I. A Man, A Bridge, and the Rain

Rain had been falling for days. It was the kind of rain that seemed like it had always been

falling and would always be falling. The warrior felt as if he hadn’t slept in days, that it had been

years since he last just sat down to rest. His bones ached and his muscles were stiff. He hadn’t

budged an inch, hadn’t moved at all, since he had proclaimed his challenge.

He had been standing at the center of the bridge when it had been still too dark to see. To

his enemies he seemed like he had been there forever, and would be there forever, just like the

rain. He was the first thing they saw as they left their tents and rubbed the sleep from their eyes.

He would be the last thing they saw before they went to their rest. For three days he had stood at

the center of the stone bridge, and for three days they had not dared to try and cross.

When they had arrived, bellowing their battle cries, blaring their war horns, crashing their

axes into their shields, and stomping their spears into the moist mud, on that first day they had

tried to cross the bridge. The warrior had arrived only a day before the hoard and as they began

to charge across the bridge to rape and ransack he stepped forth to oppose them. It seemed like it

wouldn’t be much of a fight as the warrior was only able to take a few steps before an arrow

buried itself in his thigh. By the time he had struggled back to his feet they had surrounded him.

The first of them died as the warrior drew his blade, splashing warm blood in the cold rain. By

the time the sun set not a single member of the attacking horde had crossed the bridge.

For three days they had not dared to try and cross again.

But it was this day that he challenged them.

“Will you just stare at me?! Will you sit, impotently by, as my very existence mocks

you?! Let it be known far and wide, that this hoard was halted here by a single man! The sky it-

self weeps for you! You are cowards! Craven! Weak! Come! Come and see what happens when I

draw my steel again! Come! Come and die! Or leave, and show the world your true hearts!”

The rain had soaked his robe to a dull grey that clung to his skin. Lightning flashed, and

the simple breast plate and shoulder guard that he wore for armor shined red and gold for the

briefest instant. Thunder rolled through the air, and once it faded a different thunder began to

grow in it’s place. Horns and axes, shields and spears, footsteps that shifted from the sucking of

mud to thump of leather on stone. They came. Not in the mad charge of savages like the first

day, but a slow march. A unit, a phalanx, an army. An army against a single man. A man who re-

fused to move a single inch.

The hoard’s ranks broke only a few yards from the warrior. Six at a time they came, and

six at a time they fell. The warrior’s steel flashed like lightning and every time he swung he sent

a piece of a foe flying. Their armor was made of hides and bones, but the horde could have at-

tacked wearing nothing at all for what good it did them against the warrior’s blade. But a lucky

blow here, and a slow parry there, soon the warrior was bleeding from a dozen minor wounds.

He felt his arms tire, his movements slow, and his strikes weaken. He knew that soon he was fi-

nally going to his rest. Here, on this bridge. Protecting people he hadn’t known a week ago. But

they were innocents, and this would be a good death.

He cut down one invader and swung around to meet the next, but blade met only the air.

He blinked the rain out of his eyes and saw that he stood at the end of the bridge. There was no

one left, just the sound of rain pattering against his armor and the horde’s banners smacking in

the wind, and he knew behind him lay death beyond measure. Steel hissed as it slid back into it’s

sheath.

He walked through rows of tents and didn’t look back to see the people he had saved or

the enemies that he had slain. He never looked back. Only forward. He had come so far, and he

had so far left to go.

II. Roadside Stories

Three of the four men who sat around the fire that night had decided to swap stories to

pass the time. They told stories of a hero, and the fourth man just sat and listened. It was the

same story he had heard a dozen times, the traveling legend who aided any who needed him. The

hero of the people who stood against those who used their strength to prey on the weak. The war-

rior who had fought and defeated the great hoard in the Battle of the Bridge. The warrior who

had killed a dragon who held a princess in the tallest tower. The warrior who had stood alone

against the The 40 Bloody Bandits and slew them all. They told stories of the warrior, and the

fourth man just sat and listened.

Three days ago the fourth man had found himself absorbed into this eclectic group of

travelers simply because they were all moving in the same direction. The first member of the

band was a young boy who seemed to be a wandering beggar, surviving wherever he could. The

next was a merchant, pulling a small cart filled to the brim with anything and everything, so long

as it would never be actually useful. Then was the map maker who was a bookish type; his back

was bent and he wore glasses from spending too much time in dark libraries. The final member

of the group, the fourth man, was clad in an off-white robe and wore a red gold breast plate with

a matching shoulder guard.

One day the merchant asked the fourth man how much the blade he wore at his hip was

worth. The man responded that the blade was his father’s final creation, and as such, priceless.

The map maker gave his condolences before asking how the man’s father had died. When the

man didn’t respond the map maker quickly changed the subject and asked instead what the man

had been doing before joining with their merry band.

The man took a deep breath and began, “I defeated the great hoard in the Battle of the

Bridge. I killed a dragon who held a princess in the tallest tower. I stood alone against the 40

Bloody Bandits and slew them all. That’s what I have been doing.”

“Why?” the youth asked almost immediately, “I mean, we’ve all heard the stories but... I

mean... I was just wondering... if there was... a reason... I guess...”

The youth’s courage and ability to string words together to form a coherent sentence died

under the fierce look the warrior had laid on him as he spoke.

“You’ll have to forgive him,” the map maker said, “the energy of youth is wasted on

those with naught but smoke between their ears.”

The merchant chuckled and added, “Aye, he ain’ exactly the smartest of men, if ya

coul’n’t tell?”

“And yet he walks the same path as you.” the warrior said. He waited a moment before

continuing, “He also had the stomach to speak to me first. And yes, I began this journey because

my home, my friends, and my family were all destroyed as I watched. Helpless. I vowed to never

feel that way again, and to make sure that no one else would if I could help it.”

The youth spoke again, “So you just wander the countryside helping everyone? That’s

pretty amazing. I mean, you’re like a hero ‘round these parts.”

“No.” was the warrior’s only response. They continued awhile, silent once again. “I don’t

just wander the countryside, I am searching for the man who destroyed my life and my reasons

for living it. I do not help everyone, I help those who cannot help themselves and who deserve

my help. It’s not amazing, it is lonely, bloody, exhausting, and seemingly endless. And I am no

hero.”

Again, the youth broke the silence that had descended on the group of travelers, “What

are you going to do after you finally get to the guy who did all that to you?”

“After I find him, I’m going to kill him.” the warrior replied.

