The man gasped. The man coughed. The man choked. The blood of the fearful bubbled in his mouth, and formed a perfectly lined streak of crimson liquid down the side of his cheek. A puncture in his neck from steel, the type that would bleed the bloodiest man dry. There he would suffer, and there he would die.
His killer was sat upon a wooden stool, huddled near a campfire, prepared by his victim. His head was hooded, causing a shadow to cast over his face that seemingly no light could ever touch. The rough and hairy hand seemed to have appeared from thin air, from the dark depths of his black cloak, holding a reddened cloth. He began vigorously working it up and down the rim of a great blade to remove the evidence of slaughter. A man stood behind him, knees trembling, heart hammering, as he silently begged to any greater power than the free peoples to come to his aid. This day, Beggars Ally’s name rang true.
‘Run’ the rough voice commanded dully, born in the shadow of the hood and entering the world to only inflict fear upon the observer. He did not need to be told twice. He dropped the dagger in his hand with a clatter, spun around, and sped up the darkened lane of Beggars Ally, where it is said only the villainous and the crooks roamed free, and here he was. The killer. The merciless. The one who lowered his hood to reveal dark eyelashes that framed an umber iris, an unkind face, a worn face, and a mane of brown wild hair. Tygus Partallion.
The blade was now cleaned, and the cold eyes traced the weapon. If there was satisfaction to be had, Tygus never revealed it, and instead he sheathed his blade, cupping his hands together in irritable wait. He raised his gaze to the sky, noting the aftermath of the previous days storm along the wet walls in passing. The clouds remained dark between the thin strip formed by buildings, baring promises of hard rainfall. Yet, no rain fell. The angry, spiralling charcoal clouds flashed a rumbling white here and there with silence, a promise of a future doom.
No rain thought Tygus. Then water will fall another way. The water of tears his wicked mind worked, spinning the words of monsters.
The clatter of hooves sounded ahead over the gagging of the dying man, who lay sprawled in a blood stained mass with puncture in neck flesh. His fingers twitched, his skin growing paler, fully aware of the finality of his end, his eyes screaming a sad tale. The rider dismounted with a soft splash, hooded, cloaked, clad in black, just like his brother were ‘If your mind were as quick as your steed, you would have arrived sooner, Thayalengir’ called Tygus to the rider.
The rider threw back his own hood, his olive eyes far from Tygus, but to the dying man. He seemed sorrowful, his feet causing small sounds of patter with light steps inflicted by the yesterdays rain fall. Thayalengir spoke with a quivering tone, ‘It is said that only the darkest hearts cause the innocents’ to deflate dry’ his retort full of pain.
Tygus scoffed, his voice free of care, casually informative and void of regret ‘This is Beggars Ally, not some pointy eared woodland. The bastard came at me with his pally, steel drawn. I let his accomplice flee like the coward cowards are. Pathetic, weak’.
‘And yet some cowards send their younger blood to kill for them’ Thayalengir shot back, his eyes narrowed as he drew a dagger swiftly. Tygus merely smiled nastily, defeated vocally. Pathetic boy. Flawed by his mercy, the end of any man thought Tygus. He watched his brother kneel in the muddied water and pooled blood alike, and end the dying mans suffering with a swift stroke. A part of Tygus expected there to be more crimson spray, yet the flash of steel was merely met with a few brief pulses of blood. Shoulda known better he thought, an open scoff only representing this mental notion.
Thayalengir gifted the corpse the very dagger he had ended him with, and approached Tygus, arms folded, the blood ceasing its pooling behind him. He stowed a hand beneath his cloak, and moments later he withdrew a beaded bracelet. He tossed it to his brother feet. ‘Dead as you asked. She struggled little, what with me opening her throat in her slumber’. To his brothers notice, Thayalengir’s tone was nearly as cold and void of emotion, than his own.
A lie Tygus thought, scooping up the bracelet in his cracked palm of hand, staring to it with a thoughtful frown. The boy dares lie to I. Tygus averted his gaze from the beads, and stared to the floor, still sat spread legged. A clench of jaw, a clench of fist that held the bracelet, was all Thayalengir needed to cotton on to the unravelling of his lie. He gulped with nervousness, and peered to the cobbles. Tygus looked up, and spoke to a low growl, his voice trembling in effort to keep himself from screaming so that all may hear. ‘Yer can pretend tha’ were a sneeze, an’ then tell me why yer too bloody craven ter end the girls life before I cut off yer manhood and feed it ter the pigs, yer lil’ whelp’.
Thayalengir raised his gaze with fear, to meet the sternness and sheer anger of his brother’s vicious expression. ‘I was met with ill tidings on the road’ Thayalengir said with the firmness of a truth, ‘Friends-…companions of mine, they-…they want me to make the venture to Rohan. To home’.
