Story Critique Requested!
So... I do write, and I've been trying to get off my ass more and put some of that material out there.
I wrote this yesterday. It's a little over 2000 words, so it's not a long read. Critiques and comments requested!
An Act of Contrition
The door opened, strangely lacking that creak Diego felt prison doors should have, and the seven of them ghosted inside, spreading out to flank the old man who knelt on the hard stone floor, hands clasped in prayer before the crude altar. As Annette closed the door, their work began. Motioning to his small band, Diego sent two to check the room for concealed spaces or exits. Even bare as it was, he brooked no surprises. He sent the man known as Nacht forward, bearing the cutters, as Josefina and her brother seized the old man by the arms, dragging him around to face Diego.
The prisoner was shackled hand and foot, long chains dragging the ground as they hauled him around, and he remained silent even as the cutters worked the metal, breaking him free. Josefina cuffed him for this insolence, then took a rough hold in his stringy gray hair, forcing his face up to meet Diego’s gaze. Diego found the man’s pockmarked appearance revolting, and the yellow filminess to his eyes even more so, but he said nothing of this, cutting straight to the point as always.
“I am here for you, señor, on the orders of a man who would see you die tonight. As your offense to him was that of a free man, you will also die unchained. Have you anything to say?”
The old man smiled peacefully up at him, and Diego wondered if perhaps his wits had fled. Annette and the others stood behind him now, their search complete and nothing revealed. There was the unmistakable sound of the old man clearing his throat, and he spoke to them at last.
“Good evening, my children. I bid you welcome to this place, although I know you do not come here to be guests.” He looked directly at Diego, some life seeming to return to his sunken eyes. “You were sent here by Don Vazquez, yes? Yes, I see it now. He has always loved the hidalgos, even now in this day when blood means less.”
Diego sneered at the man. “I am here because I am trusted, and not because of my face. I see you remember the good man to whom you have given offense. You should not have thought he would forget you, even here in this… place.” He restrained the shiver he felt when thinking about it, but something in the old man’s eyes told him his revulsion had been noted.
“Yes, let us speak of these walls, my son. You will be from this land, I think, born no more than two days’ travel from here, and yet, you do not know this place. You have never seen it before, nor seen the road that brought you here, nor can you read the words carved over its gates. This bothers you, does it not?”
It was Ricardo, Josefina’s brother, who lost patience first. He kicked the old man in the side, tearing him out of his sister’s hold and folding him into a small pile of rags on the floor. Diego, annoyed, motioned for him to step back, and for Josefina to haul him upright again.
“I do not concern myself with it, viejo. We have paid your guards, paid them well to give us time alone with you. The good Don wants you to know this will be slow, and we will take our time. We are men and women unafraid of blood, and unafraid of doing what others could not. We are his avenging angels, and we will deliver to you the death you deserve.”
A bruise was rising on the side of the man’s face where it had met the floor, but his voice was still steady as he spoke to them.
“Old men fear the vigorous young, my children. They will pretend to embrace you, but your service to them is a dagger that tears their side as well. When you stop fearing the blood that stains your hands, it is too easy for it to become their blood, their life. When the world was younger, there were more wars to send the young to fight, but in time it became known that wars breed heroes, and heroes become conquerors even at home. No, there is a need for removing the young when they are more useful gone, and your master has sent you to this.”
Diego nodded to Maria. She was best among them at careful breaks, ones that would not kill. Stepping forward, she placed one heel carefully above the old man’s left ankle, then drove the small hammer against the other side, the crack filling the room with the promise that he would never walk on it again. Strangely, the howl that escaped his lips seemed as much joy as pain, and Diego motioned her back.
“We will break each of your bones in turn, and no one will come to s…”
The old man cut in, rasping but still managing to overwhelm his threats somehow. “You have paid the guards, yes? Paid them well, and truly?”
“I said as much, old fool, even if they demanded strange coin.”
“Jade for their silence, brass to lock the doors for you?”
Diego paused, the blood draining from his face. “Yes. How did you know this?”
The old smiled at him, supported by Josefina’s grip on his scalp. “I have also, from time to time, paid the guards. For instance, tonight.”
Diego gestured sharply, sending two of his men to check the door once more, and he forced himself to relax when they returned, nodding.
“No one has come to stop us, so I think you paid less than I did, viejo. I think you will die even as they count your money a bonus to the Don’s.”
