Small, Beautiful Events

The hero is supposed to spare the villain.

That is how their story goes. Compassion to austerity, kindness to ferocity, mercy to cruelty.

They have their roles, they play their parts; the hero remembers how it ought to be.

Reunions of murder and manipulation, endangered friends and needless death, and they walk away licking their wounds, awaiting the next.

Intricate plans and reckless heroism, a war of wills and wit and wrath, selflessness against sadism, and they battle until one has given up or saved the other.

Swords flashing and tongues lashing, and it is not blood but passion that stains the memories red.

Agony dealt, vengeance gained, freedom bound; a play of loathing and kinship used to torture the spirit and stay the hand.

A saviour and a slayer, creation and destruction beautifully rendered, lives taken for gain and saved for nothing, and neither understands.

The warmth of hearts and the chill of hearts, beating in dissonance forevermore.

Yet now the villain burns, and the hero feels cold.

What is he now?

He considers himself a good king. Fair enough, but firm in his decisions; willing to shed blood but not enthusiastic to do so. And here comes a young, foolish man challenging his methods, his principles, his character - and he is rising to the bait, justifying himself to a common prisoner.

"You don't understand. You've never had to make hard choices, look into an old friend's eyes and know you had to kill him."

"Do you think so."

Even chained the man remains infuriatingly dignified, and, for the first time, he looks dangerous. The youth slipped from his features like a mask, innocence and idealism drawing back to lurk within the shadows of his eyes.

His voice is soft, and sad, and chilling.

"Yes." There is a game being played here, some subtle bid for freedom. The king wonders idly how often the man has been caged.

"I see." He turns his steady gaze on unfortunate steel, and the ancient metal seems almost to shrink from it.

"I suppose you would like to prove me wrong?" The king knows he should turn away, leave the frustrating stranger to his interrogators.

The man smiles thinly as he looks back. There is some humour in it, twisted beyond the point of laughter. It should look out of place on his soft features, and doesn't.

"Not particularly. Would you like me to?"

"Could you?" the king challenges, stepping closer. He's used to making captives flinch; he is past expecting this one to.

"Of course."

"Then I command you to do so."

Amusement gleams in the man's eyes, though his words are sombre, clear of derision - perhaps the closest he would ever come to sounding deferential.

"Place your hands on my temples. Your Majesty." The king stares at him dubiously for a moment, but acquiesces.

Calloused fingers brush cool, damp skin, and his gaze is held in an inexorable grip.

"Your mind, actually," the man says softly, and the world fades away.

He won't be able to describe the sensation later, except in vague, poetic terms - his spirit pressing into another's; his body falling away like

The senses are faint, as they often become with memory; emotion is master here, painting the walls red, turning the air sharp, filling his chest with the scent of fire.

He doesn't know what he's doing, but he knows that it is simple, and clever, and will end a long life.

Time flashes. All the room becomes a blur but for one figure. He is disappointment hatred grief betrayal remorse fury regret, screaming, always screaming inside.

He watches. The man who is friend enemy lover killer brother foil burns until there is nothing left and he is silent through it all.

Would you have no mercy?

When the king is himself once more his eyes burn with the clarity of vision, his head is raw and barren, his breath heaves through glass soaked with stolen blood. His hands are trembling.

The man is watching him, that same tremor echoed in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

Soon after, he is banished from the kingdom.