Braith Part 1
Braith woke up on the cold, wet ground. It was still dark, but the sun was coming up, and basking everything in a surreal glow. A dark liquid was slowly dripping onto the ground in front of him. The sound of the drop echoed. All else was quiet. His forehead wrinkled as his mind attempted to put his memories back together. He reached a hand out to touch the liquid, and the triangle-shape that it was coming from. It was soft and cold. The blood-soaked cloth was a tablecloth. He shuttered and stifled a whimper of anguish. The memories were slowly coming back to him. The battle is over. Emotions washed over him, as his body instinctively began to curl. Pain shot through his body as he realized that his hands, arms, and especially his shoulder were injured. He put his hand on his shoulder, and connected with his body's pain. He didn't think his bones were broken, but maybe his spirit would be. He tried to roll onto his left side, in order to get up. While perfectly functional, his shoulder would not take the weight of his body. He was forced to roll onto his right side instead, and get out from underneath the table on the other side.
He quickly scrambled up from under the Head Celebrational Table. While it was eerily quiet, the sight that filled his eyes was almost more than his psyche could handle. The dead lay scattered. So many of them. His family, friends and neighbors. Everything was riddled with blood. The chairs, tables, and the ground were almost all a deep, dark red. The sights only began more horrific as the sun rose higher in to the sky.
He took off his heaviest armor, and walked through the dead bodies. His brother, cousin and nephew were all missing. There was no doubt, that the Rage had taken them. The group had been like a plague in Scotland, but the levels of depravity to which they had now risen was new to him.
His own mind raged as he thought about his family members, both killed and kidnapped. He stood over his mother's body. A dead Rage member lay next to her, a large butchering knife was deep in his chest. "Mum, no one puts up a fight like you."
He crouched down, and took her bloody hand in his. At heart his mother was a very kind soul. Sometimes she was too kind, but the woman put up a fight like no one else. His fighting spirit came from her, and everything she'd taught him had made him the man he was. He sighed, closing her eyes with his fingers. He imagined that she was sleeping silently. His father would have never allowed this to happen, he told himself. It's a good thing he's not here to see this. Long dead now, he idealized his father.
"Father, it's a good thing you're not here to see this." He stood up, and looked again at the scene. It was overwhelming. His heart ached like he never knew it could. Deep in him, he wished he were dead too.
He spoke loudly at the heavens, "Father, I have failed you!" His cry echoed throughout the courtyard. Reeling from the expression of emotion, he sighed deeply and looked down at his shoes. There was work to be done. He would have to check these people. He went from body to body, checking for warmth and a heartbeat. Person after person, he buried his feelings, as he found them dead. They were all dead. He thought about his family that lived out of town. Surely, the Rage had not gone to the neighboring towns, and killed them all too. He didn't know, and that possibly bothered him now, more than the dead that he had to bury.
He went about his work all day and into the night. He put all the dead Rage members into a pile to the south of town. He didn't think he had time to bury them all. He had too much to do. Throughout the day he expected someone to show up in town, but the small capital wasn't as busy as it used to be. Perhaps there was no one left in the surrounding towns to visit and trade here. His friends and family were priority and he made each a grave. He made makeshift headstones. Despite the hard work, he'd only been able to bury his direct family members. The sun was going down, and he kept working, continually disappointed in his efforts. It would be a long, long night.
He quickly scrambled up from under the Head Celebrational Table. While it was eerily quiet, the sight that filled his eyes was almost more than his psyche could handle. The dead lay scattered. So many of them. His family, friends and neighbors. Everything was riddled with blood. The chairs, tables, and the ground were almost all a deep, dark red. The sights only began more horrific as the sun rose higher in to the sky.
He took off his heaviest armor, and walked through the dead bodies. His brother, cousin and nephew were all missing. There was no doubt, that the Rage had taken them. The group had been like a plague in Scotland, but the levels of depravity to which they had now risen was new to him.
His own mind raged as he thought about his family members, both killed and kidnapped. He stood over his mother's body. A dead Rage member lay next to her, a large butchering knife was deep in his chest. "Mum, no one puts up a fight like you."
He crouched down, and took her bloody hand in his. At heart his mother was a very kind soul. Sometimes she was too kind, but the woman put up a fight like no one else. His fighting spirit came from her, and everything she'd taught him had made him the man he was. He sighed, closing her eyes with his fingers. He imagined that she was sleeping silently. His father would have never allowed this to happen, he told himself. It's a good thing he's not here to see this. Long dead now, he idealized his father.
"Father, it's a good thing you're not here to see this." He stood up, and looked again at the scene. It was overwhelming. His heart ached like he never knew it could. Deep in him, he wished he were dead too.
He spoke loudly at the heavens, "Father, I have failed you!" His cry echoed throughout the courtyard. Reeling from the expression of emotion, he sighed deeply and looked down at his shoes. There was work to be done. He would have to check these people. He went from body to body, checking for warmth and a heartbeat. Person after person, he buried his feelings, as he found them dead. They were all dead. He thought about his family that lived out of town. Surely, the Rage had not gone to the neighboring towns, and killed them all too. He didn't know, and that possibly bothered him now, more than the dead that he had to bury.
He went about his work all day and into the night. He put all the dead Rage members into a pile to the south of town. He didn't think he had time to bury them all. He had too much to do. Throughout the day he expected someone to show up in town, but the small capital wasn't as busy as it used to be. Perhaps there was no one left in the surrounding towns to visit and trade here. His friends and family were priority and he made each a grave. He made makeshift headstones. Despite the hard work, he'd only been able to bury his direct family members. The sun was going down, and he kept working, continually disappointed in his efforts. It would be a long, long night.
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