They compromised his morals.
It was, the easiest answer. Simple. To the point.
But it was the truth.
They started small with him. Breaking him into habit and routine. Others had the luxury of days off, free thought, and choices. He could not recall questioning what he was told. It was what he was joining for- to protect the citizens. Demons, fel creatures, the legion- what mattered most was the people. Always.
If they had told him to kill his first day then he would have left. Instead he was given orders, trained. His loyalty was without question and his record so far was pristine, possibly exceptional. Then it started-Which thief should live? The thief had stolen mana to survive, the other had been caught with ‘the wrong sorts’.
He saw the trap coming but he could not avoid it. He picked the thief- death was better for someone who was starving. The other had only talked to suspicious people, not a crime in itself.
He wondered how he could have done better, been better. But such things were beyond his ability to fix now. The undead shuffled as they made their way around the Dead Scar. Something had agitated them.
Idly he wondered what it was. But, he reminded himself he was not paid to wander. The nearby inn promised a good meal and a bed if enough of the undead were killed.
How many bodies wandered the Dead Scar, he wondered as he methodically made his way to a slow group that shambled aimlessly.
He slide his sword from the scabbard. Without looking at it, he could recall the wondrous silver of the blade. He had, would never own a weapon that was a showpiece. A weapon was locked in the necessity of what he did, sometimes to hold close and remember his family, but a purpose unchanged. In his hands the sword had become more than a weapon, it was an answer to a fate he raged against.
He came into the slow moving group with a flurry of stabs, feeling the familiar warm the pit of his stomach. The first undead fell with only a sigh, collapsing into a rotting pile of dry skin and bone.
“Begone and rest.” He breathed, fending off the weak attacks the undead offered. The undead put up little resistance beyond their weak attacks.
It was murder. He pretended it wasn’t. But it was. He still remembered the expression, the trembling hands, eyes that pleaded for Mal to stay his blade. They had children, they said. Nobody else to take care of them. They begged to live, only for the children.
It was such a pure … begging? No. Emotion. They begged out of fear for their children, out of a desire to protect something that knew naught of the world and what it offered. An image of his sister when she was young played in his mind.
Wide purple eyes, playing without a care in the streets, a innocent childhood. Images ran through his mind as he grasped his sword firmly, feeling the whisper of metal when it came free of its sheath. It sang in his blood, a soothing sound compared to the sobbing pleading of the elf before him.
The Shal’dorei holding the pleading parent was someone Mal had known for years. They were year mates. They were in the watch together.
The parent was a traitor. Why, mattered not. They had to die.
His year mate laughed and kicked the parent. ‘The pleasure of plunging your sword into the chest of a traitor. The light leaving their eyes as what’s left helplessly regrets. A fool, a liar, and worthy of nothing.’
Something snapped. Broke.
“Pick the bastard up then. Lets be done with it.” If his year mate cared about Mal going silent they said nothing. A loud sigh and his year mate leaned down to grab the parent by their hair…
And then Mal attacked his year mate. The parent scrambled, digging into the dirt before they picked themselves up and bolted. Mal’s year mate was stunned by Mal’s fist, bringing up an arcane barrier in time to block a sword blow that would have split her skull.
Mal turned and let his plate armor take the brunt of her arcane blast. His bones trembled beneath the blow, but the training he had endured refused to let him stop. He next sent his sword to impale her heart but she had blinked out of the way in time.
Her mouth opened but Mal did not ehar what his year mate said. He came in with a flurry of angry blows that she fought back with magic fueled by sheer desperation.
In a fair sparring practice Mal would have won. But Mal’s year mate was unwilling to die.
He lost the fight when lightning arced from her fingers. Repeatedly.
His soup was potato today. He hated the taste of flavorless potato and…meat bits? They floated in his stew and he disliked it. The steel cup he drank from reflected his sour expression. The thick scarring on his face made it difficult, be he managed.
“I’m tired.” Mal told the soup. “I’m so very tired.” He hated it but, something wouldn’t let him throw the food out. He held his breath as he drank the soup, refusing to look at his face in the cup anymore. He didn’t want to see it. He wanted to read and sleep with a bottle of wine.
Some memories were best recalled alone.
Tyleril Silversword 