Carlisle sat underneath the shade of the large ash tree outside of the church where his father was currently preaching hellfire and brimstone. Sharpening the blade of his longsword with a whetstone, the sky overhead as grey as the blade. More and more lately he had come to hate hearing his father's sermons, and sharpening his blade calmed him.
He loved his father dearly, he loved and feared God dearly. But lately he felt less a knight of his order, and more a butcher. His father on the other hand delighted in taking Carlisle into the basement of the church, where the torturers worked. At the estate he would take his son into the room that contained a cross and a sword that his father claimed had been blessed by King Baldwin IV himself.
Carlisle's Great-Great-Great-Great-Great grandfather had served in the second Crusade. The blood of a great many heretics stained the blade that his family now held sacred. Carlisle had never understood his father's idolizing of those long dead men. So what if they believed differently, their Allah and Carlisle's Jesus had the same message, love thy neighbor.
Carlisle sighed and sheathed his sword, the handle of which had been shaped into a cross. He stood and moved his hair out of his eyes, though in the last 6 months eye would have been more appropriate, as the left eye had been gouged out.
His heavy boots left muddy tracks in the soft grounds of the grim church, it's architecture grand yet cold. The angel stonework placed here and there around the vast building seemed to echo Carlisle's sentiment that they were little more than butchers, the angels carried blades.
Carlisle had been on more than a few of his father's hunts, sniffing out heretics through England. Since he had come squirming into the world prematurely, his father having made the decision that the life of his heir was infinitely more important than the life of the mother that bore him, he had been groomed to take over. To lead the knights of the church.
The first time he had held anything sword-like had been after he had turned six, when his father placed a stick into his hand. He was inducted into the order and immediately set about beginning his training. The knight who trained him sung his praises, he had never seen a more naturally talented swordsman he claimed, it must have been proof that his father's blood flowed through his veins.
Carlisle used to live for the praise, used to live to see his father's normally stern face smiling in approval. Acknowledging him as his son. At present Carlisle was shaking his head at how he could have ever been so naive. He was no more his son than his father's bible was his son. He was yet another tool to spread horror and the "love" of christ.
Carlisle walked into the church, past the rows of people praising God, begging forgiveness, proclaiming their love of christ. It made Carlisle sick to see it, these same people who claimed to be full of love were the very same people who would spit on the heretics as the knights led them through the street. Spitting words, curses, hurling garbage and bodily waste. Cheering as the heretics were placed into the rack, as they were hung, as they were tortured.
He ascended the stairs to his father's study, thinking now on his first hunt. How nervous he had been, how heavy the plate he was wearing had felt. The hot splash of blood across his visor when he killed his first man. The cut had been been deep, mortal, but the man had not died instantly and Carlisle had made an amateur's mistake of lifting his visor to try and staunch the blood pouring over his hands.
The heretic was praying, calling out to his God to save him. To do something, anything, and fifteen year old Carlisle had been horrified. His panic and fear so complete he wet his trousers. The man died there, his wound slowly pumping blood to the tune of his dying heart. And Carlisle knelt there, his hands on the gaping wound as the other knights killed the rest.
That was the first and last time he had shown humanity on the cleansings. Since then he had made himself "go away" inside. He never opened his visor, never showed humanity, never showed empathy. But with every person he slew he felt as if a piece of himself was dying with them.
He knocked on the thick oak door that led into his father's study.
"Who is it?" Said a gruff voice from beyond the door.
"The leader of the knights." Carlisle said.
"Come in." The gruff voice said.
Carlisle opened the door, his father was standing there in his black cassock, his back to the door. And as he felt more and more lately the image was somehow obscene, what use has a butcher for a cassock?
"May I speak to you father?" Carlisle asked.
His father turned to him, his heavy black hair cut short, his thin nose and slanted eyes. His father's visage scared Carlisle sometimes. As if more and more he believed he was less a servant of God and more an agent of God. Doing His will on Earth, regardless of such petty things as human morality. Or God forbid human decency.
"You are speaking to me Carlisle." His father said, his voice a rolling timbre, as if his voice box were full of thunder.
"Not as a knight, but as your son." Carlisle said.
"This must be a serious matter then." His father said, seating himself behind the wide mahogany desk, crafted and colored after the pattern of Europe.
"It is." Carlisle said, seating himself opposite.
"Then we shall speak as a father and son do. What have you to discuss with me?"
"I wish to leave the knight's father." Carlisle said.
"What foolishness is this?" His father asked, one thin black eyebrow raised.
