The One Remaining

The newly iron-clad man looked up to the sky, atop the battlements of the city wall, letting a too fresh breeze dry his sweat. He let out a sigh, momentarily allowing the wind to welcome him to these new heights. The innocent scents and caress of the gusts detracted from the horrors that he had left in his wake, so the man did not allow it to linger. He had no desire to cast aside the treachery that he had caused, for that same practice had earned the previous occupants of these walls their demise.

The armored man replaced his matching helm, struggling against the new dent that restricted the visor’s movement downward. Very well, he did not deserve to hide his face. He already dressed himself in the plate of another man, one unknown to him, whose brothers he had sent to their final rest.

The man forced himself to gaze upon the trail of bodies that marked his path of ascent. “I wonder if there was not a more peaceful method to go about this,” he whispered to himself.

A warm breeze rolled over the skin left bare by his open faceplate, almost as if in response. The wind comforted him, seeming to reassure him of the necessity of his choices.

And necessary it was. His captors had gone unchecked for too long. Despite royal officers making consistent trips to the dungeon, the head jailors always managed to evade punishment for their animalistic practices. The scars of those imprisoned were conveniently left unseen, long drapes conveniently left at cell doors, the rare change of clothes too enticing to turn down. Their blood-stained skin was washed clean just in time for the arrival of the inspectors.

The signs were there, regardless. Anyone should have been able to see the torment that the man and the others in the dungeon had endured. Their steps, which were accompanied by cringing, their beleaguered faces, their skittishness at the approach of anyone who may pass by.

But the inspectors, in their hypocritical perusal of the chambers, saw nothing.

Every. Single. Time.

Though the failure of these so called ‘regal’ men cast a foreboding feeling upon those imprisoned, the walkthroughs proved to be the only respite that they would get. Once the officials left, the men in the cells had little time to reflect upon the injustice before life returned to what they had come to know as normal.

No, the wind was right. There was no other way.

The broken-armored man snapped out of his reflection, relinquishing the thoughts of his horrid past few months, returning him to the terrors of the present.

Though necessary, the view was still appalling. He steeled himself as he made his way through the aftermath, forcing himself to touch the corpses as he searched them. The man was shocked at the butchery, only then realizing what he was capable of. He was a decorated duelist but those bouts were organized and the men fought with honor.

There was no honor to be found here.

The man in the heavy armor rolled over yet another body, revealing a torso spilling crimson innards. He averted his gaze with a sharp inhale before moving to his belt loop. Here he found the keys to the cells. He lifted them from the body and recoiled, stumbling backwards and falling on his backside. That jangling of the keys… He had put an end to the torture, there was no need for the reaction.

The man stepped determinedly through the carnage and passed into the dungeon. He remembered some doors remaining shut when the incursion began, the men too broken to act. He could understand that; he wouldn’t have acted himself without the motivation provided to him earlier that day. They had proven wise, as their brothers in chains had all been slain, save for the man in plate.

Those doors were found ajar. Curious, had the men escaped during the chaos of the battle? He said a prayer to the gods, hoping for their guidance to help the men to a safe escape.

Much to his dismay, he heard whimpering from the back of the hall. He started towards the sound, prepared to help, though he had no background in this area to draw from. His momentum increased in that direction, before halting completely. His eyes happened upon one of the now opened cells. It wasn’t empty.

He… he couldn’t focus on that, it was too late. The man forced himself to keep moving, seeing the same sights in the other cells he had hoped were empty. His steps were haggard, feeling encumbered by the armor. He trained his eyes forward, there was still someone that could be helped.

The whimpering grew louder as he approached the victim. The man discovered a figure huddled against the wall, with remarkably clean garments, other than the blood stains permeating from his side. The man called out to the figure, the only response continued whimpers. His patience had run thin, so he decided to flip the figure over himself.

Clean-shaven face, layered robes of vibrant colors, the city sigil emblazoned under the collar of his left side. This was no prisoner, this was a dungeon keeper.

The man froze at the startling sight. He had thought them all dead. This must have been a straggler, maybe off shift when he heard the sounds of struggle.

“P…please,” the jailor muttered between tears.

The man forced his visor down, not wanting to be recognized. He wasn’t sure what the man was pleading for. Help? To be ended? His outlook did not appear promising. So much blood…

A soft draft blew in through the door, steadying the man. The figure was not yet lost, recovery was possible, unlikely though it may be. Though the man did not recognize the figure, other brothers in chains would have surely recoiled at the sight of his face. This jailor deserved to share the same fate as the others. Yet, a thought gave him pause.

Aching with the weight of his armor, the man dropped to the cold floor. Justice had been served and a loud message would be sent, once word of this massacre reached the crown. The job was done, but what now?

What now?

He had triumphed here, but at what cost? The oppressors had rightfully been put down, but whose freedom had he earned? His grand effort to liberate those who had suffered at the hands of these monsters had borne fruit, though none other than he would taste its sweetness. Those brave enough to take up arms against their jailors had all fallen just the same, though they died brave while those they cut down died as cowards.

The man, now lounging against the wall, tightened the straps on his plate. He was proud of the men and their courage, but looking upon the corpses, his pride depleted. Their honor may have earned them a spot in the peaceful realm of the afterlife but, here in the world they had left behind, the only thing separating them from the wretched men they had battled were the clothes on their backs.

What had he really achieved? Had a message really been sent if there was no one left to tell of what had occurred?

The man was pulled from his musing by an audible shiver, the haggard figure before him catching a chill from the draft. What to do about the criminal…

The armor seemed to lighten on the man as he arrived at the next course of action. He knew how to proceed, how to ensure that the sacrifices made on this day did not remain as an escape for a singular, chained man.

Rising from the desecrated floor, the man finally delivered his response to the broken figure; “Come now, let’s get you patched up. You’ve got work to do for me.”

Yanking the hollow shell of the person cowering before him, they set off toward the entrance to the prison, toward freedom, and toward those who would soon feel the same.

Emerging from the dankness of the cells that had held himself and his brethren, the man was blinded by a preposterously bright light. After so long in bondage, the blessing of the sun had become foreign to him. He’d be happy to again become familiar with its warmth.

Before the man, feeling spry in his armor, could reintroduce himself, he was met with a far more familiar sight.

The thundering voice of the man at the forefront of the group of nearly 100 cut through his disorientation before his eyes could make out what stood before him.

“You rat bastard.”

And for a brief moment, his eyesight returned, with the first object his eyes found being the glinting tip of a crossbow bolt trained on his head.