![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wildfireblossomTitle: A Demonic Past for Tom
Rating: PG-13 for death, gore, violence
Character(s): Tom, Titan, bandits
Word Count: 6,203 words
Summary: While ambling through the snowy forest Tom and his horse Titan are ambushed by bandits. But that is not all the danger there is to face.
Notes:
A Christmas present for my friend, Magic, based off of my her characters. Only the bandits and dog are mine. The rest are my friend's characters.
Two years ago you requested this story and I've sort of sat on it since then. Always had the intention, but meep. I suppose reading Tom and Bethany's RP helped my motivation, too, even though we still have to talk about that in detail.
I asked you about Tom's backstory recently and you said that it had not changed. I originally gave you three paragraphs and you liked them (lol puffy cloud). After this last semester I decided it was time to make due on finishing.
I read your notes to make sure I had all the details you asked for. There's one big thing I added you didn't ask for, but I don't think you'll object. I hoped this turned out the way you imagined it would be or better. Merry Christmas!
There were snow piles, a loose tree branch, and — oh, look over because of its plain fantastical nature — a white cloud. That was everything.
Quite frankly, the season's scenery was dull and borderline lifeless. 1195's winter had chosen to spring its vengeance, settling in early December with the Earth at the helm, causing hell for the residents of Europe. November swept by in mild in comparison. Tom had celebrated a noneventfal birthday then regardless that it had not been the greatest party the world had seen.
On behalf of Tom and Titan's travel to safety, this became the century's utmost challenge. The smackdab of the countryside was nowhere a respectable person should wander if they valued the gift of sanity. Bandits were on the rise.
But it was futile. The civilization Tom had discarded survived temporarily, plagued by the black stamp of death. If he had stayed, he might as well have stretched his neck for the grim reaper's guillotine to chop the slender bones and skin of his neck to shreds.
So, he had been chased out like a dog with a ruffled tail between his legs. All he could do in the present was seek refuge in a place faraway from the turmoil induced land in Norwich he had always known—the one he had lovingly shared with his parents until their untimely demise. First his father had been picked off, then his mother, the request for Tom to stay with her until the end evaporating on her lips as she laid on her deathbed.
Norwich was a hotspot for sickness because of its crammed population. Tom's mother and father had perished from the Black Death, and would it be so much to want a future, regardless of whether or not he was stuck in the past? Could he have been next? Answer need not apply. Anyone could be, for eternal peace was insatiable without discriminate.
But this was an opportunity to drop previous amends and reach for the future. Millions of boundless, wild fantasies roamed in his head. Each one asked to be dreamt, embraced in the cocoon of years to prosper, yet limited choices reigned supreme. Tom would have hastily abandoned every one of them for a home where he could rest his feet without worry.
Unfortunately for death, Tom was a fighter until the end. He did not favor succumbing to such a bitter destiny. Thus, there he was sidling along in the middle of the forest with his trusty companion to transverse the land for a city not as conquered by sadness, dragging along a meager bundle of supplies less than a month after his twenty-third birthday.
Hope seemed not so elusive when silence reigned. Not one groaning person hunched over in misery was in sight, and Tom could stomach the snowflakes tickling against his nose each time spurts of wind tickled the tip of his touch.
All the same, the forest was disturbingly desolate. Terribly so. Not a single bird was left behind to chirp a merry tune; squirrels did not burrow into the hollows of trees.
Tom did not expect to see furry woodland creatures popping out of tree trunks to wave and call a greeting, but the heightened quality of the air was drenched in climatic anxiety. Somewhere in this forest a spirit sang of something amiss. As it was at the end of decision, Tom and Titan had to bear the consequences and not pay attention to the stillness, or an icicle ready to drop from a tree branch and spear into the snow like a finite declaration of war.
Titan was the first to hear. His ears perked in wonder, and his body seized up momentarily, alert. The tensed in Titan's side told Tom that something was brewing in the forest.
The howl was rusty like a blade abandoned in the writhing heat of summer's sunlight, a vicious pinch of wheezes strangled in anticipation of a rich bounty. Pearly white fangs of a beast seethed in triumph. An unruly, ruffled white figure leapt from the snow-dripped bushes. It darted in front of Titan and blocked the path.
Caught off-guard, Tom could only stare in dread—that was all he had time for. Titan was too well-bred a stallion to rear in sight of the scruffy hunting dog, but there better bigger fish to fry. Despite the fact that he had no time to rendezvous with his unfortunate standings, hell struck.
A whistle stormed through the prancing snowflakes. A heartbeat of gripped fear coalesced into fear.
Pain escalated clean through Tom's shoulder and stabbed into his neckline. It was as if lightning had zapped straight into his skin and frazzled each nerve in his shoulder; the precise rip of clothing and metallic scent of blood was all that refuted the possibility of a missile from above.
An arrow, Tom thought dizzily.
So much for Titan's immunity to danger. As good of a trusty and loyal steed he was, horses tolerated little which spooked them, especially considering that a set of hoof-steps trampled the pathway from behind.
The air whooshed past Tom as Titan's forelegs shot into the air, lashing out the dog still growling at them furiously. With a sickening crush Tom found himself curled in the fetal position, a heap of a snowdrift cutting off his air supply.
Weakly but on alert, Tom raised his head from the suffocating snow. A starting headache throbbed at his forehead. His teeth chattered from the cold, and blood spray seeping into the recesses of his nostrils. Yes, his intuition had been right, after all.
The cat-calling whoops of bandits settled the mystery. Tom turned his head just in time to see three bandits riding up to him on two brown horses and the lead black. Damn his luck.
"Look what we found here, boys," the leader chorused, pointing at Tom over the reigns of his horse. "There's a fine horse there, don't you say!"
"Looks like one of those Friesian stallions that sell handsomely to me," the second bandit flanking the first commented. If it were possible dollar signs would have appeared in his eyes.
"That's a fine breed," the third man agreed, nodding with a smirk. "It's a shame a prize of a horse belongs to such a good-for-nothing weakling. We should fix that!"
Flashes of anger seethed in Tom. These men had no right to rangle Titan from his possession. Titan was his companion. His means of survival in wonderland of bitter coldness. But importantly, it was his reminder of home and the farrier had been. The hay-strewn stable Tom's father had kept his horses in before trading them off in seasonal rotation as profit. Titan had been the one life to stay constant with Tom for over a month.
Tom's leftover past was anchored with Titan. His parents, his home. And these men wanted to sheer that thin thread of hope in half?
And they thought that was none of Tom's business to intervene?
"Leave my horse out of this, you bastards!" Tom hissed. Blood spurted from his sliced shoulder; nothing he could not handle for the time being.
Two of the three bandits ignored Tom entirely. The flanking men swiftly marched past Tom to reach Titan. By then Titan's neighs of distress jeered the hunting dog on. The dog lunged closer at Titan, keeping him at bay.
Tom willed himself to stomp to his feet and give those cruel bastards a tongue lashing of their lives, and not to mention a stab wound or two for the road, but he was immediately apprehended before he moving. Damn pain slowing him down. Life or death hung in the balance here.
"You aren't going anywhere, kid," the leader said. The man unsheathed the sword clipped to his belt. Even though the man was on horseback, Tom found the short blade grazing the bottom of his chin, titling his face up.
The sword tip rooted Tom's muscles from springing. One wrong move and that sword would slice into his jaw and out the back of his head. Tom could feel the man's jibe pierce his final defenses of calm.
Tom was normal. Maybe he was nowhere on par with a criminal. This man seemed rough-and tumble, a new goofy-business type of man; both of his hands were blistered and worn with years and years worth of labor signing trace. But Tom had protection if fighting became inevitable.