The old man nodded. “It is true, my son. I…” Diego was tired of this, and he motioned to Alejandro, who kicked the old man savagely in the side. Josefina dragged him back upright, and he continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted, although a thin line of blood trickled from his mouth. “… I did pay less than you did, for I had less to buy. You paid them to be silent, and to lock the doors, so all I had to do was to pay them to forget than you came here, to forget they ever let you into the chapel.”
They all laughed at this, even a faint chuckle from Nacht, who was not given to humor. Diego spun around to address those behind him. “My friends, this old fool gives us a present. We will not have to bribe them again, for he does it for us. He thinks this will unnerve us, perhaps, this lie of his. What say you - will we creep out of here silently and leave him alone, to tell Don Vazquez we were afraid of one old man kneeling before a filthy table?”
Gesturing, he sent Ricardo forward to sweep the simple stone carvings from that same table. The old man said nothing then, nor did he speak as Ricardo and Josefina hauled him up onto it, ripping open his shabby shirt to reveal the wrinkled skin of his chest, sparse hair covering the marks of his age. Diego came forward then, delivering a backhanded blow to his face as it hung from the table.
“I am not your son, you piece of filth. Nor are any of us your children. We will, however, send you to meet the one you are so clearly eager to worship. Here, on this altar, you may find your way to Paradise or Perdition for all I care.”
It was Nacht who he called forward then, the tall, quiet man who spoke little, and less when he was working. The small leather bag opened to reveal an assortment of small instruments, most bladed but not all. From this collection he drew forth a long needle of metal, placing it under the old man’s sternum with just enough pressure to draw blood, to let him know that a single slip might have ended his life then, mercifully. The old man spoke at last, his gaze fixing on Annette as she alone stood back.
“You are the only one that has not brought violence, my daughter, and so I offer you a choice. You may step back, and close your eyes, and you will leave this place as you came to it, with a chance to save yourself in the eyes of what lies beyond.”
Diego was annoyed to find himself looking back at her, as if he could wonder what she would choose, so he covered by extending his hand to his new lover. “Come here, my darling, and show this husk what you think of his empty blathering.” A heartbeat passed, or maybe two, and then she nodded, steeling herself to become one of them as she had sworn she would. Into her other hand he pressed a slim knife, and he guided her to the man’s side, supporting her as she drove it in where it would not kill him. This, strangely, was what brought the old man to tears, as if this were the first pain he truly felt. Panting against the wound’s agony, he spoke to them.
“I am a priest, if you did not know.”
Diego laughed. “How could we not, when you speak as they do, and fall back upon your faith as they do, even in the face of death? But we have killed your kind before.”
The old man shook his head slowly. “No, you have not. I am no priest of that faith some of you wear around your neck, under your clothes where you think the others will not see.” Strangely, it was Nacht who started at that, dropping the curved razor he had selected. “I am a priest of something much older, and it is by that covenant that you will die tonight, for the sins of youth and folly. I have tried to offer you salvation, but as always, youth will break before it will bow its pride. Don Vazquez, my old servant, he knows this wisdom, and so he has sent you to me. After all, there is a debt between us, although not in the direction you suspected. And I am so very hungry.”
Diego shouted at the others to kill him, to end his mad babbling. He was tired of the fool, tired of this job, and tired of this place. They stabbed him again and again, wounds designed to kill, not maim, and still he only bled and shook, until at last the old man’s naked flesh rippled, as if an ocean was in his guts, and with a great crack, the shell of him broke open. Flesh poured forth into the room as a tide, as a vicious sea that smashed them against the floors and walls, crushing until their blood ran red with his.
The guards outside stood quiet and unmoving in black hoods and robes that masked them completely, down to the gloves upon their hands. Before them, on a table, stood a sandglass carefully measured to give precisely one hour. As the last grains ran through it, two of them turned, unlocking the door with mechanical precision. Stepping inside, they regarded the old man who knelt on the hard stone floor, hands clasped in prayer before the crude altar. There was nothing else in the room, of course. There had perhaps been something else once, but they had forgotten. As they stood there, the old man slowly rose and turned to face them, holding up his hands.
“I am afraid that I have lost my manacles again, for which I apologize. Perhaps they can wait until tomorrow? I am tired now, and I would like to return to my cell to sleep.”
Perhaps he was not as old as he had been. As he walked through the halls with them, it seemed there was vigor in his step once more, and a light in his clear eyes that had not been there. The guards did not speak of these things. They forgot, as they had been paid to do.
On a hill, in the dark of the night, sat the Prison. Around it, the city was also busy forgetting, and some miles away, Don Vazquez sat looking silently into the night. The air was cold, he told himself, and that was why he shivered.
