Cobalt Tears

[Avocadoy]

(( This is meant to be a Horror story, but I'm not very versed in that type of writing, which you can plainly see. It is also a short story, so there isn't a whole lot of build up for me to give.

Though, I enjoyed telling this story with my own voice over Vent, though going between past and present was difficult, since you can't really explain it while keeping the story going. There are also still some spelling errors, and some typos, but please forgive me ^^.

Note: Non AB/TB/DL related))

A loud, shrill howl pierced the dead of the night. Slowly, the aged knight lifted his head from his vast amounts of paperwork. He gazed with faded emerald eyes upon his oaken door, still shut and well barred for the night. He lifted a wrinkled hand to his head, brushing back long graying black hair away from his pale green eyes. His boiled leather tunic sat atop his blue under shirt. Azure and gold pants matched his blue shoes. He sat his quill into an ink bottle, letting it rest and soak.

Slowly he rose from his letters and decrees, a gold chain choker wrapped around his neck signifying himself second in command to the Lord of Castle Vartell. The knight touched the necklace, remembering how he had earned it, when he was the Cobalt Knight, but those days were as gone as his wife, and his three daughters. He only had one son, who was being sought after by clerics in the highest chambers of the castle. His son had been wounded in a recent battle for White Tower. The clerics said his right arm would be amputated, and if it continued to fester like it is, his life may be the price instead of his arm.

The howl thundered through the halls again. His candle faltered for a moment, before it returned to its peaceful state. The Cobalt Knight, nay, Deran walked to his bedside. He was once the Cobalt Knight, once, before he had disgraced his family by making an impossible decision, killing the innocent to save his daughters, who now lay in their graves. His hand reached under his bed, and grasped a sheathe. He drug it out, the leather worn, the iron rusted and faded. The blade sun a silent hymn as it was released from its prison.

The blade was cobalt blue, the light danced off it, making waves ripple through the steel. Even if it was a one handed bastard sword, it was light in his hand, being folded over thousands of time, becoming thin as a needle, yet strong as a wall. The waves upon his blade stopped, cries of what seemed like agony filled the air as the sword was forced back into the sheathe. Tears streamed down his eyes, remembering the terrible deaths it had caused on the weak and pure.

Regardless, he slung the bastard sword across his back, for it was too long to be worn on his belt. Deran grasped the candle that dimly lit his work table, and rose it to a nearby torch, giving it new life. Replacing candle for torch, he advanced to the door. His hand crept to unlock it, when the same howl pierced the silence. It was queer, no one stirred inside the castle. In truth, it was a small fortress, having most of its army sent south to continue past the White Tower, but there were still young and old, lords and ladies who could not fight who still lived inside Castle Vartell’s walls, yet there was not but the crackle of his torch for company.

Deran resumed unlocked his only means of safety in the night, a simple oaken door with but one lock between him and whoever choose to slay him. The door swung ajar slowly, the hinges creaking through the silent halls. There were no lights, which would be normal seeing as it was but three in the morn. Striding forward, he went to light the torch adjacent to his own room, but it would not light.

Strange… perhaps they had burned out before the night was done… But then he would be lying to himself. Torches were made to burn on twelve hour shifts in the castle, being replaced one hour before they died due to lack of fuel. Strange indeed.

The howl thundered through the air again, but as to where it started and where it ended was unclear. Deran fumbled with his torch, trying to keep hold of its rough shaft. For a moment, the fire flickered into nothing. His heart sunk in his chest, darkness being one of his worst fears. But gods were good to him, and the torch roared back to life, basking the dark hall in light.

Deran looked around uneasily. This time of night, he had no clue as to where anything was with but a torch in hand to guide him. Part of him wished to return to his safe haven, but the other part persisted in checking on his son’s health.

Step after step, he paced down the hallway. Strangely, it seemed longer than it normally had been. Deran watched the light dance upon the walls and dead torches. Strange sounds hung through the silence. Sounds of steel on flesh at first, then silent mummers and muffled screams. Sweat began to bead across his brow, memories beginning to creep into his mind.

* * *

“It is your choice, Cobalt Knight. These three boys, or your three girls.”
“You cannot expect me to make that decision!”
“Or else? They will all die regardless. Your choice, three… or six.”
* * *
Reality snapped back to him, noticing he came upon a stairwell. Deran swept the back of his hand across his sweat ridden brow, his breathing becoming heavy and short. His hand gripped the stairwell’s wall, and slowly rose up the stairs. The sounds persisted through the silence, or what was left of it. The songs of steel continued to pierce his ears, cries of pain choked his breaths back. His heart stopped, as he looked down at his feet, he was now descending the stairs.

