HOME | DD

Description
Dark Memories

Dark clouds above him.  Cold earth under his feet.  A chill wind tugging at his hair, at his clothes…  A freezing feeling threatening to steal all warmth from his heart.

High above him, the clouds continue on, and the moon peaks out at the scene below.  A small village, all in shadow… The light plays out over the still form in the middle of the village square.  Moonlight slowly reveals the still figures all around the only one standing.  Men.  Women.  Children.  All laying down on the ground.  Laying in the mud, and the blood.  Their blood.  Pooling under their bodies.  Broken, make-shift weapons laying near some of them.  Laying near where they fell.  Laying in the moonlight-shadows.

Anger.  Hate.  They fill him.  Anger rages.  Hate builds.  Energy rises in him.  Rises around him.  They did this.  They killed them.  Women.  Children.  Farmers.  Merchants.  Peasants.  They killed them to make a point.  They killed with no regard for life.  For greed.  For no reason.  They killed them.

And he… He didn’t stop them.

They tricked him.  He fell for it.  Fell in their pit.  He let them kill.  He let them be killed.  He failed.  Failed them all.  Failed himself.  Failed everything.

They killed them.  Killed them all.  Not one left alive.

Rage, anger, hate… They fill him.  The air glows around him.  Glows green.  A sickly green.  An angry green.  He was losing control.  He was caring less.

On it builds.  The anger.  The hate.  The rage.  The energy, swirling around him.  The glow builds on.  Tears fall from eyes closed tight from rage.  From anguish.  He can’t stop seeing them.  With eyes shut he sees their broken forms.  Their blood.  The moonlight casting shadows on them.

Anger.  Hate.  Pain.  It builds too much.  Something snaps.  Something breaks.  Maybe he just lets go.  The energy explodes.  The green light shines like a beacon.  He throws back his head.  He opens his eyes.  His mouth lays open in a scream that cannot be heard over the roar of the energy storm raging around him.

… and then he sees their footprints.

-----------------

They waited for him.  They had made their trail plain to follow.  The Boss wanted him dead.  To suffer first, yes, but still dead.  He could be dangerous.  He could encourage others to stand up to them.  Bandits didn’t need uppity peasants standing up to them.  They lured him away, into a trap, so they could get the village without any trouble.  The Boss wanted him to see that.  Wanted him to see how helpless he was against the Bandit King.

But the Boss wanted him dead, too.  So they waited not far from their dirty work.  They waited with their swords, and their knives, to kill the foolish monk who dared to defy the Bandit King.

They did not wait long.

Down the road he walked.  Down the middle of the road he walked towards them.  He knew they were there.  He didn’t care that they saw him.  They saw him walking towards them.  They saw no fear in him.  No fear of pain.  No fear of death.  He walked calmly.  His eyes glowed green in pale moonlight.  An angry green.  He walked with an angry green all around him, ever so faint.

They attacked him.  The archers fired arrows.  The grunts charged him with large clubs.  The rogues ran at him with concealed daggers.  The few sell-swords charged with teeth and blades bared.

The arrows he deflected with a casual indifference.  The clubs he snapped.  The daggers never neared him as he sent their owners flying through the air to land among the rocks.  He broke the swords with one hit, their owners he broke with a second.  He said nothing.  He didn’t blink.  The anger roared inside him and outside all of it went into each hit.  Each blow.

The worst part was he didn’t care.  The lucky ones died with that one hit.  The rest would live only with a cleric’s help.  And he didn’t care.  One who had avoided killing his whole life now killed without caring.

They ran, those that could.  Ran from the terrible eyes that glowed with a green rage that did not seem to see those that they struck down with a careless power.  On he walked, following them, and they knew that if something did not happen, he would reach them.  He would kill them.  For he would not stop.

The second explosion that night was harsher.  More abrupt.  It echoed among the rocks and the boulders along the path.  The light that accompanied it was bright and brief.  The dark one fired again, his aim a little better.  The first bullet went through the shoulder.  The second landed in the gut.

He fell down.  Shock returned his mind to him as he found his own blood on the ground.  Found his face on the ground.  With a struggle he turns himself over.  The moon looks down on him, lying on the road.  Bleeding on the road.  But wasn’t that better?  Wasn’t it better that he die, than to keep killing others?  The moon seems to waver, the darkness seems darker.  He cannot lift his hand to his eyes.

His still form lies in the road.  He lies in a growing pool of his blood.  There is no noise, for all around him are dead.  Dead by his hand.  His eyes are closed.  His anger is cooled.  His despair is complete.  He is ready to die.  He is ready to die in the moonlight.  Lying in the moonlight-shadow.