"Just leave my horse out of this." It was a plea. What else did he have but a measly few belongings?
Titan should not have to die because he had screwed up, or be sold-off to the highest bidder at the blackmarket—a brute of a handler who did not mind getting his kicks from whipping his father's horse into submission. The thought almost sent an icy chill down Tom's spine, but the snow he had landed in had stolen most of his senses. Tom's fingers stiffly twitched for warmth.
The man laughed, a harsh sound to even well-polished ears. "Not a chance. Look, they've already gotten that beauty of a horse roped up."
True to his word, the swish of a rope stung the air before hitting Titan. Titan fought valiantly for safety. He stomped and twisting in the ropeline, but he was no great warhorse that knew the tricks of the trade to shake himself free of this kind of trap. Titan strained against one of the oak trees as soon as he was tied down.
Afterward, the men looted through Tom's bags, searching for anything of usefulness. Everything would pale in comparison to Titan's guarantee in bonus funds. Still, cahs was cahs, and these bandits wanted it all.
By the time the men appeased themselves with their search, the leader had forced Tom to a standing position. The sword still pointed at his throat, as ready as ever to bring forth a river of crimson on creamy skin. This whole mess looked horrific, and Titan was terrified, eyes darting everywhere from Tom's profile for help to the crystalline snowflakes descending in puffs from the sky.
Thankfully Tom had one trick left up his sleeve. Just one that had to count for himself.
And that was what hurt the most. Tom had to save himself, and he had to leave Titan behind. In his condition he could not fight anymore. Blood loss had already begun to claim him; light dizziness trenched his mind into a fog as much as the blood clotted into his ever-staining cloak. Like this, maybe Titan would be lucky from the kind of pain he had to endure.
Screw that laissez faire attitude. Tom had to try to fight until he could barely move, damnit.
But there was truth to his musing, as morbid as they were. Tom would have to default if push came to shove.
Not yet.
"Looks like we have everything settled here!" the leader yelled in triumph. "How about we take this miserable boy and his horse back to the hideout and see what kind of pretty penny we can fetch?"
Just a second.
The leader looked away for a moment. A split second delay to make sure his men handled Titan correctly with precision and care, but that was enough for Tom to take his advantage as advertise.
Without thinking, Tom reached to his belt. The left shoulder, the one that had been struck by the arrow, still operated if not for the sharp sparks of irritated nerves running down his arm. So he used his right. His fingers plunked into his saber's hilt. Tom grasped onto the fine metal with trembling fingers and yanked the short sword out in a feverish rush.
The grinding of metal alerted the bandit. He glanced at Tom just as Tom made an uppercut and slashed at the black horse's chest.
The horse whinnied. It bucked back, trotting backwards to protect itself. It tried to raise its hooves to smash Tom into the dust, but the bandit eased it back down with the quick reflexes of his hands. That still did nothing to ease the thin ribbion of blood splattering on the snow-soaked ground.
"You little bastard!" the bandit screeched. "Nobody hurts my horse and lives! Get him, get him!"
Tom was not listening to the idiot's nonsensical babbling. He threw himself forward and sliced at diced at the man's thigh. He cut through the fabric of his trousers and continued until he had successfully cut the man's leg two or three times—Tom was too rushed to care exactly—and backed away from his would-be pursuer once blood coated his leg.
He had to leave. Run. Now.
Tom gripped onto his sword. Of course he would need it; two more men would be hot on his trial, and surely this man would be the lookout for a reason to skewer his hide alive after his escape stunt. Starting at a breakneck run Tom could only give Titan a backwards glance over his shoulder as a form of apology.
I'm sorry for failing you.
And he ran like his pants had been set on fire. He ran past an ever lifeless forest without one hint of mirth, livelihood. A trial of blood dripped behind him as some bread trail. Despite trying to wrap the wound and put pressure on it with his cloak, the blood oozed out with each footfall he took, determined to leave his body one way or another for his captors.
The trees were a background he could never seen beyond. If he at least had that advantage he could survive, but Tom was only a lowly human. The snow blocked his path, and the ice was almost too much for him to leap over quickly. But he had to chance the fall or face capture.
A streak of white zipped along the path and raced ahead. Tom's heart dropped into his stomach.
The dog stood in front of Tom's path. Its tail swished in tandem with its heavy breathing. It stared at Tom, unrestrained, glaring at him with what could have been hate. With what could have been his next meal.
Hell burned in the dog's beady eyes. It was a luminescence only Cerebus himself could rival in person. Pure, putrid hell of the highest order burned in those dark amber eyes and aimed straight at Tom—the fires of a trained attack dog ready to strike without words of encouragement from his master as guidance. The primitive state of mind the dog had lapsed into could not be undone. The dog had gone wild, mad with power. No man was its master but hunger and bloodshed.
No time to think. Move. Breath.
Now was the time to feel.
The dog lunged. Foam poured out of its mouth as its jaws widened against Tom, and Tom had the merest of moments to react. The swipe that he aimed at the dog's coat did nothing but sheer off a bit of its fur. It was almost ghostly quick.
Clothes ripped. Milky human flesh was bared to the bitter winter winds, but Tom did not feel cold. He felt heat, the breath of another living being as warm teeth dug into him and dripped sticky saliva in his wounds.
Tom only knew unadulterated pain, and hot breath on exposed flesh, and the world of oblivion as veins and arteries and bone were as unmade from his stomach and the world spun in a faltering crescendo of wails.
The world may as well as crushed into the sun; Tom's skin was on fire. His throat was parched, crying out to a god or world or just somebody who would help. So much snow and none of it could quench his thirst.
Cold under him. Heat above him.
Cold . . . Heat . . .
Heat . . .
The world burned. And burned.
Tom raised his hand. Brooding over his death to this animal would do no good. Fight he damn well had tried to do earlier, and fight he damn well would continue to do until his last breath racked his body.
A whine. An earsplitting whine filled the path. The saber scraped through the dog's eyes, capped off its nose, and minced into the gap of its mouth. Tom pushed his way into its teeth. He pushed until his fingers felt like they would either fall off from frostbite or turn blue from numbness without blood spilling in.
Toom twisted the blade harder, faster, quicker. The seoncds turned into minutes and eons and forever.
Dark blood leaked down Tom's hand in a pool of flesh and clots. Suffering. He could have cared less whose blood it was. It was hard to tell whether the blood was his own or the dog's. There was so much red painting their bodies in a mural. Just so damn [i]much[/i] conflating their misery. Perhaps their blood had mingled and created a blood bond. A bloodbath of their own among a grave of dangling flesh and grief.
If Tom could have a say, they would both die and go to hell together. Where they both belonged after so much violence, probably. Titan may still have a bad home. Nothing could be done about that in this state.
This just could not be the end. Tom was a normal man. November 14th was his birthday, and he had only lived one month after that fated day. He had done nothing to deserve this agonizing punishment. He had endured so much with his parents dying one after the other. How he had had to leave their rotting bodies behind as per the traidtion. He had not meant of that to happen!
Was this just what life was?
Pain, hope, and death in pain?
Before he knew it, Tom had slashed the dog so many times his blade had made a clean cut through its muzzle through its neck. Each of its eye sockets hung drowsily from poking and prodding to its eyeballs. The spurting sound of blooddrops falling to the wind the crunch of fleshed sickened him to no end.
The dog lay still on its side. Its entire face was scratched too badly to even recognize it had been white.
