Young Writers Society

"Us paladins... we are slaves to our oaths. We may never stray from them, from our god, because we're too afraid of the consequences. So they beat us back in to line, every single time, until we are bruised and bloody, and can only obey to their will. What if we broke our golden chains? Would we feel any different? Tell me. I know you will, one day; your faith dwindles."

Gheythas quickly glanced up from his work, placing down his carving tools neatly down on the tabletop. He smiled up at Tyr as he entered, but the gesture was only met with a small nod of indifference, rousing his concerns. His face fading, the warlock rose from the bench and strode over to him, catching him by the shoulder before he made to the stairs. The paladin slightly winced under his hold, and he followed his gaze suspiciously, looking about at anything that could point him towards the answer. Gheythas moved himself to a better light, noticing the bright red gashes present across his forearms and the small stains on of his tunic where he had braced his hand.

“What did they do to you?” He muttered, giving him a suspicious eye.

“What are you saying? They?”

The warlock sighed, pausing for a moment before lifting up his shirt to reveal a numerous mess of fresh wounds, sliced into his skin like a cursed pattern, “You’re not hiding anything very well. You set out for the church earlier this afternoon, you didn’t come back until the very latest you could, and you’re a bloody mess. Someone in there took it out on you. You paid a debt today, and a heavy one.”

“And now it is paid. Don’t worry yourself over it, you have enough problems to deal with, and I don’t want to off load them onto you. Get some rest and I’ll be up there soon.” He brushed him away, but Gheythas only came in closer, his grip over his wrist becoming tighter, straining his painful wounds.

“I don’t want to see you hurt. Especially when the both of us know all too well you can’t look after yourself, yeah? What in the name of the hells happened to you?”

“Atonement. It was simple; I sinned, and I had to pay for those sins, a toll was taken on my body. Don’t worry about me, please.”

“I think you’ll find my job is to worry. Because if I didn’t, no-one here would be sane. Or alive. You understand? Get upstairs, and let me get you fixed up if only to grant me an actual night’s sleep without paranoia.”

“What’d you do to deserve this?” He mumbled, finishing off yet another loop of bandages to cover the plethora of wounds. With a grimace, the warlock noticed he still had a number of wounds to bandage, and as much as he wanted to assure his safety, he also wanted to sleep at such a late hour.

“Terrible things. Terrible, horrific things that no man in his right mind should ever do. A whole settlement, a village of real people each with their own lives, and they were all slaughtered. If one got away… I didn’t see. So caught up in the bloodshed, in the weight lifted through such abysmal vengeance, I lost all track of self.” Tyr scowled, suddenly finding his finger incredibly interesting, tracing the knuckles lightly to distract his mind as his eyes started to burn. Gheythas’ hands fell slightly down his back, and he could swear he saw him shake his head slightly from behind. “But that wasn’t me. I swear, I regret it with every breath, something overtook me in those horrid few moments. If I could stop myself, if I knew the horrors and nightmares it would lead to, I would end myself if just to save all of them. Please, just don’t forsake me for one action, as horrific as it was. don’t change who you see me as because of these flaws.”

Gheythas smiled, though his eyes betrayed him a slight, horrendous sights crossing his mind as he realised what a righteous man had done to deserve such punishment. He moved his hand towards Tyr’s, holding it tight.

“I will never. Just don’t let the pain change you into one you aren’t, for that would be the only tragedy in my eyes,” he fell back into the monotonous task of dressing his wounds, though this time around he felt even more distracted by the sheer amount of them, “but, may I ask; of all methods of atonement, why did they disfigure you skin?”

“Every cut is for a life. They made me recite every name, remember every face as the lines were sliced across my body, and that hurt more than the blazing pain. The large gash,” he felt over his own back, finding the bloody line that ran down his spine,” that was to show the greater cost. And the smaller crosses… they stand for the children. I can’t remember now if I killed them, perhaps not directly, but I paid the price anyway, and the two marks represent both their current life and the one they can now never lead. Now that I think of it, I truly am a monster. It’s a pity they let me live, I don’t deserve one more moment here.”

The warlock struggled to keep himself from lashing back defensively at his words, and to keep the tears from falling from his eyes. He wrapped his arms fully around the paladin, ignoring the open wounds still uncovered, though he seemed not to notice, taking his silence as both a blessing and a curse. The warlock leant himself against the headboard, bringing his legs onto the bed, allowing Tyr to rest against his body, safely comforted in his arms. Gheythas found the pendant hanging from his neck, and danced it through his fingers for a moment before resting his hands against his chest.

“You deserve everything. And I’ll give it to you, at any cost.”