Cruelty's Heart

CRUELTY'S HEART


*Pitter* *patter* *pitter* *patter* came the call of the rain on the rooftop of the bar. In answer, the Church bell echoed gloomily that it was finally midnight and time to close the bar to all drunks who haunt the streets of London at night. Swinging lazily in the wind was a sign that read, Est. 1535. It’s only been twenty years, yet this place looks like its seen a thousand, I thought to myself tiredly.

I, Borus, moved the wooden bar across the door and wedged it into place, until I heard it click. Satisfied, I heaved a deep sigh, and rested up against the door. My feet ached and as much as I would have liked to have just passed out on the floor, I couldn’t. So, with a great effort, I pulled myself up to the bar and poured out a mug of beer. The cool wetness of the mug felt soothing up against my bruised hands that had been separating bar fights. The beer felt crisp and clean as it sizzled down my throat that was hoarse from screaming at drunks to get out all day.

With exhausted eyes, I looked around the well-lit bar. The bowls were already out in preparation for the storm, the chairs were put up on the tables, and the mugs fully cleaned for another day. I rubbed my balding head, and felt for the brownish gray hairs that sprinkled my balding dome. At least I still have my mustache, I thought to myself as I twisted its long ends. Everything had been totally wiped down, but the air was still saturated with the smell of hot sweat and body odor, making me feel unclean. Downing the rest of my beer, I reached for the watering pitcher that was as red as my rosy cheeks and got up to water my recently put in chrysanthemums near the window.

Presently, I heard a knocking at the bar door. The knocking was as steady and consistent as the beating of my own heart. By his knocking alone, I could tell this person could care less whether a man or monster opened the door to steal him away or warm him by the fire, so long as the door opened. I unlocked the sturdy door, revealing a haggard looking man who nearly collapsed on the floor as he dragged himself in. I picked him up and moved him towards the fire. He was drenched in rain, and his breathing came in gasps. As I wrapped him in a warm blanket, he sputtered out “Armande. My...name...is Armande”, and then he passed out from exhaustion.

It was several hours and several drinks later before Armande was able to tell me his story. He had come from a town close to London where he lived in a townhouse with his loving wife and kids. Armande had once been a mercenary hired to do difficult jobs the ordinary soldier couldn’t pull off. But with each life he took he felt a little more of himself erode away like the consistent pounding of the ocean on the rocky ledge. He retired soon after in peace. Life had been good to Armande until one day a note was left on his door, pinned with a blood-stained dagger. The message went on to threaten his family and described the intimate details of his family’s day, where they had been, who they’d seen, and so on. The message was clear. His family was being watched, and more importantly, in grave danger. So Armande sent his family off to a secret hide-a-way where none would find them. In the next few weeks, Armande had become a ghost in his town, never venturing beyond his house except by the cover of darkness. The people had begun to whisper that Armande had lost it, that he had finally cracked. Seeing that he was garnishing unwanted attention, he sold his town house for barely nothing, and wandered through the countryside towards London, on the rumors that there was a barkeep there who could help him find his pursuers.

Armande himself looked like paranoia and deep suspicion had sucked the life right out of him like a vampire. His eyes were like deep caves, full of dread and foreboding, and his gaping mouth like a yawning canyon carved from intense fear. Yet despite his fear, there was a hard edge of determination and clarity, of resolve. Yes, he was resolved. I think, beneath the fear, mud, and rain, there hid a very handsome man. He had a strong jaw, emerald green eyes, and high cheek bones, giving him a very exotic appearance. I asked him: “So who was it that left this note for you?”

Armande shook his head, “I don’t know. All I have is this signature on the paper”, the paper hit the table with a wet splat. He sat there expectantly, his eyes shifting from me to the piece of paper as if to urge me on into looking at it, but it was futile. I was as stone still as a church statue and I never even laid eyes on the paper as if it didn’t even exist.

“Before we divulge any further into your problems, Armande, I think we should take care of some business. You see, as a barkeeper I don’t make but 10 pounds a day and from everything I’m hearing it sounds like I would be putting myself in danger to help you. So I propose a deal; a sort of ‘one hand washes the other’ arrangement. In return for the information I will get to you, I should be paid a healthy bounty for it. Of course if my information proves to be faulty then our agreement is void and you’re not obligated to pay me. Deal?”

He rubbed his eyes tiredly, as if this was the last thing he wanted to talk about, but with an effort he said, “Deal”.

With business out of the way, I lifted the fragile paper carefully, so as not to tear it, and studied the signature carefully. I myself had once been a mercenary and adventurer so I recognized the handwriting as soon as I saw it. I put the paper back on the table cautiously, as if it had been a venomous snake and said, “You’re dealing with some bad people, Armande. Bad people.”

