But there was only one of them left. He turned, facing the last man, wide grin on his face and a mad glint in his eye.

The blade of the man wavered for a moment when he saw the expression on Bishop’s face, and that was all he needed. Screaming at the top of his lungs, he jumped forward, impaling himself on the other man’s sword, but getting near enough in the process to bring his dagger down and slit his throat as well.

He saw the look of utter disbelieve on his adversary’s face as they sunk to the ground and felt the urge to laugh wildly. He had taken them with him. All of them. But there was no breath left in his pierced lungs.

Lying on the ground, the world grew dim around him.

Goodbye, Sarah, he thought. You were the only good thing in my life. Be happy.