Turning around he started back up the stairwell, playing it off as a mind trick. Deran gazed at the light flickering across the walls, seeing the orange meld into shapes upon the marble walling. They swirled and danced, becoming nothing for a time. He stopped in his tracks to examine the image being painted, and almost fell onto his back as it turned into the face of a small girl of no more than five. Her hand reached out from the wall, and vanished as he swung at it with his torch. His breaths returned to ragged gasps for air.

Deran fumbled to his feet once more, quickly ascending the steps. Sounds of battle and pain ringed his ears like bells, never letting up for a moment. His feet pounded on the old marble steps, the distance of stairwell seeming to increase with each step as he spiraled up it.

Deran tripped as he hit the last step opening into the highest point in the castle, the torch falling from his hand across the floor. He could taste blood in his mouth where he had bit his tongue. Stumbling up, a cold hand touched his shoulder. Whirling around, a face with its face burned of all its features stared at him with empty eye sockets.

* * *

Rain poured down on the courtyard of Illori. Men in mail and boiled leather surrounded the wounded knight, his bastard sword stood erect from the ground before him, dried blood caked the azure blade. A skinny man in tattered clothing sat upon the town’s well, with a crown made of bronze upon his aged head. Six children sat in front of the man, each bound, gagged, and blinded by cloth. Three girls, three boys.

“Ser Deran, you have fought valiantly against the Ancient, slaying a dozen when you were only wounded in your side, but you must pay for those lives that have been lost. You shall choose, three boys, or your three girls.” The man’s lips did not stem into a smile, nor did it erupt into a scowl. His face was neutral in all respects. Even his face was plain, neither comely nor homely. Yet the men surrounding the perimeter of the courtyard hooped and hollered at him, screaming insults and slander.

“You are mad!” Deran shouted, his left arm occupied with his bleeding side. “I cannot do such a task!”

“It is your choice, Cobalt Knight. These three boys, or your three girls.” The man repeated, his hazel eyes boring into his emerald ones.

“You cannot expect me to make that decision!” Deran shouted once more, tears welling in his eyes. The rain hid it well, though.

“Or else? They will all die regardless. Your choice, three… or six.” The man waved his hand, as a behemoth of a man walked from the crowd. His gut hanging from his leather, and an axe that would take two hands to wield was held lazily in but one. “Borok, begin the be-”

“NO!” Deran shouted, his hand grasping his cobalt blade. The blade rose from the now muddy soil, blood beginning to wash from its thin body. Protect the innocent… and how can I do that? He said to himself, stepping forward towards the three boys, hand still cupped to his side.

* * *

Deran gazed at where the burned figure had been, only to see it disappeared. With his right hand, he gripped his left side, feeling where a blade licked him those long years back. He sat up, taking a moment to catch his breath. His mind was plaguing him with ill thoughts and horrors from centuries past. Memory failed him, for Deran did not remember continuing his walk amongst the strong hold. It seemed folly by this point, the howling seemed to have stopped, but his legs pulled him forward. Could it have been his want of reassurance over his son safety? He was uncertain.

The corridor Deran was now in seemed more familiar. He was a story below the medical wing, yet he seemed so far away from his destination. He gazed at his torch, watching it dance upon the stick. Deran had half, maybe a full hour of light left before it would die down. This fact did not worry him, since it must have been four in the morn by now, giving him ample time before light of dawn’s awakening filled the castle with light.

A chill shot up through his back. Deran turned around sharply, to find nothing. The sensation was unordinary. It felt of a, small child’s hand upon the small of his back. Slowly, her turned around, and an uneasy haze slowly crept from the walls. The sounds resumed from earlier. Steel on steel, wails of agony, but a new sound entered the mismatched chorus, his own pleas. Both from the past, and from his own current mouth.

“Leave me be! I did what I had to!” Deran shouted towards the creeping mist. Figures slowly began to rise from the haze, but three lacked heads. The other three were disfigured. One had a burnt face, another’s arms were shredded to pieces, as well as its face. And the last, lacked eyes, and a jaw. Even with their mangled phantom bodies, they moaned and spoke.