I looked through the window, gazing out into the darkness of the night, trying to see through the curtain of rain that blocked my vision. It occurred to me to ask. “Do you think you were followed here?”

He smiled gloomily and said, “I don’t know”.

Thunder crackled in the background, illuminating the whole bar in radiant white light through the window, and an ominous growl followed after it.

“Well Armande you were right to come to me, although I don’t know how much help I’ll be. The signature on the note belongs to a man named Aaron Lektimus. Comes in the bar frequently and seems friendly enough but he‘s a shady character to be sure. Once, a drunkard accidentally spilled his drink on Lektimus and that very night the man was found hanging from his own house disemboweled. Very few people cross Aaron Lektimus’ path, and live to tell about it. But from what I saw from the note it looks like there was more than just his hand in this matter.”

“Look here”, I said gesturing to the note, “There’s an insignia on the back of the note.” The insignia portrayed what looked to be a purple snake with no eyes or mouth wrapping itself around a dying oak tree.

“I’ve never seen this thing before in my life”, said Armande, disgusted with the grotesque image.

“Nor I”, I replied, “But it looks to be an emblem of some kind of guild or organization.”

“Armande”, I said, “Is there anybody you’ve wronged in the past? Is there anybody out there that would have it out for you?”

I could tell by the look in his eye that he was thinking of his mercenary days. I couldn’t imagine how many loved ones he had killed. I couldn’t imagine how many families he’d torn apart, how many fathers and sons he had let his blade slip through.

He sighed, his voice barely above a whisper, “There are so many that I’ve wronged that I could probably give you a whole book of names who would want me dead. But no, no one specific comes to mind, although it doesn’t seem beyond reason.”

“Then, there is no other way. They will search for you at the four corners of the world. They will not rest until you’re dead. If you are to live, Armande, you must bring the fight to them”, I concluded.

He nodded resolutely and said, “So be it. Borus, tell me everything I need to know about this Aaron Lektimus. Who he is. Where he lives. What he looks like.”

“OK”, I said, leaning forward in my chair, “The man lives northwest of London just beyond the Well Spring mountains...”

And so I told him what he needed to know. We had stayed up until the break of dawn, the beer cooling our nerves, while the fire warmed our bones from the rain. Armande’s sword instructor must have adored him. His brow was always furrowed in studious concentration as he vigorously wrote down every name I spoke, and committed to memory every scrap of knowledge I threw at him.

At dawn, he left into the grayish pink ethereal that was the morning. He had drained me both mentally and physically with his constant questions. By the time he left he looked more alive then when he first stepped into my bar. It was almost as if the shadow of muddled confusion and fear that had haunted him had now melted away with white hot vengeance and determination.

On midnight of the next night, I heard Armande’s familiar knock on my bar door. I let him in, watching him as he came to sit at the bar, staring into nothingness, as if waiting for me to ask a question.

“Well?”, I asked, “Did you succeed?”

“No, we can’t start like this. I’ll have to start from the beginning”, Armande stated simply.
“It was dusk when I came to Aaron Lektimus’ house. Apparently, he had a taste for the country side because his house was located miles into the wild, away from any civilization. As far as I could see there were no guards anywhere and the house was completely dark except for one window where a fire blazed brightly. I burst through the door, making my presence known immediately. Sitting there next to the fireplace, seated in a luxurious fur chair was none other than Aaron Lektimus with a strange man standing next to him. Their eyes greeted me with a shocked if not contemptuous look. As I stared at them, and them at me, I suddenly realized that there was something you had failed to mention to me before. Sure, he was blonde, well-tanned, hazel blue eyes, but there was something much more subtle that you didn’t mention to me.”

“It wasn’t until I looked at the strange man next to Lektimus, and I saw his frilly pink cuffs, his porcelain like skin, his pouting lips, that I realized they were...” Armande stopped at this shuddering, horrified at what foul words must escape his good, God-fearing, Catholic lips. “...homosexuals”, he continued, at which we both made a symbol of the cross and Armande whispering something to the extent of “unholy abomination”, under his breathe.

With a supreme effort Armande continued on, “Then Lektimus broke the silence saying, ‘Friend, have you lost your way? For you are in my home.’ I said nothing. ‘Are you drunk and lost? I could have a carriage take y-’, I saw him reaching for something behind his chair. ‘Don’t’, I said quickly, interrupting him. ’Don’t what?’, he asked innocently enough, neither reaching further for the weapon nor moving his arm back. ‘Don’t reach for it’, I said simply. He sat there frozen, staring at me. Not a bead of sweat nor a single eye twitch betrayed his fear of me. All this time he had been politely asking me these questions, trying to exhaust every single possibility before we came to the inevitable life and death struggle that must unfold between us.”