“Yeah...” the youth continued, “But after that?”

The warrior turned and locked his gaze on him again, “I have come a very long way, and

I have a long way left to go. My life was destroyed, and all that has been left to me is my

vengeance. Vengeance that will be delivered to those who deserve it. There is no after.”

They continued for the rest of the day in silence. When the boy, the merchant, and the

map maker awoke the next morning the warrior was gone.

III. When the Journey is Done

She was in the middle of a field when he had found her, unconscious and crumpled in a

ball. He almost tripped over her the grass was so tall that it had hid her malnourished body. Not

knowing what else to do he lifted her into his arms and began to carry her. He had built a fire and

was cooking the pair of rabbits he had caught by the time she first awoke. She drank greedily

from a bucket of water that he had boiled pure and would have eaten herself sick if he had let

her. She fell back asleep shortly after that.

The next time she woke the sun was already high in the sky and her savior had moved on,

never letting anything keep him from his mission for too long. He was genuinely vexed when she

caught up with him, but she had no one and nothing so he let her tag along.

“So long as you don’t slow me down or get in my way.” he had told her. And then when

she opened her mouth to answer he quickly added, “And no talking.”

They had travelled in silence that entire day and the next. He didn’t slow his pace but she

never fell behind. They made a strange pair, a warrior in a red and gold breast plate with a blade

on his hip and a tiny slip of a girl dressed in dirty rags.

It was the third night when he asked how she ended up in the field.

“I ran away from home. I’ve been on my own for weeks.” she said quietly.

“How?” the warrior asked.

“I scavenged and I stole. I did what I had to.” A long silence stretched between them. “I

survived.”

“Why did you run?” he asked.

“My father...” She began, and the warrior could practically see the gears of her mind

turning, “He is the king of these lands.”

He gave her a hard stare as he asked, “Why would a princess would run from her castle

and her servants and all that... comfort?”

“On my tenth birthday, my father told me I was to be married. I met my betrothed the

next day.” She looked into the fire, then. Her eyes grew hard, as hard as the warrior’s were. “He

was old and fat. He had warts all over his face and he smelled like the dying. When he saw me

he said... he told me what he was going to...” Her voice cracked then, but she held back the tears.

“The next morning I was gone.”

The warrior left it at that. When the girl fell asleep he stood vigil over her and whispered

a new vow to himself. After that night they traveled together, a strange pair until one noticed that

they had the same look in their eyes. They had each been thrown into a crucible and the people

they were before had been burned away until the only what they were now remained. Simply put,

they were survivors.

***

After chasing them for six months the king’s soldiers had finally caught up. There had

been at least a dozen heavily armed knights and the warrior was forced to split his focus to pro-

tect the girl. He bled from numerous smaller wounds, as well as three or four deep cuts across his

chest and back, and he needed the girl to support him. She was unscathed, he had kept the vow

he had made that night long ago, and not a single soldier had laid a finger on her. After the battle

he had used her as a crutch for the half day journey to the nearest town. Never once did she com-

plain, and never once did he fall. That is, until he completely lost consciousness.

***

When he awoke in a stranger’s home, his first question was of the girl. His caretaker was

an old man and his voice came out thin and rasping, “I sent her to live with a farmer and his fam-

ily nearby. She will be happy there.”

“I have come so far, and I have so far left to go, and the road I travel is no place for a

child...” the warrior let out a ragged sigh and remorse filled his voice, “Will she be safe with this

farmer?”

When the old man nodded his head the warrior struggled out of the bed and started into

his armor as he crossed the small hut. He stopped just inside the old man’s door and called over

his shoulder.

“Tell her...” The warrior paused, debating what he should say next. “Tell her that I’ll

come back for her.”

And with that, he was gone.

Michael’s Police Report

Case Number: 13 1 000314 9

Incident: Domestic Dispute

Reporting Officer: Michael Washington Date of Report: 15, November

2013

Details of Incident:

The domestic disturbance call came in at 10:37 p.m. and my partner, Officer John Sulli-

van, and I were the closest car to the scene. We informed dispatch that we would handle it and

headed towards the college campus. When we pulled up the small house the whole block was as

silent as a grave, so Officer Sullivan and I weren’t expecting any trouble. I had assumed that the

matter had taken care of itself by the time we arrived as it usually did when we responded to a

call from the college. Soon enough I learned how wrong that assumption was.

The neighbors from both sides of the house had called 9-1-1 and they were all standing

outside on their own lawns waiting for us to arrive as evidenced by the fact that neither Officer

Sullivan nor myself had enough time to close our respective doors to the cruiser before we were

swarmed by the neighbors. They were all talking at once and the only thing I could make out

from their cacophony was that there had been a fight at the house between them. Officer Sullivan

and I were finally able to calm the neighbors down enough that they were speaking one at a time.

From the neighbors we learned that the house was being rented by the suspect, Jason

Monroe, and the victim, Freddy Peters. There was a third occupant who was not listed as being a

lease holder, the second suspect and the victim’s alleged girlfriend, Laurie Kirsty. The neighbors

reported that they had not seen Jason in almost a week, but that Freddy and Laurie had continued

their normal pattern of coming and going during that week.

According to the neighbors, on the night in question Freddy, the victim, had arrived at the

house first at around 5:15 p.m.. Jason, the primary suspect, entered the house at an indeter-

minable time between roughly 9:15 and 10:15 p.m.. Laurie, the secondary suspect, then arrived

at 10:40 p.m. as Officer Sullivan and I were on our way to house after dispatches call. The neigh-

bors reported that they heard two distinct male voices shouting at each other starting at around

10:00 p.m..

Officer Sullivan and I were still collecting statements when we heard a scream coming

from the house. I ordered Officer Sullivan to call for back-up and told the neighbors to go back

to their homes and stay there until I told them it was safe to come out. They made it as far as

their respective porches and watched as I drew my sidearm and went to the door. That’s when

another scream emanated from the house, followed by a distinctly male voice yelling back. From

outside the house I could hear loud crashes as if lamps or similar furniture were being broken. I

waited until Officer Sullivan put the call for back-up through to dispatch and joined me outside

of the door before loudly informing the occupants that we were police officers and that we were

about to enter the building.

As a personal aside, I just want it to be on record that I wish to God that somebody else

decided to take that call instead of John and me, or that we had at least waited for back-up be-

cause we were not prepared for what we found inside that house. I’ve worked homicide cases be-

fore, but this was something else entirely. God have mercy on those kids because they’re going

to need it.

