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Tommen wanted to be a brave boy. He was small, weak, but he had his father's sword and no man(or monster)could hurt him when he held steel. His father said so and his father would never lie to him.
Redcliffe, the only home he'd ever known, had become foreign to him. Monsters and demons and every manner of evil had taken root and turned Redcliffe into a solemn place that he did not understand. His father-a stern, ill-natured, bearded man in his thirtieth winter-was never home, except during the wee hours to board the door and kiss his wife good bye.
He was always armored, gleaming red steel under the surcoat that bared Redcliffe's heraldry, and he had taken to wearing his sword constantly. It frightened Tommen, but he dared not speak a word. He was almost a man grown and his father would not take kindly to cowardliness.
At dawn, blood perfume clinging to skin and steel, his father-Ser Brandon Wilhelm, born and bred in Redcliffe-returned once more to see his ailing wife. She quivered in the night with tremors strong enough to throw off even his large father; the shaking sickness, healers dubbed it and offered no help but their solace.
They were throw out for that. His father spat how useless they were even as he flung their earned gold toward them.
Tommen knew it was whispered she would die, but she was his mother, she couldn't die. The Maker would surely not take her from him; he needed her. The gentle hugs that soothed the most furious of biting remarks from his father, the way her flour smelling hands would run through his golden hair-a shade darker than her own straw blonde locks, but just as disheveled-made his father bearable.
With his father busy, he was tasked with caring for her; feeding her, reading to her when she was awake and restless, rolling her to the side if a fit seized her. A strip of leather was placed between her teeth when the fits took hold, to prevent his mother, Heidi, from biting off her own tongue.
She had been sick for years but his father had been there before; to hold her, to feed her, to pat him on the head when he helped. Tommen was all alone now. Ser Brandon was gone-dead, missing, he did not know.
No one returned at dawn and the door remained barred for days; hunger and necessity drove the boy to leave.
The last crumb had been feed to his mother before he left; stale bread softened with pea soup, bland but edible, though she gave no complaint. She didn't talk much anymore. Since the last fit, he recalled, and that worried him. Heidi always gave him a smile, dark eyes shining proudly, even if the food was horrendous.
Mothers were odd that way, he thought. His father would have told him true and shooed him off to make it again.
Night had fallen hours ago and without starlight, his eyes were good as useless. Blind, petrified under his woolen cowl and borrowed boiled leather, the boy of twelve marched on through frozen hell. Each step seemed to drag on longer than the last and the winds were growing colder by the second: his father's old shoes were too big, his old sword too heavy, and frost slithered into every fold, sure and sharp as blades against his skin.
Tommen was a disgrace in his father's eyes; more plump than most his age, soft of heart and skin, hair silky and long as a girl's would be. He was better with scribing and cooking than at swordplay, and even through his father's smile he could feel the disappointment.
He had began to grow of late and the wispy beginnings of a mustache straddled his upper lip, blonde fuzz growing in uneven patches along his cheeks and neck. It was itchy and irritating, but persistence would grant him the great golden mane his father kept in winter. If he looked a man and held steel, perhaps Ser Brandon would be proud to call him 'son', as he had before Tommen's despicable girlish talents appeared.
His family lived on the outskirts of town, well away from the other houses, but within shouting distance if the need arose for help. The screaming wind would swallow his words so he saved his breath and curled his hands, thick fingers tingling, into his armpits to hold in their warmth. The sword at his waist dragged across the ground, leather scabbard catching on rocks and snow only to hinder his steps, but he would wipe it clean before his father came back-if he did at all.
A trip that would have taken a few minutes in the spring was now more than ten, snow and winds pushing him back every step he took. Sleet froze to his boots, slowing him, but he ground his teeth and took another step and another, until his legs screamed. Leather bound hands met hardwood and Tommen gasped, eager to get inside; to talk to someone, to get food for his mother, to feel another human being next to him. It seemed like he hadn't seen another person, aside from his silent mother, in weeks.
