This is a Lore story for the A Moment In Time competition
The subject for this story is Agis Torsalor.
I will never sire offspring.
I will never have a life.
He had not questioned it. He didn't question it when he was given the mark.
He did not object. When that Lord told him what he had to do, he did not object.
He did not feel. He did not feel when he was handed the payment.
He did not stop. He did not stop when that boy ran.
He took the shot. Oh how he regretted taking that shot.
Agis sat on the ground, hands trembling, as he held onto the weak, convulsing body of his mark. This young boy, barely eight years old, had his life cut so short by Agis himself. This boy had done no wrong, committed no crime. His death was as little his fault as his birth. Had he had any other father, he would have lived now, but it had to be that Lord. This boy was a blemish on his reputation, a dirty little secret he could not let out. The affair he had with his maid had been brushed under the rug, but this boy was living proof of it. And for that crime, the crime of being born, he had to die.
Agis sat there, clutching this young boy. The lad was so skinny, so small. His blue eyes stared piercingly into Agis as he spat up blood. His look was begging the mercenary for relief, for mercy, but Agis could not bring himself to give it. He couldn't bring himself to lay another hand upon the boy.
The boy begged and begged, as his voice slowly faded into gutteral gurgling. The arrow had missed by a few inches, and gone into the side of his throat. The boy did not die instantly, as intended, instead he was now drowning on dry land, lungs filling with his own blood. His weak hand extended out, gently sliding against Agis cheek. Constantly begging, hoping to reach in, but all he got in response was a blank stare, and shivering hands holding his head and torso gently.
It took five minutes. Agis sat there for five minutes, so lost in his own self hatred and regret that he could do nothing but stare. Each grueling second of the boy's death permanently tattooed on his mind, to be replayed again, and again. Never would he forget. Never would he forgive himself. When the boy finally slipped off, Agis and him were so coated in blood that you would be hard pressed to find out what color shirt the mercenary wore.
The walk back was grueling. He had buried the body in the woods, before a mighty oak. He had placed down a small circle of rocks upon the grave. He left a part of himself in that grave, a part he would never recover. The weight of the coins felt overwhelming on the walk back to town. His hands were forever stained by his actions, so stained that he would never get them clean.
In his mind, he made a promise to himself that evening. A pact only he would hear, a pact he would follow.
I will never take a wife.
I will never sire offspring.
I will never have a life.
My conscience bears this stain
Because joy is for better men.
And I will never feel again.
