In Another Life

Posted on Sun Nov 3rd, 2024 @ 10:00pm by Lieutenant JG Damien Blackford

Mission: WHAT IF?
Location: A world, much like ours, but different again.
870 words - 1.7 OF Standard Post Measure

Darkness surrounded him. The moon hung high in the sky, casting a soft glow on the street. Somewhere in the distance, a clock started chiming, its deep, sonorous peeling marking the lateness of the hour. The locals called this ‘The Hour of the Wolf’, and according to legends, it is when the most births, and deaths, were supposed to happen.

Damien wrapped his cloak around him some more, the black material making him practically invisible to all. His hood was pulled up, obscuring his face from any who might see him, and those that did wouldn’t have gotten a good look at his features anywhere. His face was covered by a black scarf, covering the bottom half of his face, leaving only his eyes on show. Eyes that had once been full of life and laughter, were now cold and merciless. The last few years had all but sapped the laughter from him. Once he had been a proud member of his Lord’s personal guard, his life dedicated to protecting the innocent, bring those who would do harm to justice. But a simple case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time had stripped that all from him. Now he was condemned. A member of the Emperor’s Hidden Blades. Technically, he was dead. Executed for a murder he didn’t commit. But that was a lie.

’A man of your talents should be put to use.’

Those were the words spoken to him on his last living day. The Captain of the Emperor’s personal guard had come to visit him in his cell. Damien had thought he was going to die then. But they had other plans.

Oh, he’d tried to resist. He’d fought back. Even tried to escape twice. Both times, they found him, and dragged him back to the black dungeons under the Emperor’s palace, where they’d simply beaten him some more, then threw in back a cell. He’d tried to starve himself at one point, refused to eat, but even that didn’t work. They simply force fed him his food. They’d promised to break him. To mould him into something useful.

And eventually, they succeeded. In a way, they had killed him. He was still breathing. But he wasn’t alive. Not anymore. Now he was simply a shell of a man. A tool, to be used, then put away until needed again. And should he be discovered, or caught? They’d simply deny he was working under their command. After all, how could a dead man be given orders.

The peeling of the bells slowly faded away. It was nearly time. His latest assignment had a habit of staying in the pub too late, then stumbling through the streets until he either collapsed in the street or somehow made his way home.

Raising his head, Damien looked around. The rooftops were always being patrolled. Guards were stationed everywhere. The streets were free to roam. But the rooftops were there domain, and they had issues throwing you off if they caught you. Sometimes Damien considered letting them catch him. Letting everything end. It wouldn’t be difficult. But he never could. He’d always said that he wasn’t afraid to die. And maybe that was true. He wasn’t. If he died an honourable death, that would be different. But to die alone? Broken on the street, performing some dishonourable act? No. He couldn’t do that.

The sound of movement below broke his reprieve. There he was. The man whose life was to be snuffed out in the Hour of the Wolf. His crime? Damien didn’t know. He was a tool. They pointed him at something and he did his job.

Glancing above him, he listened, checking the coast was clear, before he carefully started the descent down the side of the building, his fingers finding the little grooves, never once slipping. He was on the ground in seconds, the drunk man a few feet ahead of him swaying as he tried to find his way home. It wouldn’t be hard.

Slipping a hand into his pocket, Damien withdrew a small dagger, careful not to cut himself with the blade, then started walking slowly towards the other man. One foot in front of the other, and then he was right behind him. Angling the blade slightly, he quickened his pace, and as he passed, dragged the blade along his foes exposed arm, then moving off just as quickly. He didn’t stop, simply continued walking, rounding a corner. The poison wouldn’t take long to take effect. And when the guards found him in the morning, they’d assume he’d simply drank himself to death.

Damien closed his eyes, leaning against the nearby wall, whispering a quick prayer. Not for himself. No. He was beyond redemption now. No. He prayed for the other man. That he might find some peace in whatever world lay beyond this one.

Opening his eyes, he pushed off from the wall, and slowly started making his way back down the street. Back to his toolbox. Until they had use of him again.