When Heroes Die

“A great person may make their own enemies, but a greater person makes use of them.”

– Dread Empress Malicia the First

Standing outside his place of employment, Lennox wrung his hands nervously. The narrow two-storey building loomed over him like an omen, blocking out the waxing light of the sun. It had been half a bell since the sun had risen, and his master had not yet shown up.

He knocked on the door once more, hoping for a response.

He was fortunate, for someone from a farmer’s background. The local scribe, a well off elderly man rumoured to be well past his sixtieth summer, had lacked an apprentice. Not only were scribes rumoured to be paid well, they did not need to toil in the fields. Lennox had been a sickly child, youngest out of all his siblings, and struggled to toil under the sun.

Fearing for his own future, he had searched for an escape from his allotment in life.

It had taken much begging to wear down the misanthropic man’s patience, but eventually his efforts had born fruit. The man had taken him on as an apprentice. As a master, he was overbearing and strict, but Lennox had persevered. He had to, for he could not stomach the alternative.

Quickly he had learned. Letters and Numbers, how to perform his sums. As he showed a deftness for the work, his master’s attitude towards him had slowly thawed. The bond between them had grown and, gradually, he had been entrusted with greater responsibility.

To his surprise, Lennox had found himself almost pleased with the fate he had carved for himself. He earned a steady keep, more than enough to satisfy his family. He worked shorter hours and did not need to break his back under the sun. It seemed almost as if the gates of the future stood wide open and one day, he could move from apprentice to scribe.

If he were lucky, he might even come to serve under a benevolent lord or lady.

There was only one tear he wished he could stitch closed. His family hated him. He glimpsed it in the hardening of their gazes whenever he returned to the hearth. They suffered his presence due to the good fortune he brought with him, but it was not for who he was, but the coin he earned.

Many a night he spent trying to water the fields of familial bonds and hope the bruising would fade. To his dismay, time did naught but deepen it.

Pacing back and forth before the door, he eyed the flower beds guiltily. His master would be most wroth with him were he to ruin the flowers, but the shutters loomed above. Mustering up his resolve, he gingerly stepped over the petunias before peering through the shutters. There was no movement inside.

He waited two more hours before eventually returning to his family. Maybe his master was out for the day, and hadn’t thought to inform him?

It took another week before the truth came to light. His master had finally succumbed to the passage of time. With his passing, the local lord had looked past their lands to hire a new scribe. Lennox had once more petitioned to serve as an apprentice, only this time his approach had been snubbed.

The new scribe had an apprentice of his own.

Worse, he was viewed by the apprentice as a looming threat. The girl had hired thugs to threaten him. When they moved to strike him, he had suffered the injustice in silence. Lennox abhorred violence and would not move to inflict it on others were he given the chance. The ruffians had beaten him and left him bruised in a dirty side alley. The message had been carved into his flesh. Were he to attempt to ply his trade, the well of his life would run out of ink.

He tried to protest the mistreatment, but his words had gone unheard.

Bitterly, he had returned to his brothers and sisters. It was certain the news would be ill received.

The night had grown darker than he feared.

Through no fault of his own, his family was most wroth with him. In light of his much diminished circumstances, his father’s gambling debts were now baying at their doorstep. None of them had known of the coin he owed, but blood had been shed at the reveal. Much of the good fortune he had showered upon their home had been poured into that hungry abyss. His father had shed thrones like water, and now the tap had run dry.

It was then that moneylenders had arrived to collect.

Lennox found himself breaking his back in the fields once more. Work that he had long grown unaccustomed to, was expected of him once more. With each day, he grew more and more weary. His coughs had returned to him, and it seemed as if the ledger of his life was soon to close.

Then, when he had thought that no further ill fortune could haunt him, a much darker shadow had cast itself over his shoulders. Like a pall on a plague victim, the lord’s recruiters had fallen upon him.

War, war, they declared.

And so, against the keening cry of his soul, he found himself marching to the fields of blood and steel.

Despite his misgivings against violence, he dared not protest the call to war. He sensed that were he to do so, his life would come to a close.

A seed of hatred had planted itself within him.

It mattered not that he was sickly, nor that his hands had never held a blade. Iron was shoved into his palms, and so iron he learned to wield. He moved from field to field in the service of Arsene, bearing witness to many a tragedy. Year after year, lives were reaped like grain at the harvest. From the borders of Aisne, to Cantel, to Iserre, to Orne he marched and fought, his soul spilling out of him as he laboured on.

Seasons passed, and with them, Lennox’s hatred only grew. Hatred for the war, hatred for the Princes, hatred for the world, hatred for himself. It festered within him, spreading like ink spilled across a page. He came to fear that were he to keep fighting, then one day it would consume him. The abyss yawned before him, calling out. He knew, with but a step, all he would do was fall.