The door was ajar when he found it, but the handle still held a trace of warmth; they must have just left. They'd be back shortly, he reasoned.
Deciding his neighbors wouldn't mind him entering, factoring the weather, he trudged inside and closed the door against the cold, cutting off any trace of ice that desired to make a home in his new found shelter. Stomping his too big boots free of snow, the boy pushed back his cowl and rubbed at his itchy beard, face contorting into a grimace when something rotten hit his nose.
It smelled just like the dead mice he'd found under his bed, a summer past. A prank, his father said, by some older boys who didn't like his girlish hobbies either. He'd fought them on his own too; his father hadn't lifted a finger when an older boy hit him. Be a man, Brandon said as the blood dripped from Tommen's broken nose.
No healer had been called afterwards. It hadn't healed right and became crooked and hooked, but Tommen's smell hadn't been hindered. The decaying flesh permeated thickly from down the hall and it choked him at a distance.
The house was small; the living room led directly to the kitchen by one hallway and doors, hardwood and sturdy, sat on either side of the hall, both closed. A desk sat in the corner, inkpot tipped over, tainting the white parchment underneath. The rugs, simple wolf pelts from a yesterday's hunt, were covered in snow, icy and stiff under his hands. Furniture was sparse: a threadbare couch sat in front of the fireplace, an old chair, riddled with stains that hinted at generations worth of memory, took up a corner. The fireplace hadn't been touched in days, devoiding the house of any heat and a deep chill, unlike what he had felt outside, settled in his gut as the smell worsened.
Mice were harmless. Dead, even more so. The smell could not harm him. Keeping his voice low as he rambled about dead mice, Tommen drew closer to the kitchen, carefully rapping the first door as he passed. Half a heartbeat was spent waiting before he moved to continue; only silence greeted him. He was beginning to hate it, the silence. If not the cold pressing on him, it was the hunger, or the silence; each carrying with it a voice whispering for him to give up.
Be a man.
Men did not run from smells. He took another step, tapping the last door softly once more before pulling away to search the kitchen when no response was given. Here, the smell was worse but now he could see the source; little mice, at least a dozen, laid out on the table, a thin layer of frozen dust covering their bodies. They had been chewed on, Tommen saw, when he got closer and his throat spasmed in disgust.
Surely the situation was not so dire that they would resort to eating mice. Tommen dared not touch them; his father spoke of dead rising again during his short visits and that set a fear in him. The dead, even mice, were not meant to be disturbed once they were at rest. Giving the table a wide berth, he scoured the kitchen and cabinets for the tiniest morsel of food.
The cabinets were bare as his own, though inspection of the larder beneath the floorboards granted him salted pork that smelled almost too gamy to chance eating. The morsel was half rotten, but he could cut away the worst of it when he reached home.
Risking sickness was preferable to guaranteed starvation, he decided and stowed it away inside his pack.
Returning to his search, scraggly brows furrowed over pitch-dark eyes, the fair haired boy nearly screamed when the larder door above him roared shut, hinges protesting the rapid movement. Alone in darkness, the suffocating smell of rotten meat his only company, Tommen stood-frozen. Sweat matted his hair and his palms grew clammy, cold sweat coating his body like a slimy second skin; he reached out, fingers clasping around the ladder, wood groaning when he put weight on the first step. It was a draft, that was all. His neighbors must have come home and the wind knocked the door closed.
He was sure to give them quite the scare when he poked his head out. He shouted his name and greeted them, before he shoved the door back open and crawled out, fingers gripping along the hardwood floor until he came upon boots. His eyes scanned above him; tattered trousers, battered surcoat, sword in hand, the man in front of him seemed more a brigand than knight. He stank of beasts and blood.