As Officer Sullivan and I entered the building I immediately noticed the dead body in the

center of the living room. The victim, Freddy, appeared to have been dealt a fatal neck wound.

Another crash and another scream drew my attention away from the body to the two suspects, Ja-

son and Laurie, who were engaged in a physical altercation at the far end of the room. Officer

Sullivan and I were able to pull the two suspects apart which is when I noted that Laurie had ap-

peared to have caused the facial scarring of Jason with her fingernails. After we separated the

combatants Officer Sullivan secured Jason to a nearby radiator, he seemed to be in a state of

shock and as such was very compliant. He then helped me physically detain Laurie who re-

mained in a manic-aggressive state until back-up arrived and we were able to escort both of them

to the precinct in separate vehicles.

Laurie’s Story

I screamed. It was the only thing I could do. That was it, just scream. That first moment

was the worst, it felt like forever. Like I was screaming, forever. But then that moment passed

and my screams became whimpers. I pulled my legs tight to my chest, hugging my knees. I don’t

remember sitting down. I kept trying to push myself further and further away from the center of

the room, but at some point I must have backed into a corner because I couldn’t get any further

away. The blood was still spreading, flowing from Freddy into an ever widening pool. Soon it

would reach my corner and then it would touch me and the only thought that crossed my mind

was that if it did I was going to vomit.

I almost got to see my lunch again when Jason turned his head to look at me. He was

kneeling in the center of pool, the shins and knees of his jeans were already dyed that rusty

brown that you only get when it’s blood. He held Freddy’s head in his lap, and when he looked

at me I could see the little rivulets of tears as they cut through the red splashes on his cheeks. Ja-

son looked like hell. Apart from the crying, his nose was busted all to hell and his right eye was

swollen almost shut. As he stared at me, cradling my boyfriend’s almost-severed-head in his lap,

his mouth just kept opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. I couldn’t tell if he was trying

to say something, or if he was saying something and I just couldn’t hear him. I have no idea how

long we stayed like that, me trying to make myself as small as possible in the corner and Jason

staring and doing his best impression of a suffocating blood-soaked goldfish.

Goddammit! Fuck my stupid fucking head! My boyfriend’s neck looks like it picked a

fight with the business end of a fucking guillotine, and it looks more-than-fucking-likely that our

best friend was the one who went all Michael Myers on him, and I can’t stop thinking in

metaphors and allegories! FUCK! I did it again!

Maybe it’s a coping mechanism... Maybe I’m thinking like I write so that I think that this

fucked up shit in front of me is a fucking story and not the ruins of my previously almost perfect

life... Maybe this is a dream (which would explain why the commentary is so fucking vivid), or

maybe it’s a stress induced hallucination and I’ve finally gone of the deep end like Freddy al-

ways warned me I would...

Freddy...

It was like I suddenly remembered that Jason and I weren’t the only people in the room.

My eyes fell from Jason’s. My gaze went down from his black eye and past his busted nose and

goldfish mouth, down past his intact neck, down past the Jack Daniel’s belt buckle that Freddy

had gotten him for Christmas as a prize for beating him in a game of Edward 40-hands that they

had played with two bottles of whiskey.

Jason’s eyes had been as wide as they go and full of fear, pain, and anguish. Freddy’s

though... Freddy’s had the same fucking look that they always did. Even though they had gone as

grey as the rest of him, Freddy’s eyes still seemed full of confidence and bravado. Hell, the right

corner of his mouth was pulled up into that smirk that he knows I hate. Knew I hated. Past tense.

Because Freddy’s dead. And Jason killed him. Oh god, Freddy’s dead. He’s really fucking

dead... Oh fucking christ...

Oh fuck. Oh fuck no. Oh jesus fucking christ. Fucking fucking fuck. Fuck. Fuck Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck Fuck. Fuck. FUUUUUUUU-

UUUUCK!

I must have attacked Jason because all of the sudden I’m being pinned to the floor by two

police officers who are yelling at me to clam down and as I look around the room I find Jason.

He was handcuffed to the radiator and there were four bleeding gashes above his black eye with

a matching set beneath, the eye itself was gushing blood. I twisted my head around one more

time immediately regretted the decision. I locked eyes with Freddy and saw the smirking smile

and the confident eyes that were permanently frozen onto his cold dead head.

And I screamed again.

The Peaceful Village: A Fairytale

Once upon a time there was a little village nestled in the trees of an enchanted forest

in a far away land. This village never saw any strangers because hardly anyone knew it was

there. The children played in the streets and no one ever barred their door at night. Everyone

knew each other, and everyone trusted each other. People would smile and stop to chat when

they passed each other as they went about their day. The baker baked, the farmers farmed, the el-

der taught, and everyone was happy. Then one day a stranger walked into town.

She walked down the middle of the main road, right through the center of the village. She

was so beautiful, and her very appearance in the village so shocking, that the baker burned his

bread, the farmers dropped their hoes, the elder’s throat went dry, and the stranger walked,

calmly, contently, confidently. No one spoke to her as she passed, but everyone stared. She felt

their eyes follow her, and she smiled like an exploding star drinking in the attention of the whole

village.

“Such a charming little village you have,” she said to no one and everyone, with smile

that was both wonderful and terrible at the same time.

The elder was the first to find his voice, and he asked, “What do you want?”

“Why, that is precisely the question I wanted to ask you, you adorable wrinkly man!”

came the stranger’s reply. Her voice bubbled and her eyes sparkled as she skipped over to the el-

der and pinched his cheek like he was a baby. “I’m a fairy, can’t you tell? And I’m here to grant

everyone in the village one wish. So... what is it that you want?”

“We have everything we need here,” the elder said. “We are a happy and content village.

Please, do not think that we are rude, but a simple life is what we want, and a simple life is what

we have.”

The villagers all nodded and muttered words of agreement. The elder was right. He had

the wisdom that came with age. He had never steered them wrong before, and why would he

now?

“Really?” The fairy asked, “Is there no one in this village who goes for want? No one

who wants anything they have never had before?”

There was a slight tug at her dress, and she looked down. A little girl looked awkwardly

at the ground and kicked a rock. She was holding a doll’s body in one hand, and the head in the

other.

“Would you like me to fix that?” the fairy asked, kneeling down and taking the little

girl’s chin in her hand. The little girl nodded ever so slightly.

“It’s quite alright,” the elder said. “We can repair the doll ourselves.”

