Whenever he took up a sword in his hands, he felt the disservice that had been done to it. Men never did treat their weapons as living things. They used them to cut other men with, to steal power, to avenge themselves, among other things, but they never truly appreciated their blades. They just hacked and sharpened their blades for the next hacking.
He was different. He loved his knife, and it loved him back. It had never failed him, not once before because it understood his pain. It understood what it felt like to be trampled upon, mocked and thought of as less of a man.
At first, he had been afraid to use the knife like most men. Every day a woman or a man had vexed him; he had gone back to his room and had stared at the knife.
“Use me,” it often called out to him, but he never answered its call.
“It is wrong,” he would tell it.
“And what they do to ye is right? Do they deserve to feel nay pain after causin’ ye the same?” He had had no answer for the blade.
“They think ye are weak, and they would kick ye again because ye prove them right,” the blade would continue.
“But I cannae take a life,” he would cry.
“Then ye are as weak as they say ye are,” the knife would say and would go silent that night. The man would stay awake in his bed staring at the knife, but it would not speak to him again.
That fateful night, he came back to his room tear-faced and had taken the knife in his hand again.
“Why do they do this to me?” He asked it. The knife did not answer him.
“I just want to kill them!” He yelled and thrust the knife in the air, stabbing frantically at the nothingness until his arm screamed in fatigue.
“Then kill one, just kill one. Pick the weakest amongst them and make an example,” the knife finally spoke. “Just kill one, and it would end.”
And so the man got up that night with his knife hidden in his clothe and went after his first victim.
He still remembered Celestine’s screams and whispers from that night. When he has taken her virtue from her, he had stood up and watched her cry on the ground, careful not to make a sound as his threat still lingered in her head.
He knelt on one knee and tilted her head up to where she could see his eyes. He pointed the dagger to her throat and relished the fright in her eyes. At that moment, he wished it had been day. Only the light of the sun would allow him to watch the wonderful scene before him well enough. The candlelight wasn’t enough.
“Please do nae kill me,” she had begged, and he had chuckled to himself.
“But I do nae want ye telling tales of our night together. What do ye suggest I do?”
“I will ne’er tell a soul,” she swore. “Ne’er!” She was frantic and was ready to promise anything.
“But when ye wed a man, he will find yer maidenhead gone. What will ye do then?” he asked her softly.
She had no answers, and so, she had simply cried.
“Perhaps, ye can marry me. That way, I could spare yer life.”
She nodded frantically again and tried to wipe at her tears. “Aye, aye,” she nodded. “I will marry ye.”
He laughed to himself. She had turned him down all those years ago, and here she was now, begging him. He could almost laugh at the irony. His first kill had been his first taste, and this one was even better. Why ever would he stop?
“Let us go out then,” he had said to her. “If ye are to be me wife, we must enjoy a rendezvous together, nay? Then, I will spare yer life.”
She had nodded, ready to do anything to obey and he had almost laughed. She had never been a bright lass.
Celestine had followed him down the window and got on his horse with him, being as quiet as she could. He had taken her to the market where he had had his way with her again, and then, he had killed her.
He missed it. He missed the power that his actions gave to him. Another one had to fall soon. There was no time to waste.
* * *
Ceana was returning from the market. It had been a tiring day, but it was nothing a warm meal would not have solved. She looked forward to getting out of her sweaty clothes, cooking –because it gave her even more joy than eating itself –and taking a nap.
