There are places in our universe that are thinner, somehow less sure of themselves, less secure than the others. Burning holes into the world like so many cigarette marks on life's blanket, they undermine existence itself… These thin patches in our reality can be anything, from a place to an idea… to a person.
Walking through the streets like a bubble against the wake of a storm. He wore a broad-rimmed hat, a long, open trench coat over knee-high boots; relics of another time. The city's weatherworn gargoyles looked impassively down at him from the dark skyscrapers above. Unconsciously, people edge away from his path, lending him space without a thought; the youngest stared, maybe a little. Silent, he strolled tiredly through the herds with a distant gait, tipping his hat as he passed by. The strangest thing was that he was more real, somehow more there, than anybody else… as if, for him, reality was focused, leaving everything else slightly blurred, unimportant. A few turned their heads as he passed, most tried hard not to look; pulling their faces behind hats and collars, and hurrying by. And, as dusk crept slowly over the cityscape, clocks began to strike the hour and the stranger rushed his pace; an appointment must be kept.
His name was Simon Descartes, they called him 'the Everman'; and he was afraid. This time? A more careful observer might notice the long shape that stuck out against the inside of his trench coat every other step, the nervous way his left hand slid within the coat's depth to find comfort in cold steel. Under his hat, his face was long and angular, his skin deeply travel tanned but pitted. His eyes; sunken deep on either sides of a sharp, hawkish nose, glared wildly out at the world, like some feral beast, caught. He chewed constantly at his lower lip, his thin mouth contorted into a bizarre grimace. Once arguably handsome, a long scar ran from his forehead across his right eye and cheek to meet his the corner of his mouth; giving him a strangely jolted expression, like a puzzle left unmade… but he was real.
As the cathedral's looming shade grew near, his pace quickened still and he reached by his side to pull a pair of long black gloves from his belt. His scar glowing white with tension, he pulled the soft leather tightly onto his long-fingered hands; flexing his fingers as he went to be sure they fitted well. Nearing the cathedral's awesome portal, he slowed and stopped, as if in doubt; fear creeping slowly at the edges of his soul… Simon had never claimed to be fearless; he simply paid it little attention. What a stupid time to be afraid. His brow furrowed in a jagged frown, he drew nearer to the gate and pressed his right hand firmly against it, bracing himself. Never truly strong, he had a talent for channelling his energy; using adrenaline to fuel otherwise modest muscles with power. The gate's wood was cold, even through his gloves, and he shivered despite himself. "Let the games begin…" he muttered under his breath, pushing hard against the wood before stepping back to watch the portal swing open. Inside, candles had been lit all the way down the aisle and a man kneeled before the altar; tiny in the distance. Barely suppressing a growl, the Everman rested his left hand on the pommel of his bride and stepped quietly into the darkened building.
"Reverend?" he snarled, tightening his grip. "Reverend? The hour has sounded, the time is now; face me." His voice sounded exasperatingly feeble in the emptiness, the Reverend made no move to reply; he seemed lost in prayer. Outside, it began to rain…
Simon, his broken gait suddenly graceful and lithe, left his sword in its sheath and stepped silently down the aisle, the candles throwing dancing shadows on the cathedral walls; the glistening stained glass of the windows. This is wrong. Muscles at the back of his neck stiffened briefly, there was something implicitly wrong about the Reverend's position; it lacked his grace, his usual pride. This is not the man. Running silently down the aisle, he reached the kneeling man and grabbed a fistful of hair, pulling the man's head back to look into his eyes. The eyes were dead, frozen in surprise or horror, a trickle of blood oozing gently between the neonate's lips to mingle with the life oozing out of a gash in his neck… Tricked, where is he?
"Surprised?" Simon stiffened, his hand reaching into the coat once more for reassurance. Turning about, he saw the Reverend looking back, a long double-edged blade in his hand. The aged man was smiling, dressed in full regalia with a long white robe and gold; moving forward.
"A little." He conceded, backing up past the corpse until he felt the cold marble of the altar against his back. Do not underestimate him. Moving his left hand deliberately away from his sword, he shifted his right imperceptibly behind his back, grasping a long handled knife there; fitted snugly against his spine. "I expected someone older." He rasped, trying to ignore the trickle of sweat tickling down his back.
