Once upon a time there was a young, young, boy who lived in an old, old house with his grandmother. Everyday, the young, young boy and his grandmother went to take care of their vegetable garden. Everyday after work, the young, young boy would pick up a stick and pretend it was a glorious sword to defeat savage beasts. He would imagine himself saving princesses, and his name becoming legend. And every night as he slept he had fantastical dreams full of honor, power, and glory. But every time the grandmother saw the young, young boy jumping over rocks swinging around his stick, she would just gaze at him and sigh, knowing that he would never be more than a mere farmer. Every time a soldier or knight pulled up into the small village, the young, young boy would go out to watch, imagining himself in the sleek, shining armor.
One day, a wolf pack began feasting on the village’s cattle, and no one was brave enough to confront it. But the young, young boy was not afraid, in fact, he was quite the opposite. So one dark, dark night, in the middle of a cold, cold winter, he took his grandmother’s kitchen knife and set out to find the monsters, he searched the entire night, howling and calling out, knife in hand. And then, at the very brink of dawn, he heard a response. A single howl pierced the cold winter air. The young boy swerved around, dropping his knife in fear. The wolf stood in front of him, glaring at him with its cold, black eyes. It jumped at him, biting his leg with teeth that were as sharp as needles. The boy fell. Just in time, a local hunter who had heard the young, young boy’s cries burst through the shrubs and killed the vile creature. Forever after the incident, the young, young boy walked with a severe limp. For days, he refused to talk, depressed by his failure.
Years flew by, and the young, young boy grew into a young, young, man. He lived a quiet and peaceful life, helping his grandmother. Though every so often, he stared up at the moon and remembered back to that dark, dark night where he felt like he had lost so, so much. Even though everyone had forgotten about the accident, the young, young man still felt in his heart a parasite of remorse and self-pity. Finally, he could not take it anymore. He decided to go find adventure and to prove himself a hero. So he set out with one of his grandmother’s horses.
He traveled for days to the capital of his country. The young, young man had heard tales of the city, tales of massive mansions of gold and people who wore beautiful robes made of pure diamonds. He knew that this is where he would find adventure. He rode his horse down the marvelous streets gazing at beautiful people with beautiful and silky cloaks. He gazed at the soldiers, wearing armor shining like the moon against water. His emotions were chockfull of wonder. Finally, he had collected himself enough to waltz over to the nearest soldier. His back straightened in a sign of respect.
“Good day fine sir! I was wondering how I could sign up to patrol along with you?” The young, young man proclaimed. At first, the guard ignored him.
“Sir? Sir?” The young, young man said, beginning to get agitated. All of a sudden, the guard spun around, mouth foaming.
“Look you little slob! Get you and your filthy horse away from me!” He pushed the young, young man away, slamming him into the spotless street. The young, young man, however, was not dismayed. He would simply find adventure elsewhere. He set forth randomly, determined to find someone that could accept him.
But, as he grew old, wandering the countryside, he could find no savage monsters to slay, no damsels to save, and no witches to vanquish. And as every uneventful day passed, he got more and more angry, and finally decided to go back to that old, old house he remembered from so long ago. The man felt remorse, he felt as if he had disappointed everyone. He headed back home with his body limp and his head down, not caring enough to eat or drink.
One day, he passed through a dark, dark village, surrounded by trees and covered by a misty layer of fog. Crunchy and smooth snow covered everything, and his feet made a crackling sound against it. For some reason, he felt pulled to this strange village. As he pressed on, he felt a strong feeling of loneliness, something he had never felt before. The man dismounted from his horse and looked around. The sky was as dark as his heart, and a slight breeze brushed through the village. The houses were all old and broken, with bits and pieces breaking off every so often. He noticed that the village was abandoned, and he saw no signs of life. There was almost no light in the village, aside from the silvery sheen of the moon. He headed towards the center of the village, and right in front of him was a single fire. As he entered its area, he felt very strange, as if he was getting the warmth sucked out of him instead of into him. How strange, he thought.
“How strange indeed.” A calm, collected, and utterly terrifying voice rasped behind him. The man spun around, only to come face to face with a dark shadow. The shadow cast an aura of despair and depression. He felt as if everything that he had done in life had been a failure.
The shadow spoke again, “I see you have much on your mind.” The voice pulled the man in, bringing the man closer to it.
The man pulled away from it. “Fiend! Get your filthy hands off me!” He grabbed his rusty blade and swung it wildly in the direction of the monster. The shadow calmly waved its hand, throwing the blade out of the man’s hands. It then reached out and touched the man on his shoulder, and the man instantly froze.
