Still Without A Title
an excerpt

Curled and cold, folded neatly into a ball, he couldn’t breathe, and the water stung him. His surroundings swelled and undulated in a hypnotizing pattern. Then he was shoved out and head first into mounds of wet sand.

Stumbling forward, he’d come to rely on his most primitive instincts. The sand was endless and cruel as he crawled, and it flew to his face and clung there, stabbing in the eyes, sneaking into his nose and mouth. The confusing blur and flying sand and the grains in his eyes blinded him; nothing but the ugly pink of his eyelids could he see. His dark hair was matted and full of seaweed and sand, his pale skin was cold and looked blue. The knave’s mouth hung agape; his lips caked with sand and saliva and vomit as he choked. The salt water burned his throat.

He inched along, his limbs flying about in an uncoordinated and desperate attempt to be somewhere else, a place away from the water. But minutes passed and his muscles gave in. With a loud thump he collapsed, a cheek pressed against the sand.

“Poor wretch,” Something chirped.

The wretch’s head flew to the sources of the small and gravelly voice. It was a black bird.

“Poor wretched boy. Locked out. Out.” It chirped again, hopping around him with soulless black eyes. It’s head tilted from side to side, examining him.

"Be silent!” He hissed, flashing white teeth. His muscled tensed, fingers digging into the sand with fury his weary body was not able to express. Like a cat, his fingers kneaded the sand. “You filthy c-creature!” He gagged once more, shivering. “You know not of what you speak. You foul puppet.”

Shaking furiously, he worked his way to his bare feet, falling four times in the process. He attempted to kick at the bird, but it flapped away easily from his unsteady kick. Knowing his strength soon would wane, he stumbled up the dune.

---

Rejuvenated, he stalked quickly down the path. It was a clear area- nothing surrounding it but vast prairies, dull in their tans and greens; withering. It was a dirt path, devoid of any being but he.

His hearing was heightened. He could hear ever stone, every tiny piece of gravel crunch beneath his feet. The clouds above were so thick and gray it could have been midnight. Not a soul was on that path but him. The silence pleased him. It was chilling and crisp, a silence that could be heard. The hood of his dark cloak kept his face nicely hidden, despite the absence of anyone to see his face in the first place.

His silence was soon disturbed by the calls of more black birds, circling in the sky above him like vultures. One boldly descended and landed on his shoulder. The wretch scowled and tried to shoo it. When it refused to leave, he had no choice but to let it be and continue his trek.

Gradually a city rose in the horizon. A grand castle with flags of gold and blue waved gallantly in the wiping wind. It was the city that was the sole source of light, emitting a warm glow from its collective torches and fire places.

“If she sent you to keep me in line, she is a fool.” The knave smirked. He walked so quickly now that black boots look like a blur. “She is a damned fool.”

“Fool.” Echoed the bird in a small voice.

“Fool.” Called another, somewhere in the mass above. Like an infection the word spread until the entire mass was calling fool. The black clad man’s lip twitched in rage.

“Call me a fool all you want, you damned witch.” A malicious smirk spread on his pale face. “Call me whatever you like.”

---

“Sir.” Came a voice from behind the counter, one clearly from someone displeased about being disturbed. “We’re closed for the evening.”

“I know.” The black clad, dark haired knave replied. He strolled through the merchant’s shot nonchalantly. He came upon a particularly expensive looking vase from the east. It was beautifully decorated with swirling blue designs on porcelain white, depicting one of the world’s most popular and widely known legends. At the mouth of the vase was a drawing of a woman, floating and beautiful with long curly hair. “But I’ve decided you are to make an exception.” Below the woman was a swirling mist of clouds. Hidden in the clouds were two keys, tiny and intricate, and nearly impossible to find.

“Very funny, boy, whoever you are.” Said the disgruntld merchant, still in the back room.” Now be gone, before I call the authorities.” The merchant scuffled out from his back room to shoo away his intruder. He was fat and bald and old. His nose was big and hooked and he had thick lips. There were many a gold ring on his fat fingers.

At the very base of the vase was a man arms, spread wide as he attempted to catch the keys as they descended to earth.

In one grand motion, the knave picked up the vase and threw it. It shattered into thousands of pieces and the wooden wall, inches away from the old merchant’s head.

“By the gods! Who do you think you are!?” The merchant cried with wide eyes, puffing himself up in shock. “Do you have any idea how much that vase was worth!?”

“That’s always what it is with you, old man.” The hooded man ran a gloved finger over an ancient bronze dagger featured on the wall. “How much you can get paid.”

Tearing the dagger from the wall, he leaped over the counter and slammed the old man against the wall. Treasures and paintings rattled on their hinges. “How much you can gain. How much you can boast.” He hissed in the man’s face, his white teeth flashed clear and fierce from the shroud of his hood and hair.

“Y-you!” The old man stuttered, a smile twitching onto his fat lips. He laughed uneasily. “I’d know those eyes anywhere.” His beady eyes kept glancing down at the dagger that was pressed against his throat. “You abomination! Ho bloody old are you!? It’s not natural-“

“Yes, about that.” He hissed again, pressing harder on the dagger and getting within an inch of the old merchant’s face. “I’ve come to thank you for that. A lovely gift. Really, it’s greatly appreciated.”

“I don’t know what the devil you’re talking about. Quit spouting nonsense and get out of my-“

“I’m afraid that won’t be happening, old man.” The knave smiled a feral smile. “I must express my gratitude in a fitting manner.”

“Why-“ But then the man’s words melted into a blood curdling scream, and even that was cut short. Blood from his neck soaked into the black clad murderer’s gloves. He dropped the man and the knife, letting them both fall to the ground with a sickening thunck.

His work was done. Turning on a heel the man with blood on his hands strode out the door, knocking over the candles that kept the room alight, setting the wooden floor and walls aflame. Outside, over the roaring flames, he could hear the crowing call.

“Fire fire, fool, fire, poor wretch poor wretch. Fire! Fire!“