The Death Card
Fichu comme l'as de pique – that is, "filthy as the ace of spades". How appropriate.
The night was young and bleak, the sun long sense faded over the horizon. A lone soldier sighed, rolling his neck. "Damn sentry." He dragged his feet behind him, half asleep. "I swear, next time Co-" He lurched forward, a terrible grating noise, like a scream. It was followed by more, louder and deeper than the first. War cries. The sentry pitched forward, breaking into a sprint for the bell. He wrapped himself around its rope, yanking on it desperately. He could have laughed in relief when the familiar sound rang throughout the courtyard. The castle awoke with the flames.
He screamed, oh how he screamed. The child stumbled over bodies and debris. They were barely distinguishable through the haze. "Fratello!" It resonated off of the halls, lacking the usual echo. They were too full. Groans of pain came from the corpses lining the floor. A man grabbed his ankle. He stumbled and kicked at him. Another scream, filled with anguish of a deeper kind. "Mother?!" He pushed through, half crawling. He wanted to cry. He emerged from under a fallen beam. As soon as he had arrived. He wanted to leave. A sword was plunged through his mother's throat and left there. She lay bleeding, precious liquid soaking into the carpet and onto the still form of a man he barely recognized as his father. She choked, still hunched over his form. Her arms spasmed, grasping. She sent him a look of such utter pity, and died.
The faceless man turned to him, the insignia of a heart on his breast plate. The soldier stepped forward. He backed away. He couldn't tear his eyes away. Her eyes were still locked on him accusingly; the pale brown glinting lifelessly. He couldn't take it. He screamed.