writing_shadows

A dark alley; a moonless night. Three heavy set men are following someone panicking.

Foolishly the fleeing figure has allowed their fear to get the best of them: they've allowed themselves to be herded down an alley. No escape, no eyes to witness what will happen next: it will either be their last mistake or one they regret for a long, long time after.

The heavyset men follow slowly, menacingly. They know that their prey is cornered, has nowhere to run, has no hope. They like their victims scared, so begin to walk slowly, the occasional flash of light glinting on an exposed knife and the predatory gleam in their eye. Their target looks, fear growing steadily, and backs into the darkest corner that they can find, hoping it will provide some protection despite knowing, deep down, it won't.

Behind the hunters another man follows, slipping silently through the darkness. Sliding a pair of clubs out of his bag, he sets it down quietly and thinks for a second, sizing up the opposition. Three of them, armed and obviously veterans of street warfare, by the way they move. It's a fight he's sure he can win, but one on the extreme end of his ability. He will be wounded at the end of the fight, and they bear less merciful weapons than he does; still, Spring provides.

Moving with a grace that some would think was magic he springs up the building beside him, moving from pillar to post, clinging to drainpipes and swinging along window frames until he stands above the cornered, helpless captive, staring down on the approaching hunters.

A second later, he has felt the flush of passion given by spring's blessing, as the wild joy that the verdant contract lends to a fight starts to fill him. In the next moment he knows those powers of the hearth have lent him their blessings. He looks briefly to the future for how the next few seconds will play out, and deciding what he wants, drops among the surprised thugs, weapons moving swiftly for groin, temple and weapon arm, striking as quickly as he can.

Seconds later and it seems the knight's appraisal of the fight is being borne out. He's bleeding freely from several wounds, and is moving slower than when he began, his head fogged with pain. However two of his opponents lay unconscious and the third has just had his knife beaten from his hand, the crude shank now being under the foot of the knight, whose steps are even now, burning footprints like the armour of old into the concrete. The filthy, bleeding knight looks up with a small smile, through the wounds and the pain. Just as he begins to speak to his opponent, a speech making its way to his lips, he is overwhelmed by the harsh bark of a gunshot behind him.

The wound is like a hammer blow, driving fire and ice across a wide part of his back, the shock taking all the pain away, but driving him to his knees. When the second shot comes it seems far away. Remote. Disconnected. But somehow even sitting up is too hard, and the knight falls to the floor, his blood pouring out onto the rain slick streets.

“Four.” He thinks. “There were four of them. Too many.”

He watches his life pour out of him, unable to think clearly enough to summon the power to save himself and close his most recent wound.

“Here I die.” He thinks, the formal tone infecting even his thoughts. “In the gutter in one skirmish like any other, unmarked and unmourned.”

Before long his thoughts turn sluggishly to his family. He knows the loss of their brother will hurt them both, and he wishes he could spare them it. He wishes he could stay with them. He wishes he could let Yvain know, what was clear in this last moment, that he did forgive him and his brother's happiness was more important than any love long lost of his.

He thinks of his youngest brother, returned to him from the cold of the grave, and wishes he could have told him how proud he was of him. How much he respected and loved him. He knew he should have said it before, said it more often, but now there is only time for regret.

His thoughts turned to lost Rosie, Rose who was always kind. Astraea who had stood by him. All the other friends and aquaintances he had made, never to renew.

As he thought of the lost, and those he had made it his mission to protect, some part of him rebelled.

His thoughts turned back to Ross Brown, a barman in old London town. Panic rises. Not him. Can't think of him. She'll punish you. With frozen rage and broken fingers. Be anyone but him. Be Galehaut. Be Yvain. Be Tor. Be anyone except the man who was taken. But with a crooked smile he realises she can't touch him any more. Soon he'll beyond even her power. That's the least he can do.

He can die himself, and pretend no longer.