“I am…very sorry I was forced to do that. But I must give you an offer you can’t refuse.” The shadow talked very strangely, routinely pausing between words for no particular reason.
“You see…my friend. I am the one who is known as…Death. Everyone despises me, though I still do my duty unquestionably, as I have faith in my duty. However, over the years you humans have gotten more and more plentiful. It is my personal duty to stop you. However, I am not a young…spirit anymore. I am weakening as humans invent new ways to…evade me. So I need to apply some more …physical damage. And so I have decided to recruit an…apprentice. Someone that will follow me as devotedly as I follow my duty.”
“I will never join you, you monster!” The man became unfrozen, screaming in a rage.
“But… if you help me you will become a …hero. Something you have been reaching for your entire life, but never grasped. The people in this land…deserve it. On the outside they may be flamboyant, but on the inside they are…cold as stone.”
Thoughts and emotions raced through the man’s mind. I’m killing innocent people! One side of him argued. They are not people, they are just shells! The other side refuted. He remembered back to his grandmother, who had always cared for him, but then he thought of the guard, who had insulted him and thrown him to the ground. I will do what is necessary to become a hero, he thought.
“I have decided. I’ll join you. But only to redeem myself.” The man stated.
“Very well. I knew that you would…do it. But to prove yourself loyal you must perform eight tasks. The first task is to unleash the furious Mortus Plague.”
The man knew about the Mortus Plague. It was a deadly disease that began many years ago. His grandmother had told him stories of it, stories of how it kept you paralyzed and conscious, unable to move or to save yourself. Of how you were waiting to die, if you were lucky, you were killed while you were paralyzed. If you were not lucky, you would sit for years, waiting for the poison to finally shut down all your systems. It was a horrible, hideous disease. However, eventually a brave hero named Fortis Vir discovered the antidote and abolished the disease, though he died a few days after finally destroying the disease. He had never revealed the antidote.
“How am I supposed to spread it? Its extinct!” The man complained. He saw no rhyme or reason to Death’s task.
“That is for you…to figure out. It is part of the task. Good-bye my friend. I shall see you when you find the answer.” And just like that, Death disappeared. The man found himself in the middle of a wheat field; he saw a small cottage to his left. Right in front of him was a short lady wearing peasant clothing. On her back was a large bag of grains.
“Finally! Yer conscious! I thought ye was dead!” The woman shouted.
“Ugh, where am I?” The man grunted, he had a huge headache. Had it all been a dream? No, he thought. He could clearly remember it; Death had probably brought him here to start his quest.
“Yer at mah humble plot o’ land,” The peasant said, helping him up. “I noticed ye down ‘ere fainted ‘bout an hour ago. Are ye fine? Would ye like to come into muh little cottage and have a nice bowl o’ onion soup?”
“Well that would be nice.” The man answered. Hopefully the nice warm bowl of soup would cure his headache. He and the peasant woman walked into the tiny cottage, inside were two small children playing around with small wooden toys.
“Avice, Thomas, this nice young man will be joining us today for lunch.” The woman said, as she walked over to the kitchen and prepared the soup. The man’s mind suddenly had thoughts of regret. Did he really want to destroy these nice, innocent people for his own desires? He sat down, his headache growing bigger than ever. The woman sat down next to him, bringing him the steaming and fresh onion soup.
“Thank you, very much.” He thanked the peasant, gulping down the soup. Suddenly, his mind became dazed and he fell down, knocked out. The next thing he could remember was the nice woman’s voice.
“Ah, this one ‘ad some nice loot on him. A few rings and bracelets, a horse. This will go well!” The woman’s voice exclaimed. He started yelling, but his mouth was gagged.
“The little scum is awake.” The woman hit him over the head with something and he was knocked unconscious once again.
He woke up in the middle of a dark forest, surrounded by gnarled trees. He tried to stand up, though he was still dazed by headache. He screamed in anger, the stupid filth had betrayed him, and stolen all of his stuff. He was left alone with only the clothes on his back. He slammed his fist into a tree trunk, bruising it. He would never be a hero because of her. His previous doubts have disappeared, he would destroy them all. He headed down the dirty and broken trail that he had been abandoned on, his eyes filled with anger.
Suddenly, he saw something in front of him, a cottage. He limped towards it, his eyes focused on it. His anger had been blocked for a few moments. He stepped forth to the door of the small cottage. It was made of dirty grey stone, and a small and broken fence surrounded the house. He knocked on the small frog-shaped doorknocker. For a few minutes nobody answered, he was about to leave when the door slowly creaked open. In the doorway was a tall, pale man with a long and grizzled white beard. His eyes were covered with a pair of cracked glasses and he was wearing a filthy brown rob. His eyes were a dark shade of black that always seemed to be looking downwards.
