Chapter Text
The day was bright, and a pair of kids were playing outside in the garden. They laughed as they chased each other around the rose bushes. The younger, a boy, was attempting to tag his older sister. They ran circles around one of the smaller bushes, the boy following just behind the girl. The girl’s long hair bounced as she ran, and the boy’s fingers just barely caught a few strands. “Ow,” the girl commented as the loose strands caught on a knot. With a, “Sorry!” from her brother, she was quick to laugh it off. Her brother had stopped momentarily to see if she had somehow been injured. He was now on the opposite side of the bush. The girl laughed and stuck her tongue out at him.
The boy crouched lower, grinning and giggling, “We’ll get you yet,” he declared, “just you wait, Mercedes!” The girl in question simply stuck her tongue out at him again. The boy backed up a ways, then sprinted toward the bush. Mercedes’ eyes widened, “Wait, Emile!” She called a warning, but she was too late. The young boy was already in the air, attempting to vault over the rose bush. He had almost cleared it, but his foot fell too low, and caught in the shrub. He lost his balance, lost his form, and fell. Almost instinctively, Mercedes reached to catch Emile. Their heads collided, but the fall was broken.
The slap of skull-backed skin rang through the garden, catching the attention of their mother who had been tending to a plant a few feet away. She walked toward the pair as they untangled themselves and held their heads. She knelt beside the pair, “What happened?” Her voice carried delicately as she brushed the hair from her childrens’ foreheads. Tears flowed freely from Mercedes’ blue eyes, though she tried her best to stay silent. Her mother kissed the place of impact, and she answered, “Emile tried to jump over the bush,” she paused to breathe, “he tripped.” After kissing the top of Mercedes’ head, the mother turned her attention to her son. His face bore streaks from tears, but they did not flow as freely as his sister’s. Instead they pooled in front of his eyes, blue and vacant, before slowly snaking their way down his face. “Emile?” The woman asked, but the boy did not answer. He continued to stare ahead at nothing.
Emile swayed slightly. He felt light, as if some force was pulling him away from the ground. And yet, the grass of the garden still sat beneath him. He blinked, what was going on? Though he tried, he could not bring his concentration back to the present. He continued to float, his vision becoming cloudy. He blinked again. Where was he? He felt a presence behind him, then beside him. But, where did they come from? Why-
The boy shook his head and grimaced as he looked around. This place again. The light was much too bright. The colors much too bold. His head hurt. Something had happened that had hurt him. Someone was reaching toward him. Toward his head. He growled and smacked the hand away. He stood, backing away, breath heavy.
“Emile,” The boy’s mother spoke with a tender voice, “Emile, it’s me. It’s your mother.” She cooed to the boy, folding her hands in her lap. The panting child shook his head again, “My...mother…” As he breathed, his vision became clearer. Slowly, the cloud lifted. “What... happened?” Mercedes ran toward her brother, who braced himself for an attack. He was surprised to find that the girl wrapped her arms around him. “Right,” he thought, “she doesn’t mean us harm…”
“I tried to catch you when you jumped,” she said, tearfully, “I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.” She cried into the crook of his neck. The boy hesitantly returned her hug, but that would only last a moment. He became confused, feeling pulled away from the physical plane. There was no danger this time…
That was not the case one (of several) evenings nearly a year later, when a brown haired boy came in from outside crying. His step-mother rushed toward him as she did for all of her children, asking what happened. He pointed as Mercedes ran inside after him, “She hit me!” Baron Bartels, the boy’s father, entered the room at that moment. His eyes moved from his son to his wife’s daughter, to his son again. The boy wailed, and the child’s tears filled the Baron with rage. He moved towards Mercedes’, the girl’s eyes filled with fear. He raised a large hand. The girl’s mother turned her gaze to the floor, knowing if she would intervene the consequences would be worse. As the last rays of light fell behind Emile’s feet in the doorway, the Baron’s hand came down across Mercedes’ cheek. The force of the strike sent her backward, turning her porcelain skin a deep red.
