Purpose
21st Day of Autumn
767 Karloman’s Peace
His bones ached, the skin of his face pulled taut against the flesh beneath, and his throat was so sore that his breath had become raspy. Ekkehard sat, arms wrapped around knees pulled to his chest, in the shadow cast by his wife's suspended body. He didn’t look at her any longer. His glazed eyes drifted aimlessly across the dirt floor as he waited.
He didn’t know what he was waiting for. He had screamed until his throat was torn and his body wracked. He had unleashed all that was left of him in those lamenting expletives, and now, there was little else to give. He had no idea what to do next. He had wanted to find her and his brother, to retrieve them. He had found them, but facing the reality of their loss, seeing the horror wrought upon them, was all-consuming.
Their fate weighed upon him more than the deaths of a million innocent souls would.
In the distance, thousands had gathered at the end of the road that ran past Vedast’s house. Peasants lingered on both sides of the street and milled about on the rooftops, trying to catch a glimpse of him in his grief. He would have hated them for their apathetic prying if he had it in him to hate anymore. This was a profoundly private moment, one where any man would be stripped bare, and rather than allow him to do so in peace, they gawked, pointed, and murmured to one another. He was in mourning, but to them, he was the day’s fascination.
They made him sick.
The onlookers waited with him, anticipating something. They did not know what, and unlike him, they were expectant. He, however, thought nothing more could follow this moment. What could possibly come next for him? What did they expect him to do? What did the world expect of him? His heart had been pulled from his chest and left to rot for all to see, and they expected—what?
Ekkehard got to his feet, his moist eyes taking in the thousands gathered all around, on the streets, the roofs, and in the windows. “What do you want?” he bellowed, his voice croaking and aching. He spluttered, his strained throat choking on the words and a fresh inhalation of thick air weighed down by the rank scent of corpse rot.
The mumbling and murmuring of the gawkers were briefly interrupted, but only for a moment. His outburst only encouraged further debate among them. At least, he thought it was the gawkers he heard. He couldn’t quite make out their words. They sounded like whispered reflections of his own thoughts, laments for what had been done and bitter resentments for those who had done it.
“Why are you here?” he quietly asked himself.
The voices grew louder, wondering when resentment would turn to vengeful intent. Slowly, the whispers drew his gaze, not at the crowds around him but at the book resting in a sling beside him—The Book of Heaven. He stared at it wide-eyed. What are you? He asked in his mind. What do you want with me?
His vision narrowed as he was drawn closer to the tome, his hand reaching for it once more, trembling. It had a hold of him. It wanted him to do something. It promised that all of this, everything that had happened, would have a purpose. It could make it all worth it. His hand stopped an inch from clasping the book once more. How could this ever be worth it?
“Ekkehard?” a voice called, breaking his trance, and he snapped his hand back from the book.
It wasn’t one of his brothers. They had become silent sentinels, waiting beside him like sombre statues, life stolen from them by grief. Nor was it the guard captain, Cnut—the voice was too youthful and not nearly gruff enough. He turned to look for the speaker and saw a young, muscular man emerging from one of the side alleys that fed into the road.
“Porfinn,” Ekkehard greeted him, his voice croaking, the word barely detectable.
“I heard you were back, but I didn’t believe it,” Porfinn said, slowly and cautiously approaching him, eyes darting to his red shadow.
“Don’t worry about him,” Ekkehard said, looking up at his guardian. “He will not hurt a friend.” He looked back at Porfinn. “I am glad to see you alive.”
“As I am you,” Porfinn replied, still hesitant in his approach. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “You should be a thousand miles from this place.”
“I am not,” Ekkehard answered, “nor do I intend to be.”
“Right,” the young ganger replied. Silence lingered as Porfinn expected something more forthcoming. When he realised Ekkehard would say no more, he asked, “What do you intend?”
Ekkehard wondered the same thing. He looked up at his wife's body and felt his jaw clench. His neck trembled as he tried to hold steady and keep her visage in view while his body wanted nothing more than to turn away. She had been the most wonderful woman—kind-hearted and charitable, a beautiful oasis that had saved him time and time again from his own self-imposed despair. Now, she was carrion for the birds, a dissolving tribute to a callous world.
