Bucket Of Bloody Blades

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Lennon 'Crippled Monster' Hull

"The seconds without struggle are seconds spent idle. The seconds spent idle allow others to catch up, to pass by, to supersede you, Lennon. Never exist without a struggle, for all will progress beyond your mark if you are idle for even a single night."

I tread silently through the aftermath and ongoing chaos, having the man who was closer to me than my actual father running through my brain. Every damn day I miss him more and more.

I miss his wisdom. I miss his proud smile. I miss his encouragement. It had been months since I saw him last before his demise, a death that is sorely brought to mind by my surroundings. This city that was once prosperous and serene is now being reduced to smoldering ruins, which affects me far less than his passing. Yet, I cannot do as he always asked of me. There is no more struggle, not now, at least. I have no more arms. So, instead, I simply observe the flames dance along the remnants of Tillend with an insatiable hunger, consuming the pieces of what was once a peaceful haven.

In the depths of the Territories, only a few miles from the border of Onyx Gate, the people who have lived here all their lives must have thought the world was wholly peaceful. Tears run rampant alongside the blood on the stones. Pain screams of horror and disbelief line the air, and there is no one here to save them. No one.

They have no idea. It has been peaceful here for centuries following the Third cementing Qune, Onyx Gate, and Gravecross as eternal havens for humanity.

The noises refuse to cease, however, even as hours pass. The cacophony of destruction echoes through the air as Maddox's pirates and bandits revel in the wanton violence they've wrought.

At least... at least he sets a few rules: no rape and no fighting over spoils. According to Timothy, his second in command now that his son is dead, this is to reduce the baggage. They don't want men fighting each other, and they don't want anyone growing attached. However, Autumn has whispered to me that she believes her father still has some bit of heart left in him. How much of that I believe, I don't know.

But as far as I can tell, these waves of scum follow those rules in fear of their leader.

I'm a silent observer, simply a man missing both his arms. I am unable to help, rendered powerless to intervene in the atrocities unfolding around me. I could fight. Even without arms, I could kill a few with just the force of my kicks, maybe a headbutt here or there, but I would quickly fall, wasting any possible life I have remaining. The pirates and bandits pay me no heed, my presence here sanctioned by Maddox himself, a twisted privilege that affords me a hollow sanctuary amidst the brutality. Not that many of these bastards could stop me even if they wanted to.

I might be crippled, but only those few Forerunners could stop me on their own, even without arms. Though... there are hundreds. They don't need to be alone.

Still, I don't act. I lost. I lost the fight.

Instead, I maintain a calm exterior as the city burns and the air thickens with the stench of charred dreams. My mind has already embraced the inevitability of my fate. I am, in a sense, already dead—my beating heart just hasn't realized it yet.

It pumps blood despite the fact that I am merely waiting for my death. No arms. No swords. What is the point?

I could save a few here and run away, but I'd be chased down and killed by the Sea's Shadow. If I were a coward, I'd take that way out. But I cannot.

It would be spitting on everything Edmund ever taught me. On each piece of him that he delivered to me through his time.

Laura obtained Edmund's heart. A caring piece that could not stand by while evil things were taking place.

Edward stole his father's drive, an ambition to protect engraved into his very blood. If he lost his arms... he'd still be a guardian.

Wyatt... even the little gremlin was bestowed a piece of our shared mentor. Wyatt walked away from Edmund with the old man's view of Ether. Few, very few, are taught to see the Ether within as streams of water. It's not rare, per se, but how Edmund teaches it is unique. It affords one greater control and knowledge over the substance. I tried to comprehend it, but I could only garner some of the meaning. And based on the kid's talents, I'd say he improved on it even beyond the old man.

As for me?

They got his kindness, his protectiveness, and his outlook. I bear the darker things, the bits that only I can.

Edmund lived a long life before he even gained his first Sigil. He has killed many monsters, men, and a few demons before he touched Ether for the first time. His life was nothing but sorrow and strife. After he earned his power, nothing really changed.

The Bloodhound is a name that holds many meanings.

