Chapter three

Ten years later, Ben

The night was calm with the occasional chirp of a cricket somewhere in the distance. Ben lay sleeping in bed until, “Benjamin,” a voice hissed through the darkness causing Ben to jump into a sitting-up position. He scanned the room knowing he heard someone, but who?

“Who's there?” He slowly crawled out of bed, his heart pounding with every step taken, with every movement of his limbs adrenaline pumped through his body. Was I imagining things; he thought to himself as he heard no response or shuffling of feet. Ben lit the oil lamp that hung loosely on the wall behind him revealing a small room with a single bed, at the foot of the bed was a large chest. Ben had an end table he crafted from spruce with a green sword resting, unsheathed, on top. There was a familiar feeling when he held the sword, almost like he knew the weapon. The blade had a mild green hue with an emerald heart that, only at times, Ben swore he could see pulsating. He sheathed it and placed it in his chest wondering how it got there; he remembered his sister Ade, whom he hadn't seen in years, had a similar weapon, but it was golden instead of green, and a heart made from diamond.

That didn't matter anymore; he wondered how much blood that sword had spilled. Ben wasn't one for fighting; he shuddered at the sight of blood, at violence. Ben considered himself lucky to have been graciously spoiled by the king after the madness from his father left him homeless as a child, that didn't matter anymore either. Ben shut the door to his small home, that single bedroom, and continued his way down a gravel path kicking rocks with every step he took. The Path stretched far into the distance following the curves of the land as it raised and dropped slightly. At the end of the path was the castle where people stood with carts waiting for food; the castle provided all provisions for the people.

“PSST,” a hissing sound came from behind Ben who jumped around to see a small, old man with greasy gray hair that hung over his eyes. He used a thick, long stick to walk with. He wore leather undergarments almost as if he had just taken off armor; His eyes were frosted over like that of a blind man. “Oh Benny, I've run into Benny. Oh, what will I do, or? Have I already been here and made my decision?”

“Uh, how do you know me?” Ben took a step back, it was those eyes. He was sure the man was blind but the eyes followed him, they almost stared through him.

“I might be sick with darkness, young man, but I see more than you. Ironically someone with my knowledge would say you were the blind one, eh?” The man smiled revealing a mouth of missing and blackened teeth. “Raziel’s the name but call me Ziel,” the small old man looked up as if deep in thought. “I guess I don't like that RA part of my name.” Ziel began shuffling around in his pockets pulling out various items he let fall to the ground. “One second, I'm still blind and these pockets can carry!” Ben was amazed at how much Ziel was able to pull out of his pockets before he held a small black bag in front of ben. “You’ve noticed it?”

Ben stood feeling confused at the current confrontation. “No-noticed what?”

“The inconsistency, the patterns,” He lowered his voice to a mere whisper, “Their patterns,” He opened the bag revealing black dust, and took a small pinch out before sealing it tight and putting it in Ben's pocket. “Keep the bag closed, the dust must stay dark,” he spoke before inhaling the dust through his nose. Ziel shook his head, “Shows you the truth and blocks the mind fog,” he held a pointer finger up. “Minor side effect is that you have visions of the future… or past things you have not seen.” He stared Ben in the eye, “You can no longer trust that you cannot fight, Benny.” Those words hit Ben hard for reasons he couldn't explain. Ben found he had no words for Ziel; he was positive Ziel was a crazy man who just passed some sort of drug to him. Ben took the bag from his pocket and pushed it into Ziel's hands, who opened it and threw the black dust into Ben’s face. Ben couldn't react and instead gasped in shock, snorting the black dust in the air, and Ben’s vision instantly became blurry. The man in front of him began twisting in circles and before Ben knew it he was on his back with the old man looming above him then… Darkness

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Ben’s eyes weakly opened still feeling heavy; it was night and he was carelessly sprawled out on his bed with his left arm off one side and his right leg hanging off another. He didn't know if it had been hours or days. He fell back asleep until his eyes opened and he saw sunlight poking through his window. He heard knocking on his door and his name being called, by who he couldn't tell, and his head rolled over and his eyes shut again. Ben awoke again, at night this time, only able to move his head, and saw a shadow walking around his room like a person pacing.

Ben found the muscles in his jaw and his kneck and he weakly asked the figure who stood at the foot of his bed, “Are you death?” No response. The dark figure slowly bent over, opening the chest and pulling out that sword with the green hue and the emerald heart, the glistening, pulsating heart, and the figure walked around Ben’s bed. The figure held the sword with the flat side of the blade on one hand and the hilt on the other, like he was presenting the sword to someone. The figure only set the sword on that spruce table before Ben fell asleep with the world engulfing him in darkness.

Ben awoke again, this time being able to move his whole body, which ached severely, Ben felt as if his body was crushed beneath considerable weight. His head felt like it was beaten with a stick a couple of times and Ben reached for the water on his table, one he didn't set but he needed the water and chugged it before the door to his home opened. It was his friend, his brother Oliver.

“You are finally awake!” He exclaimed seeing Ben move about. He held a wooden tray of fruit and cooked meat.

“Where you here at night?” Ben asked remembering the dark figure he thought was death. He looked and saw the sword, unsheathed, and resting on the end table still. Oliver carefully picked it up and walked it to the chest.

“You were out of it, mouthing words I couldn't understand. You kept repeating ‘Trust us, don't fight’ and I thought you were a goner, out for weeks you were. I had to pour water in your mouth and mead through a straw!”

“Wait you gave me mead? Ben was half amused and fully thankful to be alive.

“Well, you looked pretty thirsty, and I’d be pissed if no one offered me a good drink of mead while in death's grip.” Ben held his still throbbing head. “You kept calling for this Atticus fellow. Is he your father?” Oliver was sitting next to Ben now, “It's just that you never talk about him.” Oliver added looking distraught.

“My… Father,” Ben said and it felt as if someone had stabbed him in the side of his head, then ripped his head in half and feasted on his brain. Ben doubled over, his head between his knees, and he wrapped his hands over the back of his head. His eyes were closed but he saw a picture of a man holding a sword against a kingsman, the king's guards, one who was hurting him. Was that man his father? Why was a guard for the king hurting him and why would his father defend him? Every question that went through Ben's mind was like a sharpened blade. Were these his memories?

Oliver grabbed Ben’s shoulders, “Maybe we should get father.” Ben felt angry at Oliver's touch and the mention of HIS father. He shrugged Oliver's hands away and got up.

“HE is not MY father,” Ben couldn't tell you why but he was yelling at Oliver now. His fists were balled. Oliver got off the bed and was in Ben's face.

“You mean after YOUR crazed father MURDERED your mother, burned down your house, killed kingsmen, killed Felix, THEN tried to murder you and Ade and left you homeless? At fucking ten years old. He almost killed my father before he ran. At ten my father took you in, you and your sister. Your ungrateful sister ran off and now you say he isn't your father? Well, tell me who is then?” Oliver was more pissed than Ben had seen him, Ben has never seen him with tears before. Ben didn't respond, he couldn't. He didn't know where his feelings came from and he stood there, crying.

Oliver shoved him back before storming out of the small home, and Ben still stood there. Was he ungrateful for the king's help? Of Olivers Brotherhood? Ben sat on his bed not noticing the black bag of back dust on his end table, his headache was lost with the argument moments before, and he was now resting his head on his hands. Why did he feel angry at the mention of the man who took him in after his father went crazy? Ben laid his head on his pillow, he felt exhausted now; despite having slept for weeks he was tired again. He thought about the memory of King Calvin rescuing him from the fire, of the Williams taking him in. Slowly the world around him engulfed him in darkness once again, this time he welcomed it.