The saber fell out of his hand and landed in the snow.Tom wheezed. He coughed up a stream of blood; the blood dribbled down his chin and fell on the shirt of his collar. Each breath was harder to puff from his lungs than the last, and his lungs and heart felt like they were on overdrive, if they were in one piece to begin with.
Labored breathing meant his body was shutting down. Half of his body was literally ripped to ribbons anyway. Why should he be surprised? He felt sick. So sick, so tired. All he wanted was to pet Titan's sleek coat. He wanted the protection of his parents arms soothing him into gentle sleep.
A picture of his parents smiling entered his mind's eye. Biting back a choked sob was all Tom could do not to fall into the throes of depression.
One stray tear slipped down his cheek and dropped on his shoulder.
Today, he would die a miserable man. A forgotten man stripped of his pride in a world too cruel to even give him a disease. Tomrorrow he would be buried under a fresh pile of snow. Even then, nothing could dye out the stench of blood reeking every corner of the ground here; bloodstains dotted the snow all around him and the dog.
Tom gazed upwards in the branches of a large oak tree. Snowflakes tettered through the skeletal branches of the tree, weaving through the maze in sauntering white sprinkles. Majestic and tall. In the spring the oak would blossom again. Green buds represented life
Maybe there were worse places to die. Here, under this oak tree, his spirit could live on for years to come. The oak tree would live for years and years, and Tom had wanted to live for longer than his mortal body wanted himself to under such stress.
Tom continued to watch the snowflakes from the sky. His eyes started to droop closed. Rest. He just wanted to rest now from this world. Dying was worse in the beginning, but as the softness of unconsciousness swept over him, Tom had a blinding fraction of peace to hold onto.
Horses charging near had just made its way to his ears. So they had come to find Tom, after all.
Damn them. He still did not want to die. And he hated those bandits with a fiery passion.
If only he could rip their throats out and show them what true pain was.
I could arrange that for you, you know. It's not time for you to depart this world. Will you accept?
Had Tom the strength he would have bolted upright. Who the blue blazes was that?! It was... inside his head. A voice. A deep, croaky voice.
Screams surrounded him. Tom's voice drowned them out. The bandits were hollering at each other, horrified.
Now the bandits felt pity. Tom did not need their pity on his deathbed.
"Gods, our damned dog killed him! He ripped him bloody pieces!"
"And its dead! What happened?"
"D-Don't look at me for an answer, you idiots! Did it go mad?"
The terror in their voices was laughable.
Who are you? Tom queried. He was slipping too far out of control to have a proper conversation but he had enough sense to ask that much.
In answer another raw blow of pain engulfed his entire body. At first his pain had originated from his shoulder and neck straight down to his chewed up side. This pain—oh this torture—enveloped each nook and cranny of his body and refused to let go.
Tom's senses were all but jumble. He felt as though his judgment had been whipped to the wind as new power racked each inch of his skin. All but frayed, his nerves danced in tune with the melodic magic pouring through his final defenses.
Blazing swords the might as well have been piercing him from every angle everything hurt so badly.
Tom's eyes clouded over. Both eyes darkened, somber but deadly in seriousness. He blinked and blinked again as if the world began to come into focus on his poor eyesight. His body convulsed, shaking like a fallen leaf in the middle of a hurricane.
I am a demon named Fray. I am here to see that you don't die. Isn't that good for you, Tommy?
Damn. This demon knew his name. It knew his name. Shut up! Tom commanded, squirming.
Of course I know your name. That's easy. I know everything in your mind, Tom, and I want to know even more. Won't you let me in?
At this point Tom had had enough of this insanity trying to overtake him.
"Get out of my head! Get the hell out!" Tom yelled. His hands and feet twitched in a crazy rhythm, fingertips brushing against the snow while making finger snow angels.
"What is wrong with the lad?" The leader of the bandit group advanced towards Tom's sprawled out figure. Was this an escape ploy?
Tom completely ignored the men.
"Stop it, stop it, you demon!" Tears formed at the corners of his eyes. So drained of energy yet he could cry. He could show the world this hurt. "Help me, get this demon out of my head!"
The men stared, shocked and appalled by the display. It looked as if Tom's words had finally cut through to them. The crazed movements he made were the icing on the cake.
"Demon?" the second man asked, eyes bulging out of their sockets. He looked ready to backtrack to the hills.
"Did he say demon?" The third man cocked his head, frowning. He looked less spooked but suspicious.
The leader peeked closer, and his horse took a tentative step closer. "Is he being possessed?"
Raucous laughter trumpeted from Tom's throat.
"To Hell you all go! Hell, hell, hell!" he sang. The words felt so raw on the way out, but they oddly felt wonderful on his tongue. "You'll see—I'm more powerful than you! I can kill you all!"
Understanding flashed in the leader's eyes. Something here was not right at all. "Stop pretending. Be off with you, demon!" He was no preacher, but he had no idea what else he should be doing.
"Hell fire will burn you all. Come on, jump right on, the fire's fine!" Tom rolled on the ground, eyes flashing the deep-set color of royal blue hotter than any lit flame on Earth. He raised his arms above his hand and threw back his head as if he were swimming in a lake of molten ash.
Tom coughed up more blood into the snow. He could not help himself from the temptation. The frigid snow was nothing like hellfire would be. Chills running down his spine had nothing to do with the temperature.
The leader's face turned stony at this. Now, he was a greedy man, but he knew his limits around the likes of folk such as this one. The boy had gone nuts. Should he have been indeed possessed by a demon that was another piece of evidence he did not need haunting him for a lifetime. Better safer than sorry sometimes, especially when a man had gone off his rocker, eyes flashing.
"Men, we're leaving! Pack up and round out," the leader boomed. "I'm not sticking around for any demons. Let's be on our way!"
"What about the Friesian?" the bandit on the black horse's left asked.
"He might be lying," the third man piped in, not at all convinced.
"Leave it!" the leader shot back, annoyed with their incompetence. "No well-bred horse is worth a man's life. There are better horses out there ripe for the picking if we play our cards right. Hurry your gear and run!"
With that the men raced off down the path. Dirt rasied behind them as each horse galloped at full speed.
These men had common sense b. The leader was a smart old broker, but Tom had the upperhand. None of them would vanish from his clutches.
These men had to pay the price.
Despite the fact that Tom was bleeding to death with a whole half of his body bitten off, of course. Or would without the demon that had invaded his flesh, blood and soul bonded to an extreme force.
The demon had won. Each movement fit the demon further into his bones as if her were a blacksmith forging his framework into puppet. Bending, crunching—Fray's path to dominance was successful. Tom was his work of art, and art he would have all to his pleasure and prosperity.
Tom's body rose off the ground. His limbs spread like he were a puppet stringed along to a wire hanging above. Tom's hands waved back and forth, slowly, ready to take on the oncoming challenge.
And then he flew in the air.
Technically speaking, Tom could not fly. He had no wings or balance. But the power rushing through his veins was intoxicating enough to give him the momentum to climb. To jump.
Tom landed against a tree truck. He bounced on on trunk to the next and the next, constantly leaping and falling and gaining speed. Chasing the men meant nothing without the fun of running on his side. Blood still poured from his side, though less now, Fray keeping the waterfall of crimson to a minimum. Silly blood loss could not stop him from seeking revenge.
"Now you'll die!" Tom laughed.
For all his brave wit, and for all purposes to make his mark on humankind, the leader would become his first victim. Bandits had forced him into this pain. The dog. The stealing. The ringleader of such anguish had to be taken out.
The man did not see what hit him.
With a furious cry Tom crashed into the black horse. Still in motion Tom had to hold on. He did so by digging his nails into the man's back and tugging his back against his chest. Opening his mouth wide, Tom craned his neck to grind his teeth into the man's neck.
