[Chapter 2] The Tale of the Statue

[Traius 41]

 

 

Wilmar let out another cough, hacking out for the second or third time in past minute. Zsan sighed, draping a warm, damp cloth over his head. Delirium had set in on the elderly man, his only care from the boy. Lying in bed, he babbled gibberish about 'the Southerners'. Hours it had been, days. Remy would surely be visiting soon...

 

Zsan wiped away a tear. Memories were flooding him, awful memories, memories he wished would bury themselves in the deepest, darkest corners of his mind and never be remembered again. The floorboards creaked as he pushed himself up, walking to the door. Looking back at Wilmar, groaning in his sickly state, Zsan pushed the door open.

 

Birds were singing and chirping as Zsan, now sobbing and despaired, made his way to the outskirts of town.

 

He neared the edge of the woods, broken down in tears. A few paces ahead was a small wooden cross, the only one to be seen.

 

He brushed off whatever dust might lay over the engraving. Father. It had been too long since he had visited. He huddled in a fetal position, years of anger and frustration pouring out of him. 

 

Even now Zsan was already much taller and stronger than most boys. Not a day went by without the thought racing through his head, "What if Father were here to see me?" He knew it was a fantasy, a dream, born out of the shattered mind of a young boy.

 

Laughter broke his trance. Three lads were pointing his way and mocking him. One of them, blonde in a red tunic, had a reputation as a troublemaker and a ruffian. He had boasted of knocking out a grown man with one strike, or of breaking his little brother's fingers in a game of 'Bloody Knuckles'.

 

Zsan slowly stood. His size silenced the boys at first, before one of them broke out in laughter again. Zsan turned to face them, red and weeping. The laughter got louder and louder, even so as he got closer and closer, until a fist collided with the blonde boy's skull.

 

He was on the ground, motionless and limp. Zsan looked first at his hand, and then at the other boys. Zsan was always quiet, always minding to himself, not one to speak to others. He'd never gotten his anger out in such a way. As if by command, the other two scattered, squealing as they rushed back to their homes.

 

The door clicked as Zsan stepped back into his home. He looked towards the bed, Wilmar sleeping peacefully. A welcome change, he thought. He took his seat by him, putting a hand on his wrist to comfort his elder.

 

There was no pulse.

 

The Statue wiped the blood from his blade. At his feet was a corpse, returned to death after its wicked return. A glance to his left revealed another cadaverous beast charging, vanquished with ease by a swing from the longsword. He had long realized there was no need for a campfire - more trouble than it's worth - in Undeath. The fire made him no warmer than usual.

 

Crying turned his attention to the woods below the hill. Looking down, he spotted a trio of boys fleeing from a ghoul.

 

The Statue was soon at the Ghoul's heels, a plated hand grabbing it by the hair and ripping it back. The ghoul fell backwards, flopping on the ground before his heel came crashing down on the nose. The ghoul was no more, the children staring at him in awe.

 

He gestured for them to follow him, guiding them to a cave he had rid of the Damned. Now was the time for a fire, it seemed. The boys were talking amongst themselves as the Statue set to work, before a tap on the shoulder grabbed his attention.

 

"We found some grain back in town- well, what's left of town. Want some?"

 

It was too late for these boys. Far too late.

 

The Statue did not take pleasure in their deaths.