My Name Nevermore

My Name Nevermore

Postby Serrus » Mon Apr 06, 2015 8:37 pm

Stars sparkle with their brightened eyes
'Pon every earthen night
And so they shall until their fall
Whence earth be shed from light.



The cups rattled, the plates clanked, and the table trembled as the downpour fell through the roof with no thatching, in the hut that bore little walls, burned and abandoned for long periods, until drifters or vagabonds would use it as shelter, from one wanderer to another, season to season. The spring rains poured through rotted wooden beams, until the cup onto the table overflowed and splashed onto the sodden earth where floorboards used to once rest.

The man was drenched, and the water ran over his cheeks, over his stubble, and it filled his boots and soaked the brigandine, but it would not wash away the blood or muck, or the great grazing cut across his face, or the burn across his forearm that felt like ice and fire, the chill of the night, but the sting of nettles. He stared at it a moment, upon the small fingerless glove where blood trickled from shattered knuckles, and he felt the throb upon his head itch, but he had no recollection of how it got there, nor the drink that came before the loss of memory.

He looked at the many things before him, the things he'd picked up an put back down, again and again, until the water had filled past his boots as he'd began to shiver in the cold and wet.

"None of these are mine," the man said.

He took a silver ring, encrusted with a great ruby, and turned it over and over. "Once she lived in a ring, the lady who could not sing… this… this is not mine," he muttered, and tossed it carelessly aside. The dirk, strong, long and sleek, the great blade was marred with something… something… it was blood, but when it shone upon the moon it sparkled and reminded him of white. "This is not mine," he said. "The blood is not mine." He snarled, throwing it down angrily, and it landed upon the wood with a thunk, and the thunk made his ears roar and his head ring, and a voice from far away sounded like an echo, in a dream.

Y'want to do t deed, y'daft bint? Do it your bloody self.

The voice made his head hurt, made his ears ring, and he clutched his hair momentarily and bit through bloodied lips until the blood ran down his cheek again. "Shut up, shut up, shut up," he shouted at the voice, standing up. "Not mine, it's not FUCKING MINE!" And he tipped over the table, and the contents rattled and fell with a crash, and somewhere a horse whickered. Sounds of hooves shuffling on grass came with a snort, and the silver neck of the blue roan glanced through the large hole in the wall, and gave a nicker. It was saturated as he was, and water ran town its back in torrents, over its long face and nose, until it snorted and sprayed water like a jet, and it nickered again, impatient, fearful, cold and wet, and not understanding.

"Who am I?" the man asked the horse, but the horse only flicked its ears, and would not answer. "Who am I?!" he demanded of the animal, but it could not speak, and therefore could not answer. He approached it, across the mess of mud and plate and wood, and a hand reached for the bridle, and the horse snorted. "Who am I…" he whispered to the horse, and it only nickered, and he felt the cold feel of wet hair and water upon his forehead when he rested against the muzzle. "Who am I…" he said, and he heard someone weeping, but that could not be him, for strong men did not weep.

We do not weep, we feel no sorrow, only retribution to those who would bring us harm.

He was sitting again, but he did not remember how or when he'd walked back. "We will see him," he says. "The man who is as stone, we will see him, and all shall be put to rights." A hand felt the coldness of the soggy fabric that wrapped around the shattered knuckles, around and around. "He took it away, took it all away, the pain, the wounds, the cold and the darkness." He pulled the cloth tight, but it only made the pain worse, and the wound on his head throbbed, and it reminded him of a red moon, of a bloodied stag and the smell of pine nettle. He ground his teeth, words hissing through the pounding head that made his nose bleed. "He took it.. took it all away so it would never come back, never again to remember.

"She's nothing to me. She never was."

He stepped down from the drenched table, and found himself curling to the wet floor, and he was tired, so very tired.

"We will… find him… the Master of the Hold… but we must first find The Master in Black. Master in… in…"

Sleep took him before any more words could form, and he shivered in the cold and wet.
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Serrus
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