Red Hands of the Past

"Amanalii, I'm sure you've heard that monsters, rather demons, have attacked the towns to the south."
"Yes sir."
"And that means a lot of them will come this way, both man and demon."
"Yes. . . sir." I answered shakily.
"Normally, I might look at this with an eye for business, but if they are sending the army from the north, then I think we might be in trouble. The waves hit places no more than five days south of here."
"Sir?" I interrupted him. 
"What?" 
"Why do you tell me this?"
"Because you are priceless to me. I've watched you for thirteen years, and whether I've been right for you or not has never crossed my mind until now." The large man seemed so different to me. He seemed worried. I had been suspicious if he actually cared for me, but now I knew. Something wasn't right. It was true: there was talk of demons slaughtering the towns and cities south of here. I even heard that Deserta prison to the north had been re-purposed for supposed ex-demons as a city. Something was wrong.

"What's going on?" I inquired. He turned and opened a chest, digging through scrolls and books and papers, candles and pens and bottles, even some armor. I had never really seen the inside of this chest. "What are you looking for?"
"This," he held a sword. "I had been a soldier for sometime when I was younger. I left service and moved here to work. After several years, I found you."
My eyes narrowed. I never knew where I came from, and he never told me. I suppose he was like a father to me, but he never called himself my father. 
"Wh-- where did you find me?"
"You were by the roadside. Alone. I ignored you for most of the day, but you were still there much later. I took you in. I've taken in many, and they worked for me. You were always different. . . "
"How? Why do you tell me this? What is going on?!"
"I can't explain right no--"
"And you couldn't before?! You can't later?!"
"Amanalii, look--"
"No! What is happening? You haven't answered me. Something is wrong! What?"
"I--" He sighed.

I left, frustrated. I did this more often now. I always thought of running away, and never coming back. I didn't think I would come back until tomorrow, maybe. Steal some food, maybe a cake, and come back tomorrow. I was walking down the street, upset, my hair burning fiery red.
"Hey pretty! What'cha doing?" A group of men across the street were calling out at me.
"Hey, babe where ya goin'? 
"C'mon over here. Yeah, c'mon, right now."
"Yeah, you look stressed. Perhaps we could. . . relieve you of that!"
Obscene gestures and laughs. I quickened my pace, but they followed. I suspected they were drunk.
"Hey wait! Get back here." 
I started to run, but they followed, and they were faster. One stepped in front of me, and I collided into him, but only I staggered back. Another quickly came up behind, grabbing me, and I couldn't move. They circled in on me like vultures. I tried to scream out, but before I could I was gagged. 

"Where do you think you're going?"
"When we tell you to come, you come." He slapped me hard. I began crying, and struggling for my life. These were the kind of men that raped and killed. My arm slipped out of his crushing hold on my body, but I couldn't strike him anywhere before another grabbed my arm. One licked me on the face, and I turned my head. I struggled harder. The one in front of me pulled out a dagger, and I knew that I would soon die. As he came close, I kicked him in the face. His lip bled, as did his nose.

"Stupid little bitch! I'm gonna kill you!" The other grabbed my legs and I could only twist in place. He eyed me up and down, and just as he was about to gouge out the artery in my leg, someone tackled him to the ground. The man holding my legs dropped me, and I stood. The large man turned as the other stabbed him in the stomach. 

My eyes bulged, and with impossible strength I ripped myself free. I ran to him, tears streaming down my face. I pulled the gag out, but before I could reach him, the man from behind grabbed me by the hair and pulled, slamming me on the ground. I lay there, dazed by the sudden impact of my head to the ground. I sit up, and all the men are kicking him on the ground. "No!" I scream out. They stop and two turn to me. The rest continue beating him. They approach me slowly. I see a dagger on the closest one's hip. If only I could distract him, even seduce him. Anything to stop or slow or distract!

I close my eyes and focus on stopping him. I open my eyes, and I slowly feel something inside of me awaken, or possible be born. My hair that hangs in front of my face turns from red to pink, and the look on the faces of my enemies turn from sinister and malefic, to desperate and wild, like hungry animals. They begin calling out, strange, insensible things. Even the others, including my rescuer turn to me with the same look. What have I done? The man reaches out, but I grab his dagger and cut off his hand. 

He screams, and my hair goes blood-red again, as well as my clothes. I remember my own dagger, and it lies several feet behind me. At this point, all the remaining men, six in total, turn towards me. As I try to stand, the one handed man stomps on the back of my leg. I cry out, falling flat on the ground. I turn and slash his stomach, and he reels back in further pain, absolute hatred ingrained on his face. I crawl as fast as I can to my dagger. I turn, a dagger in either hand, as one grabs my face, a knife raised high to stab me. I act faster and stab him in both sides.

As he falls back, I use the daggers stuck in him to pull me up and forward. I rip my weapons out, stepping off him into the next target. Something within begins to burn as I look past all my attackers and see the body of my protector. After all these years, he kept me out of the way of creeps like these, and now he lay there lifeless. No I would protect-- no. I would avenge him, dead or alive! The next man approached, and stabs me in the side. I stand my ground and stab him in the chest, twisting the blade.

As he falls dead, I step backwards, looking at my wound. Nothing fatal. . . yet. The man behind me stands and pulls my hair, forcing my head back as he brings his knife across my throat. It cuts in a bit, but I jump back, losing balance for the both of us. I quickly turn on to my knees as he begins to sit up. Before he can focus I stab him. He wheezes and coughs blood on me. I don't care. I need to protect him. The man who lost his hand to me is holding a club. He swings at me, but I dodge and cut his throat.

Four left. They don't run, but pull out weapons and come at me together. Before, it was a one on one brawl. Now I was outnumbered, and soon to be overpowered. I had little energy left. I tried what I did before. Somehow, my hair turned pink, and they had been suppressed, or rather seduced. I needed that, now! I began to focus, but it came so easily and naturally that I was shocked. They approached me, letting their guard down. Quickly, I dispatched them all by stabbing them in the back, severing their spines. They all dropped to the ground, one on top of the other.

All my energy spent, I dropped the daggers, my hair turning back to normal. I collapsed next to the large man. I drag myself to his side, and turn him over. He is alive, but he has bruises and cuts all over, and he is still bleeding out from the stomach. I tear some fabric from the bottom of my shirt and fold it into a pad, and push it down on the wound. He groans.

His eyes open, and he looks at me and the seven men behind me, and the audience I collected in the melee. Several guards rush over to me, grabbing me by both arms and hauling me off. He laughs a bit, before he passes out. I am covered in the blood of eight men and myself. The ground is red, and everyone is speechless. I guess I'm going to prison. Damn. . . I wanted to avoid more people like those rapists and murderers. Once word gets around in prison that I killed seven men alone, then I suppose I won't have any trouble. 

"Varan. . . I'm sorry." I whisper quietly to myself.

I awaken, sitting up. I touch my neck where the scar is. It's not there. I had one from my stab wound. I lift my shirt enough to see it, but it too is not present. Varan. He must be the large man in all my memories. I lie down again. I remember something more than what I just dreamt. Assassinations. Deaths at my hand. I was older, about the same age I am now. Something about me that seemed to explain why I like the dark. I could meld with the shadows, move as silent as still air. I could execute with clean precision.

Oh, the things I remember. . . perhaps I could do something that didn't involve killing here. Here in this new world with a new body. No scars, no evidence of past events. I began to drift back into sleep. Something I didn't have before would soon be a part of my life; I could feel it in my bones.