“As the silence endured, I suddenly remembered how personal and intimate it was to kill a man. I remembered how strange it was to look into a man’s eyes and see the shared understanding that one of us must die this day. Then in finality he said, ‘Do you mean me harm?’, as if this would be the last thing spoken between us before whatever was to happen next would happen. To answer his question, I unsheathed my sword. Everything had been made perfectly clear.”

“And then with the suddenness and ferocity of a bolt of lightning, Aaron Lektimus sprang out of his chair sprinting for the door, while the other man rushed at me with what appeared to be his fan, but as he drew closer he dropped the fan revealing the dagger underneath. He raised the blade high over his head, preparing to plunge it into my chest when I grabbed him by his arm and side, hurling him bodily across the room. Seeing him paralyzed and his fragile body shattered on the floor I turned my attention to Lektimus who was half-way down the corridor by now. As I watched him run, I wondered where he could possibly be going; we’re out in the vast country-side where no one but the trees and wind would hear his shouts for help. But then it occurred to me. There is someone else out here; slaves. He would take them and use them as hostages knowing that I wouldn’t dare attack him with innocent lives in his hands. I couldn’t let this compromise my mission. So as he was nearing the end of the corridor, getting ever so closer to the door that must have been to the slave quarters, I withdrew my dagger and threw it at him. The dagger landed in his back with a hard packing sound that sounded like a snowball hitting a wall, and he fell to the floor. There was an ever growing pool of blood encompassing Lektimus and he gurgled blood as he desperately fought for each and every breathe he took. I knew he was dying and there wasn’t much time. I shook him vigorously, shouting, “Why do you want me dead?”. At this he answered nothing, but simply stared at me, his eyes searching my face as if some mystery laid behind it. I asked him again, but he still didn’t answer. His eyes began to dim, and his whole body started to relax as Death gathered him up in its sweet, blissful embrace; I knew I only had time enough for one more question, the most important question of all: “Who do you work for?”, I asked him. His lips moved to make a sound, and using his last breathe he breathed out two words before he left this world. “Wormwood Company”.

I moved to speak, but Armande cut me short, too eager to finish his story.

“I surveyed the house, seeing if there was any records or journals naming the Wormwood Company’s founders and proprietors. I found none, and as I prepared to leave the house, I set the slaves free and began walking out the broken door I came, when I heard someone moaning behind me. It was Lektimus‘ lover, and hurling at me with incredible speed was a hatchet. I dodged it, and it logged firmly in the wall knocking over a lantern. Before I knew it, the house was on fire and I heard the man on the floor scream bitterly knowing that he would be burned alive and by his own doing, no less. I watched the flames creep closer and closer to his paralyzed form as he stared at me in bitter hatred. I left at this point, not having the stomach to watch what would happen next, and grieved at his horrible fate. Racked with sorrow, it wasn’t until I had stepped through the door that I realized something. I never had searched Lektimus’ corpse for any documents! The house was now a living inferno where the walls were choked with smoke, and the floor writhed with flames. I rushed through the ruins of the house, my feet touching the floor only when it was necessary. I reached Aaron Lektimus’ corpse patting out the flames quickly, searching his person for any shred of evidence. And there in his backpocket was an envelope with a crimson ribbon wrapped around it. I escaped the house then retreating to the tree line of the meadow. As I watched the fire from a distance, I couldn’t help but envision that the pillar of smoke that ascended from the ashen ruins was the Finger of God pointing down in judgment on their licentious sins. And so the deed was done and the day was won.”

There was a heavy silence in the bar as we both thought about all that had happened.

“Wormwood Company...”, I whispered to myself thoughtfully, my voice sick with dread.

Armande looked at me as if I had just grown a third arm on my head and said, “Yes...That’s what I said. Why? Do you know of them?”

“Do I know of them?”, I asked shocked, my eyes as big as tea cups, “Who doesn’t know of them?

“Yes I know of them“, I repeated softly, “They’re more murderers than businessmen. The Wormwood Company specializes in making, selling, and distributing fine weapons throughout England. There’s a lot of money in that trade, so as you can imagine it draws in some shady characters. Originally, the Wormwood Company was just a gang of thieves and rich murderers with a taste for good, cold steel, but the business took off when they found a whole new supply of Orsinium metal ore. Now they’re bulling all the other weapon companies into selling and they now even have private contracts with Her Majesty.”

“Orsinium itself is a very unique looking metal. It’s as transparent as a pane of glass and is as green as grass. But don’t let its fantastic appearance fool you. Orsinium is harder than a diamond and can penetrate through even rock. So hard is Orsinium that the furnaces used to mold it have to be turned up ten times the normal heat, making it very common for blacksmiths to die from the shear heat needed. In fact-”, at this Armande cut me short.