So he ran.

Deserting with two companions, they sought to find employment elsewhere. To their dismay, despite discarding any signs of their former allegiance, they still stood out in a crowd. It was the scars from blades having marked their flesh that identified them for what they were, deserters. Few would dare trade with them, and those that would were of ill repute.

None but those with dark intentions would offer them shelter, or the opportunity to ply their trade.

He offered to serve as a scribe, but found himself turned down.

With time, they grew more and more desperate.

It was then that the seed of hatred that had long been planted finally started to germinate. The abyss beckoned and so Lennox finally fell.

They took to banditry on the roadside. Never claiming more than what they required to live, but still enough to damn them. Lennox’s heart had grown cold. The world had rejected him, so why should he not return the favour?

For a time they lived well enough. It was neither clean nor honest work, but it was purer of purpose than fighting under the command of the Prince. They fought not to empower a baseless ruler, but instead for the sole purpose of survival alone.

Until that fateful night on an otherwise empty road, when they set themselves upon two lone travellers. Two youths, a boy and a girl. Once, Lennox would have felt sorrow at their misfortune, but the voice of peace within him had long since been trampled out.

Events did not come to pass as the ledger of life demanded. An explosion of light, blinding. Disorientated, Lysander had perished with a blade rammed through the throat by the one-armed witch. Moments later, the witch struck out once more. Renault’s life was claimed by the workings of an amateur sorcerer. Deciding to cut his losses, Lennox had high tailed it. Alone, he had taken to wandering north.

He found himself shaken. Perhaps under Princess Constance rather than Arsene, the madness would finally end? Crossing over to Aisne, he found work for a time as a hired guard. However, his reprieve was short-lived. Princess Constance was claimed by the disease that had come to ravage this land and with her passing, the final embers of his hope had guttered out.

For in the aftermath of her demise, the mania simply grew.

Slowly, it dawned on Lennox that until someone took a stand against the baseness of the Princes, the darkness would only propagate like seeds on the wind.

The heart of Aisne was the closest Lennox had been to the poison that had taken his land for some time.

It was a city where the wound had festered in full. The mask covering the rot that ruled over them had been cast aside, and the hallowed out visage of want stood starkly visible for all to see. The nobles schemed and backstabbed openly, as their kind were wont to do, and it was the people under them who bore the price.

The nobles never suffered the cost of their madness.

No, doing so would be uncouth.

For their place in the world was not under the tip of the quill, instead it was holding the stem.

It was too much. All of it was too much. For too long, the people had played the part of the victim. It could go on no longer. Lennox had reached the end of his rope. From a distance, he watched one of the arrogant youths that dared to claim they had the right to rule. The upstart brat brought down the heel of his boot metaphorically on the neck of one of the local tavern owners. The man had the audacity to offer tribute to one of the opposing lords.

It was nought that Lennox had not seen before, but the cup of hatred could only hold so much before the rest spilled over.

Drawing his blade once more, he planted it between the lordling’s ribs and his attendants soon after. As the man let out his final breath, stained as it was with blood, Lennox found that his purpose had finally dawned upon him.

The hands that had writ the world had not cast it as fair. The lives of men were not given equal treatment, but there was nought which claimed that the cast of the world could not be changed.

Lennox would find the oil and light the torches, then cleanse the rot from Calernia. His task was not a small undertaking. Much work would be needed to burn out the corruption from root to stem. This did not deter him. For was it not taken as fact that all worthy callings were the works of ages?

And could there be a higher purpose than purging the filth that had seeded itself up top? When a farmer finds that the crop is rotten, it is not left so that the malaise may spread, but instead burned to the ground.

It was a monumental task, but one that Lennox had taken upon himself.

He would do unto the world as the world had done to him. He would give birth to the revolution, and see that all those who would claim to rule were cast down among the people they crushed underfoot. From petty tyrants, to kings, to the Gods themselves if need be. For only once others saw the world in the same light he did, could the task of shaping it fairly truly begin.

Lennox was the Revolutionary.

All that remained was for him to set off the spark that would ignite the flames.

Like all harvests, first he seeded his efforts in the soil. Lennox found the people best suited to fit his purpose and positioned them where they were called for. He may have spent many years plying his blade for Prince Arsene, but not all of that time had been spent learning the art of war. Before his hope had guttered out, he had bartered for time with engineers, scribes and quartermasters. Gradually, the lay of what he knew had expanded.