Tom's teeth sunk into the leader's throat. White skin was penetrated, torn. Blood spurted out and dribbled on the sleek fur of his horse, marring the blackness with dark red.
The black horse reared, and the man released a strangled moan. He tried to push Tom over so he would fall. But it was useless; Tom held on for dear life without a single regret. The man shoved at Tom. The demon was stronger, however, and continued his rampage
Tom bit and munched with all of his might until the man went limp in his arms. Disgusted, Tom threw him off of his horse; bloodstained the snow even before the man hit the soil.
The last two were easy pickings.
Certainly Fray did not kill them off the same way. If he did there would be no fun! Killing was a sport, and Fray was out for precious blood.
The second man, or the one who had named Titan's breed, was the next victim. What a fright he was! Unluckily for him. he had had gotten ver much further ahead. His horse sped along on its stubby legs towards the hills in the distance. Too bad.
Tom made quick labor of getting to him, as well. With one long-stride from the leader's horse, he grasped the man around the waist.
The second reached for the short sword strapped to his belt. He managed to tilt it halfway out of its sheath before Tom grabbed it from his miserable hand and pitch it at the trees.
"Your heart lies with greed, doesn't it? You knew all about my horse. You were fine with selling him." Tom asked sweetly. A wide grin crept over his features. "Well, let me take your heart since you took mine."
The man clutched at his heart to protect himself. The deed was too late. Tom's hand practically shot through the second man's and plunged into the dark caverns of his chest. Ribs cracked under the immense pressure. Power radiated from every finger digging around in his chest, rivers of blood spilling over Tom's wrist.
Pushing aside the man's lung, Tom squeezed the heart sealed within. So soft, beating so quickly in shock. The demon wanted it for himself. Just for himself!
A squelching noise rubbed against the air. Two pickles plucked from the same dish, perhaps, or the silky sound of organs rubbing in musical sync. Wrenching the heart out of the man's chest a network of veins and arteries followed; a fountain of warm blood flew in each direction.
The man's eyes lolled back his head, lips too parched and blue to scream. His mouth laid open a silent scream for only Tom's eyes to witness.
But Tom was not done. Oh, no.
"And I bet you wanted to eat from the money you would earn, didn't you?" Tom hissed in his ear. Perhaps the man was fading to the darkness, but he had not completely slipped yet. "I have the perfect idea."
Lovingly, he cradled the heart in his hand, Tom put the heart to lips. He chomped on the pink flesh, pulling off a chewy morsel. A few more bites were taken before the scent of blood leaking from the arteries in his mouth was too much for him to ingest.
Carelessly, Tom threw the heart into a bush. Now it was trash for the rats.
Time for the grand finale.
The third had tracked his pace accordingly. He was a a trickier sort, Tom would admit that much. Beefy muscles assembled his arms and legs into a fighter's worst nightmare. Despite being a bandit he was a trained warrior ready for action.
So was Fray.
Catching up was not too difficult. By then, however, the two had neared the thickest section of the forest.
"Come on, human. Don't you want to play!" he called. "We're not done yet!"
The third man seemed to tense slightly, but he was no fool to show his true emotions. Perfect to form as a soldier should be. "You'll never catch me, demon!" the man retorted.
Before Tom could realize what happened next, the man steered the horse off-course reach just as he was about to smack into him. Tom skidded on the dirt and glanced around wildly to find him.
Horses were not meant to maneuver through woodland. But there was nowhere else to turn to in a frenzy. The man knew when he should pick his battles. Against another man the fight would have been on equal footing. Dying like a warrior, just like he had been in years and years ago, would be justified.
Fighting a demon, on the other hand, was the evil eye staring him straight through his soul.
So that was why, even though he had to force his horse to bound over fallen logs and slippery snow, he had no choice but to tangle himself further into the web he and the other men had drawn on their lives.
Furious that he had missed, Tom's eyes flashed. Malicious intent strained every inch of his rebelling flesh.
Once he caught up the man slashed at him with his sword back and forth. In the short interval the third man had drawn his sword. This posed a potential mishap. Well, if the demon were not Fray calling the shots.
Dodging the man's swings, Tom jumped over brush and rocks to catch him. Yet he was not what brought the powerful horse literally to its knees.
The brown horse neighed; its legs began to shake underneath him. The man had only a moment to frown as his horse slipped on the black ice and smashed into the ground. Tangled in limbs and ice and snow, the man groaned, waving his sword in the air.
"Stay away from me!" the man cried. Even in his state, it was impressive he could think of his safety. That he could think coherently.
Hair covered the front of his face. As Tom approached, the third man attempted to stand to his feet, but he failed. Instead he grunted in pain; the horse kicked wildly at everything in sight to gather back control of itself.
"Not on your life," Tom replied quietly,
Tom made short work of pulling the man out of reach of the horse and to his feet.
Was it a sight to behold when Tom was finished with his final prey. The third man dangled from the branches of the tree. Each of his limbs stretched with the branches impaled in his arms. The sword stuck out from the middle of his stomach, just shy of where had been bitten by the rabid dog less than ten minutes ago.
It was done.
Finally done. Thank god.
Tom trudged back to the spot the men had tied Titan. For a short time the adrenaline remained in his blood. It was enough to keep him on track until he reached his beloved horse.
As the only one uninjured during the whole escapade, Titan was alert. He, however, stared at Tom and tried to back away. His master no longer looked like his master anymore, and he plain had no comprehension of what was happening.
Tom was just glad Titan was safe. He would have deal with him later, and hopefully, he wouldn't starve.
Exhausted. Tom sagged to his knees and then toppled into the snow. The snow tickled his nose. Tom closed his eyes, drained.
Warmth. His legs, arms, and torso were all really warm. Even his forehead felt hot like some sort of fever had taken over him. But he did not feel sick. Everything he had wanted had come true.
You're a pathetic excuse of a human. Don't worry, though, you won't die, the demon assured Tom. You won't die because I will keep your body warm. Won't that be nice? Now, Tommy, have a rest and we'll play more when you can see the daylight again. Should take about two hours.
Everything Fray said seemed to be babble to Tom's broken mind. He could not take this anymore. All those men had died. The dog had, too, but at least the horses had made it out mostly unscathed by the insanity this demon had wrought upon the forest.
There was no way he could ever allow his demon wreak havoc ever again. But that was a problem for another time when he could think clearly. When he was not bogged down with the memories of tangy blood and taunting demon laughter.
Tom rested his head higher on the fluffy patch of snow. It was cold. Still, he was warm as the demon promised him. For first time since the bandits had showed up, he found sweet relief once he fainted into blackness.
For the rest of that cold December day all was quiet for Tom on that Eve of New Years, locked in slumber.
✘—✘
Note 1: You requested a rapier or a saber as Tom's weapon of choice. I chose a saber because I wanted Tom to slash things. A rapier is better for thrusting, not cutting and slashing. You wanted Tom to fall off Titan. I thought cutting would work with hurting the animals better.
Note 2: You said nothing about a dog. You wanted Tom to have a fatal wound, but a sword sounded too obvious. But you're obsessed with dogs (coughHoundoomcough). I thought literally ripping his guts out would be worse than having Tom's fatal wound a sword stabbing.
Note 3: Sarah says sorry that she couldn't stop me from doing this to you, Tom. She says I'm brutal. I'm not brutal. I'm just not kind and gentle!
Note 4: I was not aware Tom named Fray after this (as you so helpfully point out after your reading). Plus, Fray wouldn't reveal his demon name. Some do in the demonic world, some don't. I wasn't sure and hadn't asked beforehand because, you know, surprise.