“I have been expecting you.” The old man said in a strange voice that seemed to change pitch every word, he sometimes stuttered on certain words.
“Who are you?” The man said, staring at the old man.
“I am-I am, well I simply forgot. I always forgot things…” The old man said, trailing off. “But you can call me by the name Quare. It was a name I brandished ages ago. Nobody ever asks me anything anymore…”
“How do you know me?” The man asked, intrigued by this character.
“I have something for, for you. You are looking for the disease of Mortus eh?” Quare said.
“I am. How do you know that?” The man questioned, surprised.
“That is-is a story for other times. What you-you need to know is that I have a vial of the disease.”
“What? How did you-? Give it to me!” The man threatened.
“Calm-calm down. You cannot hurt me. I-I know you won’t” Quare replied, a small amount of anguish in his voice.
“How should you know I wont’ hurt you? How do you know I won’t kick you aside and steal your vial!”?
“I just know-know you won’t. I just know it. Besides, the vial is hidden somewhere you will never-never find.” Quare replied.
For a second, the man felt like pushing aside Quare and taking the vial by force, but for some reason, he could not do it.
“Fine. What do you need in return for the vial?”
“I will grant you the vial-vial if you answer my one riddle.” Quare explained.
“I agree, ask me your riddle, old man.”
“There is a town-town.” Quare began telling his tale. “And in that town everyone must be fed onion soup by Friday. There is only one chef in the entire town that serves onion soup, and so everyone-everyone must either buy the soup from the chef or make their own. The chef will only make onion soup for the ones who don’t cook their own. So how does the-the chef get his soup?” Quare finished his riddle, gazing at the man.
The man thought, his mind racing.
“Can I have refuge with you for a few days, thinking about the puzzle?” The man asked.
“Sure-sure, feel free to take up the small guest bedroom” Quare replied.
For days, the man thought over and over again about the riddle. It seemed impossible. Finally, one night he woke up in his sleep, knowing the answer. It was now obvious to him. He rushed out of the room, calling for Quare. He rushed through an open door, and found Quare standing still in front of a giant glass orb. Inside the orb where people, people walking, people thinking, people talking were shown.
‘Quare?” The man said, puzzled.
“People are so very strange wouldn’t you agree?” Quare stated absentmindedly. Then Quare turned around, and looked at the man in the eyes.
“I am the only chef, able to satisfy others, but never myself. I serve the onion soup, but never receive any myself. I can only deliver, never consume. Why is that young man?” Quare said in a silent whisper. He slammed his fist into the glass orb, shattering it.
“Answer me! Why!”? Quare screamed.
The man fell back, scared by Quare’s rampage.
“I don’t know, I don’t know!” The man yelled back.
Quare swung his arms around, destroying all the utensils and equipment around him. All the man could do was stand back paralyzed. Finally, Quare seemed to have settled down, sitting on a rickety bench.
“Do you want to know who I am?” Quare said.
The man slowly nodded, he was curious about this strange man. He had seemed to lose his stutter after his fit of anger.
“I used to be a glorious knight, who fought and defeated the seven bandits of Tonsor, who saved the great King Fastosus. But then, a great plague struck the land. I was foolish, and decided to confront it. I searched the corners of Earth to find the antidote, and after years of searching found the answer. The antidote to the greatest plague of all time was a simple bowl of onion soup. And so I foolishly was selfish, and wanted to keep the answer all to myself. So I packaged the soup into vials and shared them. I soon became so devoted to saving people that I forgot to save myself. I caught the plague, but had to give out the antidote to all the other, innocent people who were dying. I always gave, but never received. One day, a dark shadow came to me. It offered to save my life in return for a service that would last a hundred years. Of course, I agreed. I became encased in this shell, and sent to this cottage, forever to help the people that Death sent to me. And when one hundred years passed, Death prevented me from resting. And when two hundred years passed, Death prevented me for resting. And now, two hundred and seventy seven years from when I gave up my life, I am still here. You cannot imagine how it feels, to know that you will never rest…” Quare stared of into the air in regret.
“You are Fortis Vir.” The man said, astonished by Quare’s story.
“The one and the only. I shall give you the poison. But please, promise me something important in return.”
“Of course.” The man accepted.
“That you will always question reality before you accept it. I did not do it and here I am now, full of regret.” Fortis pulled something out of his many pockets on his tattered robe. It was a small vial filled of a murky substance.