His neighbors, if he recalled correctly, were old; a man and wife, with a little boy, always sickly and crying, and their daughter, a woman grown with a babe of her own-a bastard, Ser Brandon sneered at him once. Not one of his neighbors could be placed in those blood stained the boots; the man was too old, the boys too young, and both women were too small.
A hood, brown and stained, settled over the man's face, casting it in shadow. Upon standing to his full height, cheeks flush with shame at being caught crawling, he could see the man's face; hollow cheeks, grizzled beard, skin drawn tightly over pale skin. Tommen did not know this man. A stranger, a blood soaked vagabond in knight's armor, in his neighbors house, naked blade in hand.
His bowels turned to ice. Palms sweaty, he stepped away, for the first time noticing the blood dripping off the blade's edge. The doors in the hallway were open now and Tommen could feel eyes upon him, but he dared not take his eyes off the stranger. He thought to hail himself, reveal himself as a knight's son, but swallowed his words when the man raised his blade.
Tommen's own sword, borrowed from his father's chest without consent, still sat in its scabbard, steel handle within reach. It was old, but his father never let a blade rust; the steel was polished, handle adorned in fine leather that smelled of sweat and blood-the way a blade was meant to smell. Tommen had never raised a sword in anger before, nor swung one with intent to do harm-the mere thought made him ill.
The stranger's sword was chipped with age, rust and blood staining the silver blade a hellish red, but the dull edge held the sting of sharpened steel when the flat connected with Tommen's cheek. The skin tore and blood rushed down his face, soaking into his cowl, and a scream ripped from his throat as pain swam up the crown of his head and down to his toes, a hot wave of liquid agony. It coated him, sticky and sickening, like honey.
The floor was hard, cold, under his fingers but he didn't remember falling. The man was above him, sword raised, and Tommen backpedaled, numb to the pain as he pulled at the handle of his sword.
It came free, the ring of steel sweeter than any tune heard before, and he raised his father's sword to slash recklessly in front of him. It never caught flesh, but the man retreated a step, and Tommen-plumb but nimble- darted between his legs, jerking away when hands grasped at him. He ran passed the open doors, pretending not to feel the hands grabbing at his arms, tugging at his cowl, clawing at his face.
The front door was open, sucking the last of the warmth from the house, and the boy stumbled forward, reaching blindly, fingers grazing the door. His hands were empty; clumsy fingers had lost the sword meant to be his protection. His father would be furious about him losing it; he would take the scolding gladly.
A hand snatched at the long braid at the back of his head, ripping him away from escape, off his feet. Tommen felt something wet running down his neck.
Father always hated my long hair.
Looking up, flat on his back, the boy could see the hand holding his head belong to his neighbor. The old man looked wrong; chunks of his throat and face were missing, decaying black muscle showing through the wounds. His eyes were hollow pits of obsidian, void of all humanity. All that Tommen saw was hunger, pure and primal. A spectre from another realm; he-it-did not belong in Tommen's world of boyish dreams and yearnings.
The man's lips had been chewed away, leaving his savage teeth visible; rotten, grey flesh clung between his teeth, and Tommen blanched at the implications. Blackened, broken, they chewed fruitlessly at his shoulder, stripping away the leather in mouthfuls to get at the flesh within. Sawing teeth met flesh and Tommen screamed.
Flesh and blood sloshed around in the man's broken mouth and he chewed with the ferocity of a starving wolf, biting another chunk from Tommen's leather clad shoulder when he had swallowed the last. A howl bubbled up from inside Tommen when he heard the man swallowing; bloody pieces of him, leather and all, slid down the man's throat with a hearty gulp and satisfied groan.
The wet smacking sound was enough to make him want to vomit, but the man's grip was lessening as he struggled to get into Tommen's armor, his broken teeth aiding him no longer. A few had fallen out, clattering to the floor like so many black rocks.
Shuffling came from down the hall. Tommen could hear more walking corpses, just as dead and hungry as the old man tearing into his tender flesh, coming closer. They were silent, oppressive in their intent, wavering just out of sight, as the man went about his feast of leather and flesh.