It describes his powers, his skills, and his sharp senses, but it also represents the pieces he hides from everyone. The part he hid from everyone but me. The harsh, severe, desperate man that hid beneath it all. He rarely bared his fangs, but when he did, he did not do so lightly.

Edmund would never kill himself. He would fight to the bitter end. Perhaps I should simply wait for my time? But still? What point is there if I cannot wield a blade any longer? To teach? Like him? No. I do not have that brand of patience.

My feet carry me across flickering embers toward the other side of Tillend. I feel several stares fall onto me as I step past, and I pause for a moment, seeing eight ruffians beating an old man to steal the jewelry in his hands.

The bandits eye me with a mixture of curiosity and confusion as I stride past them. I deliver the bastards my cruel gaze, and many of them retreat in fear. A slight smile falls upon my lips even as they realize my weakness. Still, their violence is only momentarily interrupted by my presence.

I don't strike them or stop them entirely, though. I merely watch, taking note of their faces. They call out to me with mocking tones, but their words fall on deaf ears. Minutes pass as the brutality only spreads. I become a spectral figure, drifting through the chaos with a detached awareness, untouched by the atrocities unfolding in the wake of the raid. No one attacks me. Maddox's decree shields me from the rampant violence, casting me as an oddity among the marauders. The stares I receive are laden with questions left unspoken, but I offer no answers. However, after many bandits pass me by, a voice calls out to me.

"Lennon? Why don't you come over here with us."

I turn, finding Seadrik, one of the captains of the minor ships, a 6th Sigiled. He waves toward me with only the tiniest bit of care. Behind his mocking eyes, I find a seething hatred.

Unlike when the others taunted me in the past, I don't ignore him. He, on his lonesome, is an actual threat when I don't have my arms. So, I follow him without a word. Nevertheless the scum doesn't let the spit in his mouth dry.

"We found someone who was asking for you. Figured we'd bring you to him."

I raise an eyebrow as my stomach curdles into waves. I can look past people I don't know suffering in search of an opportunity, but can I neglect someone I know?

I'm not sure.

Hopefully, they simply know my history.

No sounds leave my throat as I step in line with Seadrik, but in only moments do we reach the boundary of a burnt-down house. In front of them stands four of the other captains of the smaller vessels, but they are not the only figures. Three motionless bodies lie on the street while a shivering, trembling old man kneels beneath the barrel of a Colt.

The old man sees me, and the instant our eyes meet, my stomach sinks. I know this one. I have fought with him before, only he retired due to his wounds.

Dale Heartright. He is a good man. Stalwart and honest.

"Lennon! What are you doing with these... What happened to yur' arms?"

A second after Dale bursts out into noise, he is clocked alongside his skull with the Colt. Timothy shouts into the man's ear with a not-so-veiled threat. Incarnadine trails down the aging face of Dale from the pistol-whip.

"Shut up, old man! Where are your Colts? Your Claymores? Show them to us, and we'll let you and your family go. Better not rattle about, or you'll end up like him."

Dale simply glares at them, the stubborn old bastard unwilling to give them an inch. He knows what will happen if he does.

"I give you anything, and you will kill me anyway."

Timothy smirks, shifting the barrel of his Colt toward the unmoving female form beside Dale. Grey hair and wrinkled skin show proof of their long marriage, but the blood running down Esmerelda's face ignites a pang in my heart.

"You give us nothing, and you will watch them all die in front of you."

I don't move to stop them. There would be no point. I know explicitly what I'm capable of. With multiple of Maddox's Forerunners here, even if I kill one or two, Dale and I will still die. After all, Dale only has a 3rd Sigil. It has been many years since we last fought together. Many years... So many that Edmund was still serving alongside us as he did in-between sessions of students.

"NO!"

My eyes crinkle as I watch Dale scream in defiance to his wife's spasming body. A wide hole rests in her skull and opens the depths of the earth beside her now-cooling corpse. Reddened eyes and tears stream from Dale's face as he turns to me.

"Do something, Lennon! Please! Please!?"

I meet the man's gaze. I find the hope in them. I notice the despair.

I accept his emotions, adding them to my own. That is all I can do. I am not a coward, but I am not stupid.

