Story

A Pure Dagger
The blood grasped at my fingers as I ran my hand through the fountain, clinging to me. Crimson stained my nails, before it dripped back into the pool. When I leaned over the edge, I could nearly see my reflection as the blood stained the water a deep red. It was picturesque. And yet, the bodies from which it flowed tainted the scene.
The corpses had been there nearly three days, and I had not continued on my way as of yet. I simply watched as rats tore at dead flesh, leaving red footprints throughout the courtyard.
Once again, it had not worked. They all die, and Hagios never returns . . . I had become accustomed to it. Three days of rest after the ritual, stretching into the end of the week, and then I would try again once a year had passed.
With a sigh I began to get up. I spotted familiar faces among the dead, and with a curt smile I left them. Death takes away the names of all men. It belittles life, as it only matters when it exists.
I hummed softly, the only voice in the dead town. It echoed as it bounced off the walls, creating an eerie sound as it minced my hum with discordant notes.
I froze, and a different, grating sound filled my ears. The footsteps of a blind man replaced my joy. It was as though with every click of his staggering steps, another piece of sanity fell from my hands.
“Who goes there?” I called, my voice dripping with an empty promise, auguring kindness. The wavering footsteps came to a halt behind me. For a moment, there was a taste of what others would call silence. When, in fact, there is no such thing. It is only the belief that there is nothing to be heard.
I turned around to face him. Immediately, my eyes darted to the face of the young boy in front of me; he could not have been past fifteen summers of age. I noted his hair was matted, and I found myself wanting to reach out and tousle it. Instead my gaze settled on the dagger he held shakily in his left hand. It was beautiful, unsoiled and clean. It reminded me of the one Hagios had adored when I was young- It had been a gift from myself, one I had reluctantly given, and one which he had never used.
This boy was not deserving of such a thing.
“Oh sweet child, what are you doing here?” I enchanted, the soft words slipping off my tongue. Much to my surprise, he did not waver, nor did he reply. He simply stared at me in silence. He had the footsteps of one blind, yet his reaction was as though he were deaf.
“Little prince please, if you can, speak. I wish to know your purpose in such a place.” The thought of killing the boy had crossed my mind. I wondered if I had missed him when I enacted the ritual. It’s not as if it would matter anyways, now that it was done. I looked him over.
His breaths were scattered, eccentric, and his heartbeat was as flitting as the rodents scurrying through the livers of the dead. A sugar-sweet smile stretched my lips, and he gripped that perfect knife tighter.
This boy wishes to kill me? So be it then. Let him try. I reached forward, and touched the hand in which he held the alluring silver knife. He recoiled in disgust, before he shouted and attempted to plunge it into my side.
I easily side-stepped his knife and he stumbled forward. As I chuckled, he recovered his footing and lunged at me again. This time I grabbed his wrist, twisting it until the dagger fell from his hands, landing with a clatter on the stones.
He should not have strived to sully that faultless knife.
The boy tried to wrestle his hand free. I gripped it tighter. He then let out a strangled sound, and stopped struggling altogether. His pitiful brown eyes stared into mine, full of hatred and sorrow, holding not a shred of the defeat that they should have. I glanced at the dagger, lying on the stones, and decided I would retrieve it later . . . After I had killed the boy.
I threw him down, and drawing my own sword I pointed it at his throat, “Why do you wish to kill me, boy? Have I killed your father? Or perhaps your mother? Tell me, so that I know who you wish to avenge.”
A low growl escaped his throat as he lay limp. I scoffed at him, pushing my boot against his side. The boy truly puzzled me. Why does he not answer?
“Answer me, if you do not wish to die, child! At the very least speak your name!”
“You’re worthless, failed necromancer,” The boy finally spoke, “Did you truly think I would answer your questions knowing who you are?”
“So you do not have the tongue of one who is mute,” I said, “That is quite a relief. Yet, I see my reputation has preceded me?”
“I’ll burn you.”
The blood on my fingers suddenly felt cold, “Burn me? Who are you with such unbacked threats?”
“And after you burn slowly, I’ll have the dogs piss on your carcass so even in Hell the demons won’t be able to stand the stench of you!”
I couldn’t hold back my laugh, “Oh, I know I have a spot reserved in Hell, but tell me, what has derived such hatred towards me from one so young? How have I harmed you? Oh, won’t you tell me, child?”
He sat up, glaring at me as he replied, “You murdered entire villages, year, after year, after year, leaving no one! But, worst of all, you forced someone I know very well to slaughter his own family.”
“What do you expect to gain from telling me this? It is of no importance to me,” I responded, a sudden sense of boredom fogging my brain. It was the same story as always. I had rashly thought this boy to be interesting. I decided to kill him, take that immaculate dagger as my prize, and then move along.
I pulled my sword back, already envisioning the boy’s head falling from his shoulders, landing on the stones. I could feel the sensation of the sword slicing through his thin little neck.
As I was about to swing, his voice cut through the air instead, “How about we play a game?”
“A game?” I let the sword fall to my side.
“Yes. A game. Who am I? If you can guess that . . .” He paused, “I’ll answer any and all of your questions, witch. If you can’t . . . I’ll simply cut out my own heart, giving you no satisfaction.” He had reached the soft, gentle knife, and already had it poised to be plunged into his own gut.
He wouldn’t dare defile that pristine knife . . . would he?
I could easily take the dagger from him without him having to bloody it, but I supposed there would be no fun in that.
“I agree to those terms. Do I get any hints as to who you are?”
He stared at me, with glassy eyes, “How many years have you been killing these innocents?”
“That’s not a hint!”
“How many years have you been killing?”
I looked at him oddly, and then smirked, “Over a dozen.”
“Who do you kill them for?”
“What kind of a question is that? I’m supposed to be finding out who you are, not the other way around, correct?”
He said nothing in reply. I scoffed, and stared back at him. Who was this child!?
“I kill for Hagios, my elder brother. I wish to return him from beyond the grave, and to do so I must tribute these worthless lives on the anniversary of his death. It’s the only way for the spell to work.” I finally answered.
“Why would you do such a thing?”
“He is my brother, all I had in this world; I have nothing else to strive for . . . Now, child, before you die, at least give me one plausible hint.”
He rubbed the perfect dagger between his fingers, “Are you jealous yet, Gehenna?”
Jealous? What did me mean, jealous? I have nearly all I want! Why would I envy another? Who have I ever envied, other than . . .? Wait a moment. That faultless dagger. Was it not my brother’s own dagger which I had desired so much as a child? Who else have I ever envied but my own brother?
. . . Did he just say my name?
“Hagios?”
He stood up, and I made no attempt to stop him as he made a transient bow, “At your service, little sister.”
The sword I had held clattered to the stones, “It . . . it worked? After all these years, it worked!?”
“It appears the good reaper has no power over me anymore.”
I grinned, and his face contorted into a smile as well. He stepped forward and I embraced him in that dead town, where the only life was that of the pests. As I held him, he made a sharp movement, and I gasped. After a moment of impossible silence, he pulled the imperfect dagger out of my chest, its disgusting silver oozing with crimson.
“I never wanted this,” He whispered.
As I fell, their blood mingled with my own. I watched my older brother stand over me. As I felt myself begin to die, he moved away, coming back moments later with dry wood and a torch. He lined the wood around me, a vacant expression on his face. I watched him, still wanting to reach out and tousle that matted brown hair of his. He threw down the filthy dagger, and my own bloodied fingers were able to brush over its defiled silver.
Hagios’ voice echoed with finality. The voice of that tarnished dagger.
“Burn in Hell, necromancer.”