It would be hubris for him to claim to be an expert at any one task. Fortunately, it was not required for him to be. He could interpret the shape of each craft well enough to judge who would be better suited than himself to carry out the required roles.

And unearthing those he needed was not the challenge it could be, when Lennox could see what lay beneath their façade.

He delved the earth for those like him. The bitter, the downtrodden, the ones ground down by the heel of a lordling’s boot. Once they had been found, he began to scribe his own words into them, fanning the embers of their anger into raging infernos.

Lennox took on anyone who had the spark, no matter the measure of their skill. Those with no talents were taught to fight, for with time any could wield a spear. Those who came with learned proficiencies he convinced to take on essential roles. Step by step, in the forgotten corners of Aisne, his army began to take shape.

A force unlike any other.

When their first strike came, their so-called lords were caught completely unaware. This came as no surprise, for how could their rulers tell them apart? They looked no different from the other peasants. Their members wore the same clothes and carried out the same tasks day by day. By all outward appearances, they lived ordinary lives.

So it went that the boot came down, indiscriminately striking out at all below.

And the Revolutionary smiled.

For it came to pass that with each of their brethren who were struck, four innocents were caught in the carnage. For each innocent that was struck from the ledger of life, one more family tied itself to his cause.

And so the revolution continued to grow.

He found those with a penchant for violence and stoked the embers of their fire. Those who would stand aside peacefully… Well, there was much to incite.

The guards came down on peasants, then the peasants came down on guards. Beatings were repaid by crucifixions, deaths with gradual torture. And as his movement gained momentum, the understanding slowly spread. It was then that in the minds of those like him that the realization finally blossomed. There was nothing special about those above, so why not cast them below.

Then one fateful day, the Revolutionary let himself into his quarters and came face to face with a faceless man seated beside his desk. He looked, and he looked, but no matter how he tried, he could not determine the mien of the man’s visage. See helped him not at all, it was as if there was nought to glean. Frustrated, he focused on the figure’s fingers instead.

“Lennox. Revolutionary,” the man stated.

“Tell me, stranger, by what name would you have yourself be known as?” Lennox asked. Something about the man unsettled him, but Lennox tried to push it aside.

“Do you wish to live?”

“This residence is not your own. Answer my questions or perish, trespasser,” Lennox demanded.

“You are a villain living in a heroes land. Your time grows short. Even now, the vultures circle.”

With every word that passed through the stranger’s lips, Lennox’s unease grew.

“I ask once more, by what name should I call you?” Lennox repeated, licking his lips.

“I am the Assassin,” the monster said.

Before he knew it, Lennox had drawn his blade. The creature remained unmoved.

“Sheath your blade,” it said, it’s tone flat. “I am not here to kill you.”

“What is it that you wish from me, then?” Lennox asked, his legs wobbling. Slowly, he sat down on his bed. His blade remained unsheathed, pointed towards his foe.

“A hero will come to the city of Aisne. The Aspirant. It could be soon, it could be years.”

“By what means do you glean the lay of fate?”

“When she comes, you will die. You aren’t able to face her. She is a demon, calling herself a hero. Your weapons will not hurt her.” The Assassin continued to talk, speaking as if Lennox was not even truly there.

“And what purpose would you have me undertake?”

“You are destined to fight her. Without help, you will die. The question is, how much help do you want?”

The Revolutionary made his departure from the city of Aisne. He could not judge the true measure of the Calamity’s words, but he would heed them regardless.

Although, he had drawn a different conclusion than the one they wished him to learn. They were merely a different breed of snake, no different from the ones that ruled the in the lands he currently walked. He would not cast off the chains of one master merely to accept the chains of another. He did not know how many years his quest would take, but he would cast aside the net of time and see the Calamities all torn down, much like he would unseat the Princes.

The book of the future had not yet been written, but it was his hand that would wield the quill.

His Role was not one that required him to be there when the kingdom burned down, only when the first spark was struck. The stage was set for the house of cards to collapse.

The song of suffering called to him sweetly, and he had set his sights somewhere else.

The Aspirant and the Calamities could trade blows with each other over the ashes of the rotten corpse he had consigned to the pyre. No matter which way the wind blew, the fall of Aisne was writ in stone.

What had yet to be determined, was where the tread of his soles should take him to?

Wandering from Principality to Principality had potential to bear fruit, but Lennox doubted the wisdom of doing so. For if it were true that he was a hunted man, then better to escape the sights of the predator and begin somewhere else anew.

For he was not tied to any land or people, merely a desire to see it all burn down.

It came to him then. Mercantis, that was where he would plant the seeds of freedom.

The boot was hard on the neck of the people there, which made stoking the fires of rebellion all the easier.

One day, all would become dust.