“Nonsense,” the fairy said in her bubbly voice. And with that she waved her fingers over

the doll and it was better than new. The little girl smiled and ran to show her friends.

After that, it was if a hunger awoke in the villagers. This man wanted a new cow, that

woman needed a new dress. One man asked for a stack of gold bricks as tall as his house, and a

boy wished for a magic sword. But even as their wishes were granted the hunger for more only

grew in the villagers. The sun set, and the sun rose, and finally everyone in the village had made

a wish. All but one.

The fairy turned to the elder. “And what is your wish, elder?”

“All I want is for you to leave this village, and never to come back. We led lives of sim-

ple labor, but now all I see is envy and greed. Please, I do not wish to be rude, and I am sorry to

everyone, but my wish is for all the other wishes to be undone, and for our lives to go back to

normal.”

The fairy smiled and nodded her head. The new cow dropped dead. A woman screamed

as she suddenly found herself naked in a crowd. A stack of gold as tall as a house turned to ash,

and a doll’s head fell into the dirt. The fairy smiled once more at the elder and walked back the

way she had come, never to be seen by the villagers again.

The fairy smiled as she heard the sounds of an angry mob beating the wisest man in the

village to death.

Complete Heterochromia

She stood in front of a neon sign that blinked “Closed” in angry red cursive and the

smoke from her cigarette twisted and danced in the cold night air. She had an army surplus duffle

bag slung over her shoulder and she wore a black leather jacket over a deep red sweatshirt, hood

pulled up to keep her ears warm, and a single lock of blonde hair fell in front of her face, cover-

ing her left eye that I knew, from her file, was emerald green. Even from across the street I could

see the light glint off it’s fraternal twin as she looked up at me. Her right eye was a deep blue, the

same color as the water trapped beneath clear ice on a frozen lake.

As she stepped into the street I could practically see the muscles of her legs move, her

jeans were so tight. I had thought the shadow of the alley had covered me enough to hide my

presence; apparently I was wrong.

“How’d you find me?” she asked when she reached me. She gave me a look with her blue

eye that I could tell she had practiced. It was supposed to pierce into my soul; too bad for her, I

didn’t have one.

“I ask the right people the right questions.” I replied.

“Ooooo,” she mocked, “Was that supposed to be tough and intimidating?”

I chuckled, she’d earned it. “Honestly? A pretty girl with complete heterochromia waving

wads of cash around downtown ain’t all that difficult to track down.”

“So... you think I’m pretty?” she asked. She was shorter than me so her eyes looked up

into mine. The green one peeked at me from between a part in her hair. For the first time I no-

ticed she was wearing red lipstick.

She was good, I mean, she was delivering with every line, and she knew how to let her

body do most of the talking. I took a drag from my cigarette. I may almost be twice her age but if

she wanted to play that game, but I’ve been around the block enough to know how to not let a

pretty young thing play me like that.

“Seen worse.” I replied, meeting her gaze. “Seen better, too.”

I flicked my cigarette so hard the cherry flew through the air. A rookie mistake. She

reached out and her fingers closed around my now half-smoked cigarette, pulling it from my

hand. She dragged deeply on her own before putting mine in her mouth. She touched the hot or-

ange tip of hers against the black empty tip of mine, pulled softly, and reignited it. When she

handed it back I noticed she left a red ring around it. When I took another drag I tasted her.

Cherry, and I don’t know why I expected anything else.

“You know,” I said exhaling, “Your parents want the money you got in that bag back.

You? I think they’re fifty-fifty on.”

“You know how much is in this bag?” she breathed, smoke curling from between her

pouty lips.

“No, I don’t. And no, I don’t want to know.” I said. And I honestly tried to not think

about it, but considering who her parents were and all... Well, I’d put it safely between 3 and 5

million in cold, hard, untraceable bills. At the very least, it had to be more than I’d see in a life-

time.

She held up seven of her fingers and I saw her green eye wink from behind the thin cur-

tain of hair. “You know, come to think of it, I have no idea if I could spend all that money by

myself. If only there was someone I could share it with... Someone who could never turn me

over to my neglectful and already-so-rich-they-wouldn’t-have-noticed-a-missing-7-million-un-

less-I-purposefully-took-it-from-their-private-safe parents.”

I had to admit the girl had a point. I thought about my one room apartment half filled

with shitty furniture. I thought about how my bank account always hovered right above zero. I

thought about my shitty clients and about how my job mainly consisted of following cheating

spouses. I thought about how this girl was probably going to drop me like a sack of cats as soon

as she could. Then I looked into her eyes, one green and one blue. I decide to make a terrible de-

cision.

“Damn.” I said. “Time to make a rookie mistake.”

IV. Memories in the Flame

The night air was cold and crisp, it was the kind of cold that made everything sharper.

The stars were brighter, the night darker, and the fire warmer. The warrior was thankful for all of

it, especially the fire that he sat in front of. Despite the chill he wore the same thing he always

wore, the off-white robe beneath a breast plate of red gold and matching shoulder guard. It had

been a long time since he had started his journey and the armor was dented and chipped in at

least a dozen places and his robe was more grey than white and the sleeves and hem were practi-

cally tatters.

Out in the middle of field as far from anyone and everyone as he could be the warrior

took solace in the silence of the night. Silence broken by only two sounds. The crackling of a fire

and the rasp of a whetstone against steel. As he sat in front of the fire and sharpened his sword he

caught his reflection in the polished steel. He looked almost as bad as his armor, his face was

scratchy with stubble and below his eyes were two black pouches. He had let his hair down from

the topknot he usually kept it in. He almost didn’t recognize the face in his reflection, but when

he tried to think about what he had looked like before he started on his path he only saw basic

features, all the details had been lost.

He slid the whetstone down the blade one last time and lifted the blade to his eye. A ra-

zor’s edge. Perfection. As he looked down the edge and into the fire his eye started to water. He

sheathed the blade as he blinked. A single drop rolled from the corner of his eye and down his

chin. He used one of the tatters from his sleeve to wipe away the droplet. He closed his eyes and

took a deep breath. When he opened them again he locked his gaze at the heart of the flame and

he listened to the logs crackle. He took another deep breath and another. Which each breath the

night became less silent and the warrior began to see shapes form in the flames.