Emile’s feet flew from the doorway. He fell onto his knees and slid to where his sister lay on the walnut floor. He brushed the hair out of her face, “Mercedes? Mercedes, wake up..” The girl did not stir. Emile began to hyperventilate, “No, no..” He felt as though he was floating again. And with that, he was gone.
The boy groaned, his head hurt again. But not because he had been struck. Instead, this was a pulsing, pounding headache. He massaged his temples and shook his head. When he regained clear vision, he saw Emile’s sister before him- passed out, her cheek deep red. He looked around for the location of the culprit, for he knew who it was. His cool gaze fell upon Baron Bartels, who stood like a tower over the pair of them.
“Think carefully about what you do next, boy.” His speech was slurred, and the scent of alcohol wafted toward the child with each word. The boy growled, he kneeled, then lunged for his father. The man easily held him back. After all, no matter how old this person felt, he resided in the body of an eight year old. He yelled with anger and hurled his fists despite this, wanting nothing more than to dispose of this idiot that made life such torment for him. But he wasn’t strong enough. He wasn’t big enough. He wasn’t old enough. As his arms were grabbed, as his strikes halted, as his body was thrown aside, he vowed he would get stronger. And as he collided with the wall, the wind knocked out of him, he vowed he would make the Bartels pay for what they’ve done to him, to Emile’s sister, and to Emile’s mother.
The ensuing argument could be heard clearly through the walls of the manor well into the morning. The boy heard Emile’s mother’s sobs clearly through the wall between his room and his parents’. The boy pulled at his blond hair, clenching his teeth and growling. How could it come to this? How could he let this happen? The mother was suffering because the body was too small. Too young. Too weak. He was none of those things, but it didn’t matter. He would have to be crafty if he was to have his revenge. He would have to become one with the shadows, gain the ability to slink in darkness. He would bring justice for the sister and mother the only way a weak creature like him could. He would become his family’s knight. Their Death Knight.
And so, when Emile’s mother and sister inevitably found the right time to run away, he stayed behind. He had to protect them. He was the heir, after all. If he left, they would inevitably be found. And so, like a good, loyal, son, he stayed behind. His father praised him that night for the first time, thanking him for not siding with that harlot. That tramp. The Death Knight grinned with his father. His cold gaze and empty laughter, unfitting of an eight year old boy, went unnoticed by his father and half-siblings. And when the Baron passed out, and his siblings fell asleep, the Death Knight formed a plan.
“Emile” became the perfect child. He did all that his father wished, he lived as he was told to live. He trained with the sword. He trained with the scythe. He built up his wit, and built up his might. At night, when the Baron and his children were asleep, he would practice stealth. He would slink around the manor. He learned the crevices, the secret pathways, the places that would make good shelter should he need to hide away. And five years later, the time came.
The Baron had learned of the whereabouts of Mercedes and her mother. He had wished to bring them both home, but one of the Baron’s children brought up that the woman would be too old to bear strong children anymore. Baron Bartels agreed, and decided it best to kill his ex-wife, and marry Mercedes instead. He gathered his children round for a feast, “Tonight marks the eve of House Bartels’ salvation.” And so, the alcoholic drank until he passed out.
When everyone was unconscious, the Death Knight drew a dagger, and crept silently from room to room. A hand on the mouth, a slit of the throat, and they were through. He grinned at the sight of their blood. Finally, he made his way to his father. The Baron, so very intoxicated, only just stirred as the Death Knight tied him to his chair. He slowly woke as his hands and feet were bound behind and beneath him with practiced knots.
“Who goes there?” He called, tongue heavy. The small boy stood before him. He sighed with relief, “Emile, untie me.” The Baron glared as the child grinned at him. “What are you waiting for, boy? Can’t you see there’s danger in the manor?” The boy walked toward the Baron, who grew progressively more distraught, “What’s going on, Emile? Is this some sort of joke?” The boy laughed wickedly as he stood beside the man, dagger at the ready. “Emile,” the man’s panic was clear now, “Emile?” The laughter grew ever louder as the boy’s eyes lit up with fierce joy.
“Goodbye...father.”