An Abecean Heartache, Part Two

ed. The walls were red. The ceiling was red. The bottoms of my shoes were red. I closed the door of my small hovel behind me as an enraged tear fell from my chin, falling into a puddle of blood. For an hour it seemed I stood there, immobilized by shock. I regained my composure and made my way across the room. The candelabra in the corner was almost at its wicks' end as I began to ascend the stairs, the scent of matches hanging in the air.

There she was, body covered in stab wounds and burn marks. I fell to my knees, holding her grotesque, mangled body in my shaking arms. Never have I wept like I wept then, it is embarrassing even to admit. I laid her peacefully down on our bed, brushing her hair from her face, which was pocked with coagulated blood. It may seem odd to most that my first feeling was not of sadness or malice, but betrayal. It maddened me. So mad was I, that the gods of this world could create men as mindless as those who had done this.

I returned to the main floor and notice something sickeningly peculiar. The blood was pooled into the shape of a serpent, its eye, a human eye. It was the eye of my daughter, who was leaned up against the corner. I picked a small, neatly written note from her dress pocket. I cleared my throat and slowly read it aloud to myself.

/center

The note became soggy in my sweaty hands. I screamed out towards the sky as I slammed open the door. Rampant ran my thoughts, like ants running to honey. Suddenly, it hit me. I knew who had done this, and where to find him. I licked my cracked lips and said to the stable boy, "I'll take the black horse, in the corner." He thanked me and took the gold. I mounted the horse just before I heard the (all-too-familiar) cry of "By the gods, somebody's been murdered!"

Riding through Goldmoor in the spring is utterly beautiful. It's a delightful interplay on the senses; half-bloomed flowers, contorted rocks, the smell and the spray of the sea brushing against your face. It creates an emotional numbing. Unfortunately this didn't set in for me: all I felt was my vengeful heart pounding against my ribs. The rolling hills swooped up and down, Rihad became visible in the distance.

The sound of bells ringing and gulls clamoring echoed over the valley. The mainsails of run-down galleons and expensive yachts poked though the low-lying clouds. I had returned, but I would never, even if I tried, leave.

The evening sun basked the city in a dull orange light. A group of tall, hardy Nord sailors whispered and pointed as I rode past. I had a feeling they knew why I was back. I placed my hand on my scabbard, and the cold metal handle of the sword sent a chill through me. How rich was the rage flowing, pulsating through me, consuming me, driving me to complete my task. Through every shop, every tavern, I searched for Mahez. This was his turf after all.

I found him buzzed in a lavish tavern by the shore of the Brena River. It stood out like a sore thumb against the city's rustic aesthetic, an obvious spot for a bandit lord to hide after a big haul. He was laughing and singing along with the nobles who likely frequented this place, but he stood out as the only one covered in spilled ale. I lightly tapped him on the shoulder. "By the Boneshaver, who are y-" was all he could manage to say as he turned and my fist slammed into his jaw, bones cracking, teeth flying. The other drunks didn't seem to notice as I threw him by the collar out the door and into the street. The residents began to gather around at the cry of "fight!"

Mahez spoke very fast in Yoku as I proceeded to beat him in every way I could think of. He curled up into a ball like the coward he was. I picked him up, and his face was marked with my boot print. I pulled forth my sword and whispered into his ear "You're wrong, for it is you who is worthless and you who is evil." With a cackle I sank my sword into his gut. Blood spurted as I twisted it back and forth. It pierced through his back, the reddened blade shining in the falling sun. I pulled it out and fell backwards, the harsh reality of what I just did the harsh reality of what I had just done hitting me like a landslide.

I sat there on the board walk awestruck and covered in viscera; Mahez's chest rose, then fell, but did not come back up again. I vaguely remember the cold gauntlets of the guards grabbing my arms and hauling me away without a thought to the cell where I now sit. Oh, how bittersweet is this virus we call freedom, how bittersweet is this gift of revenge.