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Somewhere in a kingdom east of the French border once sat an unnamed village. For its ruins now burned like a funeral pyre, while the agonizing screams of the remaining few harmonized with the crackling flames that consumed them.
Tarhos Kovács of the Guardia Compagnia stood in the center of the destruction. He was the living and unfeeling embodiment of brutality, armed with a blade that dripped with the blood of the countless lives he had taken. All of them fools, nothing but maggots that deserved little more than to be crushed beneath the heel of his boot.
The Knight walked the grounds of his siege. The embers on the ground still glowed red from the carnage, burned structures stretched as far as his eyes could see, and the stench of charred flesh assaulted his nose through the holes in his helmet.
This destruction was something he had chased his entire life. Death, torment and violence were his Holy Trinity, and the only things he knew to worship. To be alive was a privilege one had to earn, something the weak could not get, and did not deserve.
Because survival depended on strength. To kill or be killed—life was that simple. What little remained of the village was perfect proof of that statement.
He stepped into one of the few houses that remained, its wooden walls were black and brittle but still standing. Something in a corner then caught his attention, and he knelt down to take a closer look. With a single brush of his fingers, he wiped away the soot from what he had just found: a child's doll that had somehow survived the flames.
Tarhos observed the fragile item in his hand for a time, felt its soft texture with the exposed side of his thumb, then dropped it back onto the floor without a second thought.
"Tarhos," a flash of red materialized before him. Durkos Malecek, his devoted assassin, gave him a subtle but respectful bow. "Our work here is done."
The Knight let out a single reverberating grunt from within his helmet as he pushed himself up back onto his legs, each movement accompanied by the loud clanking of his armor. Behind him stood his two other guards, Sander Rault and Alejandro Santiago, though the weak knew them as the Carnifex and the Jailer.
He gave each a nod of acknowledgement, which they returned before turning away.
The sound he heard next, albeit faint, was enough for Tarhos to snap his head at its source.
Above him.
He barely had the time to catch a glimpse at it when a crushing weight struck his shoulders from above, brutally pinning him down to the charred floor. Agony pierced through his clavicle as the dull and rusted blade tore through his flesh. And as he felt the warmth of his own blood pooling around the source of his suffering, he couldn’t help but crack a faint, sinister smile within his helmet.
He hadn't felt anything like this in a long, long time.
It only took a swift movement for the dynamics to be switched. You were pinned onto the floor, and the impact caused the air to get forcefully knocked out of your lungs. It was promptly followed by the intense pressure around your throat, and you could feel your trachea slowly give in to his crushing grasp. The sharp metal on his fingertips subtly tore through your skin, leaving you gritting your teeth at the pain.
His body was so large, so imposing, that your own was completely engulfed in his shadow. The hair that snaked from his helmet draped over your face and briefly blinded you. It was dirty and greasy, and you would’ve almost caught a hint of its stench, if not for the overwhelming odor of blood and rusted metal that already surrounded you.
Tarhos Kovács stared down at you from above. His helmeted gaze did not leave your face as he used his free hand to rid himself of the blade logged deep above his clavicle, with both unsettling ease and indifference.
You were forced to close your eyes as his boiling hot blood gushed from his wound and crashed down onto your face like water from a stone spout. Forced to wait for it to pass, left with no other choice but to suffer through it while your hands searched for an opening. Only to be abruptly stopped when you felt another hand grab your wrist.
The only thing you could do was cry out in pure agony when a blade pierced through your palm, pinning it down to what once was a sturdy wooden floor.
You looked at your aggressors through your bloody eyelashes, all three guards glared down at you while Tarhos still straddled your body. They were silent, save for the Jailer who was maniacally laughing at your demise.
"You made him bleed!" He was circling around you like a vulture, his disgusting, decaying teeth on full display as he continued to mock you. "We ought to cut off your hands for your sin!"
With a few pained labored breaths, you turned your head to the side and noticed your mangled hand. The Assassin had knelt down next to you, and had a solid, secure grasp on his dagger nailing your hand to the floor. The Carnifex, on the other hand, stood behind the Knight in silence, but the tight grasp on his cleaver told you that he was eagerly awaiting his order to strike you down.
You closed your eyes and huffed out a trembling sigh, accepting your fate. As much as it angered you to admit it, they were right. You had failed, and now you were going to die—and that would be if you were lucky. You didn't know whose house this was, you’d instinctively hid inside it and waited, hoping for the mercenaries to arrive so you could strike their leader down using the nearest makeshift weapon at your disposal: an old, broken piece of metal.
