What He Was

"Bastard!" The boy's strangled cry came out in between bouts of sobbing. Grent looked down at his huddled frame, unmoved by the display of tears. This boy and his friends had done far worse to him on multiple occasions; this was what he got for trying to go after the bastard boy alone.

"Yes, I am a bastard." Grent's reply was calm despite the rush of adrenaline that still coursed through his veins.

"And you are a spineless coward who won't pick a fight unless you have friends with you to get bloodied up instead. Or," Grent stooped down to pick up the large knife which the boy had dropped, "if you happen to have a blade on you. Now, what do you suppose I should do with this?"

He twirled the knife between his fingers playfully, watching the boy's bruised eyes as they widened as far as their injury would allow. He allowed a sadistic grin to creep onto his face. Stopping the knife's motion, he gripped the handle tightly and took a step forward. The boy whimpered and started to scramble backwards. He bumped into a wall and let out a yelp before Grent reached out and grabbed the collar of his shirt.

"Oh, I know what I'll do." Grent held the knife under the boy's nose, watching fear contort his battered face. Not that he had any intention of actually cutting him—that would just get him flogged on the town square, or worse if the cut were to get infected somehow. As a bastard, he was nobody's responsibility, yet everyone in the village felt as though they owned him. Even defending himself as he just had would likely earn him a beating from the boy's father, seeing as he had managed to survive the short-lived fight unscathed.

Perhaps that was a bastard's blessing—his fighting instincts had been honed as sharply as the blade of the knife he held in his hand now, thanks to the countless times the village bullies had gone and had their fun with him. It had cost him countless beatings at the hands of a dozen different boys, all older and stronger than him, but he could now hold his own in a fight about as well as his uncle could hold his liquor.

Those run-ins had also sharpened his tongue over the years, to make up for all the times he had been outnumbered too greatly to fight back physically. He knew which words would hurt each individual boy in this village the most, and he applied that knowledge often. He also knew what to do in order to get sympathy from the others in the village, which was why he drew the knife away from the boy's face and rested the blade gently on his own arm. The boy gave him a look of confusion before he slid the knife across his forearm, trying to cut just deep enough to be convincing.

Grent gritted his teeth at the pain. He had cut deeper than he had meant to, and his arm felt as if it were on fire. Letting out a snarl, he flung the knife to the ground. He forced open his eyes, which had clenched themselves shut in his pain. The boy had gotten up and was running away, but that no longer concerned Grent. He looked down at his arm and saw the blood pouring from his wound, knowing that he had to stop the bleeding fast.

He took a few staggering steps forward, beginning to feel lightheaded. The world around him began to roll back and forth, and the sun's light suddenly seemed to be unbearably bright. Grent felt something solid beneath his hand—the ground. The dirt mixed with the slick blood as it pooled around his hand, swaying and swirling incomprehensibly before him. Grent felt his body fall to the ground, but he lacked the strength to push himself back up. Darkness started to close in on him, obscuring everything.

Then, the voices came.