“But how does this have anything to do with me!”, he shouted, hurling a mug across the room in a paroxysm of rage, “With my family? To Hell with their money and metal. I don‘t give a damn about it! All I want is my family‘s safety.”

“And the key to your family’s safety”, I said gently, “is in the shape of that envelope in your pocket. I understand that as soon as you answer one question, three more spring up in its place, but all will be revealed in time, Armande.”

At this he said nothing, he knew I was right. Defeated, he sat down near the fire, rubbing his forehead over and over as if he could reach inside his brain and soothe the mental anguish that plagued him.

“Now”, I said, “Where’s that list?”

Without looking up, he withdrew the envelope from his shirt pocket and tossed it on the table. The envelope was sealed with the same emblem of the purple worm and oak tree that was also on the note. I carefully undid the seal, lifting the burnt letter slowly out of the envelope as if it were made of ash and would fall apart at any moment. The letter was written in fine cursive and the letters were the color of blood. The letter read:

Dear Chairmen,

I am pleased to report that the newest Orsinium shipment has been successfully transferred to East and West Asia. My agents tell me that the trade negotiations are turning in our favor, but is still far from being resolved. The other arms companies have been “persuaded” to merge with us, and the ones that haven’t have gone bankrupt trying to compete with us. We are having problems with local shipments of Orsinium, however. It seems that marauders and bandits have been raiding the caravans traveling on the main trade routes across England. Since the Queen has an invested interest in our equipment, I have requested that infantrymen be sent to escort the shipments to their final destination. Through salary cuts and slave labor, we’ve managed to cut the distribution costs in half, which has allowed to me invest more funds in quicker caravans. I’ll send a more detailed report in the coming days.

Yours Truly,
AL, Head of Arms Distribution


“Ah, see here”, I said holding the letter up to the fire’s light, “There’s three names on the back of this letter where this was addressed to”. I squinted to read the cursive names. “Francois de Corbusier, Alex Esquival, and Lucien Fargon.”, I said reading the names slowly.

“Tomorrow”, I said, “Come back tomorrow and I should know more about these people. In the meantime you need to lie low. A couple of hours before you got here, I saw a man in black skulking in the shadows, watching the bar. He did good to stay out of the light and was sometimes standing so still I wondered whether I was still looking at him at all or whether I was just staring into darkness, but then he’d move again.”

I looked through the window, peering out into the night. The cobblestones of London’s streets were still glistening wet from last night’s storm, and reflected the moon’s luminescent aura on their surface. The London townhouses were bathed in a milky white glow, and somewhere out in the night, I heard a lone wolf cry out far, far away. “I don’t know how much more time I have, Armande”, I said looking back at him, “but it isn’t much. We need to hurry and put these people in their graves before they put us in our graves.”

“This man in black. Do you believe he was sent from the Wormwood Company?”, asked Armande.

“Oh, I have no doubt about it. This was no drunk wandering the streets in a stupor, this man walked as if his feet never touched the cobblestones, like he just glided. This man had a purpose, but I don’t think it was to murder, not yet. He was scouting out the place, assessing the level of danger, but it won’t be long until more of them come.”

And so Armande left, leaving through the backdoor and escaping into the darkened alleyways that smelled of hot garbage and sewage. The smell was awful, but the only things that would be hiding in the shadows would be rats and the diseased homeless.

The next day the bar was less chaotic than usual. The men sipped their drinks peaceably, and although none would say it, everyone knew about it. It was as if the peace that blanketed London was a fragile dandelion that would be obliterated if anyone even whispered about it. But it was obvious; you could smell it on the men as one smells death on a corpse. You could almost read it in their troubled eyes: “Aaron Lektimus was murdered. Killed right in his own home. To even look at such a man is to flirt with Death but to risk confrontation in his own home? Surely, this man was suicidal...or insane. What does it all mean?”.

The day went by too quickly and I closed the bar early, awaiting Armande’s arrival. As surely as the sun would rise in the morning and the moon would preside over the night, I knew Armande would come to the bar after dark. In preparation, I doused the lights so no unwelcome eyes would know when Armande came to the bar each night. Soon I saw Armande’s familiar form take shape in the night. His pace slowed as he noticed something; the bar was completely dark. He looked about in the inky blackness, preparing himself for any kind of ambush. Seeing that there was none, he crept forward cautiously, while each step he took was slow and uncertain as if at any moment the ground would give way and swallow him up.

He knocked on the bar so lightly that if I hadn’t been standing right next to it, I would not have heard it at all.

“Borus, are you in there? Can you hear me?”, Armande whispered, his voice barely audible.