"It is not foolishness, it is a decision that I have turned over in my mind many times. I no longer wish to be a knight of the church." Carlisle said.
"Knighthood is all you know, the church is all you know. I have not groomed you to be my successor for these 29 years for you to simply decide to remove yourself." His father said.
"Father… when you drink wine… drink water… eat food... what does it taste like to you?" Carlisle asked.
"What nonsense is this?" His father responded.
"Answer the question father." Carlisle said.
"Fine. Wine tastes like wine. Water tastes of water. And food tastes like food." His father said.
"That is not the case for me any longer father. Wine tastes like blood, water tastes of mud and food feels as if it turns to ash in my mouth. I am haunted in my sleep by nightmares, assailed in my waking life by screams, and can scarcely grasp another's hand for fear I will shake. The only time my hand is still is when it is gripping a sword." Carlisle said, standing and putting his hands on the table.
"And?" His father said, his blue eyes blazing.
"And?! Father I cannot live like this! I cannot keep clothing myself in the vestments of the church while I perpetrate atrocity after atrocity!" Carlisle shouted.
His father stood from the desk, his anger rising "We do the work of God! You have been doing the work of God! Since before you were born the men of this family have done the work of God!"
"We are servants father! Not agents! We cannot continue punishing people for something so simple as believing differently than we do! A loving God would not endorse the evil we commit!" Carlisle shouted.
"What will you do? What is there for you beside what you have here! This is yours, all of this! It is for you! The "atrocities" I have committed have all been for your sake!"
"DO NOT LAY THE BURDEN OF YOUR EVIL ON ME! I asked for none of this! I was 6 when you first placed a weapon in my hand! I did not know what that would lead to! If this was for me you misled me father, and you misled yourself, for I want none of it!" Carlisle shouted.
"What will you do then! Answer me that!"
"I wish to be a physician! I wish to help people in a way that I know is pure, that I know has no ulterior motive! A way that I decide for myself!"
"A physician?!" His father repeated, his anger giving way to laughter "Will you open an apothecary? You, who claims to only taste blood?"
"Whatever I choose to do it will not be tainted by blood." Carlisle said.
His father's eyes went blank, as if shutters had been pulled behind them. The blazing blue washed out and he turned his back to Carlisle again "Fine. If this is what you wish then so be it."
"Father... " Carlisle said, his anger fading.
"No, you shall have your wish. I have one more task for you, and then you will no longer be a knight. Nor will you be my son." Father Cullen said.
Carlisle shifted uncomfortably, and then stood up straighter. "If that is what it will be than that is what it will be. What would you have me do my Lord."
"You shall lead a retinue of knights to Nottingham, there have been whispers of disappearances of our clergymen in that area. You will investigate, and if it is the work of heretics you will dispatch them." Father Cullen said.
Carlisle bowed "By your will my Lord."
Carlisle turned and left the tower, his hand not even hesitating as he opened the heavy door.
The ride to Nottingham was uneventful as such rides usually were, his knights had insisted that their Lord-Commander wear his white plate for their last outing. They had heard whispers from the peasants, from the barkeeps, from the nun's. All of them pointed them to a desecrated church, which had gotten a reputation as a diseased place. A place of evil.
Carlisle dismounted his horse, the setting sun shining off of his armor. He walked to the entrance of the church, his knights following.
"Parsons, Willingham, inspect the western wing. Oglivy, Mattington you inspect the eastern wing. I will inspect the top floor." Carlisle said.
"And if we find anything ser?" Parson's asked.
"If it is a heretic do not kill them until I arrive to question him, if you are attacked defend yourself to the best of your ability. Do not put your lives in danger, unsheathe your swords but exercise caution. This is not your first cleansing, I do not expect the work of frightened children but experienced knights." Carlisle said.
"Yes ser." Parson's said, nodding his head and leading Willingham to the western wing of the church. The other two walked to the east.
Carlisle entered through the front door, he could smell the rot of the building. It did indeed feel as if it were an evil place. Gargantuan spider webs everywhere, rotting masonry and wood. And beneath that the stench of evil, Carlisle had never smelled this stench on his many hunts. This was a different smell.
He walked to the pulpit, behind which was drawn an obscene parody of the Creation Of Adam. Carlisle held his hand to his mouth, and turned from the image. His helmet was stifling, it felt as if his head were boiling inside of it. He took it off and placed it underneath his armpit, enjoying the cool air that flowed past his sweaty face and through his sweaty hair.