Familiar blood stained boots came into view and Tommen found he recognized the skeletal knight now, looking up at the man's scarred face. A mishandled mabari had left the man with a face to remember; long scratches covered both cheeks and Tommen knew if he flipped off the hood he would see the man was missing an ear.
One of his father's recruits-young, easy to smile, friendly even when Ser Brandon showed him naught but disdain-but it couldn't be; the flesh around his throat was torn away and Tommen could see muscles spasming violently. No sound came from him, nor the corpses behind him, but when the sword raised again, blade longer than he was tall, Tommen felt the silence was worse.
Up it went, blade rusted and stained with death, until the man was holding it two handed. The blade did not shake; grip firm, arms steady. It was not until the blade started its downward accent that Tommen felt a bolt of fear race down his spine, jolting him out of his stupefied state. He felt the flesh currently in the man's mouth tear when he moved, felt blood well to the surface when the hand in his hair twisted savagely to get purchase, heard the other corpses start to shuffle toward him, and he screamed, feet kicking wildly.
Freedom loomed inches away. The door was open and snow was gathering around his wound; stiff, frozen spears dug into the bleeding gash until his breath escaped him. The man's grip(Halder, he remembered, his name was Halder)went slack and Tommen seized his chance, thrashing wildly as blood rushed down his neck. He felt faint but seeing the knight's sword closing in was enough to get him moving.
Steel met flesh, skin and muscle torn away easily as flesh from a roast fowl, and Tommen could feel blood erupting from Halder's neck to coat him in crimson. The blade missed him, but he spared no thought on that.
Jerking from the dead man's hands, cowl pressed to the bite on his shoulder, Tommen found his footing and rushed forward, stomach dropping when the knight ripped his sword free of rotten flesh. The knight roared in silence at being denied his quarry, throat convulsing to produce wet gurgling. In two great strides he was upon Tommen, sword flashing dangerously close to the boy's unprotected head.
One swipe and he would not have to worry about starving. Ducking down and throwing himself toward the door, bloodied steel slammed into the hard wooden frame inches from his blonde head; splinters rained down as the wood gave way with a weary sign. Breathless, Tommen found himself elbow deep in bone numbing snow, swordless and bloody, but alive. With effort, he forced himself to stand on unsteady feet, and watch the raging man still gripping his sword tightly.
Dumbly, he continued to jerk at the embedded sword, howling and hissing deep in his gashed throat but never advancing so long as his sword was stuck. Tommen spared no time. He turned tail and ran, forgetting his father's sword, nearly dropping his precious pack, ignoring the blood rushing from his shoulder; he felt only the burn in his calves and an ache in his lungs. The rush of blood to his ears was like an ancient enemy's warhorn; dread filled him and he embraced his momentarily deafness to the creatures behind him. In that moment, he could pretend he was just taking a stroll in the snow.
The trip there had been slow, leisurely even in comparison, but now his lungs screamed and his heart rammed against its cage of bone. He feared it would escape him then, and leave him in the snow with a bloody hole in his chest.
Cold punched into his lungs but the burning blood oozing from his wounds warmed him, steam rising as the hot lifeblood met frozen air. Over the sound of his own panting and sobbing, he could hear a sigh from behind him; old wood being split.
The Maker granted him speed and he ran, sliding along the deep snow drifts, ice cracking under his boots. Not once did he lose his footing. Ser Brandon once said he would make a good hunter, if only he didn't cry so much when he killed something.
Maybe when this was done and Redcliffe was his home again, Tommen would be the man his father wished him to be.
Piles of snow, shoved to the side to help travel, lorded above him, angry white hands of frozen death snatching at his clothing and flesh. Each stumble saw the creatures of rage and hunger closer than the last. He dared not look behind him, for fear they were within reach.
