Mercy and Cowardice

Mercy and Cowardice

         Leofwine smirked as his man cleared his throat and waxed heraldic.  The small knot of sworn swords who had gathered to prod and jab at the beaten, bound man in their midst moved to either side as they approached, forming a lane through which Leofwine caught sight of the miserable figure huddled on his knees in the mud and filth of the battlefield.
         “My lord, I present to you the ‘Lion of Leorra,’ ‘champion of the light’, ‘guardian of the weak’ –“
         “Liar, usurper, murderer, and all around bastard.  Well-met, brother, though I must admit you appear a bit worse for the wear.”
         Aelrik kept his peace.  Leofwine locked hard eyes on the top of his brother’s sagging head, willing him to move, to fight, to lash out.  He felt none of the satisfaction he had anticipated this moment would bring.  None of the triumph.  Anger, he felt, and disappointment, though more at his brother’s failure at arms and this resulting hilltop confrontation than at the crimes of the past that had led to this moment in the first place.  Aelrik was a murderer and a traitor, but it was also true that he was a demon of a fighter and one on whom Leofwine, though older, had always bestowed admiration.  To see him on his knees now, beaten, rain drenching his filthy, blood-matted hair, Leofwine was disgusted.  But there was more.  He felt pity.  And that only served to intensify his disgust.
         “What?  No welcome for your beloved brother?  No embrace for the prodigal?  What’s the matter, ‘Lion?’ Cat got your tongue?”  Laughter from the gathered men.
         Enraged at the sight of his brother’s weakness, Leofwine rewarded him with a backhanded swipe of his mailed fist, sending him sprawling in the muck and opening a fresh cut on the side of his head.  Laughing and hooting, two of Leofwine’s men hauled him back to his knees by his bound arms, the rain and mud mixing with fresh blood to exaggerate the seriousness of the wound.
         “Speak, bastard,” Leofwine sneered. “I’d be a fool to believe the great Lord Aelrik to be lacking for words.”
         Slowly, Aelrik lifted his head.  Though the rain made it impossible to see his tears, it was obvious from the pinched set of his brow that he had begun to weep.  The gathered men took delight in his humiliation, offering insult to injury.  Leofwine was surprised to find he had no desire to join them.

***

         Leofwine had noted a change, immediately.  Their sparring matches were usually accompanied by bravado, enhanced by insults affectionately hurled this way and that.  On this morning, however, under the watchful eyes of their Lord-father and the keep’s Master at Arms, Aelrik bore an unsettling mask of silent determination.  He had always been a half-step beyond his older brother in the field, martial technique and speed coming as naturally to him as wit came to Leofwine.  Aelrik had delighted in reminding his older brother on every possible occasion that the sharpness of a blade was a powerful lot more effective than that of the tongue in motivating fear in one’s enemies…

***

         Aelrik didn’t meet his brother’s eyes, but rather stared straight ahead, taking in the battlefield,  surveying the dead, the dying.  Seeing nothing.  Blood spilled, men and promises alike left broken, honor destroyed, and it all came to nothing.
         “I was wrong.”
         “Wrong,” Leofwine roared.  “You were fucking wrong?”
         Aelrick made an unsuccessful attempt to stifle a choking sob. “I’m not perfect.”
         Leofwine drew steel, the blade hissing from his scabbard to whip, quivering, so that the point was close enough to his brother’s throat that Aelrik imagined he could feel its malevolent need.
         “I wonder if you’d admit to feeling so fucking imperfect if things had turned out differently,” Leofwine spat.  “How wrong would you feel right now if that pack of cowards you led had won the day instead of breaking like bad pottery and leaving you to your fate at the hands of your big brother and his merry band of criminal sell-swords?” This last brought a couple self-satisfied chuckles.
         “Tell me again, brother, about the power of the blade,” Leofwine sneered, “and that of the tongue.  Where did your blade get you today?  What loyalty did your blade buy?  You were a fool, Aelrik, to believe that the realm you stole by the blade could be kept by the same.  The blade may inspire fear in a man, but only the tongue can move the same man to loyalty.  Not that I’d expect you to know a damned thing about loyalty.”
         Aelrik raised his eyes to meet his brother’s fierce gaze.  Sorrow was written on his face.  Leofwine couldn’t tell if it was sorrow at his crimes or sorrow at his circumstance and decided it didn’t so much matter.

***

         Aelrik came at him with an intensity he’d never before brought to one of their matches.  Leofwine did his best to fend off the attack, the customary smirk leaving his face as quickly as it had arrived.  Leofwine had parried and dodged what seemed like an endless series of blows from his brother’s blade when a high feint caught him unprepared for the thrust that came in below his guard.  Leofwine felt a soft ‘pop’ as the blade pierced his gut, but it wasn’t until the blade had been withdrawn a half second later that he realized what had happened and the sharp pain of that cold steel sang the first, piercing notes of treachery even as he cried out and crumpled to courtyard floor.

