The Bringer of Death

Kill.

That was his destiny. To kill. His life had no other purpose. He was the one who people commented about, saying, "He had absolutely no reason to murder all of those innocent people." And yet, he had all the reason in the world to kill. Those people, in their ignorance, spoke lies about his destiny, creating him akin to evil; but there was no evil even in the furthest reaches of his soul. Good and evil were ideas that he did not and could not believe in. There was existence and non-existence. There was purpose and no purpose. He existed and his purpose was to kill. All he had to look forward to in his life was to fulfill his duty; and while within those boundaries he was easily allowed to indulge his libidinous desires, he never lost sight of his target: death.

He was the bringer of death, the one whose job it was to kill and kill again until he couldn't any longer, until the person whose fate it was to kill came to replace him. For now, though, bringing death was his responsibility, and he carried out his duty with the utmost care and precision. No one who had ever slipped into his clutches was left alive. He had no family and no friends; he never had. Remorse was an emotion he didn't even know existed. Desire and satisfaction were the only things he knew, and luckily for him, his duty in life allowed him to sate his urges.

"Excuse me?"

He looked up, settling his sparkling black eyes on the tavern waitress before him. He had been on the road for years now and he had stopped at many inns with taverns attached to them, and never had he seen a tavern waitress so beautiful. Masses of red curls cascaded down her small shoulders, stopping just above her semi-exposed breasts. Her skin was fair, unblemished, and evenly toned. Her blue eyes sat shining and wide in her angular face. She was smiling at him, showing fair teeth and stretching her full lips. He thought it odd that a young maiden with such regal presence worked in a place as this.

In his line of work, beauty was something he greatly appreciated, especially since most of the people he brought death to were anything but beautiful. At best, they were attractive; at worst, they made his stomach churn. But destiny didn't discern between beauty and ugliness, so no matter the appearance of those who sought the death he brought, he killed them anyway.

"Is there anything I can get you? You've been sitting here quite a while now and have yet to approach the bar, so I thought I'd come and ask you. But if I'm bothering you I could just go back and – "

"I'll have a mug of ale and whatever has been cooked tonight."

"It's lamb stew."

He nodded that that would suit him just fine. She was nervous and ever so slightly fearful. It radiated off of her as if she were intentionally shooting her vibrations at him. He smiled crookedly; amused that he had such an effect on people. As she went about getting his food and drink, he looked about the emptying tavern, seeking out prey. He had been traveling swiftly the previous day and had arrived at the tavern at a very late hour. Most of the men left were either already passed out, taking their last drink and leaving, intoxicated out of their mind and gambling, or following the tavern whores to their beds.

"Here is your ale and here is your stew," the young girl said as she set a gray mug and a steaming bowl of lamb stew on the wooden table before him. From the front pocket of her apron she pulled out a dull gray spoon handed it to him. "I can bring biscuits if you want them, but they may be hard by now."

"I'm quite sure the meat and potatoes in the stew will fill me just fine." He scooped up a tender piece of lamb from the broth and brought it to his lips. The heat warmed his lips, alerting his stomach that he was finally going to get a good meal. He ate the meat, savoring the delectable flavors, and noticed that the girl was still standing over him.

"What is a man like you doing in a place like this?" She questioned.

"I could ask the same of you," he said, arching an eyebrow and spooning more of the stew in his mouth. He noticed her eyes widen, almost imperceptibly, and smiled. She thought he wouldn't notice.

She cleared her throat and smiled back. "I just meant we don't see many noblemen in these parts."

"Then it's odd to see a nobleman's daughter out this far from the city, no? And working too?" He chuckled darkly and then quaffed his ale. He held out the empty mug and toward the startled girl. "Ale would suit me fine right about now."

Taken aback, she grabbed the mug and hurried off toward the kitchens. He ate more of the delicious lamb stew and scanned the room once more. While everyone in the tavern would be easy pickings, he couldn't help but imagine having a satisfactory desert after such a fulfilling meal.

The girl returned in a flustered haste and set his ale before him; but instead of leaving or hovering over him, she sat opposite him and leaned in close.

"How did you know?"

He sipped his ale, chuckling darkly. "It isn't too hard to miss long hair, good teeth, and fair skin. And, even if it were, you speak in an odd manner, as though you are trying to speak in the guise of common folk. Your words are too complete, too sensible."

"I could just be well read," she said, eyeing him. "And anyway, all of the other women here have long hair, fair skin, and good teeth."

"True." He ate another spoonful of stew. "But they wear wigs, cake makeup onto their disgusting faces, and wear wooden teeth."

He silently finished eating his stew and drinking his ale, watching her watch him. A crooked smile graced his handsome features.

"What are you smiling at?" She asked.

He chucked momentarily. "How about getting me a key to a room when you clear away these dishes?"

"We have no empty rooms here."