“Good luck young traveler.” Fortis said.
The man stepped out of Fortis’s cottage. In front of the cottage was a dark black horse. He got on it, taking on last glance at Fortis’s cottage.
“Good bye hero.” He muttered under his breath as he rode of in search of the capital.
He visited the capital for the first time after the incident many years ago, and this time with a malicious vial in his pouch. He would get his revenge. He headed off, pouring drops of the small bottle into any food and beverages he saw. It wasn’t long until he heard heavy coughing, the first symptoms of the Mortus plague. He headed of, away from the capital. Satisfied with the way things had played out.
As he kept on completing Deaths tasks, one by one, chaos began to strike the nation. The tasks were brutal and cruel, they were often different, but they always lead to death. Every last ounce of the man’s humanity was sapped out; he no longer cared about anything aside from completing Death’s tasks. He could kill without regret, destroy with pleasure. Nothing could scare him, and crying and screaming were just music to his twisted ears. His hair darkened, his skin paled, his eyes became as dark as Death’s robes. He became a terrible, terrible man.
After 20 years of completing Death’s tasks, he had finally finished all but one. Behind him, he had left a trail of pain and anger. And as he called Death, his eyes gleamed in a maniacal way.
“You have done everything I could have asked for… impeccably. I could not have asked for more, but ahead is your final…challenge to prove yourself. After that, you and I can embrace and become equal.” Death stated.
“Very well. What is your final challenge?” The terrible, terrible man’s voice had changed over the years. It was now a crazy, broken voice. Full of squeaks and changes, stumbling over words and drawing out others. All a sign of his change.
“The final…and most difficult challenge. Is to eliminate the one you hold closest.” Death explained.
“But, I have no one close to me! I have no need for love, no need for emotion!” The terrible, terrible man exclaimed.
‘Think back, my apprentice. Back to the time when you were…young and innocent. Think of a woman, a strong, strong woman who raised you, and…protected you.”
“I remember.” The man whispered, remembering back to the days when he would pretend to fight monsters with sticks and stones. “I, I cannot.”
‘Are you questioning me?” Death said.
“No, no not at all. It’s just… I will get right to it.” The man felt an extraordinary feeling of fear and regret. He remembered his grandmother, he remembered how she would always cook him onion soup and protect him from the harms of the outside world. But these feeling soon were defeated by his usual emotions of anger and despair. He didn’t care; he did not need her anymore.
The terrible, terrible man rode down to a village that he remembered from long, long ago. He passed through the dark, dark village, surrounded by trees and covered by a misty layer of fog. Crunchy and smooth snow covered everything, and his feet crackled against it. He felt pulled to the village. The man dismounted from his horse and looked around. The sky was as dark as his heart, and a slight breeze brushed through the village. The houses were all old and broken, with bits and pieces breaking off every so often. He noticed that the village was abandoned; he saw no signs of life. There was almost no light in the village, aside from the silvery sheen of the moon. He headed towards the center of the village; right in front of him was a single fire. Around the fire was an old, old woman that he remembered from so long ago.
“Darling, I always knew that you would come back.” The old, old woman said, raised her wrinkled face to gaze at her grandson.
“I have not come back to save you.” The terrible, terrible man said. His eyes staring at the old, old woman. He brandished his long, cruel knife.
“Why did you do all this?” The old, old woman asked. Her face unmoved. “Is it really necessary to kill so many people so that you could bear the title of a hero?”
“You do not know how it feels, to feel like you have disappointed everyone around you.” The terrible, terrible man said.
“I remember a time long ago.” The old, old woman said. “When you were young and I was younger. You had gotten the idea that killing a pack of wolves would be enough to prove yourself. You never had to prove yourself.”
“I have to prove myself! I cannot life without knowing that I have changed something! I have to serve Death!” The man yelled in anger.
“Oh, so you are infected by the Gloom.” The old, old woman muttered.
“I am not infected by anything! The young, young man screamed.
“The Gloom is an…illness that has affected our family for years. Your great, great grandfather Fortis Vir was the first to catch it. Your father had it and killed everyone around him, including himself. I am lucky I did not get it. The Gloom is an illness that makes another side of you stand out so much, you begin to think it is a completely different person than you. It tells you to do things, terrible, terrible things.”
“So, I am Death? I did everything, destroyed so much, for nothing?” The man whimpered. He took the knife and put it to his heart.
“I do not want to take the lives of anymore people. I want Death to be gone, good bye grandmother.” He said.
“Good bye child.” She said, cracking one last smile. And with that, the young, young man, the terrible, terrible man and death were gone.