What a foolish idea it had been to try and kill him, this invincible knight who might as well be more beast than man. You’d heard the tales of Kovács and his men; everyone on this side of the kingdom had heard of their gruesome feats—how death always seemed to follow them. Some even said that wherever they went, the grass never grew back.
But you hadn’t cared at the time. You still didn’t. All you’d wanted was revenge. Revenge for your village, your family, your friends.
You’d hoped to kill him, to inflict agony upon him at the very least, but the pathetic wound you’d inflicted upon him barely seemed to bother him. He’d brushed off your pathetic attempt at murder as nothing more than a puny mosquito bite.
You’d failed. In every sense of the word, you’d failed miserably. You’d failed in your ambush, and in turn, you’d failed them all...
The bile in your stomach churned as the charred planks beneath you cracked with the shift of his weight. What abominable death had he decided for you, you wondered? A beheading with his claymore? No, this was too merciful a death for a filthy weakling who had dared lay their hands on him. He would make you eat your own entrails, then rip your beating heart out of your ribcage—forcing you to watch him crush it within his gauntleted hands right as your life left your eyes.
And who knew what they might do to your corpse after that. They’ll likely throw your remains on a spike, left to rot at the mercy of the elements while the crows feasted on your eyeballs.
The cackling of the Jailer intensified behind you while the Assassin twisted his blade, tearing through your hand even more. The wooden floor hissed as the Carnifex moved to your other side, flicking his cleaver in anticipation.
In one last desperate attempt, you flung your knee toward the Knight’s groin, striking with all your strength—hoping to inflict even the smallest amount of pain on the monster that had destroyed your village. But it was all for nothing. It was you who felt a sharp pang of pain shooting up your leg as your knee and shin slammed into the unyielding metal of his codpiece.
As punishment, the Carnifex pinned your leg to the floor, crushing it beneath his boot, while the Jailer continued to laugh behind you.
"Perhaps we should chop off your legs as well? Have you crawl on your stumps while you beg us to kill you?" He withdrew his branding iron from a nearby flame, the metal white-hot and eager to melt your flesh.
You didn’t speak. You didn’t flinch. You only spat on your tormentor’s helmeted face.
"Tarhos," the Carnifex spoke his name, impatience rising in his voice. The Jailer and the Assassin looked at him in unison, awaiting his word.
The Knight wiped the spit off his iron face with one hand. With the other still wrapped around your neck, he rose, lifting you with him before hoisting you onto his shoulder—thankfully, the one devoid of spikes.
"At ease," he said at last, his voice deep and echoing inside his helmet. "The vermin shall live."
His guards were just as surprised as you, though they said nothing. They only gave their leader a nod and followed behind him as you all left the crumbling structure and approached their horses. You wiggled for a time, desperate to get out of the beast’s iron grasp, but quickly changed your mind when you noticed the cruel grin on the Jailer’s face as he continued taunting you with his branding iron.
He did not understand his decision. Sparing a life was unlike him, but to go as far as taking this worm away with him?
It couldn’t be kindness, nor could it be pity. Still, Tarhos had to face the facts—they were a challenge. A puzzle to solve. An enigma that had somehow done the impossible, and breached the icy fortress of his heart.
Tied down on their belly across the back of his horse, they lay like a corpse behind him, appropriately silent as a grave. Not even a single whimper or grunt of pain left their lips as their body bounced stomach first on the hump of his steed.
Tarhos had taken countless lives, ones that ranged from the lowest of peasants to fellow knights of the highest order. But rank mattered not in the face of death. The look of horror in one’s eyes as they faced their end was always the same.
And yet, it wasn't fear he had seen in their eyes. It was rage, a boiling rage that had burned hotter than their pitiful excuse of a village.
This worm had defied him, stood fearlessly before him, attacked him—and even made him bleed. They had scarred his skin, and he would bear that painful reminder for the rest of his life.
It had been so very long since he had last felt the kiss of a blade piercing his flesh. Adrenaline had coursed through his veins, levels of which he hadn’t known in years.
And he’d found it… positively intoxicating.
A weaker mind would say they’d had the element of surprise, but Tarhos knew it had been his own fault for not seeing them first. For a few seconds, he had been bested, and for that feat alone, they had earned his respect.
But the reason why he hadn’t just finished them off still eluded him. What foe was more deserving of an honorable death? They weren’t special, after all, others had been foolish enough to stand their ground before him in the past. Was it because they had actually left their mark on his flesh? Or was it because they had been reckless enough to attack him in the presence of his faithful three?
He slipped his fingers between the small gap between the bottom of his helmet and the collar of his armor. The burn still lingered, and would torment him for a long time.
The mere thought of it stretched his lips into a stiff smile.
