Of Blood and Promises

The young boy led Godfrey over to the shack at the end of the village and began banging on the door with such enthusiasm that Godfrey’s mind wandered home. By now his wife would have already birthed their son, and he would be walking now. Too many years old with no idea of what his father looks like. And his wife, his beloved Maria, was alone with their son while anxiously awaiting his return as he finalized his quest. His grip on his sword loosened momentarily. The others had abandoned the mission, their “guilt” weighing heavily in their hearts. Not him though. He tightened his grip. This was the last one, then he could return home.

“Uncle Eamon!” the boy yelled amidst his banging. “There’s a mister out here that wants to see you.”

There was a short ruckus inside before the door swung open. A short old man with a bush of a beard peered out the doorway, glancing piercingly from the boy before landing on Godfrey.  

“Go back to your mother, kid,” Eamon growled. “Leave me and the mister to talk.”

“But Uncle Eamon,” the boy whined, “the mister said he had stories to share with you. I want to listen too.”

“Go home!” Eamon snapped suddenly. The boy flinched, then his eyes teared up before he ran home. Eamon watched him leave with a sad look in his eyes, before glancing back at Godfrey with a glare and snorted. 

“So you’re a liar too, Godfrey of Galavan,” he spat.

“I see my reputation precedes me,” Godfrey retorted. “And you must be Eamon the Eternal,” 

“In the flesh. And you’ve hardly got a reputation to be proud of, slayer.”

Slayer was a name that unfortunately stuck on them after they had killed the Queen Vanessa of Westeria. He ignored Eamon’s disgust when he spat out the word. Eamon on the other hand retreated back into the shack, leaving the door open almost invitingly. Cautiously he followed him, into the hardly furnished room that bore nothing more than a bed, a table and a lit altar with the sketch of a woman and a huge spear with a banner tied around the top of its shaft. Eamon stood in front of the altar, a hand on the weapon but not wielding it. 

“That’s quite the weapon,” Godfrey found himself complimenting.

Eamon snorted again. “It belonged to the first defender of this little village. She entrusted it to me decades ago and made me promise to protect this village with my life.”

“Did you also give your word to serve the Hateful King?”

Eamon took his hand off the spear and faced Godfrey. “Is that what you believed, slayer? Is that why you and your company killed the others?”

“I don't care what sort of lies you spout. They change nothing. You still decided to live even after the Hateful King rose to power and waged war on everyone.” 

Eamon touched his chest momentarily before responding. “I made a different kind of promise for that runt.” 

“Was it the kind that warrants the death of hundreds while you and your camaraderie live and rule peacefully?” 

“It's the kind of promise made to help a friend fulfill his desire to be a father.” 

Godfrey blinked, then shook his head and drew his sword. “You're all liars, and if not, you're just blind.” 

Eamon exhaled loudly. "Do you even know why we all carried pieces of that runt’s soul? It was because he was dying. Born with a weak heart that wouldn’t even keep till his first moon. His father sought medicine and magic of all kinds and only one offered him a solution. And he begged us to take part in the ritual, to sacrifice pieces of our souls in exchange for pieces of his dying. To maintain the fractions of his with ours.” 

 It took Godfrey a long moment to find his tongue. “Lies,” he finally managed to mutter. “All of it lies. If it was truly true, none of you would have let yourself live with it.”

“Perhaps. Tell me, slayer: do you have a wife? A child? A love worth living for.”

Godfrey said nothing.

“I thought so.”

Godfrey gripped his sword tighter. “No, I do not believe you. You all are supporters of the Hateful King, harborers of his vile soul to ensure his reign is nigh eternal. You all are the monsters, not us. Not me!”

Eamon smirked. “Is that what you choose to believe, slayer? Why would I lie to you?”

“Maybe you’ve lied to this village for so long you believed it yourself.”

“Then I would be a horrible liar if I believed my own ruse.”

“It’s already made you a heartless one.”

Godfrey noticed Eamon’s hand inch towards the spear, then returned it to his side. “Did you come here to yap your gums, or did you come here to strike me down?”

Godfrey responded by leveling his sword at Eamon. “Arm yourself then.”

Eamon laughed. “Really? Is that what you told Vanessa when you slaughtered her in front of her children?

Godfrey grit his teeth. “Arm yourself,” he repeated.

“Or did you say that to Alexander when you attacked him in his own court?”

“Arm. Yourself.”

“Or perhaps you said so to Everette, before you and your company hunted him down in his domain. Where is your company by the way? Where are the dreadful slayers? Did they abandon you, oh Godfrey of Galavan? Did they have a change of heart, their guilt weighing on their hearts? Did they finally grow a conscience, something you can’t seem to grasp the concept of?” Eamon laughed again, then slammed the altar with a startling force. “Is that what you told them when you left their kingdoms and home defenseless against attack? Left their families in grief? Is that what you told them, slayer?”

“Shut up and arm yourself!” Godfrey screamed. In his anger he slashed at Eamon, who tried and failed to muffle a cry. The old man fell to the floor, his back against the altar. The slash left a gaping wound across his chest, and his breathing became sporadic. 

Godfrey took a step back, his shaking hands dropping his sword to the floor with a clang. He stared at Eamon’s gaping wound and screamed out. “You bastard!” he hollered. “Why didn't your arm yourself?” 

Eamon, amidst his pain, smiled weakly. “What? You finally grew a conscience?”

“Shut up already!” Godfrey snapped, fuming, prancing. “Why didn’t your arm yourself?”

“Because” he coughed, wincing painfully, “I made a promise”

Confusion turned to realization in Godfrey’s eyes. “I would never.”