“Saaaave us….why did you not saaaaave us?” Deran backed away slowly, his right hand trembling as he tried to grasp his cobalt blade, but he could not get a grip of himself to draw the sword. Instead, he waved the torch around in his opposite hand.

“I tried! I did as I was bid, on my honor as a knight, but they went against their word!” Rage filled his meager voice other than sorrow and pain. He lashed harder at the apparitions who inched closer. The fire cried out in protest as gusts of air threatened to blow it out, and went harmlessly through the oncoming wraiths. “WHY DO YOU HAUNT ME SO!” Deran shouted, sprinting through the ghosts of the past. Each had their own being of torment, sharing them with Deran as he passed through them, but each thought the crept into his head was the same. Saaave us…

* * *

Deran’s sword dripped blood of the innocent on to the muddy ground. Rain washed away his tears as he gazed upon his murder. The cobalt blade dropped from his hand and sunk into the ground, washing the blood from its weeping surface. Roars of laughter and taunts continued to assault him, but he did not care. His vows were destroyed. Protect the innocent.

The earth beneath him came spiraling back, bringing him into reality to see sell-swords circle around his daughters. Deran quickly sprang to his feet, drawing his bastard sword from the ground. Azure light danced across its blade from torch lights surrounding the court yard. He hacked and slashed through them, creating a wall between his girls and the Ancient.

Songs of steel rang through the yard, but it was a sorrowful tune. Deran’s armor was drenched in blood of his and his foe’s blood. A dozen lay in front of him, dead or dying, and dozens upon dozens more came to take their places. Deran felt his daughter’s fear behind him, but neglected to notice that there was nothing solid behind the girls aside from a fountain. He dared a peak behind him, and rage and sorrow rushed into his being.

* * *

Deran ran, and ran, and continued to run. His legs were in agony, his lungs taking in and spitting out mouthfuls of air. His head was in searing pain, throbbing with each step he took. Go away go away go away GO AWAY!!! He screamed in his mind, but the torment continued. Haze followed him down the endless corridor, and moans and pleas followed behind him.

Finally, his legs brought him to the stair well, and as swift as a gazelle, he sprinted up the stairs. His torch was flickering low as air and cold rushed over it, threatening its existence. Deran slipped into third person, watching himself run in terror from a past he was trying to escape. He felt more alone now than he did the day before, and when the last of his blood sent off to battle, and came back gravely wounded. More than when his wife died birthing his last child.

Memories continued to flood into his mind like the tears from his eyes. He wanted to forget it all, to drown out all the bad memories. The killing of innocents, the deaths of his loved ones, these demons of his past. Everything. Including his god damned title “Cobalt Knight” and his wretched cobalt blade. He was cursed, cursed to a life of misery that was supposed to be happiness.
* * *

Deran clutched his dying daughter in his arms. Her arms and face were horribly scratched and raked. Her emerald eyes peered up at him, watery and filled with pain. His two other daughters were burned in front of him while he was restrained. The ‘king’ who sat atop the well peered down at Deran, no grin, no frown, just a blank stare.

“I did say they would die regardless. You killed three, instead of us killing six.” The King Ancient waved his hand, and the mob dispersed, leaving Deran to mourn the loss of his beautiful daughters. The rain fell hard that day, harder than he fell the next.

* * *

Time was just an illusion to him. He sat huddled in the corner of the hall, haze surrounding him. The moans of the dead crept through the walls, the pleas and cries rang through his head. The torch laid sprawled in front of him, the fire dying slowly. His cobalt blade was unsheathed in front of him, hoping it’d protect him from the on coming wraiths.

They crept closer, and closer. Deran clenched the blade with both hands, beginning to swing wildly in front of him.

“I DID NOTHING TO YOU I WAS NOT FORCED TO DO! I TRIED TO PROTECT! IT TRIED TO SAVE! But people keep dying! First my wife, then my daughters! NOW MY SON IS ON HIS DEATH BED!” Deran screamed, continuing to strike out, hoping to strike something and seep his anger into it and out of his heart…and he got his wish.

Deran’s eyes were sealed shut, but he felt a warm trickle cling to his hands. His eyes slowly opened to see the corridor was pitch black, until a small tint of light pierced the windows. Features became clearer, and he saw his sword impaled into a body. A body that lacked an arm…

“F-….father…”