Chosen Of Death

The ominous foreboding of footsteps approached.

Nox kept his eyes closed as the figure approached, feigning sleep, however, his mind couldn't have been more awake. In the two weeks he had spent here, not a single person had come down this alleyway except himself. No-one had come to ask if he needed any money or food or help, at most giving him a cursory glance of pity and then moving on with their lives. If someone was coming, then it most definitely wasn't out of kindness.

Nox's heart began to race in his chest, his mind simulating every possible way this scenario could go down. Shifting as inconspicuously as possible beneath the sheets, his hand slowly crept towards his belt where a small knife was concealed. Nox wasn't as naïve as he had once been and was well prepared for the possibility that things might get ugly, fast.

The knife itself had been a small parting gift from Mrs Richards. The woman had conflicted feelings about giving a deadly weapon to a ten-year-old-boy. If something did happen, and the boy did kill someone, was that blood on her hands? And if the boy ended up dead, his corpse rotting in a gutter somewhere, could she live with herself knowing she could've done something to prevent it?

Her mind raced with tumult for several days afterward. She concocted little fantasies for herself about how things had nothing to do with her and, anyway, chances were nothing would even happen to the boy, right? At most it would've been a kind gesture that led to nothing.

Mrs Richards desperately wanted to believe that, but deep down she knew better. On more than one occasion had she overheard the directors discussing their clandestine plans. Often, they barely tried to hide them at all, knowing that she was helpless to do anything about it anyway. In the end, she could only accept things as they were.

Hindsight was 20-20 but the future was embroiled with uncertainty.

Seconds counted down slowly as Nox tried to picture the scene in front of him. A figure approaching him with caution. Heavy, thudding footsteps: likely a man, and a rather big one at that. That thought brought Nox some unease, but he was comforted at the thought that his knife would cut through their flesh all the same.

Nox did all he could to appear asleep: eyes firmly fixed but relaxed; limbs naturally sprawled; breath slowed and rhythmic. Nox was like a viper, silently drawing in his prey, waiting to strike until success was all but certain.

Cautiously, a hand outstretched towards Nox's mouth. With each moment that passed, it edged closer. Ever...So...Slowly.

"A little more. Just a little more" Nox thought. He was ready. He'd never taken a life himself despite his indirect involvement in others. The idea wasn't daunting. It felt easy. It felt like the most natural thing in the world. He had to protect himself.

One. Two. Three!

Surging forth with every inch of power he could, the cold glint of his knife darted through the dark like a divine javelin. Piercing towards the tender neck of the man, Nox was reminded of his attack on his uncle. The fountain of blood, the satisfaction. It was all so well prepared and executed. Nox's success was all but certain. It seemed this killing thing wasn't so hard after all.

But alas, he had let his mind wander. A fatal mistake. This wasn't his uncle.

In his momentary lapse of concentration, the man shot back a step, clamping Nox's wrist in his iron grip. All it took was a twist.

*Snap*

A bone-chilling crunch.

Pain.

Clanging against the cold bricked floor, the knife, his final lifeline, left his grasp, a sadistic prelude to Nox's end.

Before he could even react to the burning pain from his wrist, a snappy front kick to his chest propelled him backwards. His body tumbled, colliding with the brick wall that sealed his escape. Nox's body keeled over at the impact. With an agonised grunt, blood seeped from the corners of his mouth.

The air felt like molten iron; with each desperate, gasping breath, his chest was set alight with wave after wave of wretched pain. His thoughts were the first to betray him, his mind wandering and disoriented. His vision came next, cloudy and fogged, the shadowy figure approaching getting vaguer with every second. His body was the last. Nox knew he had but a few fragile moments before time was up. He had to do something. Anything. But his body was so weak. So tired.

The knife was far from reach, and here, in this damp, mangey alley, there was no-one to help.

No-one to save him.

No! He could call for help! Someone would come and save him!

This thought left Nox's head almost as quickly as it left. Who would come and save him? In the middle of the night? In the middle of nowhere? And even if someone did show up, what would they do? Join the fight? Maybe in a fairy tale, but this was real life, and in real life, people were selfish and narcissistic and cruel. Nox had learnt this lesson time and time again. Perhaps someone might call the police but to what end? By the time they got there, his corpse would've long gone cold.

This thought seemed to take the last of Nox's energy as he could only sit, numb. A spectator in his own body.

The man neared ever closer until they were face-to-face.

Draped in a long billowing trench coat, the man's features were rugged and distorted, his brow drenched in sweat.

"Damn, you little shit. You almost killed me." the man panted in exasperation. His face betrayed that he was just as weary as Nox was.

While the fight had been entirely one-sided, the man would be lying if he said he hadn't been scared. More than anything, it was the look in Nox's eyes in that moment that shook him. Just like an icy wasteland: treacherous, suffocating, and merciless. Not a shred of hesitation.

Nox entertained the idea of fighting back when seeing the man's appearance; however, his body made it clear that he'd had enough, even if his brain didn't want to believe it. Waves of pain continually rushed through his body until he felt all but paralysed.