Weary that the man in black may be watching, I made no answer, but slowly opened the door to Armande. “Borus”, he said moving cautiously into the pitch black bar, “Are you in here?”.

I slowly closed the door, the hinges groaning in protest as it clicked shut. Armande spun around in alarm, his arms outstretched like a pitiful blind man trying desperately to ward off his attackers. As I observed him, I noticed his eyes were wild with animalistic fear, and his mouth gaped open in such ignorance that only utter darkness can bring. Having seen enough, I lit a candle, and stepped into its soft glow, revealing myself to Armande.

Armande solemnly clapped a hand to his heart and exclaimed, “By the Virgin Mary, we’re you trying to give me a heart attack?”

Without saying a word, I raised a finger to my lips, motioning for Armande to be silent. At first he appeared confused, but then his head raised slightly in understanding, and he moved away from the windows. In this complete darkness, my hands were my eyes, and they groped about searching for the wooden shutters. At last I felt their old splintered surfaces and swung them shut so that when we finally lit the bar, it would still appear to any spies that he were looking into a darkened bar instead of wooden shutters.

We both breathed a sigh as the heavy shadow of tension lifted. As I began to light candles around the bar, Armande said: “So what news of the Wormwood Company?”

“Much”, I replied, “but I have more pressing news to tell you of. Lektimus’ murder has not gone unnoticed by the people of London. There are whispers of a madman streaking through the countryside murdering the rich like some kind of crazed Robin Hood. The people are scared Armande, and they have provoked the Queen’s hand in the matter. Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, has summoned infantrymen from every part of England to help with the investigation of Lektimus’ murder”.

Flabbergasted, Armande let himself fall into a chair, his eyes blank. It was as if my words to him had been like a rock bursting through a window, shattering his will to a thousand little pieces.

Finally: “I’m a wanted man”, he said to himself curiously, not comprehending it. “I’m a wanted man!”, he shouted, the enormity of it dawning on him. “I’m a fiend to the whole of England, hunted by the Queen herself”, he surmised.

Armande shook his head in horror as if I had just condemned him to Hell, his eyes cast down in confusion. “All I wanted was my family’s safety. I’m just a simple man, Borus, a simple man! What do these bastards want with me!”. A few moments of horrible silence lapsed and Armande then gave his decree of lunacy: “I can’t do this. I just can’t do this”, he said, his eyes darting from here to there as if looking for some way to escape, that same animalistic fear returning to him.

Watching his display, I feared at any moment the frail string of Armande’s sanity would snap, and he would jump through the window, barreling into the night, becoming the madman London spoke of.

“Get a hold of yourself, man!”, I commanded putting my hairy gruff hands on his shoulders. Under my strong hands, his insanity subsided.

“Now”, I said patiently talking to Armande as if he were a child, “No matter what you would do, you will remain a fugitive for the time being”. “Don’t despair in that”, I added quickly, “for the authorities have no clue as to who Lektimus’ killer is. Therefore, your only hope, your only salvation lies with the Wormwood Company”. I looked at him expectantly, awaiting his answer.

He visibly struggled with himself, trying to grab hold of his sanity as one might try to grasp smoke only to see it flitter through his hands. “I...I...must-”, he began but the reason and sanity died in his lungs never reaching his mind.

“You must get answers you seek from the Wormwood Company and restore your good name to the whole of England”, I finished.

“Right!”, Armande exclaimed, pointing his finger at me in sudden revelation. He chastised himself for his earlier behavior and began to apologize but I waved his unnecessary apology away as if it were a bad odor in the air. Armande leaned forward in the chair and said, “Now what news did you have of the Wormwood Company?”

“As I said before, London is ate up with the news of Lektimus’ death and is very suspicious of anyone asking questions. So in my stead, I had busboys and caterers listening on to customers’ conversations. I didn’t tell my busboys what they should be listening for, merely that they should be listening and report anything back to me that they hear. And so they did, but most of what I heard was nonsense or just some fantastical rumor. However, among the coal of gibberish there were a few diamonds of information. One of those diamonds is Francois de Corbusier.”

I stopped at this, taking a slow sip of my beer, building the suspense in Armande. For added effect, I slammed my beer down on the wooden table, and made a look on my face as if I’d lost my place. Armande was about to blurt out something when, “Oh! Now I remember where I was”, I said, a thin smile hidden beneath my woolly mustache.

“Francois de Corbusier is the head Orsinium metal shaper and blacksmith for the Wormwood Company. Now that title may not sound like much, but he’s also in charge of training all the new blacksmiths on how to shape the very tough Orsinium metal ore. Obviously Francois de Corbusier is a Frenchman and like most Frenchmen, he enjoys literature, history, philosophy, and...and...poetry”, I muttered saying ‘poetry’ as if the word tasted bad in my mouth.