Once upon a time there was a young, young, boy who lived in an old, old house with his grandmother. Everyday, the young, young boy and his grandmother went to take care of their vegetable garden. Everyday after work, the young, young boy would pick up a stick and pretend it was a glorious sword to defeat savage beasts. He would imagine himself saving princesses, and his name becoming legend. And every night as he slept he had fantastical dreams full of honor, power, and glory. But every time the grandmother saw the young, young boy jumping over rocks swinging around his stick, she would just gaze at him and sigh, knowing that he would never be more than a mere farmer. Every time a soldier or knight pulled up into the small village, the young, young boy would go out to watch, imagining himself in the sleek, shining armor.
One day, a wolf pack began feasting on the village’s cattle, and no one was brave enough to confront it. But the young, young boy was not afraid, in fact, he was quite the opposite. So one dark, dark night, in the middle of a cold, cold winter, he took his grandmother’s kitchen knife and set out to find the monsters, he searched the entire night, howling and calling out, knife in hand. And then, at the very brink of dawn, he heard a response. A single howl pierced the cold winter air. The young boy swerved around, dropping his knife in fear. The wolf stood in front of him, glaring at him with its cold, black eyes. It jumped at him, biting his leg with teeth that were as sharp as needles. The boy fell. Just in time, a local hunter who had heard the young, young boy’s cries burst through the shrubs and killed the vile creature. Forever after the incident, the young, young boy walked with a severe limp. For days, he refused to talk, depressed by his failure.
Years flew by, and the young, young boy grew into a young, young, man. He lived a quiet and peaceful life, helping his grandmother. Though every so often, he stared up at the moon and remembered back to that dark, dark night where he felt like he had lost so, so much. Even though everyone had forgotten about the accident, the young, young man still felt in his heart a parasite of remorse and self-pity. Finally, he could not take it anymore. He decided to go find adventure and to prove himself a hero. So he set out with one of his grandmother’s horses.
He traveled for days to the capital of his country. The young, young man had heard tales of the city, tales of massive mansions of gold and people who wore beautiful robes made of pure diamonds. He knew that this is where he would find adventure. He rode his horse down the marvelous streets gazing at beautiful people with beautiful and silky cloaks. He gazed at the soldiers, wearing armor shining like the moon against water. His emotions were chockfull of wonder. Finally, he had collected himself enough to waltz over to the nearest soldier. His back straightened in a sign of respect.
“Good day fine sir! I was wondering how I could sign up to patrol along with you?” The young, young man proclaimed. At first, the guard ignored him.
“Sir? Sir?” The young, young man said, beginning to get agitated. All of a sudden, the guard spun around, mouth foaming.
“Look you little slob! Get you and your filthy horse away from me!” He pushed the young, young man away, slamming him into the spotless street. The young, young man, however, was not dismayed. He would simply find adventure elsewhere. He set forth randomly, determined to find someone that could accept him.
But, as he grew old, wandering the countryside, he could find no savage monsters to slay, no damsels to save, and no witches to vanquish. And as every uneventful day passed, he got more and more angry, and finally decided to go back to that old, old house he remembered from so long ago. The man felt remorse, he felt as if he had disappointed everyone. He headed back home with his body limp and his head down, not caring enough to eat or drink.
One day, he passed through a dark, dark village, surrounded by trees and covered by a misty layer of fog. Crunchy and smooth snow covered everything, and his feet made a crackling sound against it. For some reason, he felt pulled to this strange village. As he pressed on, he felt a strong feeling of loneliness, something he had never felt before. The man dismounted from his horse and looked around. The sky was as dark as his heart, and a slight breeze brushed through the village. The houses were all old and broken, with bits and pieces breaking off every so often. He noticed that the village was abandoned, and he saw no signs of life. There was almost no light in the village, aside from the silvery sheen of the moon. He headed towards the center of the village, and right in front of him was a single fire. As he entered its area, he felt very strange, as if he was getting the warmth sucked out of him instead of into him. How strange, he thought.
“How strange indeed.” A calm, collected, and utterly terrifying voice rasped behind him. The man spun around, only to come face to face with a dark shadow. The shadow cast an aura of despair and depression. He felt as if everything that he had done in life had been a failure.
The shadow spoke again, “I see you have much on your mind.” The voice pulled the man in, bringing the man closer to it.
The man pulled away from it. “Fiend! Get your filthy hands off me!” He grabbed his rusty blade and swung it wildly in the direction of the monster. The shadow calmly waved its hand, throwing the blade out of the man’s hands. It then reached out and touched the man on his shoulder, and the man instantly froze.
