The man takes paths further into the darkness for what seems like days, gouges and marks from his quarry showing his way. The memories were his only companions, the creatures just out of eyesight hungry Witnesses of his journey. Though they did not hinder him, they waited for him to give up, willing to save him from more misery and pain. He rests for only short spurts, replacing his torch with another spare, eating while walking, the pain in his chest making every movement difficult. After a time, he shuffles into a large open cavern, bodies strewn about, scorch marks and melted rock marring all sides, chunks of the cavern in broken piles. The bodies of his fellows, squires and knights both, lay soaking in congealing pools of blood and entrails. He surveys the massacre for familiar faces, noticing both enemy rivals and acquaintances that did right by him, side by side to the last man.
Half-remembered truths showed themselves to him at the familiar faces. There was Falavel, a lad of only fifteen summers, spending his time as a squire to Sir Baer. Alexxand, a quiet man-at-arms that was touched in the head, but extremely talented with the flute he carried with him. Ser Olivier, a cousin of Duke Bastien, the military advisor to the King. He spies a bluish tint along the ground at intervals, the blood of his quarry staining the rock. The trail continues along through a large tunnel going yet deeper, causing him to sag visibly. Squaring his shoulders, he forces himself deeper into the earth's gullet.
The knight steps closer to the opening, a small gasp comes to his ears, and he looks toward the far wall, noticing one body leaning against the wall, another collapsed on his lower half. He shuffles over, his torchlight illuminating a familiar face, but not a friendly one. A rat-like profile shows itself to him, the man in front of him known to be a coward and traitor, but an unproven one. The contempt on the knight's face twists his bearded mouth into a snarl. A small, stringy voice issues from the thin lips of the man. 'Y-you there! H-h-help me! I-I-I dun want tae die! M-mine back, it hurts sa' much.' A whisper comes to the knight, deep from in his mind. This man...this creature was a sniveling wretch, a traitor only good for fodder. He hadn't a scratch on him, and had probably hid from the quarry, but was thrown against the wall in the confusion, the man on top of him thrown against him, breaking the coward's back. He hears a shuffling behind him as a Witness comes just outside of torchlight, its gangly arms scratching the corpse under it, watching the two of them. He turns back to the mewling creature at his feet, sneers and reaches at his belt. Pulling his knife, he buries it into the fodder's chest just off from the heart, an old blood feud settled. This filthy animal would die slowly while the Witness took care of the rest, the man hoping that the Witness wouldn't be too quick. He takes the coward's supplies, then turns and follows the wall back to the cavern, shrill inhuman shrieks following at his back while the gnashing of teeth could be heard even well after exiting the cavern.
The knight could see the bluish tinted fluid splashed more and more frequently, as if the creature were badly wounded. His motivations cemented as he fought through the pain in his body, reaching deeply within himself. He would find the creature and finish the job his fellows had started, his memories once more coming to take their place as his silent companions. They appeared before him once again like phantoms, never quite within reach, but like a painting that moved. His next memory was one of his parents, poor yet happy. His father was a hunter and tanner, his mother was a weaver, but preferred to work alongside his father tanning hides he caught, working them into beautiful crafts. Every once in awhile, a merchant would buy their work and pay well, allowing them to survive throughout the winter in relative comfort. As a child he would help his parents by toiling away with his hands working the leather into a well formed supplenes, or spend his days hunting with his father, learning survival and tracking that other city children would never learn. He learned quickly and was always efficient, thanking his quarry for their gifts that he would use, following the teachings of his father. After each day, nights were spent amongst each other, learning songs or telling stories. He even told some of his own that he had learned from merchants and travelers in the market. Market Day was always a special day for his family, as they could sell what they had made for good prices, and every ranking of caste would see their product and buy what could be afforded. He learned honesty in most everyone was surface only, and deep down most wanted what others had, electing to cheat where they could. His father was not one to be cheated, however, and his shrewd business strategies were passed to the young boy. His parents had been surprised to learn that he wished to enlist at the barracks, his father proud yet sad as he left behind their simple life behind.
The knight was forced from his reverie as a pained snarl came from in front of him, deep into the cavern. The blue liquid covered the floor in giant pools, his boots stepping through the gore and tracking his progress forward. The knight pulls his sword from its sheath slowly and grimly. What was the definition of his life, he wonders. Was it this moment? Was it the past that he had come to know and leave behind? Would he be remembered by his family and those surrounding? He had the intense feeling that these grim memories and thoughts were important, the calm happenstance of him being here a product of his own imagining. He steps forward to the ledge in front of him, the entrance of the large cavern in front of him widening more and more, bottom unseen and enveloped in darkness except for a gleam of silver striking at a golden figure down far below. He looks to either side and notices a narrow path leading downward to his left which he takes, increasing his speed as fast as he's able, picking his way down so as not to fall. The figure seemed to be holding its own, the large creature lumbering, wounded yet still deadly. What is the purpose of this, the knight asks himself. Why should one be willing to sacrifice all for pride and glory when death is just the barest of lines, easily crossed within a moment's notice? He had no gain from this. He could turn back, head back to his family and simple life. The feelings of cowardice arose higher within him, catching in his throat. His limbs refused to obey, continuing down. The memory of the sniveling creature at his feet, knife buried deep in his chest, emerged from the chaotic sludge of his thoughts. These thoughts steadied him, allowed him to see his own failures and continue downward without a second thought. 'I will not die a traitorous dog,' he mutters to himself, all attention devoted to the path in front of him.
The knight reaches the bottom of the cavern just as the large creature rears back and slams its tail against the Prince's golden visage, throwing him far backwards with a cry of pain, his torch dropping to illuminate the ground and the creature's scaly barbed appendage. He runs forward, his sword held defensively, ready to strike. As he approaches, the creature's scaly head turns toward him, its silver eyes smiting him with its hatred and rage, blue fires seen deep within the sockets. It approaches slowly, the Prince's torch illuminating teeth as long as a man's forearm, its metallic muzzle deeply marred and bleeding the same blue fluid found in the cavern. The grinding of gears could be heard within the creature's body, damaged but still miraculously operating. It roars at the knight as he rushes forward with a war cry, his thoughts no longer frantic, no longer baiting. Only one thing occupies this peasant knight's mind.
'Mine memory lives.'
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