"He ain't gonna do shit for yur' family. He's our cripple. Maddox took him 'imself. Now, show us where they are!"

Timothy mocks me and threatens Dale's son while the other men chuckle and push each other about. It seems they already searched through the house based on the shit tossed all about. Regardless, there is so much they could be doing other than standing around watching. How stupid. Men like this will fall in droves to Eli and his schemes. I don't like the man, but I do respect his personal strength and intelligence. He would never let his men be so inefficient and wasteful.

Dale bites his lip as he opens his mouth, finally deciding to give up his hard-earned things as they point the Colts to his children. The two are barely in their teens, wide-eyed and terrified. He stretches out a bloodied and scarred hand, covered in soot, while holding onto a tiny key.

"Behind the house, underneath the front of the tree, there is a lockbox: two Colts, a Claymore, and a Concoction. Take them and leave us. Please."

I listen to Dale's plea, but as I glance at Timothy, I already know what will happen. A breathless sigh leaves my body. The bastard takes immense pleasure in this.

"Wait! NO! STOP! STOP! I GAVE YOU WHAT YOU WA—"

Closing my eyes, I shut off the sight of flowing blood. But as I do, Timothy grabs my face, opening my eyes with his hands. I attempt to raise my hands to fight back, but I quickly realize my error. Still, I manage to see Dale's opened brain and the children's oozing hearts for a moment before I slip away from Timothy.

I glare at the man as he laughs.

"What? Would you rather see my face than your friend's torn-up mug? How kind. Stay here. We're gonna go dig up the good stuff."

The seven steps away merrily opposed to the rest of the world. They revel in this madness, this violence. As I stand here, I notice my hands are shaking, trembling so badly that it feels like they are starving.

But I don't have hands.

What am I feeling?

Exhaling, I stride to Dale's body. I kneel beside my friend. His corpse is like all the others, both friend and foe. Meaningless. Once the life leaves their body, nothing is left behind. Not the soul, not the mind, not their power. The body means nothing in the end.

"I am sorry."

"That is not good enough."

I search around for the voice that sent the words into my ears the instant after my apology, but the man I find is the last possible being I could have imagined. Edmund.

He stands a mere two feet from me, looking down at me. His face is the same as always. It is caring yet stern. Harsh yet understanding. Brutal yet calm.

But he's not real. I know that. He is simply a figment of my own mania. I'm that self-aware, at least. Losing my arms has not been... good for my mental state. My one and only mentor throughout my life is not the first thing I've seen, but it's the first to speak. Most of the others were only moving shadows or flickering candles, a disoriented face here or there or perhaps an odd noise.

Nonetheless, I ask for his aid, as I always do. His wisdom had no end, as bottomless as a pit could be.

"Then what should I do?"

Edmund crouches down beside me, his salty hair thin to his head while he does so. Even his hat sits unmoving on his frame. It's so... odd to see him again after all these years. I was the last to see him, other than Wyatt, of course, before he died. He told me about his fight with Edward and the argument they had. I went to find Edward afterward, but things went to shit too quickly.

"Stay alive. Until those lungs stop alternating, until that heart stops beating, and until that brain stops thinking, you are alive. Do you hear me? There is no surrender. That is not a word you should know. Strike it from memory. If you wish to truly bear power in this world of ours, to do something of worth, you must take every morsel you can. Waste not a moment. As long as you are alive, you are without end."

Edmund's voice comes out of his mouth, but it is merely a speech I heard long ago during training, nothing new. Not even my crumbling sanity can bring him back to reality.

I laugh aloud to myself, a chronic and infectious laughter that refuses to end.

"A swordsman without arms. How… ironic."

For several minutes, all I can hear, all I can feel is the laughter seething through me without a hint of joy. There is only exasperation, pain, and desire in my chuckles, in the manic giggles that tear through me.

Then, a voice comes back to me—a familiar one with new, questioning words. The simple appearance of the sentences I've never heard freezes my laughter in place.