A group of cinders became his father, a man as stalwart and unrelenting as the steel he

made art with and whose final and greatest work rested on the warrior’s hip. The twirling smoke

formed a vision of his mother, a kind woman who always knew what to say and would always

say it regardless of whether you wanted to hear it or not. The warrior could almost smell the

forges and ovens that were their respective domains. The faintest hint of a smile showed at the

corners of his mouth before fading like the smoke from his fire.

The stacks of logs that fed the blaze was a mirror image of the village where he spent his

youth. The fire itself gave him the same warmth that the village had, and the logs burned just as

surely as the village had. Beneath the crackle of the flames he could hear the screams of his

friends and the people he had loved, and as one of the logs broke and the whole thing collapsed

in on itself he had a vision of the great temple as the crossbeams gave out and the roof collapsed

on the dozens who had sought shelter inside.

As the logs collapsed they sent a fountain of sparks into the night sky. For the briefest of

moments the sparks formed an image of the one person the warrior never wanted to see again.

The image of a woman whose death screams caused more pain than all the others put together.

After that moment of pure agony the image in the sparks twisted into the one face the warrior

wanted to see again, but only once. The image was as terrible as the man it belonged to. The man

who had led his marauders on a path of destruction that had wiped the warrior’s village from the

face of the planet just as surely as a typhoon.

He blinked and once again the fire was just a fire and the only sound was the crackle of

logs burning. Then the warrior thought back to a cold night just like this one when he made a

vow to a fire far greater than the one he sat in front of now. He had come a very long way since

then, but, somehow, he knew that he didn’t have very far left to go.

The Message

The back of the police cruiser was so full of smoke that the Mayor could barely see out

the windows. He thought that it was probably for the best, he couldn’t stand being in this part of

the city. The Projects. A gaping cancerous wound that, try as he might, the Mayor just couldn’t

stamp out. Off the shore of his beloved city was a great statue upon which invited the tired, the

poor, the huddled masses, the wretched refuse, and the homeless of world to his city. The Mayor

wished that he could wipe those lines from the face of the planet.

The Mayor felt the cruiser slow to a stop. His lips twisted into a snarl as he rolled the

window down to see what was going on. Seven cruisers made up the convoy, the Mayor had as-

sumed that they would have been enough of a show of force that any problem they encountered

would be sufficiently intimidated. The Mayor balked at what he saw. The street was packed with

people, they were crowded in so thick that the cruisers couldn’t push through. The Mayor gave

an order and the officers exited their cruisers and formed a ring around the Mayor’s car.

The Mayor reached over and grabbed the other man who shared the backseat with him.

The other man looked like he was about to shit himself, so after one of officers opened the door

the Mayor unceremoniously pushed the man out first. As the Mayor exited the car the officers

tightened the circle around him and the other man, and as a unit began pushing through the

crowd towards their target. A man who was on the verge of starting a damn revolution in the

middle of the Mayor’s city.

It took far longer than the Mayor would have liked to get to building the man sat in front

of. He sat on the stoop of the building surrounded by eleven of his closest friends. He was pluck-

ing his guitar absently, ignoring the small army of officers that had rolled up to him. The Mayor

looked him up and down before speaking.

“So you’re the one causing all my headaches?”

“If you say so,” the man said.

“I’m told you’ve been ‘teaching’ these... people?”

“If you say so,” the man shrugged.

“And what, exactly, have you been ‘teaching’ them?”

“Only what they need to hear,” came his response.

“And what, exactly, would that be?”

“Nothin’ special. Just what everyone needs to hear every now and then.” the man said.

“Do you know that I could have you declared a public menace?”

“Sure.”

“Do you know that I can have these officers shoot you dead, right now?”

“I know,” the man said calmly.

“Let me make this as simple as possible. Either you immediately cease and desist your

activities here, or I have you carted away to rot in a cell for the rest of your natural born life.”

Their was a slight pause before the man said. “It’s not for you,”

“What isn’t?”

“The message,”

“And why not?” the Mayor pushed

“Because, it’s for them,” the man said.

“Could you be any more vague?”

“Probably,” the man shrugged again.

“Then be more specific.”

“The message is for the people who live here,” he said, gesturing to the rows of Section 8

housing that surrounded them.

“Why just them?”

“Well, not just them. But everyone like them.” the man said.

“Like them how?”

“The poor. The hungry. The depressed, and the disenfranchised. The have-nots, and the

have-lesses. The unwashed, and the unwanted,” the man said.

“Tell me the message, or go to jail. Last chance.”

“Those with power don’t need it. Those without do,” he replied.

“What. Is. The. Message?”

“That they have power.” the man said.

“What are you trying to do? Start a riot?”

“Nope. Just letting the unloved know that they are loved,” the man said.

And with that the Mayor snorted in disgust and turned away. The uniforms surrounded

the man, and as his friends rose to defend him, he waved them down. He went peacefully. And as

he passed the man who stood by the Mayor, he looked into the other man’s eyes.

“You are loved.” he said.

Then the uniforms lowered his head and put him in the back of their car. Three days later

he was in the obituaries. It said that he had been stabbed in his holding cell. And at the bottom

were three little words. His message.

A New Day

Her feet swung lazily over the edge of the dock, her toes brushing against the surface of

the ocean. Her arms and legs stuck through the wooden planks that formed the last barrier be-

tween the world she knew and thousands upon thousands of miles of open ocean. She was lean-

ing against the wooden plank, ignoring the little pinpricks of pain of the splinters against her

chest. She was dressed as she had seen all the girls her age dressed, a swim suit top and a pair of

short shorts. Goosebumps ran all along her exposed arms and legs, it was cold but she didn’t

mind. She looked out across the ocean and watched as the arc of the horizon became visible. The

solid black of the world was split in two, the top half turning grey as the bottom half stayed dark

as ink.

She watched as the sun crested over the edge of the world, just a sliver of light that grew

and grew. She watched until the bottom edge of the ball of light seemed to kiss its reflection in

the crystal blue water, and then she watched as they parted. It was sad in a way. The next time

the sun would kiss the water it would literally be halfway around the world, and she would never

see it. Almost every morning she watched the sun leave its reflection, but she would never get to

see them be reunited.

Soon she began to hear the clarion call of civilization behind her. There were people talk-

ing, and cars driving, and the occasional buzz of a bike going past. Still she sat there, at the end

of the dock. Soon she heard the bells of her high school telling her that she was late. She felt her

phone buzz in her back pocket, her friends wondering where she was, no doubt. She ignored

them all and stayed sitting there, at the end of the dock.

