DILLON

Vrétiel means fear. In old Illyan legends, he was the child of Joezesh and Eila, the offspring of love and war. When the Angel Vrétiel was created, he was revered for his strength and generosity– with tremendous power, he razed armies and hordes of undead to save a dying world. Then, with endless love for the people, he rebuilt that world. A marble statue of him stands tall at the entrance of the Galad’hór temple in Orris, where he is depicted holding a sword in one hand and the other, his own bloody heart.

The statue of his likeness was carved to resemble a human– tall, muscular and handsome with beautiful feathered wings– but in myth, Angels are creatures of nightmares made not of flesh but otherworldly ichor, jet black wings and a thousand eyes that peer down on humanity. God, Angel or human— no matter who you were, none could argue that Vrétiel was the embodiment of terror.

The Angel is long dead but that word remains, ingrained in this ancient language. Fear. It is a fitting word for what I currently feel as I sit rigidly, stare down the barrel of a rifle and feel the sharp end of gardening shears at the side of my hip. Any move I make could result in my head being blown off. Or the old woman will gut me. By the hungry look in her eyes, I believe it. Am I trembling from pain or fear? I can’t tell anymore.

My hand hovers above the dagger, fingers trembling. I flick my eyes to the plump old man. His teeth are gritted, brows furrowed. I watch a drop of sweat run down the side of his face. He remained calm throughout that entire act but now he sweats. His clammy hands are stark white, his grip is tight on the rifle. He holds it awkwardly against his frame. Is he perhaps nervous? Or has he never used a firearm before?

I don’t have the balls to test my theory. Not now. I’m too weak and my reflexes aren’t what they used to be. If I reach for my dagger, he will blow my brains out.

Think, moron. What can you do?

I have faced worse odds than a couple of old bandits in a house full of clutter. The iron poker by the hearth. The boiling pot of water. This table. Chair. Anything in this damned house can be used as a weapon. But, am I fast enough to grab them? They watch my every move like a hawk.

“Did you bite off your tongue, child?” The chair scrapes beside me. In my peripheral vision, the woman stands slowly, the sharp ends of the shears digging into the bruise that has formed over my broken ribs. I am sitting in between them. If I move fast enough, perhaps…

“Answer her!” The man bellows. I grit my teeth. Fear is a weakness, a poison, I tell myself. What do I have to lose?

“You caught me,” I smirk. “Tell me something, old man, how do you expect to shoot me when your rifle is still half-cocked?” With this, he flicks his eyes to the flint-lock mechanism on his firearm and my theory is confirmed. A moment is all I need.

I duck my torso sideways and begin to fall from my chair and away from the shears at my side. I pull the leg of my chair with my ankle and grit my teeth as the sharp edge hits my wound. But, I cannot focus on it. The woman grunts as the chair smacks her shins. She yells something unintelligible. My body hits the floor. A groan escapes me, my ribs ache. I feel winded. I turn to the old man and watch as he aims the gun at my head, but his other hand fiddles clumsily at the lock. I doubt there is even gunpowder in the pan.

“Shoot him!” The woman screams. I kick the chair into her legs again and scream from the pain. Tears threaten to form. She doesn’t fall. Instead, she kicks it back into me after seeing my reaction. A sharp ache travels through me, all the way up my legs.

“Fucking bitch!” I spit and roll onto my side and under the table. I watch as the old woman kicks the chair and makes her way around toward me. Then, I hear a loud bang and the sound of wood breaking. I see a flurry of dust. He missed. I don't give them time to recover and grab the edge of the table and kick at the corner until it falls on its side providing me with a sturdy shield.

"Aim at him, you fucker! Not the table!" She screams. My lungs are burning, my whole body aches. My movements were too brash, my vision begins to blur. No, not now. The woman is in front of me, peering down with a menacing look on her face. I have no weapon. When she rushes toward me with the shears, I lurch forward and tackle her knees. She yells into my ears, winded. I hear the clanking of metal against stone. The shears are no longer in her hands. Adrenaline pumps through my veins, giving me strength. I fall on top of her and hold her down by the neck. She claws at my arms, my chest. She is losing air, but not fast enough.

