Death's Facade

Everyone has a different fight, a different wound that keeps them bleeding. We all live behind countless faces, masks of insecurities. We hide behind these forged promises, burning away our sins, our faults. I live separate lives, unwillingly condemning my soul to an eternal heck. I am forced to reside in this world, a demon, corrupted. I’m hiding from what I’ve become. I work alone, silent, defiant, my heart a flame of darkness, my blades swift, unforgiving. I am a man of many colors, though none of them are brighter than the dawn. I am sentenced to suffering of the worst possible imagining. Lost, I do not know myself.
-Ingre Deathwing


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“Sit back and let her die slowly. Don’t cry, she didn’t love you anyway.”
Salastural gasped, blood staining her lips. She stared in horror at her hands, sticky and black. They trembled on the dagger, trying to pry it loose from her chest. Laughter, corrupted and heartless, erupted through the trees. Salastural collapsed to her knees coughing, more blood splattering the ground. A gentle hand under her chin lifted her bowed head and a man’s face loomed closer in the darkness.
Salastural wheezed in agony. Confusion marred her delicate features, “Deathwing?”
Smiling, he shoved the blade through her chest, the dagger’s point breaking the skin of her back. Her eyes clouded. He wrenched the blade free and turned, disappearing in a whisper of leather.
“Stupid girl.”

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Flapping sandals, screams of an infuriated vendor, the fluttering of emerald and brown wool and the boy was gone. He flew around a marble corner, his flashing feet sending sprays of dust and rock behind him. He glanced back for only a moment, watching for pursuit.
He collided head on into a muscular wall of black leather. Shaken, the boy stepped back tentatively from the stranger and gazed up in wonder.
The boy whistled, “You’re tall, Mister.”
The man crouched, his silver eyes leveling with the boy.
“Thank you.” He peered around the corner from which the boy had emerged, “What are you running from?” He tousled the boy’s hair and had his hand promptly smacked in response.
The boy puffed out his chest. “I’m not running from nothin’.”
The man waved a crisp apple, freshly plucked from a nearby outdoor vendor in front of the boy’s face. The boy looked to the bag at his side, then back to the apple in disbelief, wondering how his stolen apple had found its way into this man’s hand. He snatched back the fruit and rammed it into his bag, eyeing the man, and readying himself to run. The stranger did not move toward him but merely smiled. The boy relaxed, seeing that this man had no intention of turning him in for his “acquired” meal.
“You’re pretty fast,” the boy grinned, “What’s your name, Mister? I’m Heay.” He held out his small but nimble fingers.
It seemed that the man had earned the respect of a grimy street kid. Great. The man considered the child’s hand, innocent and clean. (figuratively speaking) And then his own, stained…soiled.
He gripped Heay’s outstretched hand. “Ingre.”

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Mid-summer. Twelve years after the War of Peace. Journal entry: Two-hundred thirty-four.
I am a caged bird, resting upon the edge of insanity and eternity, twisted with turmoil, fattened with greed and hatred. My eyes can no longer rest upon my homeland. The golden trees in autumn. The sky shielded by a lace of clouds. The land stretched out toward the rising sun of immortality. The feathers that once graced my form now fall like the metallic leaves of Zanos, or the icy tears of my kin.

()()()