“I do not know,” Ekkehard finally answered, not taking his eyes off her.
“Okay…” Porfinn replied. After a moment, he rephrased his question. “What does she deserve?”
More than grieving, Ekkehard concluded. “Go get the captain,” Ekkehard commanded, turning to his brothers. Gerwald and Florentin looked at one another, surprised that Ekkehard remembered they existed. Ekkehard suspected both wanted to ask why, but neither seemed willing to voice the question. Instead, they nodded solemnly and began the walk back down the road to the waiting guards.
Turning back to Porfinn, “Pyra?” he asked, recalling Vedast’s final command to Porfinn.
“I never found her,” Porfinn admitted, lowering his head shamefully. “I kept looking, but I don’t know if she is even in the city. The riots—they were mad. Hundreds died. Maybe thousands.”
“And Hjorvardr?” Ekkehard asked. As the words escaped him, he braced himself, ready to protect himself from the news. He would not succumb to hope. Porfinn looked up, puzzled, then realised the question hadn’t been for him. Ekkehard addressed the long-haired scout Emich, whom he had finally spotted, making his stealthy approach.
“He is in the crowd,” Emich answered, indicating a gathering of people in one of the alleyways. “He also could not track his charge in the chaos,” Emich continued. “Guards cut him off from her, and we think she was taken. He would like to beg your forgiveness.”
Ekkehard squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. “So, Gisla is gone too,” he said. He did not let himself feel the pain of that revelation. He had no more room for pain. Pain was all he knew.
He closed his eyes and placed his weary face in his hands. He wondered what horrors Hanib might have concocted for his sister. Was her body among those present along the road, or had she been subject to some other evil devised just for her? Would Ekkehard ever discover her fate? Would he want to know it? He sighed.
“I am not sure I have any to give,” Ekkehard told Emich. The croaky grief in his tone had gone, his recovering throat now emitting an emotionless monotone. He did not resent Hjorvardr for his failure but could not absolve the man of it either.
“Ekkehard,” Captain Cnut greeted him as he arrived. “Are you ready to go?”
The ignorance of the question offended Ekkehard, bitter anger rising from his stomach to his throat. He took a deep breath and ordered Cnut, “Look at my wife.”
“What?” Cnut asked, stuttering.
“Look upon my wife, Captain,” Ekkehard repeated more sternly, not yet looking at the man. A sound like the briefest escape of steam from a kettle emerged from the Red Angel, and all but Ekkehard flinched at the noise. “Look at what was done to her.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
With reluctant trepidation, Captain Cnut’s gaze rose. He contorted his expression as he struggled to look upon the last vestiges of Auriana. After a moment of revulsion, he spluttered, “I am looking.”
“She was a good woman, was she not?” Ekkehard asked.
“Aye,” the captain replied.
“And she was kind to you, wasn’t she?” Cnut nodded. “She helped you when you needed it, and when she did, she protected your honour.”
“That is true.”
“Do you have any of that honour left, captain?” Ekkehard demanded softly.
“Ekkehard…” The captain began, his offence clear. As the words escaped him, however, the Angel shifted like a wild cat ready to strike, and the captain fell silent.
“Captain,” Ekkehard began, turning at last to face the man and fixing his gaze. My wife ensured your honour, and you have left her here with none. You are responsible for the welfare of the people of this city. It is up to you to safeguard their lives and dignity. Yet, you have left my people in this state, a state no person, no grieving husband or sibling or father should ever see their departed in.”
“I tried to tell you—” Cnut attempted to argue.
Ekkehard bristled and took a step toward the captain. As he did so, his hand slid into the sling by his hip, gripping the Book of Heaven once more. As his fingers brushed against the book, he felt a calm purposefulness again and halted.
“I am not here to judge you,” Ekkehard continued. “We can all do that just fine for ourselves. I am here to ask you, one man to another, do not let this shameful act go on.”
“The marquis ordered they not be touched,” the captain explained.
