Hangman Chapter 13

Chapter 13-

“Peace is a drug we use to forget about who we really are,

I hope someday to be rid of it…”

Dasodaha was trudging along the desert when he stopped to check behind him. Malvado followed behind him, and at the rear of their procession Bleech led what was formerly Daso’s horse ahead. Daso saw the boy as being of little note, and upon Warren’s orders had given him his horse without much hangup.

“I can walk just as easily…” he’d thought.

The horse hadn’t taken to the boy immediately, and so he had used Treachery to create the illusion of a carrot on a stick to incentivize its cooperation. Daso realized that if he had possessed more of a sense of humor, he probably would have thought that this was funny, but all he could find himself thinking was “I suppose that’s one way to use that.”

Back in his hometown, Bleech had been in charge of chasing dogs off of the family property, and had often used this trick to create illusions of meat and other treats in order to tease them away.

Malvado had thought it a little strange that the boy had been so ready and willing to abandon his (admittedly wrecked) home to follow a band of criminals, and as he rode on he attempted to rationalize the situation. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of why someone would follow somebody who had just slain everything they knew, no matter how angelic they were. Malvado often found it difficult to see things from perspectives outside his own, he was often called simple minded by even his fellow lumber workers up North. This critique would never be something he himself could come up with, as he lacked the introspective skills to realize or articulate something like that.

Malvado was born into a poor family in Newfellow, a well-known timber town in the Northwest of Andeidra. His genetics caused him to be built a little below-average, and he only really went into the timber business because there was no other opportunity for steady work in the area. After middling performance at work, and sarcastic comments made about him behind his back, he would often go drinking. He could still recall the map of the town; there was a bar set up near the major logging depot to exploit the workers’ propensity for alcoholism. Because he had no real friends, he would instead walk to the other end of town, where a different bar sat and few timber workers bothered to visit. It was here that he had his first encounter with Warren Roseraid.

It was Springtime, and the area was being doused with rain on the regular. It was deemed too unsafe by the labor union leaders to continue work in the slick darkness, and so everyone had gotten off early. Malvado, a creature of habit, went to his routine haunt; it would be some time before the rest of the usual customers came in. While rain slashed through the air, he drank away. If you were to ask him what exactly he was drinking away, he wouldn’t have been able to tell you. The typical answers are something cliché like, “my sorrows,” or “my loneliness,” but Malvado didn’t feel any particular depression or even loneliness, despite his situation. At least, he never articulated that feeling. It was quite possible that he was drinking away a kind of sadness, one that didn’t originate from himself but that was in the air all around them. A sadness that was as palpable as the rain falling outside, you could reach out and touch it, it was clearly visible, audible even, but it would slip through your fingers if you ever tried to grasp it. Of course, Malvado would never have been able to realize or articulate a thought like this.

It was on this particular night that the door to the bar opened and a young man walked through, drenched with rain. He wore a long gray coat embroidered with gold roses, and he wore what appeared to be a strange eyepatch in the shape of a rose.

This was Warren Roseraid. He stood just beyond the entrance, observing the room; the door swung quietly behind him. Eventually, his gaze settled on Malvado, who had not noticed him yet. The young man took a seat next to him. The moment he appeared next to him, Malvado looked up from his drink; his presence was immediately felt. Warren’s attention was not focused on him, but rather straight ahead to the bartender.

“Sir, I’d like a water with ice, please.”

“Water?” Malvado asked with a degree of incredulity. He wasn’t the type to put himself above others, but he found it kind of funny, and his usual social inhibitions were loosened at the moment.

Warren merely stared back at him, his right eye, or rather the rose that took its place, now visible. Malvado was put off by this strange physical attribute, but figured nothing of it.

“There’s a lot of weird people…” he thought. “I don’t see what the big deal is with some weird tumor thing…”

“Are you a religious man?” Warren’s voice was calm and steady.

“W-what?” Malvado replied.

Turning his attention back to the wooden bar, he continued. “I was just curious, whether or not you’re studied in the Holy texts…”

“Well… I was raised religious… but I don’t recall much from Church…”

“Unfortunate,” Warren responded. “They’re really quite beautiful books. You’d be surprised how many stories from them can apply to our lives today.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Malvado rubbed his temple, he felt like being in a conversation with a religious nut, one who was always trying to tell him to go to Church more often. At the same time, the bartender came back with Warren’s water. He picked up the glass and refreshed himself before proceeding.

“Do you happen to recall one of the earlier stories of the Saviour’s ministry? It’s around the time he was naming his princes. He entered a place of worship and found a man named Goliad. Goliad was perfectly content in his life, but all around him was this impenetrable sadness…”

As he spoke, Malvado slowly found himself becoming enraptured by his words; the rest of the world seemed to stop around him.

“The truth was, the people in his city were full of sin. It was a terrible sin, apathy. It dug into every part of his life, and it was slowly choking his soul away…”

Warren looked up from his glass and peered deeply into Malvado’s eyes.

“Now that I bring it up, does it sound familiar at all to you?” Warren’s voice cut smoothly and clearly to the other man’s ears.

“When I came in here, there was a bug on the ground that someone had stepped on. The rainwater was washing it away, to be drowned. Don’t you think we’re like that?”

Malvado didn’t answer, it didn’t seem like his place to.

“The truth here, is that the people in this town, all of them, they’re just like that bug, and you too. The rain is going to wash you away…”

Malvado finally had the strength to answer, his limbs were weak, all of his energy seemed to be concentrated into a reply.

“W-why are you telling me this?”

…

…….

“Because you would never have been able to realize or articulate that.”

…

……

………

“Are you going somewhere?”

For the first time, Warren blinked and his eye betrayed his surprise.

“I am indeed going somewhere, and I’d like you to come with me.”

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Sonsee sat alone in the Garden, legs crossed, near the water’s edge and quietly reflecting on the moment. It had been five long years since she had begun this journey, and her patience had finally been rewarded. The only thing left to do was drink in the calm silence.

She heard a rustle behind her, prompting her eyes to snap open. She spun around, grabbing hold of a wooden shaft at her side. In an instant, the item had unfolded into a six-foot long spear shaft, with a crafted iron point at its tip. At the other end of the spear stood Janna, cowering in shock.

…

The shaft split into several segments, each connected by a hidden chain, and retracted back into a compact form.

“S-sorry, who are you?”

It didn’t quite matter who said it.