“I am…very sorry I was forced to do that. But I must give you an offer you can’t refuse.” The shadow talked very strangely, routinely pausing between words for no particular reason.
“You see…my friend. I am the one who is known as…Death. Everyone despises me, though I still do my duty unquestionably, as I have faith in my duty. However, over the years you humans have gotten more and more plentiful. It is my personal duty to stop you. However, I am not a young…spirit anymore. I am weakening as humans invent new ways to…evade me. So I need to apply some more …physical damage. And so I have decided to recruit an…apprentice. Someone that will follow me as devotedly as I follow my duty.”
“I will never join you, you monster!” The man became unfrozen, screaming in a rage.
“But… if you help me you will become a …hero. Something you have been reaching for your entire life, but never grasped. The people in this land…deserve it. On the outside they may be flamboyant, but on the inside they are…cold as stone.”
Thoughts and emotions raced through the man’s mind. I’m killing innocent people! One side of him argued. They are not people, they are just shells! The other side refuted. He remembered back to his grandmother, who had always cared for him, but then he thought of the guard, who had insulted him and thrown him to the ground. I will do what is necessary to become a hero, he thought.
“I have decided. I’ll join you. But only to redeem myself.” The man stated.
“Very well. I knew that you would…do it. But to prove yourself loyal you must perform eight tasks. The first task is to unleash the furious Mortus Plague.”
The man knew about the Mortus Plague. It was a deadly disease that began many years ago. His grandmother had told him stories of it, stories of how it kept you paralyzed and conscious, unable to move or to save yourself. Of how you were waiting to die, if you were lucky, you were killed while you were paralyzed. If you were not lucky, you would sit for years, waiting for the poison to finally shut down all your systems. It was a horrible, hideous disease. However, eventually a brave hero named Fortis Vir discovered the antidote and abolished the disease, though he died a few days after finally destroying the disease. He had never revealed the antidote.
“How am I supposed to spread it? Its extinct!” The man complained. He saw no rhyme or reason to Death’s task.
“That is for you…to figure out. It is part of the task. Good-bye my friend. I shall see you when you find the answer.” And just like that, Death disappeared. The man found himself in the middle of a wheat field; he saw a small cottage to his left. Right in front of him was a short lady wearing peasant clothing. On her back was a large bag of grains.
“Finally! Yer conscious! I thought ye was dead!” The woman shouted.
“Ugh, where am I?” The man grunted, he had a huge headache. Had it all been a dream? No, he thought. He could clearly remember it; Death had probably brought him here to start his quest.
“Yer at mah humble plot o’ land,” The peasant said, helping him up. “I noticed ye down ‘ere fainted ‘bout an hour ago. Are ye fine? Would ye like to come into muh little cottage and have a nice bowl o’ onion soup?”
“Well that would be nice.” The man answered. Hopefully the nice warm bowl of soup would cure his headache. He and the peasant woman walked into the tiny cottage, inside were two small children playing around with small wooden toys.
“Avice, Thomas, this nice young man will be joining us today for lunch.” The woman said, as she walked over to the kitchen and prepared the soup. The man’s mind suddenly had thoughts of regret. Did he really want to destroy these nice, innocent people for his own desires? He sat down, his headache growing bigger than ever. The woman sat down next to him, bringing him the steaming and fresh onion soup.
“Thank you, very much.” He thanked the peasant, gulping down the soup. Suddenly, his mind became dazed and he fell down, knocked out. The next thing he could remember was the nice woman’s voice.
“Ah, this one ‘ad some nice loot on him. A few rings and bracelets, a horse. This will go well!” The woman’s voice exclaimed. He started yelling, but his mouth was gagged.
“The little scum is awake.” The woman hit him over the head with something and he was knocked unconscious once again.
He woke up in the middle of a dark forest, surrounded by gnarled trees. He tried to stand up, though he was still dazed by headache. He screamed in anger, the stupid filth had betrayed him, and stolen all of his stuff. He was left alone with only the clothes on his back. He slammed his fist into a tree trunk, bruising it. He would never be a hero because of her. His previous doubts have disappeared, he would destroy them all. He headed down the dirty and broken trail that he had been abandoned on, his eyes filled with anger.
Suddenly, he saw something in front of him, a cottage. He limped towards it, his eyes focused on it. His anger had been blocked for a few moments. He stepped forth to the door of the small cottage. It was made of dirty grey stone, and a small and broken fence surrounded the house. He knocked on the small frog-shaped doorknocker. For a few minutes nobody answered, he was about to leave when the door slowly creaked open. In the doorway was a tall, pale man with a long and grizzled white beard. His eyes were covered with a pair of cracked glasses and he was wearing a filthy brown rob. His eyes were a dark shade of black that always seemed to be looking downwards.
