What Makes a Monster

♱Seventy-One♱

"He begged on his hands and knees," Soran explains. "Speaking of family members who had been taken hostage. Those that managed to evacuate hadn't heard from their loved ones in months. He knew that their division was being sent as a diversion, for Baylor's true warriors to attack another base farther south and eventually ride in when they least expected it. Not like the civilian soldiers meant much, so long as it won them the war, it didn't matter how many lives were lost."

A tactic that many rulers used in history long before the Baylor's. Hell, Soran's own father did on more than one occasion. He was a strategic mastermind. Most didn't mention the deaths because the war was won and even more lives were saved.

"I asked him why he came to me, did he expect a monster to slay the monster?" He continued and, for some reason, began to smile at the memory. "Do not tease as I admit I remember the speech word for word."

I nudge him as if to say that won't be a problem. If he remembered it then that only means it meant a lot.

"It's almost comical how he didn't hesitate to respond; a monster is not a beast of nightmares or a demon of darkness, but rather the cruelty that resides inside all of us. A partner that beats their lover or a human that harms a child is no less a monster than a vampire, because monsters are not determined at birth, but rather shown throughout their lives as the actions they are not forced, but rather choose to take. I do not know you, Your Grace, nor could I ever claim to understand you. We hear tales of your past and, quite frankly, I don't have much faith in tales, but I do have faith in the good of others. I've been here a long time and seen the acts of kindness you have shown so I can only have faith in you that you may consider this father's request."

"I sent him away initially," he adds. "But his words lingered and the thought of them marching to their deaths while knowing I could help eventually led to my following. I arrived before the battle, but the man that came to speak to me was among the dead."

"And you never learned his name?"

"Unfortunately not. There were many soldiers and I suppose I didn't ask the right ones. Even the paperwork was pathetic, most weren't identified properly until weeks later. By then I had already left."

"There weren't that many soldiers from Chandri," I recall, attempting to dig back in my memories. "What did he look like? Anything really specific you remember? I may know him. We could put a name to a face!"

Soran lacks faith based on his thin lips, but he gives in after contemplating a few moments. "He was a tad taller than me, short dark brown hair, mm, green eyes, I think? Quite a few scars..."

Could have been the blacksmith? He was called to the capital when the war began. Many were taken to help stock up supplies and he hadn't survived the battle when he was sent back as a soldier. But the thought of the blacksmith is set aside when Soran adds the last detail, "Ah, he was wearing an odd bracelet."

"Odd?"

"A piece of braided rope through a drilled hole in a blue-ish pebble."

I freeze. My hand goes limp in Soran's grasp.

"There were letters carved into it, I think, but I don't remember what they were."

An old memory comes flooding in, one of me running home with a unique blue pebble I found in the river. Dad's birthday was in a few days. We didn't have the coin to get him anything, but that pebble showed up. Blue was his favorite color; I thought I had got my hands on a treasure for him.

"Why don't you make something out of it?" Mom suggested when I showed her. Dad was out in the fields, sweating the days away until he returned to the capital for military duties. "It's such a pretty color. It'd be a shame if he lost it because it was lying around."