Home was so close, he could near smell his mother's perfume, lavender and vanilla, and the scent of leather, his father's chosen perfume. A misstep now would mean death for his mother, and for him as well. There was no room for fear. Not when he was so close.
Snow hid troublesome ice along the path, deadly patches nearly sending him sprawling face first into the ground, but his boots dug in deep, anchoring him.
The walking corpses had no such luck.
Graceless, they slid and stumbled, not so sure footed with their bare feet. Like mummers in a play, they bumped into each other and roared in anger, struggling to stay grounded. If he were not bleeding and freezing, he would have found the spectacle funny.
These mummers would not play tricks on him and trade jokes, should they catch him. They would tear what was left of his flesh off and feast, like a murder of carrion crows upon the fresh dead. A fair meal he would make, fat as he was. They had only to crack open his leather shell and dig in.
Wrapped in red rags and wearing the faces of his neighbors, they followed him like hounds on the scent of blood. The sickly boy, weak little legs flailing as he ran, mouth bloody and gaping; the young woman, belly split open like a great crimson smile, ready to swallow him whole; the raging knight, ashen face twisted into a grimace; the aged woman, spitting and drooling, the lower half of her face chewed off.
Adrenalin pounded in his veins, not waning a bit even as his eyes found home and his fingers beat at the handle, wrenching the door open. Darkness, deep and heavy as the Void, stared accusingly back at him. Faintly, he remembered lighting candles before starting out so his mother would not be left blind.
Stones, heavy and poisoning, filled his empty belly, and his bowels twisted into painful knots. Nausea rising, he eyed the darkness, feeling its bony fingers trailing along his skin, beckoning him inside. It was his home and outside there was naught but cold and death. Yet, he slowed his frantic pace with the dead at his back, and pushed inside carefully-cautiously, as to defend against some inevitable attack-before he slammed the door shut against the howling dead and pulled the bar down to secure it shut.
The dead scratched and clawed and screeched against the wood, throwing themselves against it with bloodying force. The bar rattled loudly, but it held firm. Tiny hands, the boy's, slid into the space under the door, but they found no purchase, blackened fingers clawing fruitlessly against the boards.
Tommen backed away, trusting the door to hold against a wave of dead. The wood groaned, a long suffering sound that tugged at his heart, but he retreated further into the house, seeking a basin to wash his wounds.
The scent of rotting meat tinged the air; coming from the dead beating themselves bloody against the door or the salted pork in his pack-he did not know.
Out of danger, for now, the adrenaline tapered off and the young boy whimpered, pulling the cowl away from his wound to touch at the blackened and bloody skin underneath. It was not terribly deep, the man's teeth had been too dull, but without proper care it would become infected. Even the smallest wound could kill if infection set in. Already, he became hypersensitive of the overwhelming heat that settled over every inch of his body.
Carrying his precious pack further into the house, the pounding coming from outside fading into background noise, he lowered the pack to the floor beside his mother's room. A basin sat across the hall and he dragged himself over, washing the wounds as he stripped off his boiled leather and tugged his cowl free. Trying not to cry out and wake his mother when the fabric held fast, Tommen chewed on his lip to suppress a squeak of pain.
Icy water, clean and flat tasting, managed to quench his thirst and sate his worry-for the time being-about infection when he smeared it across the bite. The water was filthy by the time he was done; it ran red and patches of skin he'd pulled off to better see the wound swirled around in the bowl.
It seemed the stench was coming from him. Laying the cowl back upon the wound, he pressed it tightly and sighed, limbs growing heavy.
Outside, the pounding stopped.
The bloody boy sank to the floor and pressed a closed fist to his mother's door, calling to her once-twice-but expecting no answer. Exhaustion settled on him, a warm blanket more comforting than his mother's arms, and he gave in for a moment, telling himself he would get up soon to feed his mother spoiled pork and hope she grew no worse
She was dying as it was. The thought sunk in deep but he didn't fight it.
He was dying too.