Rating: PG-13 for death, gore, violence
Character(s): Tom, Titan, bandits
Word Count: 6,203 words
Summary: While ambling through the snowy forest Tom and his horse Titan are ambushed by bandits. But that is not all the danger there is to face.
Notes:
A Christmas present for my friend, Magic, based off of my her characters. Only the bandits and dog are mine. The rest are my friend's characters.
Two years ago you requested this story and I've sort of sat on it since then. Always had the intention, but meep. I suppose reading Tom and Bethany's RP helped my motivation, too, even though we still have to talk about that in detail.
I asked you about Tom's backstory recently and you said that it had not changed. I originally gave you three paragraphs and you liked them (lol puffy cloud). After this last semester I decided it was time to make due on finishing.
I read your notes to make sure I had all the details you asked for. There's one big thing I added you didn't ask for, but I don't think you'll object. I hoped this turned out the way you imagined it would be or better. Merry Christmas!
There were snow piles, a loose tree branch, and — oh, look over because of its plain fantastical nature — a white cloud. That was everything.
Quite frankly, the season's scenery was dull and borderline lifeless. 1195's winter had chosen to spring its vengeance, settling in early December with the Earth at the helm, causing hell for the residents of Europe. November swept by in mild in comparison. Tom had celebrated a noneventfal birthday then regardless that it had not been the greatest party the world had seen.
On behalf of Tom and Titan's travel to safety, this became the century's utmost challenge. The smackdab of the countryside was nowhere a respectable person should wander if they valued the gift of sanity. Bandits were on the rise.
But it was futile. The civilization Tom had discarded survived temporarily, plagued by the black stamp of death. If he had stayed, he might as well have stretched his neck for the grim reaper's guillotine to chop the slender bones and skin of his neck to shreds.
So, he had been chased out like a dog with a ruffled tail between his legs. All he could do in the present was seek refuge in a place faraway from the turmoil induced land in Norwich he had always known—the one he had lovingly shared with his parents until their untimely demise. First his father had been picked off, then his mother, the request for Tom to stay with her until the end evaporating on her lips as she laid on her deathbed.
Norwich was a hotspot for sickness because of its crammed population. Tom's mother and father had perished from the Black Death, and would it be so much to want a future, regardless of whether or not he was stuck in the past? Could he have been next? Answer need not apply. Anyone could be, for eternal peace was insatiable without discriminate.
But this was an opportunity to drop previous amends and reach for the future. Millions of boundless, wild fantasies roamed in his head. Each one asked to be dreamt, embraced in the cocoon of years to prosper, yet limited choices reigned supreme. Tom would have hastily abandoned every one of them for a home where he could rest his feet without worry.
Unfortunately for death, Tom was a fighter until the end. He did not favor succumbing to such a bitter destiny. Thus, there he was sidling along in the middle of the forest with his trusty companion to transverse the land for a city not as conquered by sadness, dragging along a meager bundle of supplies less than a month after his twenty-third birthday.
Hope seemed not so elusive when silence reigned. Not one groaning person hunched over in misery was in sight, and Tom could stomach the snowflakes tickling against his nose each time spurts of wind tickled the tip of his touch.
All the same, the forest was disturbingly desolate. Terribly so. Not a single bird was left behind to chirp a merry tune; squirrels did not burrow into the hollows of trees.
Tom did not expect to see furry woodland creatures popping out of tree trunks to wave and call a greeting, but the heightened quality of the air was drenched in climatic anxiety. Somewhere in this forest a spirit sang of something amiss. As it was at the end of decision, Tom and Titan had to bear the consequences and not pay attention to the stillness, or an icicle ready to drop from a tree branch and spear into the snow like a finite declaration of war.
Titan was the first to hear. His ears perked in wonder, and his body seized up momentarily, alert. The tensed in Titan's side told Tom that something was brewing in the forest.
The howl was rusty like a blade abandoned in the writhing heat of summer's sunlight, a vicious pinch of wheezes strangled in anticipation of a rich bounty. Pearly white fangs of a beast seethed in triumph. An unruly, ruffled white figure leapt from the snow-dripped bushes. It darted in front of Titan and blocked the path.
Caught off-guard, Tom could only stare in dread—that was all he had time for. Titan was too well-bred a stallion to rear in sight of the scruffy hunting dog, but there better bigger fish to fry. Despite the fact that he had no time to rendezvous with his unfortunate standings, hell struck.
A whistle stormed through the prancing snowflakes. A heartbeat of gripped fear coalesced into fear.
Pain escalated clean through Tom's shoulder and stabbed into his neckline. It was as if lightning had zapped straight into his skin and frazzled each nerve in his shoulder; the precise rip of clothing and metallic scent of blood was all that refuted the possibility of a missile from above.
An arrow, Tom thought dizzily.
So much for Titan's immunity to danger. As good of a trusty and loyal steed he was, horses tolerated little which spooked them, especially considering that a set of hoof-steps trampled the pathway from behind.
The air whooshed past Tom as Titan's forelegs shot into the air, lashing out the dog still growling at them furiously. With a sickening crush Tom found himself curled in the fetal position, a heap of a snowdrift cutting off his air supply.
Weakly but on alert, Tom raised his head from the suffocating snow. A starting headache throbbed at his forehead. His teeth chattered from the cold, and blood spray seeping into the recesses of his nostrils. Yes, his intuition had been right, after all.
The cat-calling whoops of bandits settled the mystery. Tom turned his head just in time to see three bandits riding up to him on two brown horses and the lead black. Damn his luck.
"Look what we found here, boys," the leader chorused, pointing at Tom over the reigns of his horse. "There's a fine horse there, don't you say!"
"Looks like one of those Friesian stallions that sell handsomely to me," the second bandit flanking the first commented. If it were possible dollar signs would have appeared in his eyes.
"That's a fine breed," the third man agreed, nodding with a smirk. "It's a shame a prize of a horse belongs to such a good-for-nothing weakling. We should fix that!"
Flashes of anger seethed in Tom. These men had no right to rangle Titan from his possession. Titan was his companion. His means of survival in wonderland of bitter coldness. But importantly, it was his reminder of home and the farrier had been. The hay-strewn stable Tom's father had kept his horses in before trading them off in seasonal rotation as profit. Titan had been the one life to stay constant with Tom for over a month.
Tom's leftover past was anchored with Titan. His parents, his home. And these men wanted to sheer that thin thread of hope in half?
And they thought that was none of Tom's business to intervene?
"Leave my horse out of this, you bastards!" Tom hissed. Blood spurted from his sliced shoulder; nothing he could not handle for the time being.
Two of the three bandits ignored Tom entirely. The flanking men swiftly marched past Tom to reach Titan. By then Titan's neighs of distress jeered the hunting dog on. The dog lunged closer at Titan, keeping him at bay.
Tom willed himself to stomp to his feet and give those cruel bastards a tongue lashing of their lives, and not to mention a stab wound or two for the road, but he was immediately apprehended before he moving. Damn pain slowing him down. Life or death hung in the balance here.
"You aren't going anywhere, kid," the leader said. The man unsheathed the sword clipped to his belt. Even though the man was on horseback, Tom found the short blade grazing the bottom of his chin, titling his face up.
The sword tip rooted Tom's muscles from springing. One wrong move and that sword would slice into his jaw and out the back of his head. Tom could feel the man's jibe pierce his final defenses of calm.
Tom was normal. Maybe he was nowhere on par with a criminal. This man seemed rough-and tumble, a new goofy-business type of man; both of his hands were blistered and worn with years and years worth of labor signing trace. But Tom had protection if fighting became inevitable.
