Some believe fate is a right to be granted. Others see it as a goal to be achieved. Then there are those who view it as something to be changed. Of course, many would claim destiny is a delusion of the powerless, but a lie believed in is stronger than an unknown truth.
Though he did not have a name, he had a fate. It was his fate... To die.
Born, or created, he did not know which, to be sacrificed in some grander design he neither understood or believed in, his role was unmistakable. He was a pawn, and all he knew was servitude to an unseen master that paid no heed to his existence, his birth, life and purpose handled by underlings who nevertheless held hierarchal superiority over him. He was a detail, a component, merely a nameless cog in Hell's machinery.
Much of his time was spent in the arcane sarcophagi of his birth; an appropriate home, for the physical confinement reflected the demure cage of his mind, un-nurtured intelligence fumbling pitifully with questions it already knew the answers to. He had no one to turn to; none of his creators cared for his mental welfare, if they were even aware it existed. He was raised for ceremonial slaughter, what point was there investing anything in his emotional stability? He could rot for all his masters cared, so long as he remained intact enough to fulfil his inglorious role.
That was his purpose, all the questions of being, of self and of life had their answers laid before him every day in all their ugly, miserable certainty. He did not know why in the sleepless periods he ventures beyond these plain explanations that nonetheless spoke truthfully of his meagre function. It was a futile endeavour, to seek a greater purpose for himself. He knew exactly why he was made and why he would die, the humble machinations of his part in the world lay naked of mystery or dignity. He understood that, and could accept it; well, most of him could, but one part...
Sometimes he would disobey. He did not truly know why he did it, but considering his ignorance of so much that determined his experiences, the act never stood out to him. When not in the tomb-like chamber that he was stored in for considerable periods of time, he would often be made to fight. One of the few scraps of understanding he had stumbled across, gathered from overheard discussion among his taskmasters, was that these battles were tests, although whether he was the subject or experiment, or something else altogether he remained oblivious. All he knew is that he fought, they observed, and with dull monotony he moved forwards through the listless days, slowly incrementing his qualification for the unappealing destiny he was fashioned for.
He was told to fight, and sometimes he would. Occasionally it brought fleeting relief to release emotions he could not place in unrestrained violence, but more often than not it was unfulfilling. When he fought, he rarely lost, but whether this marked him as powerful, or his masters as careful not to prematurely lose their pawn, he could only ponder, when the thought crossed his mind. The closest thing in his life to an engaging occupation for his mind was learning the different opponents he faced, the ways of combat, and his own abilities. While he lacked the optimism to hope he was somehow remarkable as a warrior, he did note that, if his foes were any measure, his power to generate and manipulate energy, either for offence or the purpose of position, such as redirecting his movement in the air, was a rare gift. This brought him scant satisfaction.
He would fight, and often he would win. Sometimes he would lose, and sometimes he would disobey, would not fight, or would fight those he was not meant to, such as the ones who brought him to the arena of his battles. His insubordination was punished, of course, both in immediate retaliation by those he angered, and more thought out methods of torture meant to dissuade the act again. However, his punishment varied little from the numb suffering of his daily existence, so he was neither fearful nor deterred by the agonising pain. In truth, the relief from an otherwise monotonous life meant he almost enjoyed the torment, and came to find a bitter, insignificant but just palpable satisfaction in taking some miniscule control of his world, even if the result was only just distinguishable from that of inaction.
They continued to use him, though, and seemed more confident of their ability to deal with his outbursts than the setback to their objectives his premature death would incur. He was vaguely aware that those around him served some higher master, whom he deduced spared no mercy for them just as they did for him. This revelation was another morsel of satisfaction to him, but they were scraps to a ravenous void. Indeed, he once wryly thought in a rare moment of composure that were he to meet this invisible master, he would thank him for distributing misery with such equality. That was a dream, though, or would have been, if he knew the meaning of the word. What he saw of the world he lived in, cramped and decrepit as it was, outweighed his ability to comprehend its size and detail, and he knew he lived but under a rock, no, a grain of dirt, insignificant to the point of invisibility compared to the grand scale that his ultimate master ruled on.
He was no more aware of time than gravity; it was not a thing to measure but an unquestioned constant, featureless and unremarkable of experiences worth recalling despite his pitiful efforts to fly. However, as time did go by with little of his regard, he knew his fate; his doom to put it more fittingly, drew nearer to being a reality. He would be sacrificed as a humble servant to the grand schemes of his glorious master.
Ha! His mind cried out, a vindictive repulsion flaring up from within him at this sardonically bastardised rendition of his fate. He stopped; that had felt, strange. A sudden welling up of motivation, as though denouncing his condemnation and those who wrought it upon him triggered some deeply-buried drive in him. He did not understand it, but since when had he understood anything? All he knew was, he... Liked it. It brought him fulfilment that made his prior amusements seem like petty shadows in comparison. He wanted to do it again, but didn't know how. Reason gave way to frustration, and reaching down inside him, he yelled every single thing that had been said to him in an insulting tone he could recall, not even knowing what most of it meant.
