Assassin chapter 1

aaall right, this is the first chapter of the story dany-chan asked me for!! I'm not so good in english so forgive my mistakes, ok?? enjoy!! this is

ASSASSIN, CAP 1: THE BEGINNING

I am an assassin. Don’t wanna hide behind some strange names, digressing about the necessity of my activity, or even the necessity of someone’s death. I don’t do what I do for the sake of the world, neither for some stupid stuff like it. I’m an assassin, who kills my lord’s enemies. Nothing more, nothing less.
My story begins with the longest night. That night, my village, between Daltighot and Berenghal’s shire, was attacked. In few hours I lost everything I cared about, except my life. But I lost that too: I lost a reason to live, the shining smile on the face, lost my own youth, replaced by a hole that nothing can fill. I met many stupid men in my life, many who thought they were sages and some of them who were it for real. Men from the first two categories told me I had been really lucky to survive, that I should have thanked the gods and then start a new life like a common man. And I was a common man as they could see, of course. Even some sages suggested me to forget. They never understood.
A sick man can recover. Even a dying man can survive and start a new life. But a corpse, something that can move only because of a stupid joke of a god, it’s not the same. War makes desperates ready for every-thing. But makes even something that shouldn’t exist. Men and women without emotions, which can’t regain what they lost. A broken house can be built again, but if you lost something inside you, you can only hope to forget what you were. Otherwise you cry about something that will never come back.
It was the longest night. It’s a feast, cause it’s a unique day in the year. Like everyone in the village, we guys were partying. There’s something unfair in partying during a feast? It was all right.
We are a big and fat village, with all it needs to be prosperous: rich soil, which gave us food to eat and to sell in the city. We have bread and good wine. The smith use the money to buy iron, using it to repair everything, and to help the travellers. We have many travellers: we are on the way between Daltighot and Berenghal so a lot of voyagers come here and spend the night. We have three inns that are not even enough in summer. The river gives us water, and the bridge have a toll that makes us rich. We are a big and rich village.
We were a rich and big city.
That night no one was on the bridge. We were partying, and we would have welcomed a stranger smiling. And we did it, they were strangers and we smiled when their spear reached our chests.
There were lots of them, horsemen and without colours. Grey armour, sharp-edged swords, helmets which hide their faces. Riders, mercenaries, hired by someone who wanted to remain in the shadow. Now I know that. I didn’t know that night, but it wouldn’t have made any difference: they came, killed, sacked, had fun with someone who was still alive and went away like mercenaries do. On the contrary, we toasted, had fun with something we had like people partying do, were killed, sacked, used (who were still alive) and then left alone.
I was drunk, so I don’t remember a lot. The only thing that remains is a nightmare (you know, even corpses dream and suffer) full of reflections of fire on the edge of the swords, screams and curse which are one in a terrible mix. When I don’t wake up (silently, dead corpses don’t shout) the dream goes on, showing me the deformed feature of the girls used by the mercenaries. Now the nightmare is silent: those desperate looks are enough to make a man crazy, and lucky me that screams don’t reach my ears. Horrifying looks, of someone who just lost everything and who’s forced into the deepest humiliation. The view is enough to go foolish. But dead men don’t go crazy, it’s impossible for me to use that shortcut to salvation. Dead men don’t go crazy, and neither die. That’s the only answer I found, because I prayed so long to die. But gods don’t have interest in dead walking men, cause they are out of that terrible foolish circle named life. We have nothing to offer at Their power, no tears, no desperate emotions that can make them feel great. But I’m boring you with this useless talk, because gods don’t even exist. If they were to exist, if only they were alive in their perfection that’s shouted out by their priests, they should have died long ago. They should have died in their perfect shame seeing the first war fought. If they really exist, then this perfection is a fake: in that case gods are simply cold-hearted sons of a ***** able to survive without caring about everything around them. So that’s the answer: gods don’t exist, and if they exist it’s like they don’t, and men are condemned by their never ending, blessed (and perfect) useless talks to that foolish life where we kill everything around us, probably just for feel like gods too. Come to think about it, it’s better if they don’t even exist.
But I’m loosing my mind again. After the mercenaries killed, sacked and raped the girls, they went away. The survivors woke up crying and searching for someone like them.
Rising up from the mud, the eyes burning from tears and the bones aching for the terrible beat i got, I didn’t feel the hole, the void that would have come later. I felt more pain than ever before, but my first worry was for my parents. Stunning, I walked to my house. Which of course was no more. The entire street was a flam-ing torch. Smoke and ash made me blind, taking my breath. Astonished, I looked that terrible at view, forgetting why I came here. I came back to myself hearing a wall crumbling, while sulphurous tears came down my cheeks. I fell on my knees, coughing.
I could hear nothing. No physical pain, not the flames roaring near me, nor the cold of a night gone too far away to be remembered. There weren’t noises around me, only a silence talking about death and destruction. A tear fell down, hitting the floor, and I heard that sound clearly, in contrast with the deadly silence. I didn’t even breath, killed by the smoke and by the longest night. Or I thought so. Now I was standing, moving away from my family. I don’t know how I got up, or how much time I spent lying. The death had come that night, but not for me. Like a ghost, I walked around in the village, looking at our tears: men crying for their women, women crying for their babies, kids crying for themselves and for something they couldn’t understand… but all those sounds were muffled, like it all was coming from far away, too far for me to reach.
A girl lying on the ground moved. I recognized her for the long red hair: we were having fun before the ar-rival of the soldiers. Probably, others enjoyed her after that. She groaned, looking at me, desperate in her blue eyes, trying to reach me with an arm. I saw that arm was broken. Once again, I felt the hole inside me: how could such things exist, such cruelty? How was that, that world was possible, a world where everything could be taken away from us, just for fate’s freak? I still remember my mother, when she was telling me some tales to make me sleep.
“The prince fought to make this world better” she said “Wouldn’t you help him?”
That time, the prince searched for my help. For an instant he was right before me, asking me to make the world better. I looked at his hand, under my eyes, thinking about it and about the hole inside me.
Behind me, the red haired girl fell down again in the mud.