The Hunter & The Moment
please enjoy this unedited flash fic I wrote for my current DND campaign
TW: mild depicitions of violence, deep anguish
The night was dark. The black seemed endless, like the anguish in Aranrus’ soul. He was on his knees, his kneecaps pressing hard into the bare, stone floor as he tried to ground himself. His heart was beating so hard he thought it might break his rib cage. He pressed his palms against the cool ground, his claws scraping against the stone. Every breath felt like he was drinking in blood, and not air.
Before him sat the sword. Shiny, black metal that had beautifully forged into a versatile blade, an ornately decorated hilt and pommel. And in the pommel, the blood-red gemstone, which seemed to stare at him like an unblinking eye. It was being held delicately by stone hands, on its pedestal.
Somewhere in the castle there was laughter. His beautiful daughter, Inphi. She was likely chasing the castle cat again. Tears forced their way up against the back of his eyes, and he took in another shuddering breath. Through the stone floor he could feel the rumblings of the great party below him. He knew the room would be filled with merriment in the form of candlelight, and royals talking, and good food, and music. He should have been down there, laughing with his best friend. He should be there watching Prince Aelfhere and his chosen advisor, Tenkori. He should have been sitting beside the great throne, watching his beautiful wife hold their new son, his infant face nestled against her.
Instead he was on his knees, feeling as if his blood had been replaced with burning flames. They licked against his bones and made his skin itch. Every breath was painful. Instead of becoming better friends with the little girl, Alice, Inphi was chasing a cat. His oldest son was sick in bed, the clerics’ skilled hands and desperate prayers the only thing keeping him on the mortal plane. He didn’t know where Sarlith and his son were, but he hoped it wasn’t at the party.
He had no choice, he tried to remind himself. He’d heard it all. He’s dreamed of what he’d heard for nights. Even now, the tendrils of darkness and hatred that he had sensed coming from Aleksandr’s mind were creeping in.
Aleksandr was going to take everything from him. He was going to massacre the tieflings. Aranrus was the only one who could stop it. But did he have the strength to? Aleksandr was like a brother. They’d done so much together. They’d fought in the war together. They’d expelled the deepspawn from their land. They’d bathed in blood, hand-in-hand to protect everything they’d loved.
And Aranrus thought that the blood had finally dried. When Valrut had been born, a healthy baby boy with the light of stars in his eyes, Aranrus thought that perhaps he’d finally been forgiven. But perhaps the blood would never truly be dry. Perhaps his hands would always be stained.
Was this the price he had to pay? Had the gods doomed him to forever bathe in blood, so that those he loved would never have to suffer the same stains on their souls? When he was born had some divine creature decided this was his fate, to be the Hunter? Were the Nine Hells not full enough? Were some souls birthed just to fill the space? After all he’d done, there was no way he’d go anywhere else. Aranrus worshiped Lathander, but he was not convinced the Morninglord would welcome him once he died. But was it what he deserved?
The thoughts of Aleksandr were drifting into his brain. They seemed to rise through the floor and into his head. They were dark, horrible thoughts. Sarlith was down in the throne room, and Aleksandr was hoping she’d drop their son so he could watch the infant break against the marble floor. He was glad that Aranrus was absent. He thought about the ravaging he might do after the party had quieted down. About the blood that he might spill in the guttering candlelight once the music had quieted.
Aleksandr’s mind had not always been like this. But how much blood could a king and a tiefling spill before it started to warp their very souls? How much breath could they steal and how many souls could they cut loose before it began to come back to them? Aranrus saw the faces in his dreams. He woke up screaming from nightmares. Aleksandr had to suffer in similar ways.
The idea of Aleksandr suffering sent waves through him, one warm and beckoning, the other cold shock. He didn’t want to hurt his friend, his brother, his King. But he deserved to suffer, just for the thoughts he dared think about Aranrus’ family.
Aranrus pushed himself off the ground, wiping the tears from his cheeks and dragging in a steely breath. He reached out and grabbed the hilt of the sword, cool and heavy in his palm. The weight grounded him, and he filled his burning lungs with air. The thoughts were louder now. Tomorrow… tomorrow… tomorrow…
This had to be done now. If Aleksandr lived until the sun rose again, every tiefling would be killed. His sons would be beheaded in their beds. His infant son, lying in a pool of his own blood. The thought pushed itself into Aranrus’ brain and dragged a sharp sob from deep within his chest. If Aleksandr lived then Inphi and Sarlith… they might live as well, but he’d wish death for them.
Aranrus clutched the sword in his shaking fist and dragged his heavy body to the stairs. Every step echoed and rang through the staircase, like cannons in his head. Cannons. He remembered the cannonballs ripping into the side of the pirate’s ship. The whoops and cheers from Aleksandr and the small village, finally rid of the tormentors.
Everything passed in a blur: the bottom of the stairs, the long halls, milling with servants and royals. Then he was standing outside the open doors of the dining hall. It was as merry a time as it could be. Aleksandr turned as he stepped into the room, a false grin splitting across his face. “Aranrus, good of you to join us! Are you feeling well?”
Tomorrow. Die. Tomorrow. Die.
Prince Aelfhere and Tenkori were sitting at the table. Sarlith was beside them, cradling his child. The little Alice was nowhere in sight. All eyes were on him now, but he couldn’t hear any more words. The blood rushed in his head, like swelling oceans. Tomorrow. Die. Your sons and daughter. Your wife. Die.
“Aleksandr…” The voice was hardly his own. It was the growl of a cornered beast. A mother bear protecting her cubs. A god protecting his faithful children. A thunderstorm.
“You brought a weapon to a party, oh Aranrus, when will you learn that you’re finally safe?” Aleksandr said, standing. He was laughing at him, mocking him. But he wore a sword too. His hand was reaching for the hilt. His eyes flickered between Aranrus’ wife and himself. Sarlith stared at Aranrus, clutching the child to her chest.
Aranrus could not wait to see what his brother in arms would do. He could not risk his family, his wife. With a cry from Aranrus, a string of lightning burst from his fingertips and wrapped itself around Aleksandr, pulling him abruptly forward. Aleksandr fell to his knees in front of Aranrus with a gasp that was echoed by everyone in the hall.
Aleksandr looked up at him, his face full of anguish and surprise. But Arnarus was already lifting the sword. He held it tightly in his hands over his head, staring down into the face of his dearest friend. But as Aleksandr’s eyes pleaded, his thoughts flashed in Aranrus’ mind. The terrible things he was going to do once he was on his feet.
Aranrus brought down the sword, and the blood sprayed across his torso and face. It dripped down his cheeks, mingling with tears, as the body fell sideways onto the ground. He staggered a few steps backwards, nearly losing his grip on the sword.
Mourning would come later.
He took a shaky breath and gripped the sword tightly. Aranrus lifted the blade and pointed to the crowd that had been shocked into silence. “Bow before your king, Aranrus the Hunter.”
