A Heartfelt Reunion · 4:03am May 8th, 2015

He stood over me, his dominance ascertained by the blood that stained his blade. My blood.

“Have you ever experienced death?” asked Charles, almost conversationally. “Rather, have you ever been so near death for all of your life that you no longer are affected by it? You no longer fear it?”

I could only cough in response, my life fluid draining from both my gaping wound as it was exposed to the stinging wind and from my mouth as I panted weakly for air that came in shorter supply with every breath I drew in. My suffering seemed to bring some twisted joy to Charles, as he laughed reservedly. It was a soft, genteel laugh that resonated within the castle, breaking what must have been centuries of silence in the still halls as it filled the once dead air with an atmosphere of joviality. It was too bad there was nothing for me to laugh about, though.

“Death becomes an inconvenience, a triviality; it is unimportant, a way of life. People live, and people die; great structures are built and are destined to fall, to return to the earth. Such is the cycle of life and death. There is nothing sacred about it, for it is simply that. A cycle.”

My vision was growing blurry at this point, and my hearing was coming from different angles. It was as though at one moment I was right in front of Charles, able to absorb every word he spoke, while the next I’d be on the other side of the world, unable to hear naught but the faintest of buzzes picking at my ears. This must have been a result of slowly bleeding to death as a triumphant opponent taunts you; I only hoped he’d make my death come quicker, if only he’d get on with his damned monologue. But alas, I was still leaking more life fluid than I was producing, so I hadn’t much of a say in the matter.

It was at this moment that Charles again raised his reddened sword to me. “Your death, however, will be different. I will return you to the dirt, where you belong, in due time. But! Your death will serve a higher purpose in the end! I know that I stated only a moment ago that death is not sacred, and I still firmly believe that stance, but yours will be the beginning of something beautiful. Your death will give birth to a new cycle!” Charles burst into another fit of laughter, this outburst more maniacal. His deranged cackling shooting off the interior of the spacious room we resided in, along with the interior of my mind. Every sound was like the dragging of a dagger across chalkboard, only that chalkboard was my brain. Each reverberation raked across my thoughts like a rusty cleaver.

“But fret not, dear Harold!” he managed to squeeze out between chuckles. “For you may find solace in the fact that you are the sole individual who carries an ounce of significance, and this will hold true even far after your untimely demise!”

I grit my teeth in stubborn anger.

Drats. Yet another stunning failure. I thought as I silently seethed at my unforeseen predicament. I am aware that I am pitiful – which is quite ironic considering I’ve done nothing to deserve any semblance of pity, let alone respect – but I had never spared a thought in my misguided hubris concerning the fact that this duel would perhaps be my last. Now I’m being monologued to death by some upstart who likely fondles himself in front of the mirror every morning. Such was the story of Sir Herald the Stoic.

I drew in another weakened breath as a memory, now distant and irrelevant, wormed its way into my mind. It was the memory of a bakery. Inside of that bakery were two faceless figures. The more I focused on them, the more their shapes widened and merged with the cloudy background. Then came a flash, a horrified scream, and both were lying dead on the floor, pink mist whistling out of open slashes in their throats.

Another flash and I was standing within a graveyard as appropriate rainfall accompanied me. Both me and a few clear faces that I recognized. They were the faces of my fellow members Isaiah and Jezebel, both looking properly forlorn, as the circumstances called for mourning. I stood over two graves with a bouquet of meaningless flowers: black roses I made them out to be if I could only focus on something for longer than two goddamn seconds.

As I placed the bouquet over the graves to complete the ceremony, a booming voice coming from an aged, bearded face pulled me out of my small haze. It was the voice of Chancellor Gordon, son of Heinrich Goldman. He had announced that every member of the Order begin journeying to their homes. As I turned to leave, a gloved hand rested upon my shoulder. Expecting the Chancellor to bid me some form of farewell, I quietly turned to gaze upon something I had not expected: a veiled woman.

Nothing seemed particularly out of the ordinary with this woman, but for some reason the mere sight of her brought panic to my mind. This was very surprising for I, and I had seen everything, was unused to the sensation of fear, even moreso outright panic.
She dug up what was meant to lie in those graves forever. She resurrected terrible feelings of dread and regret, both stirring within me for the first time in a long time. She was my…

---

Snapping out of the dream and returning to the waking world, however unfortunate that was, was only made worse as the child was still ranting about this, that, and the other.

I coughed again, the phlegm in my saliva coming out less bloody and settling upon the ground in a pink and misty mess. I smiled.
As the feeling of vitality reemerged into my extremities and as my breaths became less labored, I had caught wind of the end of Charles’ magnificent speech.

“…And now, Sir Harold the Stoic, now you will meet your end,” Charles gratefully concluded.
I chuckled painfully in response. Although I was growing stronger with each passing second, the pink mist aiding in my recovery, I was still contending with a life-threatening wound.

“I think not, Charles,” I said as I moved to my knees. My voice came out deep and gravelly, and as matter-of-fact as the little emotion it conveyed always had.

Charles responded with an amused “Oh?” before moving on to the question of the day. “And do tell, Sir Charles, why is that?”
“I’m rather glad you asked, Charles,” and with that I moved onto just one knee, my sword reflecting the little light that was allowed into the long abandoned castle as I clutched it tightly in my left hand. “You underestimate me, you see, for I am a member of the Order of Ichor,” now that knocked the smug smile off of Charles’s face, and his smile was instead replaced by a shocked expression of mute horror, if the paler-than-normal skin, wide-open mouth, and even wider eyes were to go off of “and you know just as well as any other peasant that members of the Order are bound by blood for eternity. It matters not what becomes of us, for regardless of the circumstances, even those that would prove fatal to any mortal men, we live forever. We are emboldened by the blood, made whole by the blood, and enlivened by the blood,” with this I was finally standing, if still hunched over just a tad to nurse my rapidly-closing orifice as I spoke with more and more renewed strength.

Charles laughed, a small, uncertain chuckle escaping his lips involuntarily, before the floodgates were opened and he was nearly doubling over in his self-perceived hilarity and delusions. Again, his putrid laughter echoed in my skull, causing me to frown even deeper than usual.
When he managed to calm down after a moment, he spoke: “Haha! Surely you jest, Sir Herald! I did not think you capable of such profound witticisms! Everyone, including the peasants, knows that the Order is a myth, an old wives’ tale, a horror story for children!”

“Oh, I do not jest, dear Charles,” I said with but the tiniest inkling of humor as I began to advance toward him, euphoria dulling the pain and washing over my senses like a tidal wave as the wound finally closed. I could only imagine how long he could last, and I no plans in the immediate future, anyways.

As he saw me once again moving with no difficulty, with not even a hobble in my step, Charles appropriately began to worry, panic neatly etching itself into his young face. I loved that look of fear, of realization, that I had grown so fond of over the past centuries. I reveled in it.
“Every word I utter is a death sentence. Every syllable is an etching into your tombstone. Every breath I take is an assurance of your inevitable end. And,” I advanced further toward him still, “since you’ve been ever so polite to allow me ample time to mull over a suitable way to draw out your imminent demise, I believe it chivalrous to give you ample time to mull over how polite I am being when I keep you alive for long enough to regret what will come to be the gravest mistake of your life.”