Ingre closed his leather-bound journal and took another sip of red wine. Heay smashed his potatoes, taking great pains in smoothing out all the lumps. Ingre inspected his strange companion, a ten-year old street rat. Heay, the eldest of his four other siblings, was neglected and abused by his mother. His father had been an honorable knight, a hero in Heay’s eyes. But, under circumstances still unknown, his father had been kicked out of the knights and had left Heay and the rest of his family to find work in other lands. He had yet to return, and everyone but his mother accepted what probably had happened to him. Heay was cheerful despite his rough life, and so Ingre decided to treat him to dinner at the Wayward.
The Wayward Inn lie nestled between two ancient oaks in the trading town of Lyran. It was a rest area for all travelers, be they human, or otherwise. Fights broke out regularly, but most were quelled before any weapons were drawn.
The owner of the Wayward, Yuelas was a short, round, comical man. He merrily greeted old acquaintances, rolled about the inn telling mythical stories to patrons, and flirted with any woman who unfortunately happened to glance his way. Ingre smiled as a waitress slapped Yuelas, sending the man sprawling. It seemed that looking up an employee’s skirt was against the rules. The waitress stepped away, her face slightly pink, her hands placed strategically over her backside. Rubbing his swelling cheek, the innkeeper laughed and the drunken customers roared for an encore. The innkeeper bowed, and his eyes lit up in recognition as he spotted Ingre. He slid into Ingre’s booth and waved his hand toward Heay.
“Who’s this kid you’re lugging around?” He nudged Ingre playfully, “You finally get a woman?”
Ingre gestured to a waitress to get Yuelas an ale. He took a sip of his wine. “This is Heay. I’ve decided to treat him to dinner before I leave for Tara-ach tomorrow.”
“You’re leaving already? And for Tara-ach? Rough country.”
Nodding in thanks, the innkeeper accepted the ale from the waitress. He glanced at Ingre while taking a long pull. He licked his lips clean of foam and thudded the mug on the table.
Heay pushed his plate away. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Cocking his head to one side, he looked to Yuelas, “Tara-ach? What’s so bad about it?”
The innkeeper leaned in close, staring to the left, the right, before returning his gaze to the boy.
“You haven’t heard the legend of Tara-ach?”
Heay shivered in anticipation and leaned in closer as well. Ingre cleared his throat and shook his head, disapproving.
“Don’t start with those stories of yours,” Ingre scratched the stubble on his chin and tapped his pen on his journal, “Fairy tales of dragons and lost treasures.”
“They are not just stories.” Yuelas placed two fingers over his heart like the Uranian Knights did when they prayed to Elia, their goddess of goodwill. “They’re all true, every word.” He tapped Ingre’s hand. “And you know personally of the meddling of dragons.”
Heay gasped. “You’ve seen a dragon?”
Ingre held up his hand, warding off his past. Yuelas leapt at the opportunity to tell a story.
“Seen? Why dear boy, he’s not only seen a dragon. He’s felt its sulfur breath at his back and touched scales of lava. Like metal shields they were.” He thrust out his arm as if wielding a sword and stood in his seat. “STRIKE, parry, STRIKE, parry. On they danced, flame searing his flesh, his ringing blade piercing the hide of the mighty beast. The mountains rumbled…”
Heay whispered in awe. “You fought a dragon?”
“Not only fought my boy, he killed the monster.”
Heay was speechless. Who was this man? Stories of this magnificence defined heroes and gods, made kings of peasants. He and Yuelas’ faces almost touched as the innkeeper related the entire tale by heart.
Ingre put his hand to his head and briefly closed his eyes. Ignoring the chaos going around him, Heay bouncing in his seat, Yuelas reenacting the final battle, Ingre retrieved his journal and wrote in another entry.

()()()

Ignorance breeds like the sins of mortals. It smothers intelligence like a weed, spreading its poison throughout generations.

()()()

Yawning, Ingre placed a restraining hand on Heay’s shoulder. He bade goodnight to the ecstatic innkeeper and moved outside to the darkness, leaving behind the drunken atmosphere of the inn. Heay fought in his grasp, protesting every step.
“I never heard the end of the story.”
Ingre shook his head. There was no end.

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Heay chattered like a squirrel caught in a trap. Ingre walked silently and attempted to recall where the child had said he lived. He stopped and gazed up the sides of the monotonous grey buildings. How different his homeland was. Lyran was a cold city, stone buildings and walls lining the outer boundaries. Even the residents of the city seemed manufactured. How he wished…Heay’s sudden movement brought him out of his nostalgia.
“This is it, isn’t it?” No response. Heay continued to chatter. “Heay.”
Heay looked around and his shoulders drooped. Home. Ingre had never seen such disappointment. Ingre bent and tousled Heay’s hair. Again his action was met with a swift smack. Ingre smiled and rose. A nearby door opened, and a mother holding a basket of laundry was illuminated in candlelight. Four children played about her heels.
“Heay, you get your ass in here this minute.”
Heay waved feebly back at Ingre and crossed into the doorway, disappearing behind his mother. Ingre bowed his head toward her, and her eyes shot daggers. She slammed the door, the sound echoing down the damp, empty streets.
“Heay, what have I told you about running off? Do you realize how much work I’ve had to do on my own today while you’ve been gone? If your father were here, he’d…”
Ingre turned. Poor kid.