Tygus abruptly stood, sending his stool into the cackling campfire with an angry greeting of his boot to the chipped wood. Thayalengir jumped in fear so hard he could have sworn his bodies very interior had shook as violently as any quake of earth by a trolls foot. Tygus stalked forward, his tongue running over his cracked bottom lip as he approached. He eyed his brother densely, tip to toe with sheer hatred, and spoke in a tone reserved to reveal his blatant despise, ‘Home you say? This soddin’ realm of horse bedders? This is home, to you?’
‘I was told Rohan is my ho-…’
‘Piss on tha’! Yer know bloody well no realm of the blonde haired horse bedders is fit enough to birth a Partallion. Our operation stems north, no’ east. Yer lyin’ to yerself if yer think yer from some eastern land wi’ lordy Thanes and dim witted Goblins. Nah nah’.
Thayalengir merely gulped, staring ahead to a corner of the ally in which a pig relieved itself of its own waste. A corner space better, than looking to the pure malice of his brother’s hatred. He raised his eyebrows, and embraced the cold truth he had always known. He was no Rohir, and Tygus continued to echo his displeasure.
‘Why the ‘eck am I the one sayin’ these words ter yer a’ this age eh? Eh?! I ask fer an enemies ‘ead, n’instea’ I get…this. This…embarrassing parade of self pity and self lyin’! Some boy’s daft dream! Father always sai’ you were off!’
‘Father had the truth of it, brother. I never was like you. The lies you fed me. Of another lineage. Another life. How could you ever think I would aid you in your villainous deeds. For long I had hoped the lies were a truth!’
A swipe of a back hand, and a gasp of profound pain.
‘Enough Thayalengir. Enough’. Tygus spoke the words with lowered density, his voice thick with a promise. A promise of death, whether his own blood were spilled or not.
‘Whose lying now?’ Thayalengir read from Tygus’ pain staked expression, ‘It is spat upon by our lineage that we spill our own blood. Your blood’. They met each others gaze, their brotherly love firmly extinguished.
‘There are worse ways than spillin’ blood to hurt a man, waste stain. Losin’ blood ain’ always bleeding’ his brother spat dangerously.
‘There lies falseness in your words, brother! What does one bleed if not life’s blood?’
The response was almost too painful for Thayalengir to interpret, but the loss of air from lung forcefully fed him the cold intention of his brother, as Tygus muttered the single word that would change them both, forever.
‘Tears.’
He knows thought Thayalengir. He knows of I and Redain. Of us. Of our love. Of our plans of departure. The thought openly haunted Thayalengir, and it showed blatantly by the dropping of his handsome features. No fear had ever struck his heart so brutally. No masked threat had ever caused the blood to seemingly leave his head quicker than the corpse’s. Tygus eyed him with an open snarl, and mounted the very steed Thayalengir had arrived on. A word was not spoken between them; the only sounds to be heard in the dank alley were of the wooden chair that fed the fire its flame, of the pig who snorted openly, of the moaning sign which swung so freely, and of the horse who comfortably bore a new master. The brothers looked to each other, one with malice and content, and the other with fear, of hope now lost. After what seemed an eternity to Thayalengir, Tygus tugged the reigns. The steed swung about, and galloped off, the shadow yonder swallowing horse and rider on their approach.
Thayalengir stood alone, with nothing but an ill pig and a bloodless corpse for company. A fool would question to where he rides. But I know. Oh how I do, and how she does not he thought bitterly. He peered around the stained, dank walls, allowing his defeat to sink in and to engulf the very fibres of his being. The sign for the abandoned shop swung back and forth with the cold cutting breeze, its hinges rust causing the creek, of rhythm and age, and the mockingly foreshadowing of his failure. He'll find her he thought. He'll find my love and put her to the sword. There will be no mercy, and our time will have run out. It –has-, ran out. He looked to the corpse of the man. How I wish you were the first...hundredth he despaired in thought, Redain may have a chance, if only brother were to hunt her years sooner than this sorry day.
He felt a tickle upon his cheek. He raised a hand to the feeling, greeting the old familiar friend named sorrow. It was only when he raised his gaze to the jagged, broken window and looked upon his dirty reflection, that he fully realised the extent of his despair. His nostrils that streamed snot, flared continuously, his eyes more crimson than the corpse's blood that stained the floor, and his cheeks marked red by the running’s of thick tears that even seemed to mask the red hand print of his brother. His face was contorted to such an extent, that too himself he was simply unrecognisable. This was not Thayalengir, but a downed man who weeps to the boot that keeps kicking. He brought his finger tips away from his cheek, and rubbed forefinger and thumb together as a bitter thought engulfed his shock stricken mind. He echoed the thought to a mumble that was full of a hearts pain.
'Tygus had the truth of it'.