“I have been expecting you.” The old man said in a strange voice that seemed to change pitch every word, he sometimes stuttered on certain words.
“Who are you?” The man said, staring at the old man.
“I am-I am, well I simply forgot. I always forgot things…” The old man said, trailing off. “But you can call me by the name Quare. It was a name I brandished ages ago. Nobody ever asks me anything anymore…”
“How do you know me?” The man asked, intrigued by this character.
“I have something for, for you. You are looking for the disease of Mortus eh?” Quare said.
“I am. How do you know that?” The man questioned, surprised.
“That is-is a story for other times. What you-you need to know is that I have a vial of the disease.”
“What? How did you-? Give it to me!” The man threatened.
“Calm-calm down. You cannot hurt me. I-I know you won’t” Quare replied, a small amount of anguish in his voice.
“How should you know I wont’ hurt you? How do you know I won’t kick you aside and steal your vial!”?
“I just know-know you won’t. I just know it. Besides, the vial is hidden somewhere you will never-never find.” Quare replied.
For a second, the man felt like pushing aside Quare and taking the vial by force, but for some reason, he could not do it.
“Fine. What do you need in return for the vial?”
“I will grant you the vial-vial if you answer my one riddle.” Quare explained.
“I agree, ask me your riddle, old man.”
“There is a town-town.” Quare began telling his tale. “And in that town everyone must be fed onion soup by Friday. There is only one chef in the entire town that serves onion soup, and so everyone-everyone must either buy the soup from the chef or make their own. The chef will only make onion soup for the ones who don’t cook their own. So how does the-the chef get his soup?” Quare finished his riddle, gazing at the man.
The man thought, his mind racing.
“Can I have refuge with you for a few days, thinking about the puzzle?” The man asked.
“Sure-sure, feel free to take up the small guest bedroom” Quare replied.
For days, the man thought over and over again about the riddle. It seemed impossible. Finally, one night he woke up in his sleep, knowing the answer. It was now obvious to him. He rushed out of the room, calling for Quare. He rushed through an open door, and found Quare standing still in front of a giant glass orb. Inside the orb where people, people walking, people thinking, people talking were shown.
‘Quare?” The man said, puzzled.
“People are so very strange wouldn’t you agree?” Quare stated absentmindedly. Then Quare turned around, and looked at the man in the eyes.
“I am the only chef, able to satisfy others, but never myself. I serve the onion soup, but never receive any myself. I can only deliver, never consume. Why is that young man?” Quare said in a silent whisper. He slammed his fist into the glass orb, shattering it.
“Answer me! Why!”? Quare screamed.
The man fell back, scared by Quare’s rampage.
“I don’t know, I don’t know!” The man yelled back.
Quare swung his arms around, destroying all the utensils and equipment around him. All the man could do was stand back paralyzed. Finally, Quare seemed to have settled down, sitting on a rickety bench.
“Do you want to know who I am?” Quare said.
The man slowly nodded, he was curious about this strange man. He had seemed to lose his stutter after his fit of anger.
“I used to be a glorious knight, who fought and defeated the seven bandits of Tonsor, who saved the great King Fastosus. But then, a great plague struck the land. I was foolish, and decided to confront it. I searched the corners of Earth to find the antidote, and after years of searching found the answer. The antidote to the greatest plague of all time was a simple bowl of onion soup. And so I foolishly was selfish, and wanted to keep the answer all to myself. So I packaged the soup into vials and shared them. I soon became so devoted to saving people that I forgot to save myself. I caught the plague, but had to give out the antidote to all the other, innocent people who were dying. I always gave, but never received. One day, a dark shadow came to me. It offered to save my life in return for a service that would last a hundred years. Of course, I agreed. I became encased in this shell, and sent to this cottage, forever to help the people that Death sent to me. And when one hundred years passed, Death prevented me from resting. And when two hundred years passed, Death prevented me for resting. And now, two hundred and seventy seven years from when I gave up my life, I am still here. You cannot imagine how it feels, to know that you will never rest…” Quare stared of into the air in regret.
“You are Fortis Vir.” The man said, astonished by Quare’s story.
“The one and the only. I shall give you the poison. But please, promise me something important in return.”
“Of course.” The man accepted.
“That you will always question reality before you accept it. I did not do it and here I am now, full of regret.” Fortis pulled something out of his many pockets on his tattered robe. It was a small vial filled of a murky substance.
