The Unburied

Valediction

The clop of hooves carried, and echoed through the otherwise silent streets.  It was a sombre silence.  One of mourning, and sorrow.  Letifer had hoped to gain relief from his time spent underground.  But now, he found only a grim world to face.  These people, they knew.  They knew the tales, the recounts, the ravings of those ravaged few who escaped Holtarthen.  They’d seen it.  And they’d made it known.  The horrors, the cruelty, the monstrous warriors of the Plague.  The Rott-kin, flesh eaters.  

And still, the lord of lords insisted that he would face them in the fields.  Not arrogant, nor was he foolish.  No more than a victim was he.  Another diseased corpse lying in the field.  Taken by the Herald’s message of decay, her supernatural plagues.  The fabricated, biological weapon that had taken his mind.  

It was a cruel fate, truth be told.  His mind decayed, and the remains festering in his head, as he rode headlong into their spears.  An ill fitting death for a king.  One with neither heir nor sire, neither to succeed him, nor to guide him.  However, in the line of lords, the one who’d acted as sire to him, would so too be his heir.  That is why Letifer had arisen from his liquor-ridden tomb, albeit veiled.  For he knew that the king would soon draw no more breath than he.  And in his stead would rise the man he’d come to call his liege.  

As the damned monarch reached the gate, he stopped, and turned to the soldiers behind him.  Their faces steeled against the relentless terror that plagued them, the doomed scores stopped their steeds, to face their king.     

“I look out unto you, and I see fear!”  He shouted, “And it is no fault of your own!  Your fear echoes in me, as it does in all of our kin!  But it is no fault!  No rend in our armour, nor is it a gash in our flesh!  For it is not the fearless who reside in the highest halls of the heavens.  But those who persevere!  Through fear and sorrow, and ages of strife.  I bid thee steel yourselves, for I would not have you reject your fear,  rather slash through it!  I bid thee stand with me!  For when we stand before the high hallows, nay will we see the fearless, but the brave!  There, the brave shall live forever.” 

Letifer could not help but feel a sliver more hopeful for these damned men.  But shields are made of boards– not slivers.  He’d been dead in the past, and his death was indeed a brave one…       …but he had no memory of high halls. 

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Striding down the halls of stone, a determined look had been strewn about the Earl’s face.  Beside him, Letifer did stride as well.  And while it could be presumed that he bore a similar visage, such was veiled beneath a blackened hood and scarf.  Since the king’s departure, The Earl Dascule had taken command over the city, having been dubbed a wartime steward.  

It was in the lower halls of the castle.  Not the darkest of depths that were included in the dungeons, but certainly lower than any residential area.  No, this was not the abode of the deepest dwellers, in their chains of steel.  No, this was not a home to the most wicked.  Rather, to victims of circumstance.  Thieves, highwaymen, those who bear little choice than crime.  For indeed, this was the situation of the Musketeer.  Maybe not a monster.  Maybe a man.  Not wicked, merely without another road to travel.  

And as the iron doors creaked open, Letifer could see the grizzled and stitch-ridden face of his foe.  Or perhaps of his kin.  For indeed, desecration did bind them both to this world.  Silently, Letifer took to the corner of the cell.  Upon a straw cot lay the Musketeer, still semi-immobilized, his throat stitched.  The Earl took a seat upon the wooden bench, parallel to the cot, suspended by chains.

“What is your given name, soldier?”  The Earl asked, leaning unto his forearms, which rested on his legs.

Struggling to speak, the Musketeer’s voice carried in a low grunt, “I’d answer you,”  He paused, in a fit of a choking cough, “If I could remember.”  

The Earl sighed, “Then tell me,” He began. What fractured memories have you, of a time before the Ill Omen.”   

The Musketeer was silent for a spell.  It had been decades since last he thought of such times.  At least, in depth that is.  The torments of the Ill Omen had engrained themselves into his mind, latched on and leeched for years.  Bleeding him of thought, from anything more than strife.  Indeed, the omen had left his mark upon him.  Though he knew not why.  Perhaps a penalty for some crime of the living.  Vengeance through the grave, perhaps.   

“A search.”  he stated, “Scouring the lands.  For a family long dead.”  

“And of the Omen?” the Earl asked.

“What for to yearn, that you would seek one so dastardly?” The Musketeer asked.

The Earl looked to him, a visage of sincerity strewn about his face, “To see his plans, left in twain.”  

“And his plans?” the gutted soldier asked.

“We do not yet know.”  

The Musketeer closed his empty eyes, uttering, “Then I have no more answers than you.” 

The Earl sighed, and began to step towards the iron doors.  However, the silence was broken, as Letifer uttered, “You were torn apart, piece by piece.  Is that correct?”

The Musketeer looked at him hesitantly.  “Indeed.” 

“Do you not desire vengeance?” Letifer asked.  “Is that not our purpose in this living death?” 

“I could ask you the same question.”  The Musketeer responded, “I abandoned such a mission long ago, as did you.” 

“Abandonment does not quell desire.”  Letifer replied.  “We are one and the same.  Though you may not seek vengeance, I can see that it is still an object of desire.”  

The Musketeer was silent for a moment, before asking, “Could you deliver it to me?”  

“Whatever aid you may give, I will see to it that you stand over the corpse of our foe.”  Letifer replied, genuinely.

“That has been promised to me before.”  

Letifer looked towards the Earl.

“I have no answers for you.”