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Pronunciations

Racqkiel: Rac-ki-el

To Racqkiel for without you, none of this would ever come to be.

And to Amy, special thanks for your help, my dear friend.

I am a mere bard. My way of life is to tell stories and to play my instrument to let you hear, see, feel. I weave my melodies and words to remind you of a beauty that once lay beyond these withered fingers.

Ah, look here.

An ancient bird perched on his arm raised a tattered wing and began to preen its feathers with a lost grace, its clear glass-like gray eyes shining with an astute charm. Then, like an old king, it nestled comfortably on its perch, watching and listening to the bard.

Can any of you see this gyrfalcon on my arm? It is no longer as magnificent as it was in its younger days. Its feathers are no longer sleek and beautiful but they are still white; as white and true as this story I wish to tell.

A tale of fools whose pride whispered to convince them that they possess the power to thwart consequences.

Here is a story of this noble falcon’s masters.

Come, the blood beats beckon.

Peel off the deceiving skin and taste the essence of blood.

Tharigan grinned maliciously. His greedy eyes saw none of the gruesome deaths surrounding him. All that mattered was his target has been weakened to the very last ounce of strength…

Amongst the torn bodies of his men with spilling mangled intestines and gouged out hearts and the broken necks and severed limbs strewn across the sodden earth, stood his prize. The assassin was a dying Grim Reaper in his eyes. This was a hell created by an unleashed demon. It seemed almost unnatural watching, listening and smelling the scene before him. The cold, damp atmosphere was brimming with the pungent metallic stench of blood and the earth -yes, the earth- had turned into the River of Souls, flowing in a slow, lazy motion, swirling under his feet and soaking everything it touched into a deep, dark crimson.

Whenever he saw the horror stricken faces of his fallen soldiers, Tharigan could vaguely hear their silent screams. The screams which they never had the chance to utter before death claimed them.

With a flash of silver, another one of his men fell. His limp body landed at Tharigan's feet with a sickening thud. He glared at his bloodied greaves and at the dead man's face that was contorted with terror. With a careless flick of his foot, he kicked the nuisance aside- it was obstructing his way.

His army of two thousand men had been steadily reduced to a few hundred by the dark lone figure standing a distance before him. His fury was not borne out of care for his men, but of the great damage to his gloried army. It did not matter much anymore for he would complete this mission no matter what the circumstance. The figure had been surrounded by his men ever since it revealed itself. That once powerful and swift assassin now stood weak within the circle of fearful men. He no longer leapt, charged or did anything remarkable like he did a few hours before. His strength had left him. All he could do to defend himself was to swing his blood-stained blade clumsily while he leant his fatigued body against his other sword in which he had planted into the filthy earth.

The gray clouds in the ink-black sky had drifted slowly away to reveal a glowing full moon. Its ghostly beams touched Tharigan's steel armor. Thairgan gazed into his newly formed mirror by the lent light and smiled insidiously. His enemy was near.

The assassin caught sight of him and was approaching. Tharigan swung his sword and braced himself anticipatively. From a distance, Tharigan made quite a picture: His eyes were a steely gray, the colour of dirty snow melted by fire and brimstone. His slender sword and mighty armour were the same steely gray. Under the steely moonlight, he looked like an apparition, an impeccable instrument of death.

"No one must kill him but me!" Tharigan shouted an order to his men.

Silence pervaded as his soldiers fell back, allowing their human circle around the assassin to widen slightly.

With only the moon as the source of light, Tharigan took time to observe his trapped quarry from the length of his shadow to his strangely charming appearance. His slender form seemed too elegant for a man, and he thought the oval and slightly sharp face didn't fit an assassin. All that was left of the famed and feared was a frail, defenseless man bent over his sword.

It could have been an epic picture of a hero had it not been for the fact that the assassin was waiting for his death. The dark shades of the marshes of scrawny dead trees could have been etched onto a canvas, whilst the pale waxen moon highlighted certain minute details. And amidst this magnificent canvas, he stood silent, a lonely silhouette embraced by the night.

Everyone had always been curious to see the assassin's face. Tharigan was no different. He wondered what was under the hooded blood red cloak and mask, why the assassin always wore maroon. Was, perhaps, to hide the blood stains that would prove too obvious? Perhaps not, for the darker smudges on the cloak revealed it all.

Now, as Tharigan approached the assassin, he could hear the ragged raspy breath that escaped his throat. He could see the cape drenched in what he knew was gore and sweat. He could see his exposed eyes. He had expected to see at least a hint of fear or panic but there was none. Not even a shadow of hate.

In those strangely clear wine-red eyes were remorse, and guilt?

Chuckling gleefully, Tharigan raised his longsword to strike, a mad gleam in his eyes. His heart was thudding furiously against his ribs, thrilled by the prospect of killing the 'Shade'.

One last time, the assassin raised his sword feebly in an attempt to defend.

However, it was knocked away easily away by Tharigan's blade. The assassin's sword fell onto the carpet of bodies of Tharigan's dead men with a muffled thud. He could hardly move a muscle in his sore and battered body, much less pick up his fallen sword.

He knew death was now before him. Although deep down he wished to live, it was a price he had to pay for another's life he treasured. He had done his best to defend. There would be no escape this time and he would accept it with dignity.

As his gaze swept across the faces of the frightened soldiers, a sudden feeling of longing clenched his heart. Knowing that it could not be fulfilled, the assassin heaved a tired sigh.

For the last time, he gazed at the silent sky passionately. He could only barely feel the weak current of the cool, soothing wind wrapped in endless movement around him, almost like a loving caress.

The sound of Tharigan's approaching greaves thumping against the blood encrusted earth signaled the impending doom.

High above the sky circled a snow-white gyrfalcon. Its mournful cry pierced through the soldiers' souls as they watched Tharigan aim his sword at the assassin's heart.

Finally, when the cold steel was thrust cruelly into his heart, the assassin looked at Tharigan in the eyes. There was a glimmer of laughter in those dark ruby orbs, and Tharigan thought those lush lashes were too long for a man’s.

Suddenly, Tharigan felt something pierce through his armor. His eyes widened with shock when he saw what was causing it. Fright ran like a river of ice down his spine.

The assassin's blood had snaked its way up Tharigan's blade and formed the tip of a red fiery sword, driving itself deeper into his flesh to seek out his frantically beating heart. The pain it caused was excruciating. Breathing was almost impossible.

Cringing from the searing pain, Tharigan pulled his sword out swiftly to end the assassin's life, stumbling foolishly as he did so. As quickly as it had come, the red sword tip reverted back to its original liquid form.

The assassin fell to his knees and crumbled to the ground in a lifeless heap. Dead.

What in Hell was that?

Tharigan tried desperately to hide his terror. Clutching his bleeding chest, he took in deep breaths to calm him his thumping heart. Cold sweat drenched his hair and back as his burning chest throbbed as a reminder.

Breathing was becoming difficult. That was an extremely close shave, one he would never want to experience ever again.

"Time to unmask the Shade," he breathed, still gasping as he reached cautiously for the assassin's crimson mask.

Editted! Enjoy!