I wrote this yesterday. It's a little over 2000 words, so it's not a long read. Critiques and comments requested!
An Act of Contrition
The door opened, strangely lacking that creak Diego felt prison doors should have, and the seven of them ghosted inside, spreading out to flank the old man who knelt on the hard stone floor, hands clasped in prayer before the crude altar. As Annette closed the door, their work began. Motioning to his small band, Diego sent two to check the room for concealed spaces or exits. Even bare as it was, he brooked no surprises. He sent the man known as Nacht forward, bearing the cutters, as Josefina and her brother seized the old man by the arms, dragging him around to face Diego.
The prisoner was shackled hand and foot, long chains dragging the ground as they hauled him around, and he remained silent even as the cutters worked the metal, breaking him free. Josefina cuffed him for this insolence, then took a rough hold in his stringy gray hair, forcing his face up to meet Diego’s gaze. Diego found the man’s pockmarked appearance revolting, and the yellow filminess to his eyes even more so, but he said nothing of this, cutting straight to the point as always.
“I am here for you, señor, on the orders of a man who would see you die tonight. As your offense to him was that of a free man, you will also die unchained. Have you anything to say?”
The old man smiled peacefully up at him, and Diego wondered if perhaps his wits had fled. Annette and the others stood behind him now, their search complete and nothing revealed. There was the unmistakable sound of the old man clearing his throat, and he spoke to them at last.
“Good evening, my children. I bid you welcome to this place, although I know you do not come here to be guests.” He looked directly at Diego, some life seeming to return to his sunken eyes. “You were sent here by Don Vazquez, yes? Yes, I see it now. He has always loved the hidalgos, even now in this day when blood means less.”
Diego sneered at the man. “I am here because I am trusted, and not because of my face. I see you remember the good man to whom you have given offense. You should not have thought he would forget you, even here in this… place.” He restrained the shiver he felt when thinking about it, but something in the old man’s eyes told him his revulsion had been noted.
“Yes, let us speak of these walls, my son. You will be from this land, I think, born no more than two days’ travel from here, and yet, you do not know this place. You have never seen it before, nor seen the road that brought you here, nor can you read the words carved over its gates. This bothers you, does it not?”
It was Ricardo, Josefina’s brother, who lost patience first. He kicked the old man in the side, tearing him out of his sister’s hold and folding him into a small pile of rags on the floor. Diego, annoyed, motioned for him to step back, and for Josefina to haul him upright again.
“I do not concern myself with it, viejo. We have paid your guards, paid them well to give us time alone with you. The good Don wants you to know this will be slow, and we will take our time. We are men and women unafraid of blood, and unafraid of doing what others could not. We are his avenging angels, and we will deliver to you the death you deserve.”
A bruise was rising on the side of the man’s face where it had met the floor, but his voice was still steady as he spoke to them.
“Old men fear the vigorous young, my children. They will pretend to embrace you, but your service to them is a dagger that tears their side as well. When you stop fearing the blood that stains your hands, it is too easy for it to become their blood, their life. When the world was younger, there were more wars to send the young to fight, but in time it became known that wars breed heroes, and heroes become conquerors even at home. No, there is a need for removing the young when they are more useful gone, and your master has sent you to this.”
Diego nodded to Maria. She was best among them at careful breaks, ones that would not kill. Stepping forward, she placed one heel carefully above the old man’s left ankle, then drove the small hammer against the other side, the crack filling the room with the promise that he would never walk on it again. Strangely, the howl that escaped his lips seemed as much joy as pain, and Diego motioned her back.
“We will break each of your bones in turn, and no one will come to s…”
The old man cut in, rasping but still managing to overwhelm his threats somehow. “You have paid the guards, yes? Paid them well, and truly?”
“I said as much, old fool, even if they demanded strange coin.”
“Jade for their silence, brass to lock the doors for you?”
Diego paused, the blood draining from his face. “Yes. How did you know this?”
The old smiled at him, supported by Josefina’s grip on his scalp. “I have also, from time to time, paid the guards. For instance, tonight.”
Diego gestured sharply, sending two of his men to check the door once more, and he forced himself to relax when they returned, nodding.
“No one has come to stop us, so I think you paid less than I did, viejo. I think you will die even as they count your money a bonus to the Don’s.”
