Red! Red! Red!
My fingers glided through its warmth, nails raking against its surface, embedding within its yielding texture. The red flowed like life itself, hot, treacherous, caressing my skin until the tingling reached my very bones. Goosebumps followed in its wake, rippling up my arms. Beneath the crimson sea, specks of green and earthy brown peeked through, their innocence drowned in the flood.
Silver glistened under the pale moonlight, its edges smooth but slick with the same warmth now staining my fingertips. The hilt bore red splashes, a testament to its deed. I pulled my hand away, but the scarlet clung stubbornly, seeping into the crevices of my nails where no water could cleanse it.
And there, amid the red, brown eyes trembled, pleading. They spoke to me, though speech seemed an impossible feat for a man with a slit throat.
By now, you know the truth. Yes, the red is blood. But do not mistake me for a cold-blooded killer. Every act carries its purpose; every strike, its reason.
The man coughed, choking on his own lifeblood as it spilled from his throat, cascading onto the withering grass. His eyes, wide and desperate, flickered with a final understanding. He recognised me as a man who honoured dying wishes. Yet when I grabbed the dagger, its blade nestled in the pooling blood, I wondered if he had foreseen what I intended.
I plunged the blade deep into his eye socket. His uninjured eye widened further, the surprise etched sharply into his fading gaze. Ah, forgive me. I fear I misread his plea. But in this business, there are no take-backs.
A brittle crunch echoed faintly as I pushed the blade deeper, a cold thrill coursing through me. He jerked, his fingers weakly clawing at my wrist. The handle trembled in my grip as it met resistance, then, with a wet, muffled pop, the blade sank fully into place. His body convulsed violently, and a gurgling rasp escaped his lips like a final farewell. Perhaps even a "thank you."
Being the respectful man my upbringing demanded, I returned the courtesy. "You are welcome," I murmured as his light faded.
A solitary tear rolled down his cheek before plunging into the crimson sea beneath him. He was kind, heartbreakingly gracious even in death. It pained me to see such a fine soul leave this cruel world too soon.
With a sigh, I removed the blade, though a shard of his shattered eye clung stubbornly to the hilt, a pearl of gore that gleamed beneath the moonlight. For a moment, I hesitated, entranced. Then, with a sharp flick of the dagger, I dislodged the fragment and let it fall to the earth.
Careful not to step in his blood, I moved deliberately, as I was not one to disrespect the dead further. He deserved better. For his gratitude, I dragged his limp body and propped him against a nearby tree, its moss-laden trunk cradling his lifeless frame.
His head, however, posed a problem. It refused to rest, lolling first to one side, then the other as though mocking my attempts to grant him dignity. Frustration welled within me and I paused, considering my options. My gaze fell to the machete I had sharpened to a keen edge earlier.
Standing at a slight distance, I studied him as one might study a canvas before painting, tilting my head and squinting to find the right angle to resolve this final imperfection. Satisfied, I stepped forward, gripping the machete firmly. With a swift, practiced motion, I brought the blade down, severing his neck cleanly.
A red rain spilled forth onto the soil, dousing my face in its salt-laden warmth. Bitter and metallic, the taste invaded my tongue before I spat it onto the dirt. Once the fountain ceased, leaving only meek dribbles, I retrieved the head and placed it gently upon his folded hands. With care, I shut his lifeless eyes, sparing him from the horrors of this world.
As I turned, the night carried a new sound. Faint, pitiful but not human. By a fallen carriage lay a horse, its flank a marred ruin. One leg hung grotesquely, dislocated and swollen. The creature trembled under the weight of its agony.
Its dark eyes met mine, pleading silently. A faint neigh slipped from its lips, heavy with despair. Kneeling beside it, I rubbed my blood-streaked hands clean on my tunic before stroking its head. The beast leaned into my touch, pain momentarily forgotten. But mercy has its cost.
A clean stroke ended its misery. The dagger sank deep, and the horse screamed. A sound that pierced the quiet night, clawing at the remnants of my heart. It thrashed briefly before surrendering to the stillness of death.
A tear escaped me, unbidden, carving a path for others that followed. The life of man was so fragile. Like glass, one mistake and it shattered. One mistake… was all it took.
...