The man, eager to finish things quickly, fiddled with his pockets, removing a long metallic-looking wire.

"The directors send their regards."

The man left those words as the wire entwined like a serpent around Nox's throat and tightened. His trachea buckled under the pressure and, with every second, the pain from his burning lungs was replaced by a strange sense of peace.

Nox's consciousness fought for dominance against the mighty pull of death, but slowly, it weakened, slipping into its dark embrace. His eyes went blank, his body limp, his breath silent.

The man heaved a sigh of relief at the sight but kept things going for a little longer.

"No more surprises for today", he thought.

And so, after another moment, he collected his tool and headed back from whence he came. On the way, he took out his phone and a cigarette. The lonely flame of the lighter in the night ignited the cigarette, to which the man took several puffs in satisfaction. Afterwards, a number was dialled into the phone as the man continually heaved in smoke without pause. A few rings later, and the other side picked up.

"Is it done?" a distorted voice questioned.

"Yeah, yeah, it's done. Send the clean-up crew. And by the way, no-one told me about the kid being armed. He almost killed me. I'll be expecting extra pay" the man bickered.

"We will pay you what we agreed upon, and not a penny more", promptly ending the call.

The man spat out his cigarette onto the floor and stomped on it, muttering,

"Pricks"

Before leaving, the man took another glance back at his work. A corpse, bloodied and bruised around the neck, getting ever paler by the second.

In the end, he was just a boy.

A final sigh left the man's mouth before leaving the scene,

"Sorry kid"

- - - - -

A vast, desolate expanse of darkness spread in every direction. There was no concept of temperature here, and yet, were one to stand amidst the suffocating darkness, they would feel an unbearable, soul-rending cold.

Concealed in the sea of dark was a fragile blue spark, flickering anxiously. Nothing but the sea existed here. The spark had nothing to guide its way in the never-ending landscape. It wandered aimlessly, ebbing and flowing with the dark currents, its destination unknown.

Gradually, its light began to dim, seeming to fade into the consuming void. However, in its weakest moments, something from deep within it erupted. A bone-chilling dark flame, not so dissimilar from the surroundings, emerged. In its presence, the shadows could only yield in subservience, kneeling to their rightful ruler.

"The boy is mine. Leave, now" a message, not spoken with words, but delivered with intent: a universal language at the root of existence.

To the command, the area could only clear.

Eventually, the flame receded, leaving only a desolate blue spark without aim or purpose. In this tiny bastion, it remained. The concept of time was strange here, distorted, and hard to discern. To the mortal world, five years passed in the blink of an eye, but here, things remained as indifferent as ever.

But things were about to change.

From a faraway point in the murky ocean, a golden brilliance emerged like the morning sun. From the vague shimmering, an enormous heavenly gate slowly arose. When fully formed, the grand doors crept open, making way for an equally luminous figure.

A man, his body as giant as the gate. Silver hair ran gently down the man's figure reaching his feet. Bright, enchanting, silver eyes that seemed to contain the enormity of the universe. His countenance was gentle and calm, an ever-present smile on his face. Meanwhile, he donned a simple, unassuming white robe over his lithe frame.

"Ahhh, how I do enjoy that other universe so. Things here can be ever so drab. How long was I gone this time I wonder? The last I remember the humans had built those big pointy sand-tombs for their false gods. Oh, how foolish they can be." the man chuckled to himself with glee.

"Perhaps I'll just take a short nap and return there. I suppose a thousand years or so should be enough" he yawned.

These words were different to those spoken by the dark flames: they were just like any normal words. Whoever this person was, rules didn't seem to apply to him as they did others.

Immediately after, the man simply vanished as if he had never existed at all.

As if on cue, the dark flame re-emerged from within the blue spark. Contrasting the blue sparks random meandering, the dark flame now made a beeline towards the gate. Sifting through the darkness as best as it could, they rushed towards the gate. However, the gate gave it no consideration, beginning to close just as slowly as it had opened.

The flame was close, but things were clear, it wasn't going to make it.

A helpless sigh came from the flame as intent again,

"I didn't want to do this, but I guess I have no choice. I can't sustain him until that tool returns and opens the portal again."

Suddenly, the black flame's intensity doubled, roaring to life. Its speed rocketed as the distance to the gate closed rapidly, and yet, for each moment that passed, the flame seemed to suffer. Withering, its size began the shrink until it was hardly noticeable within the blue flames.

Thankfully, its efforts were not in vain as shortly before being extinguished entirely, the flame passed through the gate, fading into the endless cosmos on the other side.

With the closure of the gate, calm was restored to the realm of darkness.

- - - - -

Somewhere, in the boundless reaches of space, the silver-haired man lay prone on a glamourous throne like a housecat. Bejewelled and ordained with diamonds and stitched with white linens, the throne was more of a large bed than a king's seat of power.

His eyes gleamed with excitement; the flame's mad rush to the gate had not gone unnoticed.

"It seems that lingering soul I felt has finally returned back to the other world, but with a mere human no less. How intriguing".

A mischievous grin spread across his face.

"Do have fun over there, little Chosen of Death."