"An apology is never enough. Neither is revenge. Only you can decide what is. To you, what does it mean to be alive? Truly? To breathe? To eat? To... walk? To protect? To see the sun? Or... to wield that blade of yours? To seek something far more significant than yourself—the pinnacle of power? Stand up, my boy. This pain you're feeling? The heartbreak? The desolation? It is nothing compared to the joy beyond the brink. Man is both the Claymore and the blacksmith. You know this to be true. To sharpen, you must first break."

The words echo within me as Edmund's shadow fades, leaving me only with Dale. I don't even have time to ponder why he was able to speak to me before pounding footsteps quickly reappear as the vice-captains and captains head back toward me, lined with new weapons.

I feel...

A crack resounds within the depths of my body, of my soul. I have no place to go. No people to ask for aid from. No family to call my own. I had nothing but my blades. Now, I have nothing.

And yet...

I cannot simply fall. The Ballad will not end here. Even my father would be disappointed, not that he would understand how far I've gone. Still, he would comprehend the heartbreak. There is much more story to tell within these weary bones. He'd be furious if I left it unwritten. Even if I do not have hands. Even if I do not have arms... I will be the author of my own destiny. I must embrace the bad, the sour, the awful segments I have inherited. The need. The desire.

I have held very few fears throughout my life. And the greatest one was of myself. That I could, if pushed, become the monsters I've sought my whole life to remove from reality. In a way, I have. The bloodied man before me shows that I have done so little in the end. I am Edmund's student, greater than any other. I am an Angel, greater than any mortal man alive. I am a swordsman, greater than any being alive.

And yet...

I failed this man and his family. I am selfish. It is something I know all too well.

Beyond that fear...

So many call me a Monster. It is never something I have taken seriously. My goals... they are so high that even the shadows of the monsters that cast them are nigh invisible. They only show themselves upon the stormiest days, when even the sun refuses to take a peek into our world, when chasms are ripped open miles wide, and the deaths are in the thousands. The thoughts and perspectives of everyone else don't affect me in the slightest. I am as unwavering as the steel in my hand upon the most heated battle.

And yet...

I hold myself back in fear of what I can become. I am supremely confident, even to the point of self-annihilation. And still, I keep myself from my true potential. I worry that in the end, my blade will turn inwards, toward my own people. But are they even my own people? We fight amongst ourselves just as much as we battle the outermost threats. I have to accept the truth. My path is mine alone, that of a lone, unbowing blade set against the unending tide. I have a few friends remaining, but many are weak, long ripped from my path. Only a scarce few remain.

There are many ways to wield a blade. There are many ways to power, despite what all others think. A road is opening before me, I can feel it. The trembling in my chest is a clarion's call for the darkest road. But a light still calls to me nonetheless.

My vision turns white, then red, then black. A veritable sludge of darkness overwhelms me as I feel a familiar sensation: the transportation of The Cabin. However, I refuse its call. With a simple grunt and nudge from my mind, it recedes without a bit of hesitance. Gluskabe knows all, and he knows this.

I need nothing but my own soul.

My blades may crumble.

My body may fail.

My mind may break.

But my soul is immortal. Unshakeable, impervious to all. Bent, broken, but unbowed. The harder you strike a blade, the more it warps. Unless... the blade seeks to be hit, to temper itself. Edmund's words are my own, the pieces and parts of me that have been shaped by him into the finest steel.

If there are many paths to travel, I will only take the most difficult. Lennon Hull gives no quarter, not even to himself.

The instant I throw out my thoughts into the darkness of my mind, everything freezes for a moment. The rain, only beginning to fall as I crouch here with my recovering sight, halts in the very air. And with it, everything changes. A piece, some hidden part of me, a connection to a greater being, something that I know without knowing that every living thing has, shatters, and with it...

The world at significant returns to me fully as my vision returns from the abyss, yet I feel different. So... so different. The colors are more refined. The air is... full of vitality. And around me, within a few dozen feet, I can sense all, including the tiny motes of dust or the minuscule streams of blood within the dirt.

My heart settles once more as I watch Timothy stride toward me. The other vice-captains split off, heading toward their own crews while Maddox's second stares at me. I can see the humor in his gaze. He believes I have given up. A tiny whisper, that of a departing man, threads into my ear. It is my own thoughts, yet they bear the voice of another.