She thought about how she didn’t much like her friends, how each was just a cookie cut-

ter copy of the next. She also thought about how she didn’t like high school very much with all

the immature crap that always seemed to find a way of being the most important thing in the

world. She didn’t spare a thought to her parents at all, they didn’t spare too many thoughts about

her either. Instead she thought about what it would be like if she just got in one of the boats that

were tied to the dock and took off towards the horizon.

She could chase the sun, sailing to the other side of the world. Maybe she could be a pi-

rate like in the movies and hunt down buried treasure and have epic duels amid the crashing of

waves and cannons. She thought that maybe she could go and see all those foreign places that

she had read about in books but knew she would never see in real life. Then she smiled as the

thought of finding some previously undiscovered tropical island and living there in solitude for

the rest of her life crossed her mind. Just a chance to get away from her friends, and her parents,

and her life for a while.

She stayed like that for some time, quietly smiling to herself while sitting at the end of

the dock, ignoring the hustle and bustle of life that continued behind her. She thought that if life

had gotten along famously before she had been born, and then, presumably, would get along fa-

mously after she died, why shouldn’t she just go find her island. In a perfect world she would be

able to sit on one side of her island and watch the sun kiss its reflection good-bye and then just

go to the other side and watch as it kissed its reflection after coming home from a hard days

work of lighting and heating the planets.

In a perfect world she would’ve done just that. She knew she didn’t live in that perfect

world and she was okay with that, as long as she could just sit and think about it sometimes. She

stood up and grabbed the shirt out of her backpack for cases just like this and pulled it on. She

took one last look out over the horizon before slinging the bag over her shoulder and heading off

towards school. She might make it there before lunch, but then again she might not. She smiled

thinking that in her perfect world she would just eat fruit for lunch everyday.

Jason’s Story

From Freddy:

Hey dude you should come back to the house.

Me and Laurie miss you and like we should

probably talk about what happened last week

ya?

---Reply?---

I had read that text so many times I had memorized it. Going back to the house would be

a mistake, but I’m so fucking tired of sleeping on Chuck’s couch. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was

just Freddy but I just don’t want to see Laurie right now. Not if I can help it. The phone in my

hand buzzed. Another text.

From Freddy:

Hey dude in case you were wondering

Laurie’s gonna be out for a while so if you

were worried about her dont be. We can talk

just us guys. Cool ya? See ya soon.

---Reply?---

The fact that he just assumes that I’m going to come over just because he figured out why

I wouldn’t before doesn’t give him the right to be the self-rightous, pompous, asshole that he is.

All the same he was right, I don’t want to see Laurie but Freddy and I do need to talk.

Shit.

Fuck.

Goddamn.

I hate when he’s right.

It doesn’t take long to get home. The house was in a prime location on campus. Five min-

utes from everywhere. The door’s unlocked when I turn the knob so I just go in. I mean I have a

key but the door’s usually locked and I didn’t tell Freddy I was coming. I hadn’t made it five feet

past the door before I heard his smug fucking voice from the living room.

“Knew it.”

“I fucking hate you.” I say, shaking my head and chuckling. Then the buzzing in my

pocket informed me I had yet another text.

From Laurie:

Hey! Freddy said your back! YAY! I’ll be

home soon! Cant wait to see youuuuuu!

---Reply?---

I turned my phone around and practically shoved it in Freddy’s face. “The fuck man! You

said she’s gonna be out for a while! You said just us guys! You said you want to talk about what

happened!”

Freddy seemed genuinely taken aback by my outburst. He held his hands up in front of

himself like a shield. But not for one instant did he drop his stupid fucking half smile. “Whoa,

whoa, whoa, man. It’s all good. Don’t worry about it man, it’s no big thing. We can still talk.

Laurie knows everything...”

Had it been physically possible for my jaw to literally hit the floor it would have punched

through the floorboards. I was fucking mortified. I wanted to throw him through the window and

bash his face in with a rock. I was going to kill him. I think I’m, literally, going to kill him. I told

him as much. It went over about as well as you might expect.

I hadn’t been in my own home for more than five minutes and it wasn’t even ten o’clock

yet but Freddy and I got into the biggest fight of our lives. We were both screaming our heads off

at each other and I’m pretty sure the neighbors could hear every single word we were yelling.

But hey, at least I wiped that smug grin off his face for once. We fought in the living room, we

fought in the bed rooms, hell, we even fought in the bathroom. Everything was coming apart and

I’m kinda ashamed to say that I started crying. I don’t know how we ended up in the kitchen but

after about forty-five minutes of screaming we both needed a breather and a glass of water.

“Well, that was a blast.” Freddy panted.

“Why do you always have to be so fucking flippant about everything?”

He gave me a look that said that we were about to start screaming again, but then he took

a deep breath, looked me square in the eye, and said in a voice full of hate, “I don’t know... Why

do you always have to be such a fag about everything?”

Hot salty tears blurred my vision and I don’t remember grabbing the knife from the block

but all of the sudden it was in my hand. Freddy bolted for the door but I caught up to him in the

living room. I grabbed the back of his shirt collar and before I really knew what I was doing I

reached around pulled the knife across his throat.

The next thing I remember is Laurie’s screaming.

Freddy’s Story

I must have stared at that text for more than an hour. It should not be this hard to talk to

your best friend, right? I finally torn my eyes away from the tiny screen as I heard a crash come

from my bedroom. I sighed and flipped the phone closed. The ruckus coming from the back

room could only have one possible source so I wasn’t too worried about it, I just hope she didn’t

break anything this time.

I opened the bedroom door to exactly the sight that I thought I would see. My wonderful

girlfriend Laurie had succeeded in getting halfway into the room via the window. Emphasis on

halfway. I sighed again, grabbed her arms, and finished pulling her inside. As I pulled her out of

the window I also pulled her up into an embrace that led to some heavy-duty liplocking. Damn,

I’m smooth as hell.

One thing I will never understand about Laurie is that even though she had a key she

liked to get into the house through the window. Something about being too stereotypical or refus-

ing to be labeled or some shit. I don’t care. I love her.

“So, is Jason back yet?” she asked when we separated long enough to breathe.

“Nah,” I said, pulling away from her. I didn’t much feel in the mood anymore. “I was

gonna text him but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

“Oh my god! You two are just... Ugghhhhh!!!” Laurie let out a frustrated grunting sigh

and made a strangling motion with her hands as she shouldered past me out into the living room

and flopped onto the couch.