“Good luck young traveler.” Fortis said.
The man stepped out of Fortis’s cottage. In front of the cottage was a dark black horse. He got on it, taking on last glance at Fortis’s cottage.
“Good bye hero.” He muttered under his breath as he rode of in search of the capital.
He visited the capital for the first time after the incident many years ago, and this time with a malicious vial in his pouch. He would get his revenge. He headed off, pouring drops of the small bottle into any food and beverages he saw. It wasn’t long until he heard heavy coughing, the first symptoms of the Mortus plague. He headed of, away from the capital. Satisfied with the way things had played out.
As he kept on completing Deaths tasks, one by one, chaos began to strike the nation. The tasks were brutal and cruel, they were often different, but they always lead to death. Every last ounce of the man’s humanity was sapped out; he no longer cared about anything aside from completing Death’s tasks. He could kill without regret, destroy with pleasure. Nothing could scare him, and crying and screaming were just music to his twisted ears. His hair darkened, his skin paled, his eyes became as dark as Death’s robes. He became a terrible, terrible man.
After 20 years of completing Death’s tasks, he had finally finished all but one. Behind him, he had left a trail of pain and anger. And as he called Death, his eyes gleamed in a maniacal way.
“You have done everything I could have asked for… impeccably. I could not have asked for more, but ahead is your final…challenge to prove yourself. After that, you and I can embrace and become equal.” Death stated.
“Very well. What is your final challenge?” The terrible, terrible man’s voice had changed over the years. It was now a crazy, broken voice. Full of squeaks and changes, stumbling over words and drawing out others. All a sign of his change.
“The final…and most difficult challenge. Is to eliminate the one you hold closest.” Death explained.
“But, I have no one close to me! I have no need for love, no need for emotion!” The terrible, terrible man exclaimed.
‘Think back, my apprentice. Back to the time when you were…young and innocent. Think of a woman, a strong, strong woman who raised you, and…protected you.”
“I remember.” The man whispered, remembering back to the days when he would pretend to fight monsters with sticks and stones. “I, I cannot.”
‘Are you questioning me?” Death said.
“No, no not at all. It’s just… I will get right to it.” The man felt an extraordinary feeling of fear and regret. He remembered his grandmother, he remembered how she would always cook him onion soup and protect him from the harms of the outside world. But these feeling soon were defeated by his usual emotions of anger and despair. He didn’t care; he did not need her anymore.
The terrible, terrible man rode down to a village that he remembered from long, long ago. He passed through the dark, dark village, surrounded by trees and covered by a misty layer of fog. Crunchy and smooth snow covered everything, and his feet crackled against it. He felt pulled to the village. The man dismounted from his horse and looked around. The sky was as dark as his heart, and a slight breeze brushed through the village. The houses were all old and broken, with bits and pieces breaking off every so often. He noticed that the village was abandoned; he saw no signs of life. There was almost no light in the village, aside from the silvery sheen of the moon. He headed towards the center of the village; right in front of him was a single fire. Around the fire was an old, old woman that he remembered from so long ago.
“Darling, I always knew that you would come back.” The old, old woman said, raised her wrinkled face to gaze at her grandson.
“I have not come back to save you.” The terrible, terrible man said. His eyes staring at the old, old woman. He brandished his long, cruel knife.
“Why did you do all this?” The old, old woman asked. Her face unmoved. “Is it really necessary to kill so many people so that you could bear the title of a hero?”
“You do not know how it feels, to feel like you have disappointed everyone around you.” The terrible, terrible man said.
“I remember a time long ago.” The old, old woman said. “When you were young and I was younger. You had gotten the idea that killing a pack of wolves would be enough to prove yourself. You never had to prove yourself.”
“I have to prove myself! I cannot life without knowing that I have changed something! I have to serve Death!” The man yelled in anger.
“Oh, so you are infected by the Gloom.” The old, old woman muttered.
“I am not infected by anything! The young, young man screamed.
“The Gloom is an…illness that has affected our family for years. Your great, great grandfather Fortis Vir was the first to catch it. Your father had it and killed everyone around him, including himself. I am lucky I did not get it. The Gloom is an illness that makes another side of you stand out so much, you begin to think it is a completely different person than you. It tells you to do things, terrible, terrible things.”
“So, I am Death? I did everything, destroyed so much, for nothing?” The man whimpered. He took the knife and put it to his heart.
“I do not want to take the lives of anymore people. I want Death to be gone, good bye grandmother.” He said.
“Good bye child.” She said, cracking one last smile. And with that, the young, young man, the terrible, terrible man and death were gone.
Thx