Duty Means Sacrifice

Lord Algernon Redmoore undresses in the cold of his bedroom, handing his clothes to his valet. He slips into a loose, black cloak and descends through his family's ancestral castle, his home. The castle is quiet, the staff having been given a night off and sent off the castle grounds. Algernon walks through the kitchen and down a set of stairs into the old dungeons, the cells now nothing more than a cold store.

At the back of one cell, Algernon inserts a key in a gap between two stones and turns it. The stone wall grinds back and to the side, exposing another set of stairs. The dim flicker of burning torches on the wall guide him down the circling staircase into an ancient, stone chamber.

Thoughts of how the commoners view him always come to him when he stands here. He characterises it as a failing of his--this inability to truly separate himself from them.

Inheriting the title from his father, as well as the expansive lands, properties and wealth, Algernon stepped into the role with all the pomp and confidence possible for a man of his upbringing. Unlike many of his peers, he is loved by the communities on his lands. Fairs, fetes and festivals--he attends them all. At the Harvest Festival, paid for, staffed and catered by him, he crowned the Pumpkin King and cheered with the commoners as the king was paraded around the town. Yesterday, as he does one day every week, he visits one of his tenant farmers to ease their burdens and share a whiskey over a warm fire.

At every solstice he performs another duty for them. One to keep his people alive.

The dread cold of winter grips the stone chamber like a vice, yet Algernon stands barefooted and unbothered. Before him is a waist high stone slab. Upon it lies a naked, shivering sacrifice. The lucky soul chosen to save the rest.

If the sacrifice could scream, they would. Algernon had learnt that lesson early on from his father. "Always gag them. They accept it far quicker if they cannot scream, my boy." The iron gag always went in before they awoke on the stone.

They look up at him, wide, terrified eyes pleading for mercy. But he will not and cannot grant them it.

On a stone pedestal to his other side is a small knife, resting on a black, satin cloth. The knife's handle is ornate, lacquered wood with intricately carved runes corkscrewing from one end to the other. Similar runes are carved along the length of the slender blade. Algernon picks it up, finding its familiar weight comforting and reaffirming.

Finger by finger, he arranges his free hand in a half circle on the sacrifice's skin, just above their heart. They thrash, struggling against their bindings but it is useless. This ritual has been performed countless times and the bindings have been perfected. They barely move as shackles pin their wrists taut above their head, their ankles at the bottom end of the stone and a thicker shackle locked tight across their waist.

Algernon leans down, his face pressed close to theirs, looking straight into their eyes. "Thank you," he says and kisses them on the forehead.

He grips the blade in both hands. A guttural, chaotic chant starts to fall from his lips, singeing the air itself. His tongue burns and blackens with each new word. As the chant picks up pace, he slides the knife down between two ribs, gliding through skin and muscle. His hand is steady and his face set in stone as he carves his grim path.

The sacrifice continues to thrash, to cry, to attempt to scream even as the final cut is made. Algernon places the blade back on the cloth. Forcing his hands into the blood-soaked hole of the sacrifice's chest, he grips the heart and pulls. Blood splatters as the last bits of sinew snap free. The heart beats frantically in his grip. Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.

His chant ascends to its loudest, bouncing off the walls in a maddening frenzy. The beads of blood that were dripping from the still beating heart become rivers that defy gravity, flowing through the air into the corners of the chamber. On rows and rows of stone shelving, hundreds of old hearts now beat once again as fresh blood fills and enriches them.

The stone slab rumbles as it slowly sinks into the ground, the wretch upon it still staring at their own heart. They no longer thrash. They look at him, resigned to their death. Algernon watches them go, his face impassive. It is important to him to watch them go. It is his final gift to them, so they know someone has marked their passing. Another weakness of his.

Algernon holds the heart aloft as his chant reaches its cacophonous culmination with a crack that splits the air. The rivers of blood run dry.

Finding an empty space on the lower shelves, he places the heart down with great care and reverence. Another row filled. The beating hearts slow, calming to a rhythmic beat. Thump, thump, thump.

Algernon picks up the black cloth and wipes the blade clean with a practiced hand, careful to draw the blood to the point of the blade. Replacing the knife on the pedestal, he climbs back up the stairs. The staircase feels longer, his steps heavier, weighed with the burden of what he has done once again.

Algernon takes a moment to stand in the cell, to pause and take a breath. With a twist of the key, the wall slides back into place, sealing the chamber and his burdens away. He pockets the key and walks through his silent home, walking through the same rooms as his ancestors.

His valet has lit the fire in his room and the warmth is a welcoming embrace on his bare skin. It reminds him of the farmer he met with yesterday and the hospitality she showed him. His mind drifts to the upcoming celebrations in the community, and that warms him even more.

Another duty completed. His duty, his family's legacy. And duty requires sacrifice.