"No mercy. Not to yourself. Not to anyone."

I nod to myself, staring forward at nothing at all, peering right past Timothy. As if raising my hand, I command my body, yet there is a new segment to my body than there once was. An untried part has been added to my soul, conjoining deeper with my Sigil.

My Dominion reaches for Timothy. And in but a moment, the man falls in twain, as if he was never fully put together in the first place. I stride toward the man, observing him closely as organs spill out from his two halves. He screams, he roars in pain, and he calls for help.

It does not matter.

Figures come rushing to his aid, only to fall like petals to my blade on a calm autumn's day. It is just like my practices. The ground becomes sticky with crimson, but this time, it is not the life of innocents that causes it. This is nothing new. This is simply another way to swing.

I have no need for blades anymore.

I am my own.

By the thirtieth man, however, a pain sparks in my head, warning me of my transgressions. Dominions do not require any Ether; after all, they are merely a part of the Angel's body, of their soul. But like any other body part, they require energy to move, only that this energy is wholly soulful.

It is based upon the Sigil and the soul, yet it boasts the ability to move without Ether. How odd. I thought it was always an exaggeration, but no. It is the truth.

My feet carry me forward as my sleeves wave freely in the wind. More bodies float toward me, only to intertwine with the blood already soaking the streets. Bullets fly at me, only to clatter noisefully against the ground with twice the sound than that which was sent. Ether comes at me as well in wide varieties, only to split in two each time.

I gradually ignore these figures and look at the sky clouded by the smoke from the raid.

Winning is not the end. Losing is not always death. It is picking the blade up once more that matters, even if one's fingers to do so are gone with the wind. If Death is to be my lot, Lennon Hull shall be the author, finisher, and final denominator.

After all, triumph is only granted to those willing to pay the price. The greatest things born of desire can only be found on the other side of fear. And…

"I will meet any quota."

Even if the price is my very self.

The latter half goes unsaid as a waterfall crashes in front of me, and a grand figure clad in a dark blue suit stares me down. He doesn't seem afraid of me despite the crimson river of his men behind me. Though, the Sea's Shadow doesn't even seem the slightest bit peeved. His gaze is... half impressed and half disappointed. How odd.

"Is that so? You are... remarkable, Lennon. But... I do not wish to fight you again. We both already know the result. Instead, how about you seek a different challenge? Onyx Gate is ahead, waiting for its first challenger in a millennia."

I allow my eyes to slide along Maddox Adkins. He pivots and points behind him toward the faraway boundary of Onyx Gate. I cannot see the walls from here, but I know they are there.

He is baiting me. He wants me to be the icebreaker. Still, I grin at the man, my lips nearly splitting from newfound strength.

I am not dumb.

But... I cannot lie.

It would be fun to be the first to lay siege to Onyx Gate in a whole millennium. He's also right. Our fight is already settled. I would win. As such, there is no point in fighting. An unworthy foe is not a foe at all. So, I walk past Maddox without a word, following the clever man with my eyes. He knows I can't turn this down. My Sigil and I have joined each other too intimately. Before, I could resist the urge partially. But I cannot any longer.

A Soldier must fight.

War must wage.

Blood must spill.

Desire binds the heart.

Conflict's unending dance blossoms.

Life begins in red and ends within the crimsons.

None can escape the call of the most captivating flower.

And so, many fall within the face of chaos and its eternal edge.

Yet, not today. Today, this one stands tall a while longer.

"After this, Maddox, I am coming back for you to settle the debt on my arms."

I match the Sea's Shadow's tempo without even glancing back at him. Always on his toes, he spouts a load of bullshit toward me. He doesn't understand. We are not the same anymore.

"Of course, you may. Just be ready when Death comes for you."

I scoff and twist just enough to see his oceanic pupils. They don't frighten me as they do others. They don't bring me even the slightest smidgeon of pause. I have seen far worse.

"Death will not kill me when she comes for my head, O' Captain. She will only show me what I have done before I remove hers."