"Just leave my horse out of this." It was a plea. What else did he have but a measly few belongings?
Titan should not have to die because he had screwed up, or be sold-off to the highest bidder at the blackmarket—a brute of a handler who did not mind getting his kicks from whipping his father's horse into submission. The thought almost sent an icy chill down Tom's spine, but the snow he had landed in had stolen most of his senses. Tom's fingers stiffly twitched for warmth.
The man laughed, a harsh sound to even well-polished ears. "Not a chance. Look, they've already gotten that beauty of a horse roped up."
True to his word, the swish of a rope stung the air before hitting Titan. Titan fought valiantly for safety. He stomped and twisting in the ropeline, but he was no great warhorse that knew the tricks of the trade to shake himself free of this kind of trap. Titan strained against one of the oak trees as soon as he was tied down.
Afterward, the men looted through Tom's bags, searching for anything of usefulness. Everything would pale in comparison to Titan's guarantee in bonus funds. Still, cahs was cahs, and these bandits wanted it all.
By the time the men appeased themselves with their search, the leader had forced Tom to a standing position. The sword still pointed at his throat, as ready as ever to bring forth a river of crimson on creamy skin. This whole mess looked horrific, and Titan was terrified, eyes darting everywhere from Tom's profile for help to the crystalline snowflakes descending in puffs from the sky.
Thankfully Tom had one trick left up his sleeve. Just one that had to count for himself.
And that was what hurt the most. Tom had to save himself, and he had to leave Titan behind. In his condition he could not fight anymore. Blood loss had already begun to claim him; light dizziness trenched his mind into a fog as much as the blood clotted into his ever-staining cloak. Like this, maybe Titan would be lucky from the kind of pain he had to endure.
Screw that laissez faire attitude. Tom had to try to fight until he could barely move, damnit.
But there was truth to his musing, as morbid as they were. Tom would have to default if push came to shove.
Not yet.
"Looks like we have everything settled here!" the leader yelled in triumph. "How about we take this miserable boy and his horse back to the hideout and see what kind of pretty penny we can fetch?"
Just a second.
The leader looked away for a moment. A split second delay to make sure his men handled Titan correctly with precision and care, but that was enough for Tom to take his advantage as advertise.
Without thinking, Tom reached to his belt. The left shoulder, the one that had been struck by the arrow, still operated if not for the sharp sparks of irritated nerves running down his arm. So he used his right. His fingers plunked into his saber's hilt. Tom grasped onto the fine metal with trembling fingers and yanked the short sword out in a feverish rush.
The grinding of metal alerted the bandit. He glanced at Tom just as Tom made an uppercut and slashed at the black horse's chest.
The horse whinnied. It bucked back, trotting backwards to protect itself. It tried to raise its hooves to smash Tom into the dust, but the bandit eased it back down with the quick reflexes of his hands. That still did nothing to ease the thin ribbion of blood splattering on the snow-soaked ground.
"You little bastard!" the bandit screeched. "Nobody hurts my horse and lives! Get him, get him!"
Tom was not listening to the idiot's nonsensical babbling. He threw himself forward and sliced at diced at the man's thigh. He cut through the fabric of his trousers and continued until he had successfully cut the man's leg two or three times—Tom was too rushed to care exactly—and backed away from his would-be pursuer once blood coated his leg.
He had to leave. Run. Now.
Tom gripped onto his sword. Of course he would need it; two more men would be hot on his trial, and surely this man would be the lookout for a reason to skewer his hide alive after his escape stunt. Starting at a breakneck run Tom could only give Titan a backwards glance over his shoulder as a form of apology.
I'm sorry for failing you.
And he ran like his pants had been set on fire. He ran past an ever lifeless forest without one hint of mirth, livelihood. A trial of blood dripped behind him as some bread trail. Despite trying to wrap the wound and put pressure on it with his cloak, the blood oozed out with each footfall he took, determined to leave his body one way or another for his captors.
The trees were a background he could never seen beyond. If he at least had that advantage he could survive, but Tom was only a lowly human. The snow blocked his path, and the ice was almost too much for him to leap over quickly. But he had to chance the fall or face capture.
A streak of white zipped along the path and raced ahead. Tom's heart dropped into his stomach.
The dog stood in front of Tom's path. Its tail swished in tandem with its heavy breathing. It stared at Tom, unrestrained, glaring at him with what could have been hate. With what could have been his next meal.
Hell burned in the dog's beady eyes. It was a luminescence only Cerebus himself could rival in person. Pure, putrid hell of the highest order burned in those dark amber eyes and aimed straight at Tom—the fires of a trained attack dog ready to strike without words of encouragement from his master as guidance. The primitive state of mind the dog had lapsed into could not be undone. The dog had gone wild, mad with power. No man was its master but hunger and bloodshed.
No time to think. Move. Breath.
Now was the time to feel.
The dog lunged. Foam poured out of its mouth as its jaws widened against Tom, and Tom had the merest of moments to react. The swipe that he aimed at the dog's coat did nothing but sheer off a bit of its fur. It was almost ghostly quick.
Clothes ripped. Milky human flesh was bared to the bitter winter winds, but Tom did not feel cold. He felt heat, the breath of another living being as warm teeth dug into him and dripped sticky saliva in his wounds.
Tom only knew unadulterated pain, and hot breath on exposed flesh, and the world of oblivion as veins and arteries and bone were as unmade from his stomach and the world spun in a faltering crescendo of wails.
The world may as well as crushed into the sun; Tom's skin was on fire. His throat was parched, crying out to a god or world or just somebody who would help. So much snow and none of it could quench his thirst.
Cold under him. Heat above him.
Cold . . . Heat . . .
Heat . . .
The world burned. And burned.
Tom raised his hand. Brooding over his death to this animal would do no good. Fight he damn well had tried to do earlier, and fight he damn well would continue to do until his last breath racked his body.
A whine. An earsplitting whine filled the path. The saber scraped through the dog's eyes, capped off its nose, and minced into the gap of its mouth. Tom pushed his way into its teeth. He pushed until his fingers felt like they would either fall off from frostbite or turn blue from numbness without blood spilling in.
Toom twisted the blade harder, faster, quicker. The seoncds turned into minutes and eons and forever.
Dark blood leaked down Tom's hand in a pool of flesh and clots. Suffering. He could have cared less whose blood it was. It was hard to tell whether the blood was his own or the dog's. There was so much red painting their bodies in a mural. Just so damn [i]much[/i] conflating their misery. Perhaps their blood had mingled and created a blood bond. A bloodbath of their own among a grave of dangling flesh and grief.
If Tom could have a say, they would both die and go to hell together. Where they both belonged after so much violence, probably. Titan may still have a bad home. Nothing could be done about that in this state.
This just could not be the end. Tom was a normal man. November 14th was his birthday, and he had only lived one month after that fated day. He had done nothing to deserve this agonizing punishment. He had endured so much with his parents dying one after the other. How he had had to leave their rotting bodies behind as per the traidtion. He had not meant of that to happen!
Was this just what life was?
Pain, hope, and death in pain?
Before he knew it, Tom had slashed the dog so many times his blade had made a clean cut through its muzzle through its neck. Each of its eye sockets hung drowsily from poking and prodding to its eyeballs. The spurting sound of blooddrops falling to the wind the crunch of fleshed sickened him to no end.
The dog lay still on its side. Its entire face was scratched too badly to even recognize it had been white.
The saber fell out of his hand and landed in the snow.Tom wheezed. He coughed up a stream of blood; the blood dribbled down his chin and fell on the shirt of his collar. Each breath was harder to puff from his lungs than the last, and his lungs and heart felt like they were on overdrive, if they were in one piece to begin with.