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I walk the path of broken glass, our dreams. The fear of losing her has left me alone. She was an angel in disguise, and I the spawn of the abyss. She was always there; her pallid face etched forever in memory and time. All those years together I never brought myself to tell her that I loved her. I held her close; through her pain I promised her I would be there forever, that I would take the ink from my heart and writer her name in the heavens. But now, Elia help me, I can’t bring myself to say her name. I couldn’t save her. Elia, why did I

()()()

Three knocks. Ingre looked up from his writing and shut his journal. After dropping Heay off at his house, Ingre had returned to the Wayward. Ingre had avoided Yuelas, an impressive feat, and retired to his room. Though the room was small, shabby, and overall nasty, Ingre disregarded the cobwebs and dust. At least it was furnished with a bed. He left the journal on the hard mattress and rose from his seat. Three more knocks. Cautiously he moved to the door and placed his right hand inside his coat. He gripped the hilt of his dagger. He opened the door and found himself standing face to face with his past.
“Ingre.” His sister glanced at his musty surroundings, disgusted. “I see your status hasn’t changed.”
Ingre released his grasp on his dagger and sighed as his sister pushed passed him. She stretched and lay on the bed, one bare leg crossed over the other. She was wearing a tight leather skirt, one which showed much more of his sister than Ingre ever wanted to see.
“What in the seven hells are you doing here?”
Tilan re-crossed her legs and inspected her nails. “A sister can’t pay an innocent visit to her beloved brother? Must you immediately accuse me of doing wrong?”
Ingre placed a hand to his head. “Innocent? You’re a prostitute for god’s sake. I would have to be completely stupid to trust you.”
“Or you’d have to be my brother.”
She picked up his journal and he snatched it away, returning it to his inner coat pocket. She smiled sweetly and adjusted her sheer blouse.

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Ingre wanted nothing more than to reach out and strangle his older sibling. Why was she here? More importantly, what did she want. Male patrons of the Wayward inn catcalled and whistled, all of them trying to take in everything of Tilan at once. She loved the attention and took great pleasure in returning the affection. A drunken customer staggered up behind her and whispered in her ear. She slowly moved her hand down to her breasts and winked. The drunk gulped his beer and staggered away, a silent promise made with Tilan. She turned back to Ingre, smiling, but his obvious annoyance ruined her fun. She frowned, her bottom lip poking out, and ordered an ale from a passing waitress. Sighing, Ingre returned to his thoughts. His pen tapped erratically on the journal’s page. Once he finished that last sentence there was no turning back. He would have o accept it as fact and not a bad dream. Tilan chugged her ale but didn’t seemed fazed by its effects in the slightest.
She thumped the empty mug twice on the table and a waitress nodded. “Ingre, brother, I have a favor to ask you.”
Ingre closed his journal again and placed it in his lap. “I won’t sleep with you.”
She laughed and Ingre cringed. He hated his sister so much.
Tilan accepted the newly delivered mug of ale and sipped at it, “Sorry, but you have no experience, though you are much more handsome than the clients I get stuck with.” She glanced at the drunk in the corner. Ingre tapped his pen on the cover of his journal. He prayed that she wouldn’t go into further detail.
She waved the thought away with her spidery hand. “But no. I need to get to Brea. It’s right near where you’re headed, so you can drop me off on the way.”
The tapping stopped, “How the heck do you know where I’m going?”
Tilan inclined her head toward the innkeeper. Yuelas saw her and she softly caressed her neck smiling. Yuelas stroked his chin and returned the glance.
Ingre dropped his pen. “You didn’t…you did?”
Innocently, Tilan met Ingre’s gaze. “What? Oh, no. I didn’t bed that one. All he needed was a little peek.” She laughed. Her finger rubbed condensation from the mug. “Men are so easy.”
Ingre put his hand to his head and resumed the tapping. “Elia help me.”
Tilan leaned forward and cleavage poured over the top of her blouse. Ingre looked to the ceiling.
Tilan half-smiled. “Take me with you or you’ll need more than a goddess’ help.”

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Ingre silently fumed as he packed for his trip. He spotted Tilan picking at her nails, a small knapsack slung over her naked shoulder.
“We’ll leave tomorrow morning.”
She nodded and continued inspecting her nails. Suddenly she walked through the door, her shoes clicking.
“Where the heck are you going?”
Tilan poked her head back through the doorway and winked. “I’ll be seeing you.” She blew a kiss and left, her laughter floating through the halls. Damn his family. He stretched and removed his journal from his inner coat pocket. He sat on his bed and stroked its front cover. He had finally come to a decision. He flipped through pages of thoughts and memories until he found his latest entry. Ingre skimmed over his writing and skipped down a few blank lines, ignoring the unfinished sentence.

()()()

Someday I will find the strength to erase her. My love.

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