He sighed shallowly. "Unfortunate."

"But you could stay with me, if you want."

"I could…"

She got up and headed for the stairs, neglecting the dirty dishes on the table. He followed without hesitation. If she wanted death so eagerly, he would gladly bring it to her.

The stairs creaked and moaned under their weight, protesting their sudden pressure. At the top of the stairs they emerged in a very dimly lit hallway with doors lining each side. Noises, from shouting to sexual exclamations to furtive discussion, could be heard from behind the thin doors. They bypassed them all and headed straight for another flight of stairs at the end of the hallway. Up those stairs and down another dimly lit hallway, she stopped at the third door on the right and ushered him inside a reasonably sized bedroom.

"Cozy," he noted, taking in a small window, large bed, and solitary wardrobe. "Not quite what you're used to, I'm assuming?"

"It will do." She sighed wearily and removed her apron before sitting on the edge of the bed and stretching out her aching limbs. "I will be fine as long as I have a place to lay my head."

And die, he thought, setting down his traveling pack and removing his dusty cloak and boots. He made his way over to where she sat and took up a place beside her, peering over curiously. "Why are you working at the tavern and living in the inn?"

"I'd rather not speak of my misfortunes," she whispered, desperately trying to blink away the tears brimming her blue eyes. "What happened is in the past and should remain there. All I wish is to forever forget what happened then. I came here to start anew."

He pulled a lock of her hair under his nose and smelled it. Lavender. "Why did you invite me here?"

"So you could have a place to sleep."

He chuckled and used his large hand to caress the side of her face and neck. "Why did you invite me?"

"Because I'm lonely."

Silence filled the room as the two stared at each other. Before he knew what had happened, she was furiously kissing him and he was returning. Her hands were entangled in his dark hair. His hands were roaming the hills and plains of her body, being tantalized by the feel of cotton instead of soft skin.

He grunted in minute satisfaction when her hand slid down his chest and stomach to caress his hardness. There had been no one along his journey to fulfill his desires or his duty, and now here she was, being everything that he needed and more.

They hastily removed each other's clothing. He made sure to keep his knife out, though; he had hidden it beneath one of her many pillows. She stopped kissing him and stared at him with lust in her eyes. Seductively, she crawled slowly across the bed, shaking her plump behind as she went, arousing him even more. She turned, laid on her back, and beckoned for him to come and get her. He did as he was bid and crawled on top of her. Her breathing had become shallow and rapid; she wanted him something fierce. He could feel her desire, smell her desire. It made him shiver with delight. He leaned down over her, took hold of himself, and then entered her.

The rush of absolute pleasure forced the air from his lungs in a long, pleasured groan. He created a rhythm that her shallow breaths and satisfied moans echoed. Slowly, so as not to alert her of what he was doing, he gently placed both of her arms above her head and pinned them down with his left hand. He bit her neck playfully, and continued pleasing both her and himself. With his right hand he felt his way across the bed to the pillow on top of his knife. He slid his hand beneath it and retrieved his tool, bringing it closer to their bodies.

Beneath his sense of duty and his lascivious desire was an indescribable feeling that was uniquely primitive. It started in the pit of his stomach and expanded outward, creating a warming, tingling sensation even in the furthest reaches of his appendages. It was a carnal pleasure he only ever felt when with a woman. His sexual excitement was always singular with women. While men could also sate his physical urges, they could not satisfy the deepest of his needs, the ones that were rooted in his soul.

Thoughts of that soul-jolting pleasure worked him into frenzy, and he quickened his pace. He was satisfying the young girl so much that her moans had become screams of delight. They angered him. He gripped her wrists tighter in his left hand and picked up his knife with his right. When she closed her eyes and arched her back in pleasure, he quickly brought up his knife and sliced deeply into the soft flesh of her neck. The gurgling gasps, squirting blood, and her jerking movements almost made him climax.

He breathed in the sourly sweet, salty, metallic aroma of her blood. He leaned his head down to touch hers and continued the rhythm he had worked up to. He brought the bloody knife to her heart and let the tip rest there as he waited for the flame of his soul-enveloping pleasure to ignite. Her gurgles and twitches proceeded to spark that flame, and when it was lit, when the floods of soul-deep satisfaction poured through him in relentless waves, he plunged his knife, hilt deep, into her beating heart.

His heavy breathing was the only sound in the room. He removed himself from the young lady and hovered over her. Her red hair was matted and soaked with her crimson blood. Pools of tears were in her wide, vacant eyes. Her mouth, slightly agape, was filled with the blood that had yet to drain out of her gaping neck wound. He smiled to himself as he removed his knife from her heart. He smeared the blood across his chest in the shape of an X, effectively cleaning the blood from it.

Kill.

That was his destiny. To kill. He was the bringer of death, and wherever he went, death would surely follow.