Rafael: Deaths and Dirges

Why am I here?

The thought came, unwanted and unbidden as Rafael’s sword tore through the flesh of the second bandit that came at her. He fell to the ground screaming but was immediately replaced by another of his band. How tiresome. They were like rabbits. Or rats. She sighed and shoved her dagger into the gut of a third, not making any real conscious effort to do so; not much effort was required.

Oh, the tedium. Why was she here? What was the point of her being here, spending every waking moment—and even some when she wasn’t awake—being attacked by thieves, bounty hunters, assassins, and every other form of filth imaginable, all of them smelling uncannily like fish. Or shit.

She sighed and sidestepped as another bandit lunged at her. He stumbled past, giving her the opportunity to thrust her dagger into the small of his back. She took it.

This was so pointless; why didn’t she just leave this place. She could go somewhere else. Somewhere far away where there were no wanted posters and no bounties.

She spun around, her dagger cutting into the four bandits who’d tried to box her in. There’s no way I could’ve saved the others, she thought. She’d almost been killed trying to get out and Ria had been. She’d definitely join her friend if she tried to get back in. A suicide mission would help no one. Surely, the others would understand that. They’d want her to live freely, wouldn’t they? Wouldn’t they? The faces of those she’d left behind swam in her mind, many of them belonging to Henai younger than herself.

“No,” she thought, pulling out a full length blade, finally meeting a bandit with more than elementary skills. “They’re not Henai.” Henai were a proud indomitable people. The ones she left had been broken at a young age. Too young an age. The Henai spirit had been killed in them. They were enslaved, the Henai power enslaved. They were not dead though. They were loving and compassionate and Raphael had no doubts that they would want her to get away from here and start anew if It were impossible for them to do the same. But she wouldn’t.

“Ugh,” she grunted; the slightly skilled bandit had actually managed to scratch her. She could feel blood oozing out of a small cut on her arm. Hmph, she thought, I must be out of it, letting a small internal conflict distract me so much that a mediocre harlequin like this could graze me. Pathetic.

She swung her blade at the bandit, knocking his from his hand. Before she could swing again, however, another of the band grabbed her by the neck from behind and held a dirk before her eyes, attempting to be menacing but really only showing how little the blade had been used. Still, he’d snuck up on her. I must be really out of it, she thought. Outnumbered or no, I’m getting sloppy.

He murmured something in her ear, but Raphael’s attention was on the one who’d cut her, the leader, she guessed, who was walking toward her. The moon was full but she’d been walking in the woods, steering clear of the road so trees blocked out most of the light. Just the same, she didn’t need light to know his face was smug to an almost sickening extent. Not for long, though. She just needed him a little closer. Heh, she thought. He’s probably stupid enough to walk right into range. Peons like him were seldom the sharpest knives in the box.

“Drop your sword.” Damn. He had some intelligence after all. Not a lot, but enough to be an inconvenience. That was unfortunate. Just the same, she wasn’t worried. If she learned anything from time as Lord Dorian’s test pet, it was how not to get killed. She was one of the only twelve-year-olds to learn the lesson quickly enough without being broken and without giving up control, even if her tormenters thought she had. Even now, five years after she’d been forced to learn this lesson, she hadn’t forgotten it. She probably never would. She’d never be able to forget those still at the manor, either, no matter how far she ran, no matter peaceful it is there. I can’t leave without them, she though, but I’d never be able to save them either.

Thus, she was at an impasse. She didn’t want to stay, she didn’t want to go, she was stagnant in this wretched purgatory, spending her time being attacked by every god-forsaken wretch under the sun. Which brought her back to—

“I said ‘Drop your sword.’” She snorted. He was trying to be threatening. How cute.

“I don’t think so.”

“Wrong answer,” he said, screwing up his face, trying for the typical malevolent leer, but succeeding only in looking like he was in great need of a bush and some private time. He glanced at the one holding her who, in response, held the blade closer to her face and almost touching his arm. Yes; that’d do. She shrugged slightly and dropped the sword.