Labored breathing meant his body was shutting down. Half of his body was literally ripped to ribbons anyway. Why should he be surprised? He felt sick. So sick, so tired. All he wanted was to pet Titan's sleek coat. He wanted the protection of his parents arms soothing him into gentle sleep.
A picture of his parents smiling entered his mind's eye. Biting back a choked sob was all Tom could do not to fall into the throes of depression.
One stray tear slipped down his cheek and dropped on his shoulder.
Today, he would die a miserable man. A forgotten man stripped of his pride in a world too cruel to even give him a disease. Tomrorrow he would be buried under a fresh pile of snow. Even then, nothing could dye out the stench of blood reeking every corner of the ground here; bloodstains dotted the snow all around him and the dog.
Tom gazed upwards in the branches of a large oak tree. Snowflakes tettered through the skeletal branches of the tree, weaving through the maze in sauntering white sprinkles. Majestic and tall. In the spring the oak would blossom again. Green buds represented life
Maybe there were worse places to die. Here, under this oak tree, his spirit could live on for years to come. The oak tree would live for years and years, and Tom had wanted to live for longer than his mortal body wanted himself to under such stress.
Tom continued to watch the snowflakes from the sky. His eyes started to droop closed. Rest. He just wanted to rest now from this world. Dying was worse in the beginning, but as the softness of unconsciousness swept over him, Tom had a blinding fraction of peace to hold onto.
Horses charging near had just made its way to his ears. So they had come to find Tom, after all.
Damn them. He still did not want to die. And he hated those bandits with a fiery passion.
If only he could rip their throats out and show them what true pain was.
I could arrange that for you, you know. It's not time for you to depart this world. Will you accept?
Had Tom the strength he would have bolted upright. Who the blue blazes was that?! It was... inside his head. A voice. A deep, croaky voice.
Screams surrounded him. Tom's voice drowned them out. The bandits were hollering at each other, horrified.
Now the bandits felt pity. Tom did not need their pity on his deathbed.
"Gods, our damned dog killed him! He ripped him bloody pieces!"
"And its dead! What happened?"
"D-Don't look at me for an answer, you idiots! Did it go mad?"
The terror in their voices was laughable.
Who are you? Tom queried. He was slipping too far out of control to have a proper conversation but he had enough sense to ask that much.
In answer another raw blow of pain engulfed his entire body. At first his pain had originated from his shoulder and neck straight down to his chewed up side. This pain—oh this torture—enveloped each nook and cranny of his body and refused to let go.
Tom's senses were all but jumble. He felt as though his judgment had been whipped to the wind as new power racked each inch of his skin. All but frayed, his nerves danced in tune with the melodic magic pouring through his final defenses.
Blazing swords the might as well have been piercing him from every angle everything hurt so badly.
Tom's eyes clouded over. Both eyes darkened, somber but deadly in seriousness. He blinked and blinked again as if the world began to come into focus on his poor eyesight. His body convulsed, shaking like a fallen leaf in the middle of a hurricane.
I am a demon named Fray. I am here to see that you don't die. Isn't that good for you, Tommy?
Damn. This demon knew his name. It knew his name. Shut up! Tom commanded, squirming.
Of course I know your name. That's easy. I know everything in your mind, Tom, and I want to know even more. Won't you let me in?
At this point Tom had had enough of this insanity trying to overtake him.
"Get out of my head! Get the hell out!" Tom yelled. His hands and feet twitched in a crazy rhythm, fingertips brushing against the snow while making finger snow angels.
"What is wrong with the lad?" The leader of the bandit group advanced towards Tom's sprawled out figure. Was this an escape ploy?
Tom completely ignored the men.
"Stop it, stop it, you demon!" Tears formed at the corners of his eyes. So drained of energy yet he could cry. He could show the world this hurt. "Help me, get this demon out of my head!"
The men stared, shocked and appalled by the display. It looked as if Tom's words had finally cut through to them. The crazed movements he made were the icing on the cake.
"Demon?" the second man asked, eyes bulging out of their sockets. He looked ready to backtrack to the hills.
"Did he say demon?" The third man cocked his head, frowning. He looked less spooked but suspicious.
The leader peeked closer, and his horse took a tentative step closer. "Is he being possessed?"
Raucous laughter trumpeted from Tom's throat.
"To Hell you all go! Hell, hell, hell!" he sang. The words felt so raw on the way out, but they oddly felt wonderful on his tongue. "You'll see—I'm more powerful than you! I can kill you all!"
Understanding flashed in the leader's eyes. Something here was not right at all. "Stop pretending. Be off with you, demon!" He was no preacher, but he had no idea what else he should be doing.
"Hell fire will burn you all. Come on, jump right on, the fire's fine!" Tom rolled on the ground, eyes flashing the deep-set color of royal blue hotter than any lit flame on Earth. He raised his arms above his hand and threw back his head as if he were swimming in a lake of molten ash.
Tom coughed up more blood into the snow. He could not help himself from the temptation. The frigid snow was nothing like hellfire would be. Chills running down his spine had nothing to do with the temperature.
The leader's face turned stony at this. Now, he was a greedy man, but he knew his limits around the likes of folk such as this one. The boy had gone nuts. Should he have been indeed possessed by a demon that was another piece of evidence he did not need haunting him for a lifetime. Better safer than sorry sometimes, especially when a man had gone off his rocker, eyes flashing.
"Men, we're leaving! Pack up and round out," the leader boomed. "I'm not sticking around for any demons. Let's be on our way!"
"What about the Friesian?" the bandit on the black horse's left asked.
"He might be lying," the third man piped in, not at all convinced.
"Leave it!" the leader shot back, annoyed with their incompetence. "No well-bred horse is worth a man's life. There are better horses out there ripe for the picking if we play our cards right. Hurry your gear and run!"
With that the men raced off down the path. Dirt rasied behind them as each horse galloped at full speed.
These men had common sense b. The leader was a smart old broker, but Tom had the upperhand. None of them would vanish from his clutches.
These men had to pay the price.
Despite the fact that Tom was bleeding to death with a whole half of his body bitten off, of course. Or would without the demon that had invaded his flesh, blood and soul bonded to an extreme force.
The demon had won. Each movement fit the demon further into his bones as if her were a blacksmith forging his framework into puppet. Bending, crunching—Fray's path to dominance was successful. Tom was his work of art, and art he would have all to his pleasure and prosperity.
Tom's body rose off the ground. His limbs spread like he were a puppet stringed along to a wire hanging above. Tom's hands waved back and forth, slowly, ready to take on the oncoming challenge.
And then he flew in the air.
Technically speaking, Tom could not fly. He had no wings or balance. But the power rushing through his veins was intoxicating enough to give him the momentum to climb. To jump.
Tom landed against a tree truck. He bounced on on trunk to the next and the next, constantly leaping and falling and gaining speed. Chasing the men meant nothing without the fun of running on his side. Blood still poured from his side, though less now, Fray keeping the waterfall of crimson to a minimum. Silly blood loss could not stop him from seeking revenge.
"Now you'll die!" Tom laughed.
For all his brave wit, and for all purposes to make his mark on humankind, the leader would become his first victim. Bandits had forced him into this pain. The dog. The stealing. The ringleader of such anguish had to be taken out.
The man did not see what hit him.
With a furious cry Tom crashed into the black horse. Still in motion Tom had to hold on. He did so by digging his nails into the man's back and tugging his back against his chest. Opening his mouth wide, Tom craned his neck to grind his teeth into the man's neck.