“Unlike most Frenchmen, however, he has a strong body to match his strong mind. You won’t find Francois to be as easy a kill as Lektimus was. From what I’ve heard, he is somewhere around six foot one and has hands like a patch of bananas. His arms are long like a gorilla’s, and his stomach bulges like that of a gorilla but don’t be mistaken; there isn’t an ounce of fat on Francois. He has shaggy white hair and a gray beard that extends from one ear to the other like an upside down rainbow. He lives here in London, northwest of Gottlestone Chapel...”

And so I told him all that I had learned about Francois de Corbusier. Once again our chats had made the night old and weary, finally giving way to the youth and vigor of the dawn. Only occasionally during the night did I hear the soft padding of footsteps, the disquieting presence of another human soul near the bar. The man in black was daring enough to come near the bar, but as quietly as Armande and I talked, I don’t believe he was even sure we were there. As Armande left the bar into the early morning sunshine, I couldn’t help but notice the look on his face. It was the look of a man who is uncertain of everything; as if at any moment and with the gentleness of a breeze, the very fabric of his life could dissolve without warning. I knew he believed in me, but did he believe in himself? Was I enough to keep him sane? Armande had paid me only to give him information, but I felt as if I owed him more than that.

On midnight of the next night, I heard Armande tap lightly on the door. I opened it, and then repeated the same process as the night before, closing the shutters in the dark and then lighting the candles. As I lit the candles, I saw in the light’s dim glow that Armande had collapsed into a chair, his head swung backward. I rushed to him thinking that his struggle with Corbusier had left him mortally wounded, and I sat him up-right to inspect his wounds. He mumbled something nonsensical and I searched his body all over looking for the source of his pain. But as I listened more closely to what he was saying, I heard him mutter, “My eye...my eye...”. Before I mustered the courage to look upon his face, my horrid imagination tortured me with images of a missing eye, or a deep cut that severed the nerve endings, or something worse. Finally, I looked at his face, and then I saw the source of his immeasurable pain and suffering and anguish:
A black eye.
In disgust, I threw my hands off of him as if he had just burned me and stomped to the bar to pour myself a mug of beer and cool my nerves. It took me a good while before I was able to even glance at Armande without wanting to slug him, but after a while I came to sit with him by the fireplace. “So did Francois give you that memorabilia, my friend?”, I said chuckling, “Or did a vicious pack of choir boys mug you on your way here?”

“If you must know”, he said, obviously not amused, “It was Francois, but let me start from the beginning.”

“It was mid-afternoon when I started to prowl the streets of London in search of my prey. I came into the filthy market place where the rats moved freely about the streets a if they were as much citizens of London as the people were themselves. Hot garbage, vomit, and some other unnamable substances were the main decor in this living hell-hole of starving children, and greedy merchants with plenty of food to give. I saw old widows collapsed up against the rich people’s front porches; some dead, some dying. It was as if the starving children, dead, and dying, were the desperate plague upon this healthy organism, sucking life from its host in its own selfishness, only to bring ruin to both. It broke my heart to see these people in such pain, but I felt like there was nothing I could do so I simply did what everyone else did; I ignored them, and walked away.”

At this, Armande’s voice quivered with sadness, and a single tear ran down his face. I looked away out of reverence for this moment, and also out of the fear that Armande’s sadness could be contagious. After a moment’s pause he was able to continue on.

“Through the market place, I came to the beautiful Gottlestone Chapel. It was hard to believe that something so good and pure existed along side something so horrible and tragic. As I walked by, I saw a kindly old bishop walking with a young prior, discussing something about Saint John. These educated men walked by the old market place, and I saw in the old man’s eyes a crushing sadness. He shook his head in dismay, and said something discouraging about the Queen. I could tell that these men, like myself, cared but just didn’t know what to do about the poverty. But, like you said, forty paces east of Gottlestone Chapel, stood Francois de Corbusier’s house. The house itself was in shambles, wild wheat growing on the wooden roof of the house, and mangled boards protruding everywhere like thorns on a rose bush. The house was in obvious stark contrast from the beautiful mansions and Gottlestone Chapel. It was as if the house itself was a blackened dead rosebush, amidst a beautiful lush garden of growth and prosperity. The only thing that gave evidence that this corpse of a house still had a heartbeat was a pillar of smoke that ascended from the chimney of it.