The first scream pierced the dead silence, followed by the screeching of plate mail being rent. The screech was alien for two reasons, the first was perhaps the most important, it was coming from above him. The second reason was that it took Carlisle perhaps a half second to place the screamer's voice, it belonged to Oglivy.
He ran as quickly as he could, which was quite quick indeed considering the weight of his plate to the stairs leading to the second level of the church. He drew his sword as he ran, dropping his helmet. When he arrived the man in the cloak was crouched over one of his knights, Willingham was in the corner, his throat opened.
The world went red and Carlisle charged, swinging his blade with all of the strength he could muster. The cloaked man raised a hand and the blade gouged deep into his palm and stopped. He turned, and his shining yellow eyes seemed to pierce and mark Carlisle forever. His skin was a rich brown, his long black hair was dirty, straggling. Underneath the cloak he was nude, a rich thatch of shining black pubic hair, legs rich with muscle, bare feet. And then Carlisle was thrown bodily across the room, knocking to pieces an old bench.
Carlisle rolled, his armor digging deep into the wooden floor of the church. He got quickly to his feet as the man walked slowly toward him, taking his time, savouring his fear and confusion.
"More food." the man said in the accent of the heretics.
Carlisle said nothing, he merely charged again. The man moved smoothly, dodging Carlisle's first strike. Carlisle parried the man's swinging hand and took another swing, the man caught the blade between two fingers and pulled Carlisle close. His breath was foul, a mixture of blood and though Carlisle wouldn't have known it then, battery acid.
"Sent to clean heretics have we? I was hoping they would send the other." the man said, punching Carlisle in the stomach and sending him flying again, a massive dent in the white plate.
Carlisle hit the ground hard on his back, cracking the floorboards. He rolled over onto his side and spat out a large glob of blood, he forced himself to his feet, his breathing heavy. Leaning on his sword.
The heretic was staring at him, gauging him "You… you… oh Allah is good, I regret my loss of faith. He always rewards his servants."
Carlisle shook his head, attempting desperately to clear it. He reached up and unclipped his plate, it fell to the floor, revealing the light chainmail underneath. He removed his gauntlets, removed his heavy plate leggings.
The man watched "My name is al-Qadi. Years and years ago an ancestor of yours raped my wife, burned my children, tried to burn me. But I survived, and I have never forgotten his face, and I have never forgotten his smell."
Carlisle had taken off his greaves, he stood up and spat again, his breathing still heavy. He raised his sword "Whatever grievance you have with any relation of mine I bear it gladly, but I will not forgive you for the murders you have committed."
Carlisle charged again, and al-Qadi was surprised by his speed. He was fast for a human. Carlisle swung his sword, al-Qadi dodged and struck out, Carlisle moved and swung again, dragging the blade across al-Qadi's face and splattering hot blood onto the ground. al-Qadi struck out and Carlisle moved again and drove the sword through his back.
al-Qadi gripped the blade of the sword "This pain… this pain is nice. I had forgotten physical pain. But it pales in comparison to the pain I have been feeling for 500 years." and still gripping the blade al-Qadi yanked it from Carlisle's hands, pulling it through himself. Carlisle's hands dropped limply at his sides, al-Qadi turned and handed Carlisle the blade. "Slay the heretic, Cullen."
Carlisle lifted the blade and with a shout brought it down with all of his strength, for all of his effort he may as well have swung at a mirage. al-Qadi sidestepped the blow and punched Carlisle in his side, shattering him and sending him across the room again. Carlisle landed hard with a sickening crunch as his arm broke, the sword flying from his hand. He screamed out and then stifled it, he was still a knight, and it was unbecoming for a knight to show distress. He rolled onto his back and sat up, every breath agony from his shattered ribs, his face drenched in sweat.
al-Qadi had picked up his sword, he walked toward Carlisle "For all of these years I have been seeking. Seeking his kin. And to have found one. It must truly be providence, truly the will of Allah."
"Kill me then. Have your vengeance." Carlisle said.
"That… would be too easy. You hunt monsters do you. You hunt "heretics". You fight for "God." al-Qadi said. "My revenge… my revenge shall be much more just than simple murder." and he leaned in and bit Carlisle, injecting his venom into him.
Carlisle screamed as the venom laid him flat, coursing through his veins like fire. al-Qadi stood, paying the screaming Carlisle no more mind, and placed the tip of the sword against his throat,and use the heel of his hand to push the sword through his neck, decapitating himself.