I flipped my head back to look at the ceiling as I let out another sigh. I shuffle/moped my

way to the couch and unceremoniously flopped down onto it and Laurie. “You know Jason. If I

hasn’t been here when we have for a week straight, then he doesn’t want to see us. Simple as

that.”

“I know,” Laurie pouted, “I just wish I knew why?”

I suppressed a wince. I did know why. I just couldn’t tell Laurie. I swore to never tell an-

other living soul. But Laurie’s my girlfriend, and Jason is her best friend too, whether he feels

like it currently or not. “What if I did know?”

Laurie’s response was to repeatedly slap me in the chest until I rolled off of her. She

jumped to her feet and put her hands on her hips, “I fuckin’ knew it! What’s going on?”

She was using her serious voice so I knew that I wasn’t weaseling my way out of this.

She was going to find out one way or the other, and, I mean, I guess it’ll sound better coming

from me rather than a stranger, right? I closed my eyes and mentally prepared myself for what-

ever shitstorm may follow.

“Well it’s not so much that Jason doesn’t want to be around us... So much as you, be-

cause... Well... Well, because Jason’s gay.” Her eyes and mouth just hung there, open, for a

minute. When I was sure that she wasn’t going to say anything I continued, “And he’s...

Ummm... Well, he’s gay for me...”

“Oh...” was all she got out before collapsing back onto the couch.

“Yeah...” was all I could say as I collapsed next to her.

“So does that mean...”

“Yeah, he’s sorta jealous of you...”

“Of me...?”

“Yeah...”

“You should really text him...” her voice sounded really far away.

“I will. But I really need booze.” I said. I dug into my pocket and pulled out 50 bucks. I

faced Laurie and flashed my favorite devilish grin. “Be a dear, go pick up something top-shelf,

or, preferably, many somethings of bottom-shelf. I have a feeling I’m going to need to be very

intoxicated tonight.”

“Why do I have to go?” she pouted.

“Because if Jason sees you when he gets here, he’ll bolt. I wasn’t supposed to tell any-

one, especially not you. Now go!” I made shooing motions with my hand until she was out the

door and into the car.

When I couldn’t see Laurie any more I took out my phone and flipped it open to look at

the text one more time. I just stared at it for a while wondering if I should change it in anyway. I

didn’t. But I kept just rereading it and rereading it over and over until, finally, there was no other

choice.

So I hit send.

V. Of all the Gin Joints in all the Towns in all the World

She had always been good with faces. She remembered everyone who had ever stepped

through the doors of her establishment, but every once in a while a special face would come into

her little tavern. He came through her door at the same time he had every other night that week,

just as the sun set. He went straight to his normal seat and began his nightly vigil in front of her

hearth. She poured two steins of ale and slipped around the bar sashaying across the floor to-

wards the fire and it’s watcher. He didn’t react as she set one of the steins on the table next to

him and took the seat opposite and sipped her ale.

“Hey there, stranger.” she said in her sing-song voice. When he didn’t respond she con-

tinued as surely as if he had, “They call me Isbrea. What d’they call you?”

His eyes slid to met hers and she was struck silent by what she saw in those eyes. They

were as hard as steel and cold as ice, but there was fire there too, hidden behind as many walls as

he could build. It was the fire that intrigued Isbrea. Then he spoke, “They don’t call me any-

thing.”

“Everybody’s got a name.” she said happily and gave him her sweetest smile which only

turned sweeter when she saw his steel eyes soften to the grey of rain clouds.

“You can call me...” he began before a loud crash cut of the rest of what he was saying.

Isbrea jerked her head towards the door instinctively, her eyes were only off of the warrior for an

instant but when she looked back he was on his feet with steel in his hand. A loud and incredibly

improper noise drew Isbrea’s gaze back to the door. Her stomach turned into a rock as she real-

ized who was filling her doorframe.

He had the stature of a giant and the manners of a wild boar. The light from the torches

gleamed off his bald head and reflected off the heavy plate armor he wore. As he passed through

the door he had to tilt slightly to accommodate the massive axe slung across his back. Isbrea

knew his face but wished she didn’t.

“Oh no...” Isbrea swore under her breath.

“Trouble?” the warrior asked in the same hushed tone.

“You have no idea.” came her reply. The Lorena mustered up her courage and moved to

intercept the giant as he stormed towards the bar. “Hey, you! You can’t be in here. I want you to

leave right now.”

She planted her feet firmly in front of the giant, and compared to her slim and lithe

physique he seemed even larger than he already was. Just as fast as the warrior had drawn his

blade when the giant entered, in the blink of an eye the giant had drawn his axe and in the same

motion slashed Isbrea across her stomach. When she hit the floor her entire world went black.

***

When Isbrea came to the warrior was standing over her. He was looking at her stomach

and he ran his fingers along either side of her injury. That’s when she realized she had a wound.

Not the open gash the giant had dealt her, but a neatly stitched scar.

“Did you do that?” she asked weakly.

“Yes.”

“What happened to the giant?”

“I took care of it.”

She understood. She still had so many questions but instead of asking them she grabbed

the warrior by his armor and pulled him to her and kissed him. Deeply. In short order their

clothes ended up on the floor.

***

When the warrior reached the door Isbrea called out to him, “The man you’re hunting,

the one you told me about. The warlord. I know where he is. And I’ll tell you, but only if you

promise me something. You have to promise that if... if you survive... that you’ll come back.

Here. To me.”

He stopped at the threshold of the tavern. He didn’t turn to look at her but she could hear

him say, very quietly, “I promise.”

“It’s a three day ride east from here. There’s a mountain range. At the peak of the tallest

mountain. That’s where he’s made his fortress.”

He turned then and he told her something that brought tears to her eyes. Another promise

he had made. Between tears she told him that she would pray for him. In response he said, “I

have come so very, very far, and now... finally... I can see the end of this journey. Thank you.”

And with that, he was gone.

VI. Teacup Reflections

The tea house was noisy and warm from too many bodies being crowded inside. The

crackling of the blazing fire and the whistle from the steaming tea pots that rested on the grate

above it helped neither the heat nor the noise. Every stool at the bar was occupied, and every ta-

ble was surrounded. No one even noticed as yet another body came in from the rain. Rain water

slid off the man’s heavy, dark, leather cloak, dripping into puddles on the floor. From beneath

the wide brim of his hat the man’s eyes slid across the room, taking the measure of every man

and woman who had come in from the cold and wet.