The leader approached her, looking insanely pleased with himself. “My, my, my,” he said. “Look at the mess you’ve made. Surely there must now be some form of compensation. Where, oh where, are you keeping your purse?” She spat at him as he reached towards a fold in her shirt. He smiled. “Feisty, aren’tcha?”

Rafe frowned. “Disgusting, aren’tcha?”

“Why you—” He stopped suddenly to scrutinize her face. “Hey,” he said to his comrade, smiling bigger than before. “This is her. The girl on the bounty post—” Rafe didn’t let him finish the sentence. She grabbed her captor’s hand—the one holding dirk—and with her other hand grabbed the blade. She pulled down, driving the weapon into his arm and using it to anchor herself as she brought her feet up, kicking the leader in the throat.

Both men cried out in pain and the one who’d held her let go. Her palm was burning and she could feel the blood seeping out of the gash, coating her hand. She ignored it, though, and simply picked up her sword with her other hand, promptly thrusting it through the chest of the leader. Realizing she was extremely vulnerable with her sword lodged in a dead man’s chest and her back to an enemy, she whirled the body around, her sword still in it, until she was facing the last member of the band and only then yanked out her sword. She pushed the body toward the man who squeaked—squeaked!—and stumbled away only to trip over a root and fall on his backside. Rafe laughed quietly; this must’ve been his first night raiding. She felt a pang of regret: it was going to be his last.

All of sudden, it dawned on her what he’d whispered: “Help me.”

Help him what? she thought. “Kill me? That’s going to happen.

She began walking towards him, sword first. When he looked up however, she froze. Despite the dark, she could tell he was young, maybe a little older than herself. His skin, like hers and almost all other Henai, was a bronze color and his hair curly and dark, almost black. He’d dropped the dirk in favor of trying to stopper his bleeding arm, but was looking at her with eyes she imagined to be Henai hazel or Henai light green, managing to look scared, defiant, angry, relieved, defiant, cocky, sad, and abashed all at the same time. His features were graceful and sculpted, almost feminine but not quite. The odd thing was he looked just like—

“Korin?” she whispered. The boy opened and closed his mouth, looking surprised and confused, and probably trying to figure out what to say in order to not be skewered. He was breathing rapidly and Rafe easily heard him gulp. She shook herself; this was not Korin. Korin was dead and nothing could change that. Still, the resemblance was striking. She sighed and lowered her sword knowing that with a face like that, she’d never be able to kill him. “Go.”

He looked at her startled, and then shot a glance at her sword. “What?” His voice was like honey despite its tremble and sorrowful resonance. He wasn’t too bright though.

Rafe sighed in exasperation. “Just stand up, turn around, and walk away. Simple. Anyone can do it.” He glanced suspiciously at her sword again. “I’m not going to kill you,” she snapped. “Now just go before I change my mind. And leave the dirk.”

He stood and after a moment’s hesitation said, “Thank you.” Raphael watched as he took off into the trees, looking back to make sure she wasn’t running after him ore aiming a knife at the small of his back. As he retreated, she noticed something she hadn’t before. On the back of his neck was a band insignia. The brands were different for ever group but as far as she knew, the magistrate hadn’t associated them with crime or just didn’t care. All the same, band members generally didn’t have it in such an obvious place. She then noticed five linked circles beneath the main symbol. She’d seen enough of these guys in Dorian’s dungeon to know what that meant: he’d been forced into that band’s service; it hadn’t been his choice. That’s what he’d wanted her to save him from. He tripped as he ran and she decided he wasn’t much of a fighter which meant that if this band were even somewhat watchful, he wouldn’t have been able to escape.

When she could no longer see, hear, or sense him, she leaned against a tree, unable to get his face out of her mind. Korin’s face. Dead, she thought. They’re all dead. Get it through your head, Rafe. Their gone and you’re alone. She sighed. “Or am I dead, too? After all, what is being alone, but being dead to the world.”