"Life is full of surprises." The monk answered with a smile. Then, still smiling happily, he brought his blade back and forward again at Simon's neck. This is it. His nerves wailing, Simon brought the knife up in time to parry the blow. The dagger was small and double edged, graced with an unusually long handle and a double hilt guard, designed to snap the blade it caught. Avoiding another sweeping blow from the other's sword, Simon crouched slightly and pushed hard against the floor, propelling himself into the air and over the altar, where he landed with a resounding crack. There, he dropped the knife and pulled his sword from its sheath, rolling the hilt into his hands with a sigh of relief. The warm leather felt right against his hand and he smiled slightly as he looked up. The Reverend was gone; maybe he had run out the door, a flicker of the candles hinted otherwise though. Every sense screaming at him, he twisted around and dropped to his knees, pushing the blade up and ahead into the darkness and missing the monk's plummeting shape by a few inches. He rolled to the side and kicked himself to his feet, falling into a crouch before he realised that the man had gone again… Squinting, he could see the white robe racing through the darkness, past the candles and into darkness again. Where is he? He pushed himself close to the altar and fought to ignore the rising sense of tension in mind; concentrating on the cold of the marble through his clothes and the sounds in the cathedral; the sounds of fabric on fabric as the Reverend flitted from pillar to pillar, playing. The sound had stopped. He's gone. Feeling almost foolish, Simon was about to stand when the voice stopped him…
"I wouldn't do that if I were you." The Reverend was there, a long crossbow held firmly in his hands and the slim blade hanging at his side; he was no longer smiling. "Move, and I'll pin you to the altar." He enounced the words deliberately, leaving no doubt at to his meaning, "…it won't kill, but it'll hurt." He continued with a grin. Simon swallowed hard and wondered what dying felt like. You won't die, you idiot; you'll just be part of him forever. Still grinning, the abbot stepped forward, kicking the altar's fallen adornments out of his path as he went. With a breath, Simon saw the knife, spinning lightly across the pavements to come to rest at his knee.
"Why do we do this?" He fought to keep the tension out of his voice.
"What?!" The Reverend's callused hands shifted slightly around the hilt of his blade.
"Why do we do this? I mean, what's the point?" Carefully keeping his gaze fixed on the Reverend's hands, Simon slid his cloak gently over the fallen knife; grasping it as he did. For a moment, the Reverend faltered, as if giving the question thought, then…
"Shut up you little runt." He brought his arms back for the Touche, squaring his feet against the coming flow of power… "Die."
With a speed born of desperation, Simon threw himself aside mere seconds before the blade; rolling onto his feet only metres away from the pews. With a growl, the Reverend followed through, his swings long and even as he fought to compensate. Twisting the knife in his hands, Simon parried once, twice, and brought the knife's elaborate guard crashing against the Reverend's wrist; the monk hissed loudly but kept a grim grip on the leather. With a grimace, Simon lunged back and fought to drag his sword out of its scabbard as it caught in the cloak.
The Reverend was only two steps away when Simon brought the blade to bear. It was a long blade he had made several centuries ago; crafted by an Italian blade smith using alloys and designs Simon himself had guided, it was a dark grey metal, pitted jet-black in places, and single edged. The entirety of the blade was carved with wispy, fire-like patterns, acting very similarly to barbs and serrations, he had named it the phoenix feather on a personal whim… it had never sang so true. With an easily executed whirl, he drove the monk back and threw a long slash at his wrist before stepping close once more, pushing his lips against the religious man's ear…
"Say your prayers." With that, he pushed the blade up against the man's throat and whirled away, slicing it clean as he went; the bracing himself for the quickening. Gritting his teeth, he slid his blade against the ground seconds before the power hit him, lighting up the ancient stones of the cathedral and drilling against his soul; burning his mind and bones with impossible pain… I wish I were dead.
By the time he regained consciousness, it was almost morning; dawn's cold light rippling through the stained glass windows to play patterns on the concrete pavements of the aisle. Pain screaming in his every joint, he pushed himself onto his knees and watched the Reverend's congealed blood shimmer in the light. There can be only one… he thought sadly, lifting his tired frame back onto his feet and pulling the phoenix feather into his fist once again. Without a second glance at the beheaded corpse, Simon dragged himself out of the monument; pushing the feather pack into it's scabbard as he went and pulling the great gates shut behind him. There can be only one…