He was such a small boy. Covered in blood. Shaking. Prone. His eyes glazed, his mouth agape. Unable to control the nervous shaking of his body. Unable to do anything On his soft, small boy's rosy cheeks, tears had made a trail trough the blood and the dirt that soiled his face. His hands, red and sticky, were gripping the long red blade. He was such a small boy.
"How many of them? How many?", roared Kahn-Urkan to his lieutenant. It made Swazarka smile. Kahn's temper was fouler than a hailstorm. All who trailed into his wake had their life – or unlife – end with violence because of this crazy son of a whore's insane bloody temper. Still, it left her wondering. For all the centuries she had been at his side, he had never raised a hand to her. Nor touched her in any other way for that matter. At first, this had upset her. Although her body did not have the soft fullness of womanhood, she knew that her slender silhouette and her fiery eyes never left men indifferent. After a few decades, she had learned to accept it. In the end, it was even a blessing: in the mad whirlwind of blood, massacre and fury that was Kahn's life, she felt protected, untouchable. It was like living in the eye of the storm. Everything was chaos and destruction around her, yet she was living a serene life of idle luxury, protected by an invincible creature of darkness. But why? Why on earth did he treat her this way? Sometimes she even thought that he was, maybe, kind of… afraid of her. How could that be?
He was such a small boy. Alone now. They had come in the middle of the night and burned and killed and raped. He didn't know the meaning of all this. It made no sense in his small boy's mind. He just knew deep inside his small boy guts that he was alone now. Forever. His small fist was white from gripping the knife so hard. And there was this face, looking at him.
Something passed in front of the sun and shadows fell on the camping grounds. Swazarka rolled her eyes, like a mother does when her child has once more misbehaved. Kahn had opened his huge wings and she knew it was the sign of what was to come. Someone was about to die. She heard screams, the dull sound of metal on flesh, hounds barking and growling, and screams of terror and agony. "What a fool…" The whisper escaped her lips. Kahn was insane. Crazy insane. Mad with anger. A red wrath was boiling inside him. And immortality didn't make it any better. What perverted god, what sadistic demon had given him this terrible gift? This fool creature was probably rubbing its hands, grinning at the sight of this enraged immortal man lost in an unquenchable thirst for vengeance. Oh, it was true that Kahn had died and gone to hell. There, he had made the foulest pact. Just to come back. Just to be able to strike again and again and again. For vengeance.
He was such a small boy… The face was perfectly still. Looking straight into his eyes with a dead stare. All dressed in white, with white lilies in her hair, the girl was lying on the ground, her head upside down, her arms at odd angles. Looking at him with an unflinching gaze. An unflinching, dead gaze. Her white dress and white lilies splattered with red. Her hair messed with sweat and tears and dried blood. All red. Red as the blade that he was holding so tight in his small fist. And there was this growling sound.
The shadow had passed. Swazarka heard heavy steps coming toward her. She was sitting with her back to him, but she knew this unmistakable sound, something like the first tremors of an impending earthquake. She whirled around to face him and he stopped dead in his tracks. "What are you doing there?" His voice was like thunder. Instantly he softened: "You should not see this, this is not a place for you." "Why don't you kill me then?" She had never spoken like this before. But this time, she wanted to know. Kahn was still, utterly stunned. For one moment, he was like a completely innocent man: "Why would I… do that?"
He was such a small boy. The growling was stronger now. And the girl's body was shaking, as if from spasms. She was still looking at him with her head upside down and her unflinching dead black glazed gaze. The dogs were enraged by the taste of blood.
She stared into his eyes; they were black as death itself. Even for her, it was hard to hold his gaze. "Don't play with me. Why am I still alive?" Nobody questioned Kahn, no one defied him. It might have happened before, centuries ago. To him, this was something new. He watched her silently.
The dogs were jerking her dead body as if she were a torn rag doll. And she was looking at him as the dogs devoured her. Watching him with her unflinching gaze. And her right hand was jerked above her head, her finger pointing at him, he who was such a small boy. And all the time the dogs were tearing at her flesh, devouring her, she was looking and pointing at him, with the white lilies in her hair.
She held his gaze, raising her chin in defiance. It was the only thing she found to face the rising anger of her lord of darkness. His silent wrath was like a heat wave. She held her ground but felt her tears misting her eyes. She had to say something or she would cry: "Why…" The heat went off. The lord of Vengeance, Shadows and Hatred bowed his head. "You're a sister to me". He turned around and left.
He was such a small boy. But suddenly, something rose from deep inside of him, like he was going to be sick, uncontrollably, beyond meaning and reason. Hatred, fury, pain, loss, fear, anger. Vengeance. He sprung to his small feet, the bloody knife in his hand. He lashed at the hounds, all teeth and muscle and blood. And a scream of rage burned through his throat: "Get off my sister!!!"
Sometimes, Swazarka felt that inside the half god that was Kahn-Urkan, there was only a terrified and furious small boy who was running the show. And time and time, she would dismiss the thought: how could that be? He was such a small boy…