Cursing and swearing incoherently at the top of his voice, he found the expression addictive, if slowly exhausting, and continued to do it. Eventually, his sarcophagi was opened, and one of his taskmasters appeared before him. Apparently he had another menial labour to perform, but the creature inquired, without a hint of compassion of course, after the noise he had been making. He said it was nothing, thus it was left at that. The slave driver moved to collect some implement or other from across the room.
He watched his superior move, and didn't realise he was slowly smiling in a way many would find disconcerting, especially were it directed at them. The remnants of his earlier explosion we're gathering themselves together in his mind like rebels attempting to overthrow a government and establish their own in its place, seeking to achieve some epiphany or other.
Slowly, for these were concepts he had never compared to one another, ideas began taking shape in his mind. He wanted to, fight the master with him... No, not to fight, to, hurt... Yes, when he fought, his foes sometimes managed to inflict attacks on him, and cause him pain. He would cause his master pain, and then... And then he would find others who ruled over him, and fight them, too. He should be able to kill a fair number, although he had no chance whatsoever of defeating them all, for he knew the minions around him were vastly beyond counting, but that would only lead to a death no more inevitable than the one he was born for. All these ideas made his mind scream insanity, and perhaps he had lost it, but something deeper in him, something, stronger, retorted, what do I have to lose in the first place? He didn't understand, but he had never understood; what he did know is, the more he contemplated this grand defiance, the more he was filled by a sensation he had only felt the edge of in withered scraps and broken fragments before.
Yes. He would fight his masters, return to them the pain and promised oblivion they inflicted upon him. He would not serve their purpose but make one of his own; striking down as many of his tormentors as he could before death took him. It may be his destiny to die, but he determined that he alone would decide for what. Revelation and purpose coursed through him, and for the first time in his life, he found that he was excited.
By now his expression stated something was very much amiss. His superior noticed this, and demanded furiously an explanation. When one was not forthcoming, and instead his face split into a wide smile, something one in such an abysmal situation as his should never wear, the other creature showed the first signs of something he found so alluring; fear. Yes, it was beginning to fear him, and as he strode forwards silently, that fear grew like a cancer into reeking terror, pouring off the creature like a pungent aroma. It was like the smell of blood to a shark, and as his quarry gave an enraged snarl and went for a weapon, he leapt.
Covering the distance with blinding speed, his hand closed around the creature's head as its own did around the handle of a brutal instrument he had felt the touch of before. Smashing it against the wall, he crushed its skull with little resistance, watching the headless cadaver slump to the ground, and begin to rot where it lay.
Incredible! He had killed a few of his masters before, lowly creatures unfortunate enough to be in the path of his disobedience. Never before though had he done it with such intent, uninterested in the consequences it would bring. The feeling was, liberating, and he craved more.
Leaving the chamber that passed for his abode, he walked amongst the features of the place he never once thought to call home, unsupervised. It did not take long for someone to take notice of his unauthorised wanderings, and when he was confronted, rather than answering with words, he opened his mouth, and let his heart speak. What came out was a malevolent laugh, and exuberated by their uncertain and somewhat unnerved reactions, he attacked them. They required some skill and caution, but he revelled in the challenge like never before, and dispatched them in moments.
Time had never meant much to him, so it was only by the racing of his pulse that he measured his slaughter, as his vengeful rampage continued. He knew it could only be a matter of time before word of his actions spread, and more powerful beings were sent to eliminate him. He welcomed them, though, for he had been staring death in the face his entire life, and he saw nothing new to it now.
Eventually one came, a vicious brute of a beast. Though he did not know the word, he recognised certain similarities between it and some, lesser foes he had fought before, that marked both out as reptilian. Its scaled skin was thick as were the muscles beneath it, and the low, aggressive crouch it took spoke of both animal rage and lethal cunning. This was, he realised, no mere minion, but a warrior, its deadly bearing speaking of power and experience, such that it might rank high enough to etch out something for its own ends between serving the errands of its masters. Unlike him, this beast was respected and valued, if only marginally so, and when not spilling the blood of its masters' enemies, it was granted the leisure of servants to tends to its whims, from those that did its menial tasks to others who would serve its sick desires between the same powerful thighs that it now circled him with, given the honour of fulfilling its deepest depravities.
This was a being that exercised some degree of control over its fate, whereas he until had none. It was also learned in the ways of battle that put his scrapped together experiences to shame. This was the creature by whose gauntleted claw his fate would undoubtedly be fulfilled. Strangely, that didn't faze him in the least.