"Forgive me!" he cried, rushing into my room, his eyes wide with panic, his fingers trembling as the knife slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor. Dirt and blood marred his face, the stench of it filling my nostrils. "Forgive me!" he sobbed, collapsing to his knees, his hands covering his face as tears streamed through his fingers. "I d-didn't... I d-didn't mean to..."
...
I woke in darkness, the room stifling and oppressive. The memory lingered still, his green eyes haunting the void. My sheets were soaked in sweat, and my face damp with tears I hadn't realised had fallen.
My hands trembled, just like his had. I clenched my fists, grinding my teeth as I swallowed the scream clawing its way up my throat. He was a liar. A liar! He never meant those words. He never deserved forgiveness.
I threw the blankets aside and rose. My robe clung coldly to my sweat-slicked skin as I crossed the room to the balcony. Pulling the curtain aside, I let moonlight flood in. The dark was too dark for me. Filled with shadows from my past. I couldn't live in it anymore.
Stepping onto the balcony, the chill of the night bit into my skin. The symphony of crickets and toads surrounded me, the occasional hoot of an owl joining their chorus. The moon hung largely in the vast sky, staring down with what I imagined was pity. I hated it.
Everyone around me wore pity like a second face. Why couldn't they forget as I had? That's what I told myself, anyway. That I had forgotten. That I no longer lived in the memory.
But I was a liar, too. Just like him.
In this business, we were all liars. If we weren't, we wouldn't survive. Some were just more skilled at it than others.
I tore my eyes away from the moon and its pity. Turning, I caught my reflection in the mirror, the reflection of someone who had lied to himself so thoroughly that, even while staring at his own broken pieces, he believed he was whole. The patchwork version of myself in the glass stared back, his eyes dull and the shadows of torment etched beneath them. His lips were twisted into a frown, his trembling fingers betraying him.
The image blurred for a moment, and in its place, those pleading green eyes returned. When my reflection reappeared, the frown it wore had deepened.
Forgiveness. Maybe he deserved it. He was a liar, but so was I. We were the same. So why did I live, and why did he die?
"Why?" I screamed at the mirror. "Why!" I stumbled closer until only the glass separated my reflection from me. "Why," I rasped, my voice breaking as I pressed a trembling palm against the cold surface.
My reflection mimicked me, agony etched into his face. Tears had stained my cheeks, but none flowed now. I never saw my tears, only their aftermath. My eyes grew glassy, but the tears refused to fall. They only came when he haunted my dreams.
I closed my eyes, letting the memory surge forward. I let the hurt wash over me, let his sins replay in my mind, as if reliving them might lighten the weight on my shoulders. But tonight, the guilt refused to leave. Even as I opened my eyes, it lingered, like a snake, winding itself around my neck, slowly suffocating me until I was out of breath.
I fell to the floor, wheezing, my vision blurring as memories and reality bled into one. Past and present collided, tangling in a chaotic mess. I dragged my knees to my chest, burying my head in them, allowing the overwhelming feelings to drown me.
Eventually, morning came. I watched the moon fade into the sky, replaced by the sun. Daylight returned, and with it, normalcy. In the light of day, I could pretend the past never was, and the future... well, we never thought that far ahead.
In this business, most didn't make it beyond today. Hesitation was a death sentence, and I had lived long enough to know that our sins never truly left us. They clung to us, tormenting us, but we couldn't change. Even if we wanted to, we'd die before the thought fully formed.
I dragged myself off the floor as the chests of my past slid shut, locking away the memories and storing them for the late hours of the night. I was going to kill again; my past only haunted me when I did.
By the time I looked back at my reflection, it seemed almost normal. The pain, the sadness, they had vanished, leaving only the familiar exhaustion. That was expected, given the work I did.
I raised a hand to the mirror, my reflection meeting me halfway. Our palms touched, and if I wished hard enough, I could almost feel the warmth of another's flesh. Almost. For a moment, I thought I saw those eyes flicker to green.
If only you were here. But lying got you killed, and soon, it would kill me too.
I dressed in silence—black pants, a black silk shirt, a long black coat, and boots that, as The Father once said, were "meant for stomping the flies we were assigned to crush." I walked to the door, leaving my past behind. Without a second glance, I left the room and the guilt within it.
After all, it wasn't every day that one's brother begged for death and one was commanded to oblige.
The reason?
Oh no. It is far too early for you to hear the tale of Levison Dalte.