“Unlike, Lektimus‘ house however, there were two guards posted at the front door who stood in my way. I shuffled my way over to the guards‘ post, keenly aware I couldn‘t make a scene in front of all these people. ‘Good afternoon, boys! Do you know where I can find---Oh my goodness!’, I said, quickly sweeping the older guard’s legs from underneath him, while breaking his neck at the same time. To the younger guard it must have looked like his friend just suddenly passed out, and I, the Good Smaritan, was catching him just in time. The younger guard bent down beside me to examine his fellow guard, with a look of stupid wonder on his face. I could see his juggler vein pulsating with life, almost begging me to thrust my concealed dagger into it. But his skin was young, and his eyes were soft and innocent, not the hard callused eyes of a man who sees death every day. I knew this boy couldn’t have been older than sixteen. I had to figure out a way to get passed him, yet save his life. Suddenly it came to me. ‘Run! Run! Run for your lives!’, I shouted hysterically, racing around as if an invisible devil were chasing me. ‘It’s the Black Death! You hear me, boy? It’s the Black Death!’, I screamed, shaking the boy violently, causing his loose armor that was much too big for him to rattle around as if it itself, sensed the terror of the situation. His eyes searched me wildly, and seeing the terror in them I released him from my grip, sending him running into the crowd of people that ignored my rants. Satisfied I walked into the house, only making a backward glance at the street. However, out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw the young boy with a peculiar man looking back at me. The man was peculiar because he was robed in black. I looked back again, but this time I saw neither the boy nor the imagined man in black.”

“I made my way into the house, creeping quietly so as not to give away my presence. From the looks of it, the house appeared as if a tornado had just touched down in it. I saw carpet torn up into shreds, revealed the dusty boards underneath, broken windows that hadn’t been repaired, and a once beautiful French chandelier now fallen into the ugly hands of time. Books upon books littered the floor, forming a makeshift carpet for this tattered house. I saw books nine high on a lamp stand, a stack of books that went to the ceiling and another that was closely reaching that point. There were columns of books everywhere making me feel as if I were in a forest made with words and ideas instead of bark and leaves. At last, though, I heard the heartbeat of the house coming from the basement. I moved closer to the sound, the old boards creaking as if it hurt for me to step on them. As I moved closer to the heartbeat of this corpse of a house, I discovered that it wasn’t a heartbeat at all; it was the sound of hammer hitting metal. Francois de Corbusier.”

“I couldn’t have been three inches away from the basement door when suddenly the heartbeat stopped. My blood went cold, and for a second I thought my heart had stopped as well. I opened the door, and went inside the basement, keeping the door open just in case I needed a quick exit. My nostrils stung with the stench of sulfur, and smut made my eyes water. From my blurry vision, I saw the walls glowing red from the light of the hearth, smoke bellowing from it.”

“’Welcome’, said a voice, “Welcome to my home, Armande”. The voice was kindly yet distracted as if he were welcoming a friend to his home yet was preoccupied with something else. And then out of the shadows, stepped Francois de Corbusier. Francois didn’t even look at me, but simply stared at something in his hand, as if he were waiting on it to answer a question he had asked it. Francois then casually closed the door, never taking his eyes off of the thing that glittered in his hands. Still not looking at me, acting as if I weren’t even there and he was just talking to himself, he said, ‘Amazing material, this stuff is. Never in all of my life have I ever seen anything like it’. Suddenly, he stared up at me as if pulled out of some trance and said, “Here, Armande. I figured you would like to see it.’ He smiled warm-heartily and tossed the thing in his hand over to me. I caught it, and from the way it felt, I thought I was holding a hollowed out wooden figurine in my hand, but as I held it to the light I discovered it was not wood; it was un-molded Orsinium ore! I was amazed that such a metal could weigh so lightly. Astounded, almost completely forgetting about Francois, I slammed the raw Orsinium up against the stonewall, only to see the stone wall, and not the Orsinium, crack. Francois laughed and said, ‘I know! I know! I didn’t believe the rumors either until I tested it myself, but its the real thing, I assure you.’

“I threw down the Orsinium ore and said, ‘Never mind that. You know why I’m here’. Francois sighed in disappointment, looking at the piece of metal on the floor as if it had been a dog I just kicked. ‘Yes, Armande, I do know why you’re here. You’re here for answers, aren‘t you?’. ‘Yes’, I replied, ‘Answer correctly, and I might make your death quick’. Francois chuckled, his eyes glittering with delight. His warm reaction to my statement made me shudder as if a freezing icicle just brushed my body. I ignored it and asked him: ‘Why do you want me dead?’ A look of concern came over his face, and he spoke slowly as if he himself were trying to grasp what he was saying. ‘If a man makes himself a worm, he must not complain when he is trodden upon’. ‘So I deserve to die simply because I look like a victim and a madman?’, I returned. He smiled warmly again and replied, ‘In a larger sense, yes’. ‘But how have I wronged you?’, I insisted, ‘What’s caused you to go after me? Until three days ago I never even knew what the Wormwood Company was’. He thrust his finger upward as if he were having a sudden revelation and said, ‘No snowflake in an avalanche ever feels responsible yet all the same it had its part to play’. At this point, I felt like anything I asked him was only leading me further into a maze of confusion, and not helping me get out. ‘Do you ever say anything at all that isn’t a riddle?!’, I shouted at him in my frustration. In a fashion that seemed much like Francois, he answered, ‘Words are like leaves and where they most abound, much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found’.”