The captain was not his own man. He was a slave to a system of oppression, and Ekkehard could see that clearly now. He had been shown it. The book had opened his eyes to the reality of his world. Cnut's own morality, values, and beliefs were buried. The man had acted against his own judgment in obeisance of a system he feared was necessary. The man knew no better. He believed to his very core that his own survival, and the survival of everyone he knew and their entire species, depended on his submission to an authority that did not exist. Ekkehard accepted that the man could not be held responsible for his own omissions. It was not an excuse Ekkehard would accept, but neither was it one he would punish. Ekkehard would instead set this man free, as one day, he would set all men free.
“Order them cut down,” Ekkehard commanded.
“I…” Cnut began, struggling to step into the light of a new world. Freedom is terrifying, Ekkehard realised. You have lived in a cage so long its walls are a comfort to you, Ekkehard thought, but I am here to break those walls.
“Look at my wife!” Ekkehard bellowed. “A woman who was kind to you and your family when you needed it. A good woman. A loving woman. Look at her and tell me again that you cannot.”
The captain averted his eyes.
“Order your men to cut them down,” Ekkehard repeated. “Have them move the bodies—what’s left of them—into the house.” The captain hesitated for one final moment, the conflict in his mind churning behind his eyes, before conceding. Cnut turned on the spot and marched off to give the command. Ekkehard watched him go.
“Should we really linger any longer, brother?” Florentin asked once the captain was out of earshot.
Ekkehard didn’t answer. He could see that Florentin was nervous and exhausted by the emotions of this experience; his bravery eroded. He needn’t worry, however, as nothing the lords of this city could bring against them would stand against his Angel. His brothers didn’t yet recognise the divinity of the being that walked beside him, but soon they would. Before he left this city, he would show all its people the power the truth of heaven had granted him. Ekkehard just wasn’t sure where to begin.
Then, a flicker of memory entered his mind. He turned to Porfinn and Emich and asked, “How was the wedding?”
“What?” Porfinn replied, confused.
“The marquis's son and Hanib’s daughter,” Ekkehard explained. “How was it?”
“I wasn’t invited,” Porfinn answered hesitantly. There was a time when that might have elicited a laugh or smile from Ekkehard. This wasn’t that time.
“The usual celebrations were had,” Emich said, giving the report Porfinn couldn’t. “Then, Hanib took his leave.”
“He left?” Emich confirmed with a nod. You didn’t even stick around to finish this, Ekkehard thought. The suffering Hanib had caused meant nothing to the man. This horrific slaughter and display were a minor amusement. He had ruined Ekkehard’s life on a whim. He needed to learn the consequences of such action. “The daughter?” Ekkehard asked.
“In the marquis’s house, with his son,” Emich answered. Strumming the spine of the Book of Heaven, Ekkehard smiled. A plan had formed in his mind.
Half an hour passed as Cnut’s men, working with care and revulsion cut down the wooden stake tunnel and moved the remains of the rotting corpses into Vedast’s house. Then, a new voice, loud and commanding, broke through the crowd's murmurs.
“Move!” a gruff man ordered. It was a senior guard, his armour slightly more ornate than Cnut’s, wearing the white cloak of the marquis’s retinue. “Out of my way!” he bellowed. Six more guards followed as he forced his way through the throng at the far end of the road.
Cnut ran up to Ekkehard. “It’s time for you to go,” he insisted. Ekkehard ignored the plea and remained patiently in the shadow of his wife, having told Cnut’s men to take her last. He intended to spend every second his purpose allowed in her company. Cnut shook his head at Ekkehard’s inaction and rushed to intercept the newcomer.
As the white-cloaked senior broke through the crowd, he drew his sword and began to march toward Ekkehard. Cnut blocked his way.
“This is handled, captain,” Cnut said, extending an open palm to urge the man back. Knowing that nothing Cnut said would stop the man, Ekkehard slowly approached the confrontation, his red shadow following in his wake.
“Handled?” the other captain barked. “It doesn’t look fucking handled to me. It looks like you are disobeying the marquis’s direct command.”
“Don’t make more of this than it is,” Cnut pleaded. The newcomer ignored him and pointed his sword at Ekkehard.
“You!” the other captain shouted. “You’re coming with me.”