The man crossed the tea house floor, moving carefully so as to avoid bumping into any of

the other patrons. Once he reached the bar he stood behind a young man who was occupying a

seat. The cloaked man did nothing except stand there, dripping softly onto the floor, completely

silent. The young man continued talking to the man seated next to him, sipping his tea until the

last dregs at the bottom of the cup were gone. Only then did the seat and it’s occupant spin

around to face the cloaked man.

“Can I help you?” the seated man said, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The

cloaked man said nothing, but only stood there dripping onto the floor. “Are you deaf or some-

thing? I asked you a question.”

Again the cloaked man said nothing. He just stared at the younger man, doing nothing but

drip. The youth bolted up from his seat, barely coming up to the cloaked man’s shoulders, and

met the steely gaze that came from beneath the wide-brimmed hat. The younger man jabbed his

finger into the center of the cloaked man’s chest as he said, “You wanna take this outside or

something?”

At that a glob of spit flew from beneath the wide-brimmed hat and struck the cloaked

man just turned around and started back towards the door. The younger man’s face visibly pur-

pled with rage as he stormed after the source of his anger. The tea house fell silent, everyone

waiting to see who would come back through the door. There was a flash of lightning followed

by a peal of thunder. Then the door of the tea house flew open and something landed in the mid-

dle of the floor with a heavy, wet thud.

A few moments later the cloaked man walked back into the tea house, crossed the room,

and sat in the now vacant seat. Still no one had said a word. Then the silence of the room was

broken by a voice from near the fire, “Why?”

The people three seats to each side of the cloaked man quickly decided that they had

somewhere else to be scampered to the corners of the tea house. The man himself stood and

turned towards the voice, “Who said that?”

From the chair closest to the fire a man rose, he wore a red and gold lacquered breast

plate and a matching shoulder guard, both looked new. Without a word he walked to the entrance

of the tea house, and then out into the storm. The cloaked man chuckled quietly to himself and

followed him outside, stepping over the head of his last challenger.

Outside the new warrior called over the storm, “Why did you kill that man?”

“Because I wanted his seat. Why do you care? He wasn’t kin of yours was he?” The

cloaked man asked.

“No, but I met a man like you once, a man who killed because he could and thought that

he was right in doing so. I made a vow to kill that man, and while I may still have far to go be-

fore I do, I can stop you tonight.” and with that the warrior drew his blade.

***

Years later, in an overcrowded tea house that sat at the foot of a mountain, the warrior sat

in the seat closest to the fire. He stared at his reflection in his tea, thinking back on a storm years

ago that was quite like the one that currently raged outside. His eyes glided over the room taking

the measure of every man and woman who had come in from out of the cold and wet. On this

night there were no duels in the rain for who got to sit where, no trouble at all, because a story

had been told. A story of a warrior who fought for those who could not fight for themselves, a

warrior who refused to let the strong abuse the weak. He had come far indeed, and now the end

was almost done.

VII. Journey’s End

The cold mountain wind tried to push the warrior into the fortress. His eyes darted

around, assessing the room. The fortress appeared to be one extremely large room lined with

torches and dominated by a massive fire in a central pit, there were maybe two dozen men spread

out through the room, but they were all old, fat, and drunk. The warrior drew his blade as he

crossed the massive chamber towards the throne situated at the far wall. Not a soul moved to stop

him.

The warrior sized up his target as he got closer. The warlord was nothing like he remem-

bered. The man he remembered had been a giant of muscle and attitude, a god of war who razed

all he looked upon. But the man in the throne was fatter than any of his “guards” and smelled

like a pig pen. And yet, however diminished, this was undoubtedly the same man.

The warlord spoke, “Who the hell are you?”

“I am Vengeance,” the warrior intoned, “I am your death.”

The warlord laughed.

“Oh that’s rich! I am Vengeance. I am your death!” the warlord bellowed, mocking the

warrior who’s only reply was a sneer and a low growl. The fat man continued, “Let me guess... I

destroyed your village, murdering everyone you ever cared about, and you’ve spent the majority

of your life seeking me out to avenge them?”

The warrior shook with rage and his teeth were grinding together so hard that he couldn’t

force words out.

Amused, the warlord continued, “How frustrating it must be for you to find me only to

realize that time and victory have stolen your revenge from you.”

“This is no victory!” the warrior forced out, still grinding.

The warlord laughed again, “That’s exactly what this is! Your whole life has been build-

ing up to this moment and while you could easily kill me right now you won’t. There’d be no

point. I’m a fat, old man who has gotten fat and old living off the spoils of a lifetime of conquest.

I’ll be the first to admit I’m a shade of my former self! But then again, so are you...”

The warrior’s eyes narrowed. The warlord rolled his eyes and resumed speaking.

“After I trashed your village you know what you should have done? Moved on! Like a

normal person! But instead you threw most of your life away hunting a ghost. I killed you that

day as surely as I killed your people. You have nothing and no one. Even if you kill me now...”

he took a deep breath and said each word like it’s own sentence.

“I.”

“Still.”

“Win.”

He leaned back in this throne, a smug smile plastered over his obscene face. The warrior

didn’t know what to do, he was right. Vengeance was pointless now. The warrior had wasted his

life hunting someone who no longer existed. So he did the only thing he could, closing his eyes

as tightly as possible, praying that when he opened them that somehow what the warlord said

wouldn’t be true. He was visibly shaking now. The warrior hadn’t known it was possible to be

this angry before, and he began thinking of the most painful ways he knew to kill someone. So

that, at least, some part of his journey was worth everything he had gone through. Then, just as

he began to open his eyes, an image forced itself into the warrior’s mind, and then he knew the

truth.

“I was 16 when you destroyed my life. I have hunted you for the past 27 years. And

you’re right. Time has defeated you for me. You are a shade of your former self. But, for war-

riors like us is there no greater hell than the one you have created for yourself.”

The warlord’s eyes went wide as if, for the first time, he realized how sick his situation

actually was. He began struggling to get to his feet for the first time in a very long time. He

failed.

The warrior continued, “My vengeance shall be letting you rot in this prison for as long

as you last. But you have not won. I have people waiting for me, people who I care about and

who care about me. You lose.”

With that the warrior sheathed his blade, turned around, and walked out of the fortress, all

while the warlord screamed after him. And with thoughts of a beautiful woman and a young sur-

vivor in his mind, of a family, the warrior slammed the great oak doors of the fortress shut.

As he started back down the mountain he smiled, thinking that he had come so very, very

far, and now, at last, his journey was done.