Sword Saint

Do you remember what it was like before you were born? That’s the only way I can describe this place.

My world is still. Me and my thoughts, in void.

What surrounds me isn't darkness, but the lack thereof. How long has passed? How long have I been alone with my thoughts? Alone to remember the image of my love, laid out in front of me? Blood and wine spilled on the floor. A black temple. Betrayed by my comrades. Alone I sat in darkness. I had no eyes to cry, but I still felt.

Sadness.

Misery.

Rage.

The Emperor betrayed me. For what? That I might try for his crown? I festered in the absence of darkness.

He took everything from you.

He took everything from me.

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This world was not worth saving.

I should have never saved this world.

There was no point of reference for time, only my internal thoughts, unyielding like a sea that rocked the shores of my mind, waves of madness that crashed and boiled inside of me. Maybe it was seconds, or hours, or years, but the waves finally stilled. I was alone, in darkness, rocking over a black ocean that stretched beyond the horizon.

If I could do it all again… I would rip the Emperor apart, piece by piece. What did Heroism win me? I risked my life to save the world. The Emperor must die. Finally, the stillness broke. I awoke to a horrible world, covered in blood.

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“Well, nothing much strange round here unless you count the Mercy’s kid.” Ben replied, leaning back.

“I see. And what was strange about this kid? This… son of the Mercy family?”

“The Mercy’s kid had always been a strange one. I ‘member the day he was born. Never seen a baby like that.” Ben recounted to the soldier, rocking in his chair. He breathed in deeply from his pipe, hunching even further than his geriatric form normally was and coughing out a bad take of tobacco smoke. “Never seen a baby like that.” He wheezed out. “Din’t cry none, did not scream. Just looked back at me with those cold, dead eyes. Still though, it was a successful birth. His ma lived, din’t she?” He asked. A scribe in the corner of the room wrote every sentence down, line by line.

“And was he otherwise normal?” the Imperial Inquisitor asked, eyes distant under his iron helm.

“Well,” Ben played with the straps on his overalls, having set down his pipe. “Normal? I’d reckon he don’t talk much. Don’t play with the other kids neither, course their parents don’t mind none. Most the village prefer he stay away. Always lookin on with them cold, dead eyes. You reckon he some kind of, of mind eatin monster? We all heard the stories ‘bout the Bane. I’d hate for-” Ben stopped talking at a gesture from the soldier.

“How long ago was the child born?”

“Well, I’d reckon bout three winters. Maybe four. ‘Course back then I was still tillin’ the lands. Nowadays I just handle the inn. Maybe work with a few of the animals, course, but no butchering. These old bones jus’ don’t have it in ‘em anymore. Now in all my days, we aint seen no activity nothing like your camp come through, cept, course, that one time the hero’s party searched these woods.” The soldier turned to the second on his right, nodding. He walked out of the room.

“It matches up with our general timeline.” The scribe spoke.

“Thanks for your time. It’s exactly what we needed to hear.” The soldiers hand fell onto his swords handle.