Love / Hate

by David J. Turner, posted on March 27th, 2001

Prologue - Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4

Part III: Double-Sided Blade

          The night was fresh with the soft glow of moonlight as Lakros came nearer to the men. It was relatively silent except for the chirping of crickets and, of course, the gunfire. That wretched gunfire that had taken Shoar's life. Had taken his life, and mutilated him. They would pay.
          Why, though, was it Shoar? Shoar was innocent, if there was such a thing. He never harmed them, never moved against them. In fact, to his knowledge, Shoar has never even thought sourly of the new science of technology and its users. He had tried to convince Lakros that they were the same as any other person. And now Shoar was dead for his optimistic outlook. No, he was dead because of these men. Led by Hoaron, whom Dae'nar worked for.
          He would worry about that later, he decided. The men saw him now, and one came strutting over, a drunken sneer splitting his ugly face. He was the first to fall from the bolt of fire. Shouts went up as men moved toward him, some telling him to leave, and others just firing at will.
          He could feel the force of reality moving to his will. A ball of power, semi-translucent in nature, formed before him in his cusped hands. It flew forward, whistling through the air with a touch of the rage that so consumed the elf. A man fell back with only a blood-spurting stump for a neck.
          Bullets rocketed past him, not one touching him. Even now, reality worked for him, showing whom it truly wished to survive. A bullet almost grazed his ear, and the man who took that shot fell away, rolling in flames. Four were left, and he saw a dwarf running toward him. Hoaron, he hoped. Oh, the poetic justice would be delightful if it were so. He would tend to that soon enough.
          A bullet came over his head, whipping his hair back a touch. The earth, from just between his legs, split, turning into a fissure as it went. Two of the men shrieked, throwing aside their weapons as they fell into the jagged rocks. Lakros clapped his hands, and the earth closed upon the two, ripping their insides out. The other two began to flee, one suddenly jerking as his mind was stolen from him. He raised his gun, shooting the other in the back of the head. A soft spray of brain fell as the man moved the gun into his own mouth, firing. Their will was weak, easily taken by the mad elf.
          Lakros shrieked in unholy pain as a large bullet tore through his forearm. He tumbled back, falling to one knee, looking at his wound. It was a skim, though it had torn through his flesh and muscle, skimming the bone. He saw the dwarf clearly now, walking around with his elephant gun aimed at Lakros. This one, perhaps, would be fatal.
          With a cry that woke many in the vile, hate-ridden town of Iraoh, the elf jumped forward, grabbing the dwarf's head. He focused his will, his magick, with all his built up anger, hate, and anxiety giving it a forceful shove. The dwarf's whole body simply shattered in the night. Lakros was sprayed with blood and splotches of flesh, muscle and intestine. He stood slowly, looking at all the dead. Simultaneously, they all jerked as one. If they were not dead before, they were now.
          He moved over to the lake solemnly, his legs dragging as if they were weighed down by lead. His mind was a complete blank as he moved into the water, washing the blood and gore from his hair and face. He looked down at his clothes in disgust, tossing them aside onto the land. They ignited into a warm fire, heating Lakros's back as he bathed. He felt no satisfaction or joy at what he had done. No anger or hate that his brother was dead. He felt tired.
          'Life,' an old wise man had once said, 'is but a dream. We must all wake from that dream, sometime.' It was very fitting for what had occurred here this night, he thought morbidly. He would kill Hoaron for his crime, he decided. Not now, though. He had some things to see too. He might not survive the ordeal. And he needed rest; expelling so much magick so quickly and inefficiently was unwise. It left him weak, and even more tired.
          He left the water, and his burning clothes, walking back to his home suddenly. People were about now, staring at him in shock and horror. He barely noticed that he was naked, or that he still had his features scrunched up in rage. He did remember that a dwarf had recently been splattered all the way to his house.
          He moved into his home, once also the residency of Shoar, and drew on some warm clothes. He searched through the clutter, tugging loose a small shovel. He strode outside, stiff with the pain of his wound which he had only tended long enough to stem the blood, and depressed with Shoar's fate. Lakros began to dig a hole, just behind the house, finally letting thoughts race into his mind.
          At first all he could see was Shoar's face, beautiful and joyful. Slowly, the pain began to ebb as he focused his thoughts on other things. He needed to make plans for his revenge and for Shoar's justice. Dae'nar. The name stabbed at his heart, his current grief lending it the twist that drew silent tears forth. He did not know if he loved her, he did not know if he should. He was not certain if she was even trustworthy. He had little choice though; he needed her to deliver a letter to Tom. No one else would do this for the walking dead. He would die soon after he killed Hoaron, he was sure.
          He moved the remains of Shoar into the hole, kneeling at the side of it. He put his fist to his forehead, speaking in a harsh whisper. "I am sorry, Shoar, for this happening to you. If any deserved it, it was I for letting you stay here. I should have sent you home. I cannot fix that now, though I wish I could. I can, however, and will, give you justice. In this I show a bit of greed: I will take revenge also. I hope you pass into the other world peacefully. Say hello to mother for me."
          He let loose a sob, followed by a wave of magickal air that covered Shoar in the loose earth. He wished he could say more over the grave, but he had no time. He quickly and quietly slipped in doors, beginning a note that he restarted several times. Once he was satisfied, it read:

My Dear Dae'nar,
If you are reading this, then I am dead. For that, I apologize.
I am not sure if I can trust you, but I hope to the gods that I can. However unlikely
it is, I have fallen for you in so short a time. Perhaps I am wrong, and my
solitude brings these words out. I hope I have caused you no grief in my passing.
Know that when I first met you, I judged you by being human, and pretty,
therefore stupid and uncouth. It pleases me that you prove me wrong in this area, and I
apologize greatly for my misjudgment. Please, deliver the letter enclosed
herein to Tom at the windmill. May the gods bless you in your travels.

With the Most Sincere of Partings,
Lakros Demetrie Carcerai Nahere

He moved the letter aside as he took up another parchment, completing this one much more swiftly. After he finished, he closed it in Dae'nar's letter, waxing it and marking it with his symbol.

Tom,
          Shoar is dead by Hoaron's hand. I have sought revenge.
          Leave, they will not tolerate you as the last with magick in this land.

Best of Wishes,
          Lakros the Wanderer

He slid the letters into his pocket, setting out for the Flaming Inn. The people hurriedly scurried out of his way as he went, not making a sound. He forced the locked door open, one glance at Gunt sending the man into a furry of hand-wringing greetings. Lakros passed him on by, throwing the door closed. He jogged up the stairs, hesitating before Dae'nar's door.
          He held his hand up to knock, with full intentions of following through, but suddenly found himself nervously standing rigid. He licked his lips several times until his hand fell to his side. The door opened, Dae'nar standing there in a loose night robe. He licked his lips again. Could he trust her?
          "Lakros, what is wrong? I heard a door slamming. You are so pale. Come in, please."
          He didn't raise a protest as he was ushered in. The only thing he managed to do was look at her when a tear went down his cheek. "What is wrong? Are you hurt? Did something happen?" Panic began to seep into her features. It was genuine. She was worried about him. He touched her cheek lightly.
          "Shoar… my brother. He is dead. Murdered."
          A look of profound pity crossed her eyes. She wrapped her arms around him. "Oh, Lakros, I am so sorry…"
          They held each other for a long time. She felt warm and comforting. He needed comforting so bad. He moved his head down, kissing her lips. At first she did not relent, but then she returned the favor with vigor. Soon, her robe was falling away and they were lowering toward the bed. He decided then that he did love her, and that he trusted her with his life.