Warehouse

When he was but a boy, a fortune teller at the local autumn fair – an old woman in flashy, colourful garments of many layers and decked out with jewellery like he had never seen before – took his hand in hers and traced its lines, and run the long nail of one of her well-groomed fingers up his arm where she said a person’s blood pulses just beneath their skin, and predicted for him a peaceful death while surrounded by multiple generations of his loving family that would have gathered to bid a farewell to their beloved, respected patriarch after he had lived a long and prosperous life in the lap of luxury. He crawled towards the exit. Granted, the gaping wound did not make things easier, and the man cursed under his breath as he clutched his side, his hand stained with crimson. Just a little more. Just. A little. More. A foot settled on his back, right above the wound, and he hissed and cursed aloud as it pressed down, and in that moment his arm gave in under his weight, and the rogue collapsed in the mud and dirt that caked the floor a-plenty. A thought flashed through his brain that he was about to die. Die in this filthy, muddy warehouse, and nobody would know. He had relied on his fortune reading from that sunny, crisp autumn afternoon. Believed it. Achieved large part of it, too, even though he believed there was always time to finish things not yet done. There was wealth stacked in this warehouse, in the crates everywhere around him – enough wealth for three families to live on for ten years without a worry, and with every coming year it was supposed to grow trifold. His. All of it, his. He was turned over onto his back, and the heel of a fine leather boot that was completely out of place in the filth and the dirt, and the mud of the building dug into his wound, and he screamed his pain and fury to heavens even as his vision went black. She smiled so keenly at him every time he visited the tavern. A young, beautiful pet indeed, with hair the colour of fire, eyes of the deepest sea on a sunny day, she yet wore patched attire made of cheap fabrics, and he swore to her time and again that when the day came and she walked into his home as its rightful mistress, she would not see a minute more of work and hardship. His vision returned to normal as the pressure lessened, yet the weight on his stomach remained. He put as much strength as he had left, into moving it, in hopes of throwing the opponent off, yet his hands fell to his sides as weakness spread through his body, as though his life were drained, and all he could do was gaze up at the young face looking down upon him. He had seen it, a few times, always from a distance, and always thought to himself, there was nothing to be afraid of and the folks gossiping on the city squares, marketplaces and in the taverns were merely of the kind who loved exaggerating stories, the way people who had nothing better to do were. There was never anything even remotely scary about the young, handsome man, even despite the status he kept. It had seemed – an easy job. Even with the few things that could have gone better, it had been an easy job. He was certain nobody got hurt much. He was certain that soldiers sustained worse injuries on the battlefield than that fellow had. After all, he had merely defended himself. It was never his fault when his dagger, or short sword, found their way into somebody’s flesh. They were in a fight, and these things happened during fights. The handsome face embraced by waves of dark hair was cold, its features sharp, but nonetheless there was a smile. A smile that could beat an adult dragon into retreat, were any of those beasts with them in the warehouse right now. The man pressed his foot down again, and again the rogue’s vision went black, and breath and sound got caught into his throat, his screams turned silent gasps. - Please! – the rogue croaked when he was able to make a sound again. The feeling of sickness spread through his stomach, and he had to fight to keep what meagre food he had had before his nightmare had begun so abruptly, down where it belonged. The foot pressed down again, and he spluttered, his stomach yet giving up its contents, leaving him choking, his screams and pleading becoming gurgles instead. - Please, - Eric’s smile never wavered, never disappeared, as he watched the man struggle. He merely moved, so his foot now rested on the man’s chest. – I assure you; I would be inclined to listen, if only it weren’t for one tiny little detail. You hurt somebody I care about. And for that, you are going to die very, very painfully. That’s just the way things are. No hard feelings~ The sensation of needles digging into his skin began spreading slowly from his feet. It travelled up his legs and farther into his body, and by the time it had reached the rogue’s chest, the pain had overshadowed even the gaping wound and all that had been done to it before, and he continued to gurgle and choke, and his calls for help and mercy echoed through the warehouse, and all of it fell on deaf ears, and the smile never disappeared from the mage’s face. He wondered where he had gone wrong and whether the fortune teller had merely made fun of the young, impressionable boy in front of her.