I never thought I was the type of man to ever hit an old woman. But, there is a first for everything. I clench and bring down my fist. It connects to her nose. She lets out a small sob. Blood pours. It feels wrong. This is wrong. But, when has the world ever been right? When was the last time I got a fucking break?

I let go of her neck and lean back to reach for the shears but the old man comes sprinting at me with the rifle. One moment I’m on top of this old lady, next I’m being tackled into the burning hearth. I bring up my arms to block him, but he is heavy. We fall clumsily.

The heat is strong against the back of my neck. The crackling of the fire is all I hear alongside the sound of my jaw clicking. The pain registers and I realise the old man has been punching me. Did I black out? Is this how it will end for me? Tackled and punched to death by a fat old fucker who doesn’t even know how to use a rifle?

He stops. I breathe hard. But, I get no reprieve because then I watch him pick up the rifle. He brings it down and the butt of the firearm and hits me in the face so hard that a tooth pops out. I spit and gag. I bite through half my tongue in the process. Warm blood fills my mouth.

“Fucking Khronish dog!” He spits into my eyes. I groan and squeeze them shut. The stone floor is the softest thing I feel. “No one told me they’re this fucking hard to kill.”

“Finish him off. Next time, don’t fucking use the gun if you don’t know how.” The woman says. I gurgle for air and listen to them speak, alternating between common Illyan and that dialect. The old man gets up and steps over me. I watch his blurry figure walk away. I don’t see the woman. This is my chance. But, my body does not listen. I cannot move. Everything hurts. I turn toward the hearth but the movement causes my head to throb so I squeeze my eyes shut.

I lie here and calculate my chances of survival. I think of my mangled feet, broken ribs, slight fever, aching jaw and the contusion over my eye, and cut those odds in half. I cannot feel my body, I can barely breathe. I half those odds again. This must be some sort of sick joke. Is it because I forsook my faith all those years ago? Have the Angels condemned me to a life of misery because I refuse to believe in the divine?

If I die here, Arellia would be lost. Perhaps she is already on her way back to her brother. Maybe it is for the best. What can she do out here? Where can she go? Where was I going to take her? The Black Company? Khronir? I lost my home the moment I left my village. I have no place to call home, but she does. I tell myself over and over that it is for the best.

But, do I truly believe that?

I hear footsteps in the distance and the sound of doors creaking. Why are they keeping me alive? Perhaps they believe I am no threat to them. They’d be right, of course. I roll onto my side and an involuntary groan escapes me. I crane my neck to the boiling pot above the roaring hearth and eye the iron poker against the stone wall. With tremendous effort and gritted teeth, I crawl towards the poker. If I am going to die, I won’t go without a fight.

A boot slams onto my hand before I reach the poker. “Nice try, but we all know you’re never leaving this house in one piece.” The man lets go and drags me up by my tunic. He plops me onto a chair beside the fire. I watch the flames dance and curl like violent waves in my peripheral vision. The old man stands in front of me and smiles smugly. I want to wipe that smirk from his face.

“Thank you for bringing us the princess. She will fetch a handsome price. So will you. But, then again, I can just bring back your head.” He grins.

I open my mouth and try to speak but all that comes out are bubbling, inhuman sounds. The man brings a finger to his lips and whispers, “Shh. Quiet now.”

“F-f-fuck… you.” I spit blood and saliva at him, but my tongue doesn’t work and I drool all over my chin. He howls in laughter and backs away, hunched over the fallen table. No matter who I fight, they end up bent over in laughter. I must have the kind of face people love to mock. They laugh at me because they believe they have won. I don’t blame them.

The difference between me and them is that I will never be foolish enough to underestimate my opponents no matter how bloody and bruised they are. He made a grave mistake when he turned away from me. The fight is not over until one of us is dead. Today, it will not be me.

I stagger from the chair and grab the iron poker. The old man turns, eyes alight with surprise, but he is slow to react. With shaking legs and my remaining strength, I run and stab the poker into his side. He screams and trips over the table, trailing blood. I’m panting like a dog. Chest aching with every breath.

I pull out the poker again. Blood spurts all over my hand. I step over him and place my boot on his chest. I smile, examine the fear in his eyes and thrust the poker into his throat.

His mouth is wide. His hands claw desperately at my feet. He gurgles and gags on his own blood. When I pull the poker from his throat and stab it through his eye, he struggles no longer.