Sleep tugged on his consciousness, soft as his mother's fingers. Grasping the pack closer, a physical shield against sleep, he stood up slowly, knees popping with a disgusting crunch. A soft groan escaped him but he swallowed the next and pushed open his mother's door, holding the salted pork in his hands like cherished gold.
The room was larger than his own: an old armoire took up one wall, nearly bursting with unwashed clothes and bloody leather; a bookcase tall as his father, sat beside the door; a plain vanity sat on his mother's side of the room, but Tommen had covered the mirror with a sheet. Seeing himself, pale and haggard, everytime he came into the room unnerved him greatly.
It was bare, whereas his room was stuffed with trinkets and books, meant for sleeping and little else. Ser Brandon's hand was firm, even in decoration. If it had no use, he would not have it take up space.
His mother was the only reason he could suffer the uninviting room.
The bed, large and covered soft woolen sheets, was the only spot he saw Heidi's touch. She had sewed the sheets herself as a present to her knighted husband; they were too soft, too ornament for him, but he smiled and accepted them anyway. The pillows, stuffed with soft down and covered with scrounged silk, were a present from Tommen. He remembered his father wearing a rare smile when he told Ser Brandon he'd gotten the feathers. It went left unsaid that he had not killed the birds himself.
The bed, piled high with soft pillows and as many sheets as Tommen could carry, was his mother's resting place. Soft, pale, constant, Heidi sat atop her throne of pillows in silence, eyes shut: dead to the world. Gnawed leather, frequently left on top of the nightstand in the event that she have a fit at night, lay next to her head: unwashed, bloody, still sticky with saliva and gouged by teeth.
Much to the boy's horror, the fits had been recurring almost nightly, though she was still now; still as the dead outside. Picturing his mother spitting and gnashing her teeth together, chomping down on her tongue when he was not fast enough, made his heart throb painfully.
She bleed often, but never enough to justify calling a healer. His father had little faith in them after they failed to cure his wife and dreaded the thought of paying them more to tell him nothing. Gold was scarce and a healer, even one in the village, would take a hefty chunk of their already depleted earnings.
Being a knight was a costly service. Ser Brandon's horse, a red courser built for battle, had dragged Tommen from school and turned him into a jack of all trades. No odd job was turned down: roof repair, babysitting, fishing, sewing. But his father was a proud man, and set his teeth fitfully when he saw his only son doing 'woman's work' as he deemed it. Regardless, he still took the gold, lips twisted downward into a sneer that made Tommen feel like he had murdered children to get the money instead of doing hard work.
Holding his silence when his eyes burned, Tommen shuffled into the room, locking the door behind him. If-when-the dead got in, this room would be his sanctuary. The bookcase, empty now that the books had been tossed out in desperation to make it lighter, would be the only shield he had to prevent them from getting in, once they breached into the house.
Perhaps they would search the house for him, scratching and howling until they caught scent of his blood and bashed the last door in. Fear choked him then, a tight fist gripping his heart until tears pricking his eyes.
In the dark, even he could not see his tears; he had no fear his sightless mother or absent father would bare witness to his shame. Blinking away hot tears, he nibbled on the salted pork to chewed away the worst of the rot, palming the tough meat until it was soft enough for his mother to chew. It left a bitter taste in his mouth but he swallowed the vile meat with eagerness. Anything in his stomach, rotten or not, would stop the cramping.
With practiced ease, he angled his mother's head up and opened her mouth, setting the unspoiled portion between her teeth. She chewed automatically-an innate response that gave Tommen no indication of her mental state-and swallowed with some difficulty. He pressed a waterskin-half frozen from his trek outside-to her lips to wash it down and took his seat at the foot of her bed, digging inside the chest that resided there.
It's insides were slung out and Tommen took in his remaining defenses. A blanket to ward away the cold and an old wood axe that had seen better days laid before him. Somehow, he knew his father would have been able to survive with even less. Yet, he fumbled in the dark, forever a mockery to his name.