Days passed, then weeks, yet Tarhos still didn't understand why he was so compelled to keep them alive. Or why the sight of a peasant lunging at them with a fallen soldier's sword had driven him into an uncontrollable fury. Leading him to plunge his claymore straight into the fool’s belly, twisting the blade until his guts spilled onto the ground in a loud and revolting squelch.
Normally, torture and humiliation would come hand in hand. Death would always follow no matter your importance, for it did not discriminate. And yet, harm of any sort coming to them was a thought that revolted him. Enraged him! Something deep within him screamed at him to keep them out of harm's way.
To protect them—such would be his vow from now on. His oath.
At times, as he would observe their form curled up by the campfire's light, Tarhos found himself captivated by the survivor's resilience. It wasn't a feeling borne out of compassion or empathy. Such emotions were alien to him.
What he felt was… fascination? Admiration, perhaps? He was hypnotized— enthralled by their strength and resolve in the face of death.
But… he also sensed in them something akin to his own resilience, of his will to survive. Their strength as they’d stand in the midst of the darkness that surrounded them was nothing short of laudable.
Indeed. Such an unyielding spirit, one so resistant to the horrors of this world, was deserving of his attention.
Sleep wasn't something that found you easily, at least not since you’d been forced to travel with your captors. Strangely, it wasn't their presence that bothered you, nor the threat they posed. It was your own thoughts that kept you awake.
The image of the young farmer tormented you. You had not immediately seen him running towards you with a sword raised above his head, nor had you heard his blood-curdling wail. All of it had been drowned by the chaos around you. You remembered closing your eyes, accepting your fate as you waited for the killing blow.
Then came the now all too familiar heavy footsteps and clanking of Tarhos's armor as he rushed to protect you—and plunged his sword so deep into the man's stomach that he lifted him off the ground and above your head, while the blade tore deeper into the poor bastard's abdomen and even carved into his chest.
You watched, each of your five senses ignited, as searing hot blood and viscera splattered on your face. The horrific sound of it all would haunt your dreams for your entire life, but so would the bitter taste of iron as blood snuck past your lips. And the smell, oh, the foul stench of his guts, was as though it still clung to you to this day.
But the coldness of Tarhos's armor pressed against your back was almost as vivid a memory. The man knew nothing of personal space, and to your shame, such close proximity with him had not bothered you.
For he was just as much of a comforting presence as he was an apex predator.
"... thank you," you'd murmured, your voice stuck in the back of your throat. You’d tilted your head up towards his helmeted face while he looked down at you like a giant would at an ant. He'd just stood there for a while, much like a statue, just as still and silent while his gaze was fixed on you.
You hadn’t moved either, not even when he raised his hand to your face and wiped the blood off your skin, the gentle gesture so destabilizing that it had made your stomach churn.
The destruction of your village felt as though it happened a lifetime ago.
Time wasn’t real anymore, nothing but a blur of a before and after. You knew you could have at the very least kept track of the moon cycles, or even just counted the days, but you didn't see any point in that at the time.
And now, you wished that you had.
You had seen so much blood, so much brutality. To say you had grown desensitized to it all would be a blatant lie, but so would saying that it revolted you. It was only part of your life now, your routine. You were part of their little group, you did not kill, but you were there. Perhaps as a trophy or a pet, you thought grimly. But even trophies of war served a purpose. You had none—you were little more than a piece of furniture, a dusty trinket forgotten on a shelf.
And as you watched this pack of wolves do what it did best, you began to wonder what was so different about you that its leader had decided to spare your miserable life.
Was it a way to punish you? Forcing you to watch the same scene of your village getting destroyed, over and over? You did stab him, so you wouldn't be surprised if he'd decided to break your spirit before your body.
That’s what you believed at first. But if that were the case, wouldn’t you have gotten a few more wounds and bruises by now?
Yet, the ones you already had… were fading.
For a time you thought it was all part of his plan. To torment you with conflicting thoughts, then strike you down when you expect it the least.
They hadn't harmed you, nor had they enslaved you. They only left you be, even allowed you to eat from their own rations. You had no cage, neither your hands or your ankles were locked with chains. You were, as a matter of fact, free. Perhaps you could even… leave, but you couldn't imagine yourself doing that when Tarhos constantly had his eyes on you.
And besides… you had nowhere to go.
After tossing and turning for what felt like the hundredth time tonight, you leaned back against the fallen tree trunk behind you. You were surprised to see the Assassin approach you with something in his hands.
You didn't say a thing as he momentarily stopped before you, didn't break your gaze away from his. Eventually, Durkos knelt down and placed what appeared to be a steaming bowl of rabbit stew at your side.
The sound of your voice stopped him just as he turned to leave.
"Why…" you spoke, your voice calm but demanding, "why haven't you killed me?"