Snarling, the beast leapt as he did, and they clashed in midair. Raking and tearing at each other, he proved to be more of a challenge than it had expected, but not more than it could handle. Though he managed to evade some blows and even land a few of his own with cunning and guile, he was outmatched on every level, and found himself smashed against a wall, which cracked with the impact. Before he could rise, his opponent raised its arm and hissing, fired several claws on bloody trails, which embedded through his chest.
He could not move; even if not for the pain, the projectiles had him literally nailed to the wall. As the beast lumbered towards him to finish the job, he felt grim satisfaction that it would end at last. As the warrior's shadow fell across him, though, something else stirred within, a defiant spirit that cried no! You still have strength, not until your last breath is spent shall you grant them once ounce of the mercy they denied you!
For an instant, he was hesitant, but then, body soaked with blood and mind clouded, he thought, why not? As the creature loomed over him, he raised his uninjured arm, and with a crackling of crimson energy and a roar of defiance, threw a wave of raw focused force and power at his foe. The mighty blow struck the lizard before it could react to the unanticipated attack. Its right arm was cleaved clean off from shoulder to waist, and it tried hopelessly to clutch at the gigantic wound from which its innards were rapidly tumbling out.
In moments the beast was dead, and though he could have given up then and joined it shortly, he did not. Reaching down, he removed the spikes from his chest one by one, and slowly rose to his feet, still bleeding. There was more carnage to be wrought on his tormentors.
He continued to battle those he encountered, each fight becoming more dangerous than the last as he pushed himself to persevere despite his wounds. It was while battling with a highly skilled slave driver that the eventual master of his fate appeared. Unbeknownst to him, the warrior had just returned from slaughtering a settlement of their master's enemies, only to find the discord left behind by his path of destruction. Hunting down the cause of this disorder, the warrior found him and stepped in to intervene and put an end to this affront to his master's domain and rule. The slave-driver hastily lashed out at him to drive him off, intending to handle the vermin itself, but didn't even have time to realise the foolishness of its error as the warrior slew it in a single strike.
He was taken aback by such a display of power, and noticed that the slowly growing crowd that had come either to stop him, or merely sadistically enjoy the show of brutality, had all backed off from this newest arrival. Of course ignorant of the larger world, he did not recognise the warrior, but it was evident that he was someone of considerable repute, as the awed mutterings being passed around them would indicate. He thought he heard the word "Knight", and though he did not understand its full meaning, overheard talks of his former master combined with the awe with which the word was spoken told him he faced a mighty foe.
The warrior spoke, and did so with undeniable authority. At his bidding the situation was quickly explained to him, while he, the escaped nothing, watched from within the circle of onlookers they two alone occupied, his lust for vengeance curbed temporarily by curiosity.
After several moments, the warrior addressed him, and demanded to know his cause. In answer, he replied that he was born only to die, and was living out his fate as he saw fit. The warrior asked him then why did he attack his masters and disobey if he did not even seek to change his fate. He replied that he would rather die by a means of his own choice then that of those he owed nothing to. The warrior seemed surprised by this, and asked why he would squander what meagre purpose he had defying the reason for his own being. He replied that even if he had nothing to fight for, he would rather fight against something worth opposing than fight for no purpose at all.
There was a long silence, save for the perpetual murmurings around them. Just when the situation seemed as if it would boil over, the warrior spoke, and said that he would have to slay him. He answered that he knew this, and whether or not he could win, he would fight.
The battle was brief, as the warrior struck him down with incredible ease, hurling his bloody form back with one slash of his mighty sword. He landed in a barely conscious heap, near the ravenous crowd that would no doubt no rip him to shreds and bring an end to his meaningless existence. His masters moved in to kill him at last... And then were stayed by a single word from the warrior. Approaching his downed opponent, the victor of the battle looked him over. He faintly heard the knight declare he was claiming him for himself, and patiently waited for the deathblow. It never came.
The knight spared him, and like everything that had come before, his life was controlled by machinations he did not understand. The knight took him under his wing, seeing to it that he was first healed, and then began training him as a servant. For the longest time, he did not understand why, and sadly, his master would not ever use the chance to explain it to him, before it was too late. However, on that day, the knight and he each taught something to the other they had never seen before. The warrior showed him the meaning of mercy, and though did not know it, he in return introduced for the first time to the knight a new idea. That concept was rebellion, and it was the name he was given by the knight, though only the knight would ever know this.
Thus it was that within the dark knight a seed was planted that would one day blossom, changing forever the fates of both his own world, and another.
As for he who had once been nameless, he remained loyal to his new master's side, and eventually left the world that had spawned him without purpose behind. His role remained one of service, and it was often overshadowed by others. However, he would one day return at the right hand of the son of his savour to remind his former masters what becomes of a pawn should it be allowed to reach the end of the board...