“Are you sure? After all you’ve done thus far, do you truly believe that lie?” He laughed again, weakly, coughing blood. “You really are a liar, Godfrey of Galavan.” Then his body went limp against the altar.

Godfrey watched the limp body of Eamon for a long minute before picking up his sword.  He rubbed his head trying to drown out Eamon’s words. The old man was a liar, there was no doubt about it. They were all conspirators, allies. Godfrey and his company were charged with eliminating them while Galavan and their allies rallied armies against the Hateful King’s forces. His company however grew more hesitant with every kill, until even his protege Nina abandoned him. And now this? No. He will not believe them. They were not innocent, not after everything. 

Making his way for the door, he let out a sigh of relief as he reached forward to push it open. It was over, he thought. He was done. All the bearers of the Hateful King’s fractured soul were now dead, and he could finally return home. The face of his wife flashed in his mind. He imagined her waiting for him at their home, their baby in her arms. It brought a smile to his face.

He pushed the door open and stepped out, the winced as a rock struck him above the eye. He grit his teeth as he peered at his assailant through one eye, the other eye blinded by blood and a growing pain and was shocked to see the entire village outside Eamon’s shack. Armed with sticks, stones and spears their faces wore the looks of shock, grief and hate for the man that stepped out of Eamon’s shack with a bloodied sword.  His assailant, the young boy Eamon had snapped at, stood in front of them all, a slingshot in hand and tears running down his face as he stared hatefully at Godfrey. 

“You killed him!” he screamed, as he reloaded his slingshot and fired it again. This time Godfrey blocked it with his sword and returned an exhausted and stern stare at the boy. 

“Go home, boy,” he growled. 

“Don’t you tell him what to do!” A man behind him - probably the boy’s father - howled brandishing a machete “You killed Eamon.” The man charged at him, followed by another wielding a pitchfork. Expertly, Godfrey parried the pitchfork away with his blade, throwing the wielder into the woodwork. The boy’s father swung the machete down, and Godfrey stepped out of the way in time for it to barely miss his head. He followed up with driving his knee into the father’s jaw, before grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and pulling him forward and aiming his sword at his throat. 

“Drop it!” Godfrey commanded, then at all bystanders he added, “All of you drop every stick, stone and blade before I kill him!”

They obeyed, hesitantly, including the boy whose eyes darted from his father to the bloodied sword at his throat with dread. Godfrey saw the fear in the child’s eyes, then glanced at his stained weapon before throwing the boy’s father to the ground. Then, brandishing the sword he called to the enraged mob. “Let me pass, all of you. I will not hesitate to kill this entire village if you get in my way.” And his heart ached as the words left his mouth, Eamon’s words resonating in his mind. Had he truly become such a monster. He banished the thought immediately and gripped his sword with both hands threateningly. 

The villagers stared at him horrendously, before slowly parting to make away for him. Godfrey passed through them, blade at the ready, his eyes darting from man to woman to child, his eyes perked to every sound behind him. And he heard everything, every twig, every twitch, every insult hurled at him. 

“You monster.”

“He killed our beloved Eamon.”

“Ma, why did he kill Grampa Eamon?”

“Because he’s a monster. An evil monster working for the Hateful King.”

“How could he? Lord Eamon was innocent.”

As he drew closer to the village gates, keeping a particular eye on the sentry with a bow aimed at him, his mind began to stray. Eamon’s words, the villagers’ reactions, the disgust of his former companions when they, no he had finally killed Everette the Centaur and the Queen Vanessa of Westeria, the compilation of all his quest. He wasn't wrong. The bearers of the Hateful Kings soul pieces had to be killed in order to rid the surrounding lands of this bloodlust. And anyone who was willing to live and strive in such a world knowing they held a piece of him capable of defeating him needed to die…right? The wails of Vanessa's daughters rang in his ears momentarily, and the cries of King Alexander's wife only worsened the pain in his head. He had done right. He had done what was necessary. But has he done wrong too? 

Surprisingly, his threat had worked and soon he found himself climbing the hill that overlooked the village. Godfrey glanced back at the village and saw them surround the home of Eamon and torch it, breaking into a dirge that whistled solemnly up the hill. He exhaled loudly then turned around to find a shadow looming over him. Glancing up, sword at the ready, he faced this owner.

“Was it worth it?” The woman stood with her arms crossed, looking down at him from the hilltop. “Have you accomplished your “destiny”? 

“Nina,” Godfrey acknowledged. “You know it had to be done.”

“Did it? Do you even know the truth about why they -,”

“It's nothing but lies, Nina. I thought I taught you better than that.”

Nina stared at him with disbelief. “How is any of this right?” she questioned, pointing back at the village. How has anything we’ve done made us any better than him?  Was it worth it to leave all those kingdoms defenseless? Their loved ones in grief?”

“It had to be done!” he repeated. “It’s what we were ordered to do -,” 

“So what?” Nina snapped. “I asked you a question: was it worth it?”

Godfrey said nothing. Instead, he continued his ascent as he walked by Nina. In a fury, Nina grabbed his arm and yanked him back. Godfrey responded with equal rage, whipping around and leveling his sword with her throat. Nina did not flinch.

“So you would kill me too, Godfrey,” she muttered sadly. 

“Damn it, no!” He yelled. “But it had to be done. We had to do it. There was no other way to end this. So yes, it was worth it!”

Nina looked at him, then bowed her head. “Then you really are a liar.” 

Godfrey opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. A sudden weight in his chest weighed down his tongue through his throat. All he could do was scream and in his anger, he planted his blooded sword on the hilltop. Then yanking himself away from Nina, he stormed off. 

Nina watched him go, then glanced back at the village as white smoke rose up the sky amidst the villagers’ song, her eye tearing not just for herself but for all the lose they had caused.

End.