The Assassin looked down at you in silence, his eyes briefly scanning your form. With that large handkerchief covering half his face, it was difficult to read his features and get an idea of what he was thinking. Not only that, but during your time you had spent with the mercenaries, you were beginning to know them—and you had learned that Durkos Malecek wasn't a man of many words, nor was he very expressive.
He was, however, undeniably the most approachable of the four men.
"Because," he finally answered you, his voice as rasping as ever. "Tarhos respects you."
It was on these few enigmatic words that Durkos turned and walked back to his peers.
You didn't know what to make of it. You looked in the direction of the Knight, who sat a few meters away from you on a tree stump. He was focused on polishing his sword and armor, as he did most nights before bed.
You met his helmeted gaze again. He stopped what he was doing to look at you. Durkos's words echoed in your mind. There was something oddly flattering about the Knight thinking you worthy of his respect.
For a long time, you would wonder what you had done to deserve this privilege, but then… you would cease caring about it at all.
Because having his eyes on you at all times was all that you would yearn for.
Tarhos Kovács of the Guardia Compagnia bowed for no one. No man, no Lord, no King, and certainly no God. It was others who knelt before him, and he relished in listening to these cowards as they would beg for their miserable lives. He may have once been a slave, but now, not even the heavens themselves could break him.
And yet… the mere sight of you never failed to bring him down on his knees.
Your hands were so small within his own. It would be easy to crush or break them. They were rough and calloused from a lifetime of farm work yet so delicate and perfect in his eyes.
He made a promise to himself. From this day forth, you would never have to work a single day in your life ever again. Those perfect hands of yours were meant for a better purpose: to touch him, and nothing else. It was only natural, after all, they fit so nicely in his significantly larger hands. It was as though they had been sculpted for that purpose alone.
Your reticence to being touched amused Tarhos. Ah, but you were a stubborn one. Always so defiant, always pulling away. He did not mind. The more timid side of you was endearing, as were every other facet. And he knew that one day, you would understand the way he viewed you. One day… you would come around, and realize that you were his, just as much as he was yours.
You were not just something to be shielded from harm… but something to be revered. To protect, and worship.
He did not take his eyes off you. He couldn’t. His helmet was off, an incredibly rare sight that not even his pack always had the privilege of seeing. There he was, at his most vulnerable, looking up at you with nothing but pure adoration in his eyes. His were so dull and lifeless compared to yours, which always seemed to sparkle with life and a strong sense of self-respect that made you so incredibly alluring.
The mere sight of you made him feel weak, like he was only a man again. A man who had been granted the privilege of having his eyes blessed with the sight of a god made flesh. You were nothing less in his eyes. Everyday, he lost a piece of himself by looking at you. He was falling apart, and adoring every second of it.
For you, he would gladly lose his freedom again.
The moon was once again full tonight.
You admired its beauty from behind the flaps of the tent. You still didn’t know how many moons had passed since your village had been erased from the map, but you at least knew that there had been too many of them.
"Tarhos," you groaned, squirming uncomfortably in his embrace. "You are crushing me."
Perhaps embrace wasn’t much of an appropriate word for what he was doing to you—his arms were tightly wrapped around your body in a way that prevented you from even considering moving away from him, as were his legs, locked around your own. You were, as a matter of fact, trapped.
But… it could be worse.
Tarhos only grunted in response, and did not immediately relieve his crushing grasp from around you. The reluctance in his movements was palpable, and you greedily breathed in for air the second the pressure was relieved off your chest.
You could feel his eyes burning on the back of your head as you adjusted your position into a more comfortable one.
Trying to recall when this routine first began was difficult—you only knew that it had already been a few nights by now. He’d stopped you from going to your bedroll one evening, guiding you towards his side of the campsite, and took you inside his tent.
You couldn’t remember how long it had been since that night, but you did remember your blood turning to ice when he lifted the flaps, inviting you in.
But against your fears and your expectations, the Knight did not do anything. No hand had been laid on you, your honor remained intact. All he did was remove his helmet, a few of his heaviest pieces of armor, and laid behind you until the sun rose.
And he still hadn’t made a move to this day. But you suspected that those calm nights would eventually soon come to an end, if the hardness between his legs that pressed against your lower back meant anything. You decided to assume that he had simply forgotten to remove his codpiece… but you knew he had.
It took a moment, but eventually you could feel his warm breath tickle the back of your neck again. It was only you, him, and the moonlight peering through the flaps of your shared tent.
You reached out for one of his hands laying across your stomach, and held it closer.
A pair of chapped but warm lips met the curve of your neck in retaliation, and you realized that… yes, it could, in fact, be a lot worse.
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