Recompense for a Lost Soul

[ii] Memories Burn Purple - |part 2|

"There were sixty of them in total. . . I only managed to kill fifty three. . ." Pitcher responded, looking away from the boy on the floor. A silence hung between them. A knowing silence. Somewhere outside an owl hooted. Moonlight flooded through the open window, it hit Pitcher's sword and didn't reflect. He had confirmed the boy's worst fears.

"Shit. . . It was you. . ." his voice trembled, "Shit! Shit! It really was you! Fuck, stay away from me! It was only a rumor! Shit! They didn't tell me it was actually you!" He lurched to his feet, clutching his hand and running to the trapdoor.

Pitcher launched forward. Literally launched forward. Covering the distance in a single dash. Tongues of purple aura flashed around him as his feet left the floor and he rocketed past the boy, tripping him as he went. 

"No-no. . . No!" he yelped as he hit the floor a second time. He tried to pick himself back up with his damaged hand by accident and screamed in agony as tears rolled down his face. He began laughing in pain, spewing nonsense.  

Once he had calmed down a bit more, he asked, "how did you do tha-that. . .?" 

Assuming that the boy was talking about his burst of speed, Pitcher twitched his sword hand, indicating the sword, which caused the ex-assailant to shiver and let out a hopeless laugh.

"So that's devilsbane huh? They told me that he would have it. . . They told me you would have it. . ." He started panting hard. "Oh Gods. . . I'm gonna die." He began hyperventilating, ragged breaths went in and out of him, breaking the melancholic silence of the moonlit barn. 

Pitcher gave him some time to calm down and collect his thoughts. He stood before him, sword in hand, blocking the window and closing the trapdoor with a bang. Minutes passed. The boy before him stopped writhing and moving. Seeing the opportunity, Pitcher began his interrogation.

"What is your name?" 

"Jack. Jack Spargreaves."

"Nephew of William Spargreaves?"

Jack nodded.

 Pitcher hung his head and took a deep breath. He recognized that name. It brought back bad memories that made his stomach curl. Sounds of cursing, whipping and crackling fire came to mind. He put them aside for now. 

"How many winters past?"

"Twelve."

"Who sent you?"

He remained impassive. Pitcher crouched down and grabbed his broken fingers before he could react, bending them in the opposite direction as before. 

Screams and screams echoed through the derelict farm. A flock of birds flew out of the forest at the sound. Another while of waiting filled with sobbing and laughing later, Pitcher tried again.

"Who sent you?"

"M-m-my-my uncle -please not again!" he screamed, sobbing, noticing Pitcher's free hand twitch, "My u-u-un-uncle William S-Spargreaves sent me. I-I-I trained under him and-and he s-said to go investigate t-t-th-the rumors surrounding the black swordsman I-I-in Ainston. When that advisor person got killed, uncle became suspicious."

Pitcher sighed. "I'm sure he would. . ."

"He told me that there was no way that you would be alive. . . but to be sure he said to incorrectly say the number of dead at the murder of the South Flags." He began to shiver on the floor. His broken fingers had turned purple. Occasional tears fell from Jack's eyes. "Please that's all there is, I don't -"

"Why did you agree to your uncles remands?"

"I'm a good swordsmage. I wanted to test myself against this black swordsman everyone was talking about. . . I didn't expect it to be you. . ." His eyes took on a glazed look.