Tom's teeth sunk into the leader's throat. White skin was penetrated, torn. Blood spurted out and dribbled on the sleek fur of his horse, marring the blackness with dark red.
The black horse reared, and the man released a strangled moan. He tried to push Tom over so he would fall. But it was useless; Tom held on for dear life without a single regret. The man shoved at Tom. The demon was stronger, however, and continued his rampage
Tom bit and munched with all of his might until the man went limp in his arms. Disgusted, Tom threw him off of his horse; bloodstained the snow even before the man hit the soil.
The last two were easy pickings.
Certainly Fray did not kill them off the same way. If he did there would be no fun! Killing was a sport, and Fray was out for precious blood.
The second man, or the one who had named Titan's breed, was the next victim. What a fright he was! Unluckily for him. he had had gotten ver much further ahead. His horse sped along on its stubby legs towards the hills in the distance. Too bad.
Tom made quick labor of getting to him, as well. With one long-stride from the leader's horse, he grasped the man around the waist.
The second reached for the short sword strapped to his belt. He managed to tilt it halfway out of its sheath before Tom grabbed it from his miserable hand and pitch it at the trees.
"Your heart lies with greed, doesn't it? You knew all about my horse. You were fine with selling him." Tom asked sweetly. A wide grin crept over his features. "Well, let me take your heart since you took mine."
The man clutched at his heart to protect himself. The deed was too late. Tom's hand practically shot through the second man's and plunged into the dark caverns of his chest. Ribs cracked under the immense pressure. Power radiated from every finger digging around in his chest, rivers of blood spilling over Tom's wrist.
Pushing aside the man's lung, Tom squeezed the heart sealed within. So soft, beating so quickly in shock. The demon wanted it for himself. Just for himself!
A squelching noise rubbed against the air. Two pickles plucked from the same dish, perhaps, or the silky sound of organs rubbing in musical sync. Wrenching the heart out of the man's chest a network of veins and arteries followed; a fountain of warm blood flew in each direction.
The man's eyes lolled back his head, lips too parched and blue to scream. His mouth laid open a silent scream for only Tom's eyes to witness.
But Tom was not done. Oh, no.
"And I bet you wanted to eat from the money you would earn, didn't you?" Tom hissed in his ear. Perhaps the man was fading to the darkness, but he had not completely slipped yet. "I have the perfect idea."
Lovingly, he cradled the heart in his hand, Tom put the heart to lips. He chomped on the pink flesh, pulling off a chewy morsel. A few more bites were taken before the scent of blood leaking from the arteries in his mouth was too much for him to ingest.
Carelessly, Tom threw the heart into a bush. Now it was trash for the rats.
Time for the grand finale.
The third had tracked his pace accordingly. He was a a trickier sort, Tom would admit that much. Beefy muscles assembled his arms and legs into a fighter's worst nightmare. Despite being a bandit he was a trained warrior ready for action.
So was Fray.
Catching up was not too difficult. By then, however, the two had neared the thickest section of the forest.
"Come on, human. Don't you want to play!" he called. "We're not done yet!"
The third man seemed to tense slightly, but he was no fool to show his true emotions. Perfect to form as a soldier should be. "You'll never catch me, demon!" the man retorted.
Before Tom could realize what happened next, the man steered the horse off-course reach just as he was about to smack into him. Tom skidded on the dirt and glanced around wildly to find him.
Horses were not meant to maneuver through woodland. But there was nowhere else to turn to in a frenzy. The man knew when he should pick his battles. Against another man the fight would have been on equal footing. Dying like a warrior, just like he had been in years and years ago, would be justified.
Fighting a demon, on the other hand, was the evil eye staring him straight through his soul.
So that was why, even though he had to force his horse to bound over fallen logs and slippery snow, he had no choice but to tangle himself further into the web he and the other men had drawn on their lives.
Furious that he had missed, Tom's eyes flashed. Malicious intent strained every inch of his rebelling flesh.
Once he caught up the man slashed at him with his sword back and forth. In the short interval the third man had drawn his sword. This posed a potential mishap. Well, if the demon were not Fray calling the shots.
Dodging the man's swings, Tom jumped over brush and rocks to catch him. Yet he was not what brought the powerful horse literally to its knees.
The brown horse neighed; its legs began to shake underneath him. The man had only a moment to frown as his horse slipped on the black ice and smashed into the ground. Tangled in limbs and ice and snow, the man groaned, waving his sword in the air.
"Stay away from me!" the man cried. Even in his state, it was impressive he could think of his safety. That he could think coherently.
Hair covered the front of his face. As Tom approached, the third man attempted to stand to his feet, but he failed. Instead he grunted in pain; the horse kicked wildly at everything in sight to gather back control of itself.
"Not on your life," Tom replied quietly,
Tom made short work of pulling the man out of reach of the horse and to his feet.
Was it a sight to behold when Tom was finished with his final prey. The third man dangled from the branches of the tree. Each of his limbs stretched with the branches impaled in his arms. The sword stuck out from the middle of his stomach, just shy of where had been bitten by the rabid dog less than ten minutes ago.
It was done.
Finally done. Thank god.
Tom trudged back to the spot the men had tied Titan. For a short time the adrenaline remained in his blood. It was enough to keep him on track until he reached his beloved horse.
As the only one uninjured during the whole escapade, Titan was alert. He, however, stared at Tom and tried to back away. His master no longer looked like his master anymore, and he plain had no comprehension of what was happening.
Tom was just glad Titan was safe. He would have deal with him later, and hopefully, he wouldn't starve.
Exhausted. Tom sagged to his knees and then toppled into the snow. The snow tickled his nose. Tom closed his eyes, drained.
Warmth. His legs, arms, and torso were all really warm. Even his forehead felt hot like some sort of fever had taken over him. But he did not feel sick. Everything he had wanted had come true.
You're a pathetic excuse of a human. Don't worry, though, you won't die, the demon assured Tom. You won't die because I will keep your body warm. Won't that be nice? Now, Tommy, have a rest and we'll play more when you can see the daylight again. Should take about two hours.
Everything Fray said seemed to be babble to Tom's broken mind. He could not take this anymore. All those men had died. The dog had, too, but at least the horses had made it out mostly unscathed by the insanity this demon had wrought upon the forest.
There was no way he could ever allow his demon wreak havoc ever again. But that was a problem for another time when he could think clearly. When he was not bogged down with the memories of tangy blood and taunting demon laughter.
Tom rested his head higher on the fluffy patch of snow. It was cold. Still, he was warm as the demon promised him. For first time since the bandits had showed up, he found sweet relief once he fainted into blackness.
For the rest of that cold December day all was quiet for Tom on that Eve of New Years, locked in slumber.
✘—✘
Note 1: You requested a rapier or a saber as Tom's weapon of choice. I chose a saber because I wanted Tom to slash things. A rapier is better for thrusting, not cutting and slashing. You wanted Tom to fall off Titan. I thought cutting would work with hurting the animals better.
Note 2: You said nothing about a dog. You wanted Tom to have a fatal wound, but a sword sounded too obvious. But you're obsessed with dogs (coughHoundoomcough). I thought literally ripping his guts out would be worse than having Tom's fatal wound a sword stabbing.
Note 3: Sarah says sorry that she couldn't stop me from doing this to you, Tom. She says I'm brutal. I'm not brutal. I'm just not kind and gentle!
Note 4: I was not aware Tom named Fray after this (as you so helpfully point out after your reading). Plus, Fray wouldn't reveal his demon name. Some do in the demonic world, some don't. I wasn't sure and hadn't asked beforehand because, you know, surprise.