The old man nodded. “It is true, my son. I…” Diego was tired of this, and he motioned to Alejandro, who kicked the old man savagely in the side. Josefina dragged him back upright, and he continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted, although a thin line of blood trickled from his mouth. “… I did pay less than you did, for I had less to buy. You paid them to be silent, and to lock the doors, so all I had to do was to pay them to forget than you came here, to forget they ever let you into the chapel.”
They all laughed at this, even a faint chuckle from Nacht, who was not given to humor. Diego spun around to address those behind him. “My friends, this old fool gives us a present. We will not have to bribe them again, for he does it for us. He thinks this will unnerve us, perhaps, this lie of his. What say you - will we creep out of here silently and leave him alone, to tell Don Vazquez we were afraid of one old man kneeling before a filthy table?”
Gesturing, he sent Ricardo forward to sweep the simple stone carvings from that same table. The old man said nothing then, nor did he speak as Ricardo and Josefina hauled him up onto it, ripping open his shabby shirt to reveal the wrinkled skin of his chest, sparse hair covering the marks of his age. Diego came forward then, delivering a backhanded blow to his face as it hung from the table.
“I am not your son, you piece of filth. Nor are any of us your children. We will, however, send you to meet the one you are so clearly eager to worship. Here, on this altar, you may find your way to Paradise or Perdition for all I care.”
It was Nacht who he called forward then, the tall, quiet man who spoke little, and less when he was working. The small leather bag opened to reveal an assortment of small instruments, most bladed but not all. From this collection he drew forth a long needle of metal, placing it under the old man’s sternum with just enough pressure to draw blood, to let him know that a single slip might have ended his life then, mercifully. The old man spoke at last, his gaze fixing on Annette as she alone stood back.
“You are the only one that has not brought violence, my daughter, and so I offer you a choice. You may step back, and close your eyes, and you will leave this place as you came to it, with a chance to save yourself in the eyes of what lies beyond.”
Diego was annoyed to find himself looking back at her, as if he could wonder what she would choose, so he covered by extending his hand to his new lover. “Come here, my darling, and show this husk what you think of his empty blathering.” A heartbeat passed, or maybe two, and then she nodded, steeling herself to become one of them as she had sworn she would. Into her other hand he pressed a slim knife, and he guided her to the man’s side, supporting her as she drove it in where it would not kill him. This, strangely, was what brought the old man to tears, as if this were the first pain he truly felt. Panting against the wound’s agony, he spoke to them.
“I am a priest, if you did not know.”
Diego laughed. “How could we not, when you speak as they do, and fall back upon your faith as they do, even in the face of death? But we have killed your kind before.”
The old man shook his head slowly. “No, you have not. I am no priest of that faith some of you wear around your neck, under your clothes where you think the others will not see.” Strangely, it was Nacht who started at that, dropping the curved razor he had selected. “I am a priest of something much older, and it is by that covenant that you will die tonight, for the sins of youth and folly. I have tried to offer you salvation, but as always, youth will break before it will bow its pride. Don Vazquez, my old servant, he knows this wisdom, and so he has sent you to me. After all, there is a debt between us, although not in the direction you suspected. And I am so very hungry.”
Diego shouted at the others to kill him, to end his mad babbling. He was tired of the fool, tired of this job, and tired of this place. They stabbed him again and again, wounds designed to kill, not maim, and still he only bled and shook, until at last the old man’s naked flesh rippled, as if an ocean was in his guts, and with a great crack, the shell of him broke open. Flesh poured forth into the room as a tide, as a vicious sea that smashed them against the floors and walls, crushing until their blood ran red with his.
The guards outside stood quiet and unmoving in black hoods and robes that masked them completely, down to the gloves upon their hands. Before them, on a table, stood a sandglass carefully measured to give precisely one hour. As the last grains ran through it, two of them turned, unlocking the door with mechanical precision. Stepping inside, they regarded the old man who knelt on the hard stone floor, hands clasped in prayer before the crude altar. There was nothing else in the room, of course. There had perhaps been something else once, but they had forgotten. As they stood there, the old man slowly rose and turned to face them, holding up his hands.
“I am afraid that I have lost my manacles again, for which I apologize. Perhaps they can wait until tomorrow? I am tired now, and I would like to return to my cell to sleep.”
Perhaps he was not as old as he had been. As he walked through the halls with them, it seemed there was vigor in his step once more, and a light in his clear eyes that had not been there. The guards did not speak of these things. They forgot, as they had been paid to do.
On a hill, in the dark of the night, sat the Prison. Around it, the city was also busy forgetting, and some miles away, Don Vazquez sat looking silently into the night. The air was cold, he told himself, and that was why he shivered.