***

         “Why?” Leofwine demanded. “ I never but loved you as myself.  I gave you everything I had to give and would have given more at the slightest hint that you had need of it.” His bright blade remained at Aelrik’s throat. 
         “I was selfish.  I wanted more.“
         “You wanted the title.”
         “I was a fool.”
         “Was?”
         “Was.  A man can change, brother.  Not an hour passes that I don’t regret what I did.  I hate myself for it.”
         “In that, we still have common ground,” growled Leofwine.
         “It’s no excuse, but you can’t imagine what it feels like to know that no matter how hard I worked, no matter how much I did, I could never attain the position you would gain simply by being born into it.”
         Only Leofwine could imagine it.  In fact, he’d lived it.  His whole life, he’d wished he’d had what his brother had with a blade.  Wished their Lord Father had been as proud of him as he was of Aelrik.  Wished for the glory bought at sword-point that only Aelrik would ever truly gain.  Any man could be born an heir, but a real man earned his station.  A real man was who he was by the power of his hand, not by the fortune of fate.  Leofwine had always dreamed of being a champion, and had always known that dream would go unfulfilled.
         “Men do not change.  They are ever the same.”  And yet, even as he said it, he felt his resolve weaken.  Were they so different?  Can a man change?  Aelrik was a kin-killer, but could Leofwine claim to be better?  The blade was, afterall, in his hand now. 
         Aelrik’s brow pinched again and then relaxed.  “I always loved you, brother.  Had I to do it again, I would turn that blade on myself before I would see your blood spilled.  Do as you will.  I have earned my fate.”
         Slowly, ever so slowly, Leofwine allowed the tip of the blade to sink to the ground until he held it to his side, his eyes fallen with it to stare at the mud before him.  He reckoned himself a better man than this.  Treachery or no, the man before him was his blood.  His brother, whom he had played at war with throughout their shared childhood.  This was Aelrik.
         “Bring him to his feet,” Leofwine ordered.
         

***

{{i}indent}The Master at Arms was the first to his side, calling out for a Meister.  Their Lord Father, rushing after him, was only a few paces short of them when Aelrik’s blade slid across the Master’s throat, opening a yawning gash and spilling a gout of black blood over Leofwine’s prone body.  Leofwine saw his Lord Father come to a stuttering halt, horror and shock written plainly on his face.  The icy pain in his guts would barely allow him breath, much less speech, but he willed his father to run with everything he had.  Instead, his father stood still as stone as Aelrik rose before him.
         “Looks as though we find ourselves alone, father.”
         Their father had gone pale as ash. “Why—“
         “Because no man should be limited by fate!  You always told me that a man’s path to greatness is paved with his own effort and hard labor.  That anything is within reach to those that want it badly enough and are willing to make the necessary sacrifices to attain it.  Well, this is my sacrifice, father!  I deserve to be Lord of this realm!  I’ve worked for it, I’ve put in the labor.  I’ve earned it. This is my path to greatness and I won’t let a lesser man stand in my way simply because he happened to be born first!  A man needs strength to rule.  This realm needs a champion.  Is Leofwine going to be that champion?”  Aelrik snorted, derisively.  “The time for change has come.  For the good of the realm.”
         Aelrick lifted his blade and extended it towards his father.  “Kneel.”

***

         Leofwine met his brother’s eyes.  “I never wanted to be Lord.”
         “It doesn’t matter what you wanted.  You were born to it.”
         “And it was a birthright of blood to me, in the end.  It robbed me of the two men I loved most in the world.  I never asked to rule.  I wanted to be great as you were reckoned great.  I wanted men to love me because of what I earned in the field, not because of what I was granted in the womb.  I, like you, wanted what I would never have.”
         “We aren’t that different.”
         Leofwine said nothing because he didn’t trust himself to speak. Were they?  The same? He sagged.
         Aelrik took  a hesitant step towards him, hands still bound. Daring to hope.

***

         Leofwine saw his father kneel, saw his brother approach, blade outstretched.  A single tear streaked down their father’s cheek and lost itself among his bearded jawline.
         “Please, my son.  My blood.  I beg of you.  Mercy.”
         Aelrik’s blade flashed in the sunlight and Leofwine saw his father totter onto his side, his ruined throat blessedly obscured by his body.
         Aelrik spoke quietly, almost to himself.  “In war, father, mercy and cowardice are one.  You taught me that.”

***

         “We have both made mistakes, brother.  And I freely admit to being the worst of sinners.  I have earned the consequences of my actions, and I’m prepared to bear them.”
         Leofwine met his eyes once more and there found pleading.  Leofwine’s anger was gone.  The disgust replaced by fatigue.  Maybe a man could change.
         “What am I to do with you, Aelrik?”
         “You will do as you believe is right.  Make of me a slave, lock me in chains.  I ask only that you consider sparing my life, for a life in chains is no life anyway.”
         Leofwine considered.
         Aelrik continued. “Please, my brother.  My blood.”
         Leofwine’s eyes narrowed.  Memory flashed.
         “I beg of you.  Mercy.”
         Leofwine snarled.  His blade swept up from its place beside him and took Aelrik’s head clean from his shoulders.  The men on Aelrik’s left instinctively flinched as the blood spattered them.  The body stood, motionless, for what seemed like too long before the knees gave out and it crumpled to the ground in an inelegant heap.  Leofwine spit on his brother’s corpse.
         “In war, brother, mercy and cowardice are one.  You taught me that.”

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