The steel, while rust free, was not meant for flesh and bone; it would be of little use to him against the armored knight outside.
Regret seized him. His father's sword was the only steel of use against armor and he'd lost it in his panic. He silently prayed that his defense-weak as they were-would not be tested until he got some rest. Even well rested, it would be a death sentence for him to face the dead again.
Knights, the few that remained after the castle closed, had fallen-even his father. No more midnights passed with men and monsters fighting in the dark; the silence was endless as snowfall.
Securing his last shield, he took hold of the bookcase and pushed, wedging it firmly against the door. Task done, he took his place beside his mother, axe in hand. The rotten pork hit his stomach hard but he fisted his tunic in a sweaty hand and closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of unwashed skin and blood.
Blind now, he could hear creaking. The wind, ice cracking, dead scratching along the walls and beating themselves against his wooden fortress. They knew where he was now; they wouldn't wait in the homes they died in to rot until their legs fell off. They would find a way in and steal the last bit of human warmth in Redcliffe.
A window down the hall had been smashed in a day passed, but a hasty barrier had been erected before the dead could discover his weakness. Snow, and sound, still managed to worm its way in; Tommen could taste the cold on his lips and swallowed deeply, feeling the air bite all the way down his throat. The air was sweet but his stomach was rolling so violently he could scarce enjoy it.
Willing himself to tune out the creaking from outside, he murmured a soft prayer and focused on his breathing. He was alive, his mother was alive-those things outside were not.
His efforts for rest were ill rewarded when a new sound filtered from down the hall and filled his ears. Footsteps, haggard breathing, grunting. A crash rang out and he went stock-still, throat tightening around a yelp. He stood slowly, wincing when the floorboards creaked under the weight of his steel boots.
Wood and rusted nails would not last long against the might of those Maker forsaken creatures. One look at his final shield sent a fist of worry straight to his gut. It would not stand long, especially if the knight found his way inside. All thoughts of staying, cornered like the rat, flew from his mind the moment he heard another crash. The resounding thud seemed to shake the whole house and Tommen bit his lip hard, edging toward the door with one eye on his mother.
The sounds were rousing her; she moved, thin fingers squeezing the sheets in desperate handfuls, chest rising and falling rapidly with each ragged breath. Gargling came from her throat, reminding him of the young knight outside , and he fought to cover his ears. Her gasping increased to nauseating heights when another clatter came from down the hall and Tommen beat his hands against the bookcase, trying not to push it against the door but to tear it away.
It would only take a second for the creatures to discover where they were when they got in. It surprised him that they hadn't started a two pronged attack by going at the door too, but Tommen could only thank the Maker for that.
That was all the blessings he got, however. The candles were still out, casting the hall in shadows so black all he could see was thanks to the mindless brute smashing his window in. Carefully, Tommen shut the door behind him and clung to the wall, sliding closer until he could smell the armored man pressed against the window.
One steel covered arm was thrust inside between two boards, fingers splayed out like a spider along the wall, but he managed to gain no more ground; his pauldron was caught, holding him flush against the house. Sensing his position, the man struggled, jerking for a moment before stilling to groan.
On closer inspection, Tommen could see the man's hair was frosted with ice, gold strands plastered to his tan forehead. His gauntlets were charred; besides that he looked unharmed, but foul magic could take the healthiest of men and make him a husk without wearing at the body.
Redcliffe knights were many; he knew not all their names, and their faces were often morphed during death so it was impossible to go by sight, but the armor looked unfamiliar. Leather was not used often by Redcliffe's shining knights, whose arms and armor were forged with the finest steel, but when necessity drove at a man he was like to wear anything available.
Tommen had only to look at the wood axe in his hands and the ripped cowl pressed against his neck wound to see the truth of that. Hefting the weapon now, the boy stiffened when the undead knight started to flail again, bashing furiously now that he realized no help was coming from his corpse comrades.