“Break him,” Ekkehard commanded in a whisper.
The Angel lurched into action, sprinting past Ekkehard and grabbing the white-cloaked captain by one leg with such speed that he had no time to react. It pulled the man off his feet and upward, leaving him to dangle headfirst toward the ground. Then, in a terrifying flash, the Angel whipped the man around in the air and slammed his body to the floor. His helmet flew free, and his head smashed open. Buckling metal in his armour gave way, shredding the flesh beneath, and blood cascaded from his body like a burst water sack. The crowd screamed; some ran, but most watched in rapt, terrified awe.
One of the supporting guards of the dead captain rushed the Angel and jabbed a spear into its chest. “Break them all,” Ekkehard commanded. The uninjured Angel began its slaughter, quickly tearing all six guards apart. Their fleshy human bodies crumpled and flailed under the assault of the crimson warrior.
Captain Cnut stumbled backwards from the scene, his whole body trembling as he witnessed the power of the Angel, his mouth agape. Ekkehard placed a hand on the man’s shoulder to steady him. “Don’t worry,” Ekkehard said to the captain. “He will not hurt a friend.” Cnut looked back over his shoulder, eyes wide and paling and Ekkehard’s darted to meet them. “You are my friend, aren’t you, captain?” Tears began to stream down the side of his face as he nodded but said nothing. You're free now, Ekkehard thought to himself. There's no need to thank me.
When the Angel was done, Ekkehard returned to wait beside his wife. Then, after Cnut’s men had finished gathering the dead and all but Auriana had been placed into Vedast’s house, Ekkehard requested an axe. He laboured alone to cut his wife down from the wooden post, carefully bundling her liquefying form to preserve what remained of her as he carried her in both arms.
As he passed through the house's threshold, Ekkehard noted that the old storefront was brighter than before, its shuttered windows smashed open. He carried her through the cutting room, now littered with the rotting dead, its tables upturned, and its floor stained with more than the blood of animals. He carried her through the reception room, past the shattered table where his and Vedast’s family had dined. He carried her through the winding, chaotic corridors of the house, up and down its many small stairways. He found his way to the guest room, and there, upon the broken bed he had once lain beside her in, he laid Auriana’s body down one last time.
He looked at her mutilated corpse and made her as peaceful as he could. His mind and heart were empty as he did so, bereft of all feeling. He had cried all his grief and love; all that was left was to say goodbye. The words his mind had for her in that final moment could never be recorded; even the Book of Heaven could not comprehend the magnitude of that last farewell. He was saying goodbye as much to himself, and he was her. He was burying the vision of a world that would never be. He let go of a beautiful lie, one he would soon reveal to all, for he could not live in the bliss of that ignorance any longer than no one else would get to either.
Ekkehard leaned down and kissed the rotting, lipless face of his wife. Then he turned and left the room and the house. Stepping out into the street, Ekkehard began to march up the road that ran past Vedast’s house. His brothers and former colleagues followed, struggling to match his pace. “Burn it,” he called back to his Angel as he departed.
He did not watch the lighting of the pyre or think of a prayer to say. There was no reason to. He understood that no one was listening. No one had ever been listening to his prayers. He knew those dearly departed that he had loved could not hear him and did not care what was done to them. The pantheon he had been raised to worship was a fallacy, and words spoken over the burning of the dead were for nought. He burned them out of respect for their memory, nothing more. His hand gripped the spine of the Book of Heaven as he moved on to what was next.
“Is that it?” Cnut asked, chasing after him. Vedast’s house was going up in flames behind them. “Are you leaving now?” Ekkehard shook his head.
“Hanib and I were even,” Ekkehard replied in his empty voice. “He had taken a son from me, and I had taken a son from him. Now, he has taken a wife and a daughter, too. I intend to balance the scales.”
“What does that mean?” Cnut asked.
“It means that Hanib has taken more than his due,” Florentin answered for Ekkehard, his tone colder than ever. “He owes us a debt.”
“And we intend to collect,” Gerwald finished, his voice steely and resolute, a man set on a course of vengeance.
“It means,” Ekkehard explained, “we are going to pay the marquis a visit.”