“I had to laugh. After talking with this Francois I would have figured I was talking to a madman and not a genius. But then again, what’s the difference? All of a sudden I heard someone knocking on the front door to the house. ‘Open up! Open, in the name of the Queen!’, it was the town guard and they had somehow been notified of my presence here. I cursed myself for saving that young guards life. Francois looked as surprised as I did, but he didn’t move to go let them in. Setting our eyes on each other in grim concentration, we circled the little red room, assessing one another’s worth as an artist might assess the worth of a painting. We, the contenders, were artists of death, our swords were our paintbrushes and with each precise stroke, we came that much closer to creating our masterpiece of human degradation on one another. The problem was, was that neither of us wanted to be the masterpiece.”

“Then, without warning, we lunged at each other at the same time, our blades making the shape of the Holy Cross. I drew back, raising my sword high above my head, and brought it down against Francois’ parry. Had it been any other man than Francois, that strike would have torn his body to shreds. Using his sword, he pushed me backward, knocking me off balance. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Francois discarded his sword and tackled me to the ground where he pressed his weight up against me and started to throttle me. I tried to push him off of me, but it was as futile as a toddler trying to push an elephant. His eyes bulged with rage, and he swung me back and forth with the ease and ferociousness of a child destroying its straw doll in a tantrum. I knew if I didn’t do something, I would be seeing Saint Peter sooner than I had expected. And so I used my last advantage, and thrust my sword into Francois’ shoulder, the tip of the blade coming out of the other side of his body. Despite the steady stream of blood flowing from his shoulder, I believe all I accomplished was making him mad, and he thrust the sword out of his shoulder and tossed it away as if it were just a play toy. Choking, my vision started to turn black, and everything started to become distant. With the last surge of life that clung to my breathing corpse, I pushed my knees up and kicked Francois off of me, knocking him off balance on his feet. I got up and tackled him head long, picking him up off his feet. At first he saw no point in what I was doing, that was until he turned around and saw the iron hooks hanging over the hearth. With desperation in his eyes, he hit my face and chest, trying to stop the inevitable from happening.”

“Carrying Francois this far had been like having a gravestone roped around my neck and then having to sprint through the Gobi Desert, but now I had the daunting task of lifting Francois high enough up to impale him on the hooks. I screamed loudly, summoning all the strength in my body, and lifted this marble statue of a man as high as I could and let him fall on the hooks that would take his life. As he fell on them, I heard an immediate crunch; it was the sound of the hooks bursting through his chest plate. He hung there, his body swinging lazily side to side, his arms and legs wobbling wildly like a fish caught on land. His eyes met mine, and at the same time the town guard had broken down the door, but I didn’t care. His limbs started to stiffen with death, making him look the marble statue he had felt like, and with his last moments, he gasped: ‘O grave where is thy sting? O death where is thy victory?’. The guards were beating at the basement door fiercely, but I knew it would be a while before they broke through the basement door so I slipped through the secret window and bided my time until midnight.”

The fireplace snapped and crackled as if in applause of Armande’s story, filling the lonely chasm of silence between him and I. I took a sip of my beer, sizzling waves of inspiration bringing clarity to my spider web of thoughts. “No snowflake in an avalanche ever feels responsible...”, I repeated to myself. “Avalanche. An avalanche could be an army, and what makes up an army? Soldiers. Or in his words, snowflakes. And much like a snowflake, I imagine that a soldier feels that he is only following orders and not responsible for the atrocities brought about. Armande, have you ever committed war crimes in the past or been involved with some kind of mass killing?”.

“Yes, but there are so many that it would be impossible to know which one he was talking about”, answered Armande. He shifted uncomfortably, shaking his head violently, trying to dash away some memory that accused him of wrong doing. “Enough about me. What about you, Borus? Were you always a living saint or were you once a petty mortal like us?”

(I know this transition is abrupt)

“I grew up in northern Ireland where poverty is about as common as murder. Our villages were just communities of shacks, our people peasants forced to come together out of need for survival and our streets made of mud, pebble, and rain. Heaven, isn’t it? Well, in my particular slice of paradise called Artrum’s Way, there were only two places to spend your time: the church or the graveyard. To me, the dead needed more company than the living for the living have each other but who do the dead have to comfort them? No one mourns them, no one remembers their names except for the gravestones above their heads, yet we, the living, victimize the very ones we will soon be joining.