How did I plead?
How was I supposed to plead?
I wasn't innocent, I knew that much. I had killed so many, some for money, some for survival, but a couple were just out of sheer sick pleasure because I knew they got what they deserved.
"But you no longer enjoyed it near the end, did you?" the dark haired one questioned, making me look at him in confusion and irritation. Did he read my mind?
"There's no need when you practically shout it at us with your expressions," he answered again.
"Then you already know what I've done, so why even bother with my opinion of where I should be sentenced?" I shot back, glowering at the two.
"Because Odin likes democracy in his legal systems," the blonde one deadpanned. "This happens to be it."
I scoffed at that. "And what makes this democracy? It can't be you two, or you'd never get anything done." The blonde raised an eyebrow and the dark haired one just stared at me.
"You do not look carefully enough, young brother," the blonde one stated. "All around you reside the souls of the bravest warriors of Valhalla, observing your every action and decision along with us. They will make the final decision on whether or not you deserve to reside here or with Hel, taking into account your past and what would have been."
This made no sense, none whatsoever. If I was dead, why couldn't I see them?
"Because they are not allowed to show themselves until they reform as a jury during the final decision," the darker haired one stated. "Now, for the third time, how do you plea?"
Well, if I was honest, I might as well make this easier on the other souls and these men sitting before me, seeing as I was ninety-nine-point-nine-percent certain they would send me to the freezing depths of Hel regardless. So, I said what I truly believed.
"I plead guilty to 219 accounts of murder," I stated, lifting my head a little higher as I said it, trying to not show just how much that number twisted my stomach. I saw the blonde one flinch a little bit at the statement of number; I guess the true gravity of the situation at hand hadn't been in whatever profile these people managed to have on me.
The dark-haired man, however, continued to sit there, his head cocked just slightly to the side, his brows narrowed thoughtfully. There was something in both of their eyes as they gazed at me, and I didn't like it one bit. I recognized it; it was the same look my former partner had given me when I told her about me, the same look the psychoanalyst gave me when they brought me in the for my first, and last, visit.
Pity.
I could take anything but pity. Fear, cowardice, anger, resentment, regret, hatred, fury; whatever, I could deal with those. But pity... it was like the poison ivy of emotions. It stung, made my skin crawl as if it was covered with unseen little bugs that burrowed under my skin until I had to resist the urge to tear it off. It meant that their sympathy had finally reached its limit and they could no longer understand my ways. It made me seem weak, and I hated being weak.
I continued glaring at them as I felt the air in the room become a bit colder, making me shudder a small bit before I got control of myself. The presence of the room got a little denser, I felt like it was a bit harder to breathe, and it only got worse when the darker haired man slowly stood and made his way over to me. As he got closer, I realized just how tall he was. I wasn't that short, just under six-foot, but this man still towered over me. His aura got stronger as he got closer and I struggled to stay standing when he got within a foot of me. I had to tilt my head to get a good look at him, and I resisted the urge to swivel my head as he walked around me.
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March from Darkness | ✓ (to be edited)
Fantasy(Under slow reconstruction) Demitri Folkos is an assassin in his prime, a man with no mercy for the human filth of the world. The young man does not believe in a god or an afterlife, so when he winds up dead after failing his last order, he thinks h...