Carlisle lay there, screaming, his body filled with fire. He was discovered much later, flailing on the ground by a second retinue of knights sent to discover what had happened and why he had not returned. When he finally clawed his way out of the fire he was laying on a cot in his father's estate, a chambermaid pouring water into a tin cup. Carlisle sat up, registering everything in instant. He could smell her blood, smell the sap of the wood in the floor, his vision was unimpaired, the agony of his wounds.
Carlisle stared at his open palms, he had been hurt quite badly, there was no denying that. So why did he feel so well, why did he feel as if the pain were just a dream. And perhaps most frighteningly of all the stillness in his chest.
"Excuse me." Carlisle said quietly to the chambermaid.
The woman jumped a mile from where she was standing, spilling the jug of water in her hands. "Lord Carlisle! You're awake!"
"Yes… yes I am. Where… where exactly am I?" Carlisle asked, still gazing at his hands.
"Why you are in your estate my lord, you were injured most grievously!" The chambermaid said, picking up the jug.
Her scent, the scent of her blood thrumming through her veins. The red flush underneath her skin as she took in his form, his figure. All imperfections wiped away, his wounded eye healed, his numerous battle wounds gone. His golden blonde hair glowing in the weak light of the candles. He turned and placed his feet on the ground, gripping his chest.
"My lord?" The chambermaid asked, taking a step toward him.
"Stay away! Stay back! My father, my father and the physician! Get them, please!" Carlisle shouted, his hand tightening on his chest, his fingers punching through the skin bringing sluggish maroon blood to the surface.
The nurse flew from the room, as Carlisle began to frantically claw and tear at his chest, the wounds his gouging fingers made seeming to heal even as he tore new wounds. But as his panic and fear increased so did the certainty that his heart should be beating in kind, it should increase its tempo but it did not. It did not.
His father entered the room, followed behind him by the physician who was clutching a cross close to himself. There was a retinue of knights behind them, armed to the teeth, some of them he recognized as his own.
"Father! Father help me! Help, my heart isn't beating! My heart isn't beating! Something is wrong!" Carlisle shouted, showing his father his bloody hands.
"Yes. Something is very wrong Carlisle." His father said, his eyes cold.
"Doctor! Doctor what is wrong with me! What is the problem!" Carlisle shouted.
The doctor looked at Father Cullen, and then back at the retinue of knights. He took two nervous steps toward Carlisle, clutching the cross tightly. "M- my lord… you were wounded most grievously… found unconscious next to a pile of ashes… though you screamed ceaselessly. We- we brought you to the estate, and we attempted to soothe you. To bind your wounds... your heart stopped beating. We feared you dead… or- or worse…"
"The knights you were sent with are dead, one of them will not see the sun again. And you have been infected with heresy. You have become a monster." Father Cullen said, his hand on the hilt of the sword brought back from the crusade.
"Father, father please! I am still me! I am still Carlisle! I… I can fix this! I can fix this!" Carlisle shouted.
"I do not have a son, I do not have an heir. Knights, do your duty. Kill the heretic." Father Cullen said, stepping back as the knights filed into the room.
Carlisle's combat instinct triggered immediately as the first of the knights drew his sword and swung. Carlisle caught the blade and snatched it from the knight's hand, he pushed him away and rolled off the bed as the other knights surged forward, weapons drawn. Carlisle kicked the mattress toward them and sprinted to the window. He leapt onto it and turned "Father, father please."
"Kill the heretic!" His father shouted.
The crossbow bolt that pierced his side burned, but it did not hinder him, and he leapt from the window, his cotton pants flapping. He landed on the grounds of the estate and broke into a run, stumbling as he attempted to gain control of his body. Clutching his healing side, pushing past the crowd that had gathered. He ran from everything he knew.
The rain poured ceaselessly from a gray sky as Carlisle walked through the streets, bumping into strangers. His eyes wide and staring, his pants spattered with muck. His hair matted to his skull. He tripped and stumbled, falling into a ditch. The events of the last few days playing over and over again in his head. His still heart making him want to cry out, wanting to do anything. The smells of the people around him undiluted by the rain, the smell of their blood tormenting him. The pain in his throat, in his stomach, in his veins demanding something. Demanding sustenance.
He would have lay in the ditch forever, his unvocalized prayer that he would erode his new form. Would take him to pieces. He forced himself to his knees, the water running down his face. And then he forced himself to his feet, his mother died for this. For this monster. For this undying affront to god himself. His father was no concern, he had no father. No mother. No knights. And now he had lost God.
Carlisle stumbled through the dreary streets of London, lost, afraid and alone. Removed from God's light.