Tommen knew at once how to set him free.
Mimicking the undead knight, Tommen held the axe in unsteady hands and brought it above his head. His mother began crying out again, loud enough that it touched upon his ears and reached the dead man within the same breath.
At once, the man perked up, thrusting his whole weight against the window. A board ripped free and Tommen stifled a scream, seeing that the noise and the man's excitement had drawn the attention of several others: a large, hulking man in plain armor bearing bloody steel; a woman with flaming hair, clutching a wicked bow in milky white hands; an abomination vile enough to wear the Sword of Mercy upon their breasts, yet carry an unholy sword made of glowing steel. A dark shadow clung to the abomination, spitting at the Maker with twist of her blackened staff, and Tommen drew himself up to spit right back at the monsters.
"Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure," he whispered, remembering a prayer his mother would repeat manically after a fit arrested her consciousness. "What you have created, no one can tear asunder." And Tommen swung axe with all his might, praying the undead nightmares would leave once their trapped comrade payed for his transgression in blood.
Demons did not feel pain, nor love or pleasure, or anything that makes one human. They roared in rage, their sin of wrath twisting their forms; they screamed their hunger and stuffed their hideous mouths full with bloody flesh. Pain was a mortal plight-a gift from the Maker so that they may know redemption through sacrifice.
When Tommen struck flesh, felt the bones smash under his weapon, saw the gauntlet tear, and blood gush forth, he felt victorious-until the monster let out a very human scream of agony and fell back into the snow, clutching at his mangled hand. Other voices joined in his wordless cry and Tommen's wooden barricade shattered in a wave of heat and steel.
Half the wall dissolved in flame and a spray of molten wood splashed his face and clothing, setting him ablaze before he could retreat. With his world in flames and blood on his hands, Tommen screamed, dropping his axe to bat at the fire licking at his face and clothing. His suffering was short, though every second drenched in flame felt like an eternity; a hand thrust from the inferno and hooked around his shoulders, dragging him through the remains of his barricade to shove him headfirst into the snow.
Icy arms embraced him and for a moment, all pain was erased from his mind. It was not until a blade pressed against his abused throat that he opened his eyes and looked above him. Starvation, darkness, and fear had morphed his mind, he realized at once when he saw a blonde woman(no demon, certainly)was standing above him, great sword in hand. The disbelief in her eyes-eye, he saw, noticing the black patch-was far too real to be the work of a demon.
"An imekari," a disinterested voice muttered from behind the armed woman. "I shall cast him back into the flame, Basalit-an." The plain armored man moved beside her, towering over her and wearing a grim face that seemed set in stone even as he offered to throw the boy to his death.
Clearly startled, the woman withdrew her blade and shook her head. "That's not necessary, Sten. Tell me, boy, what is your name?"
"My name is Tommen Wilhelm and I am no boy, ser," he squeaked, blinking past the steam coming off his hot clothes and skin. He had faced fire and steel and undead, he had suffered starvation and witnessed his mother withering away. He was a boy no longer.
A dark look passed over her face, but the woman smiled sadly. "Fire changes us all. Very well...I am Catherine, of the Grey Wardens. Perhaps you could tell us what's going on here," she requested, lips thinning when the man behind her started to gasp in pain. "It'd be best if you spoke quickly; you just crippled my brother."
Thanks for reading! This took a while...my classes have started up again, so I'm sorry for the wait! Also, sorry for the lack of Morrigan/Catherine or Leliana/Cat. Next chapter will feature the lovely ladies more ;) After the blood shed, Cat and Morrigan are going to get to know each other better.
I'll be posting another story called "Dalish Rose" momentarily, so drop by and give it a read!
Notes:
"Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,
I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm.
I shall endure.
What you have created, no one can tear asunder." -Trials 1:10, The Chant of Light
Imekari - Child
Basalit-an - A non-Qunari worthy of respect