Steely
Tactical Imbecile
Hello everyone! While I'm waiting for my account to get approved, I decided to post a short story I had in mind for a while regarding a character of mine. Better context might be added once I manage to post these individuals on the Character Depository, so I tried my best to expose as much of the story as to avoid getting the reader lost or confused.
For some background, this is set on the Baltic region, in Medieval Europe, around the time the Teutonic Order was at the height of its power.
If possible, I'd love to hear some feedback on my writing, as well! Hope you all enjoy it!
All feeling save for emptiness.
The man was no fool to be confused at what was happening. His life was seeping away; not because of a wound, or a deadly illness. It was seeping away because he lost purpose. Because the shadows of his sins finally dawned upon him, composing the dark blanket that enveloped him so powerfully. His goal had been achieved, after all. He had slain that who had betrayed him so vilely, that one soul who tortured his heart for their own gain. Finally, that image which he hoped to see for so long had played before his eyes: her body mangled, her throat giving out its last, terrified breaths as crimson leaked so beautifully out of her wounds.
But at what cost?
His band of Ritterbrüders was slaughtered, the few survivors scattering or outright leaving the group. He lost five years in a haze of unending wrath searching for a woman who had already thrown away all memory of him, leaving a trail of death and destruction in his wake. His reputation was stained, beaten to the ground by his own doings: the once outstanding, chivalrous Zimmermann morphed into a horrendous, bloodthirsty demon, feared even by his most ardent admirers. And lastly, his mother: oh, his sickly, scarred mother, who took her own life upon hearing about her beloved son's crimes.
There was a heavy sigh, and he swore that he saw more of his life force leaving through his mouth, dissipating miserably into the emptiness that surrounded him. All those memories crumbled upon him, crushing, piercing and tearing his body apart. He collapsed onto whatever he was sitting upon, defeated. His sight blurred, his breaths slowed down, and a freezing cold began to seize him.
Perhaps, it was finally time for Gerhold Zimmermann, the hero and the monster, to simply fade away.
Then, just as the last string of life prepared to slip away from his carcass of scarred flesh, something halted it in its tracks. A blinding light; warm, cozy, welcoming. He furrowed his brows, eyes narrowing with a bout of energy that surged through him. The man brought himself back up, that warmth filling him with vigor never felt in ages. His feet brought him to a window that he swore that wasn't previously there, and he leaned forward, curious as to what lay beyond it.
In a flash, it all returned to his conscience. A gentle breeze kissed his face, and the chirping of birds filled his ears with a joyous, arrhythmic symphony. The green trees outside stood proudly, their leaves and branches swaying with the wind. Nestled between the clouds above, the sun shone brightly, its golden rays having just peeked out of the horizon to announce a new day.
His eyes widened, realization having struck him. Familiar words rung inside his head, in a calm, motherly voice.
"No matter what happens, dawn will always come the next day."
He gripped the wooden windowsill tightly, enough to make the structure creak in protest. Footsteps came behind him, and with a glance over his shoulder, his eyes met with Hans' shocked gaze. While Gerhold was never one to smile, the ghost of one marked his lips, and he breathed deeply. The younger man approached him, quickly covering his body with a hefty fur coat.
There was a pause, and the two exchanged looks, neither saying a word. Hans nodded with his head, motioning to the door leading outside the room they stood in, from where the scent of a recently cooked meal emanated strongly, albeit ultimately pleasing. Gerhold strode forward, his steps reflecting his newfound confidence; weak, yet enduring.
After all, he understood that all he had done had no fixing, though it was in the past. Just like the events of yesterday, he could leave them behind, though he'd never forget them. They should remain, not as shadowy hands yearning to drag him into despair, but sage reminders of his sins, a means to keep him from entering a loop of mindless destruction and hate.
Perhaps, it wasn't time for Gerhold Zimmermann, the hero and the monster, to fade away.
Perhaps, Gerhold Zimmermann could change, and rise again, just like the sun with each passing day.
For some background, this is set on the Baltic region, in Medieval Europe, around the time the Teutonic Order was at the height of its power.
If possible, I'd love to hear some feedback on my writing, as well! Hope you all enjoy it!
...
Gerhold felt... light. Not as if a great weight had been lifted off of his shoulders, no; it was as if he had been hollowed out, striped of life, perhaps. The heavily bandaged wounds didn't hurt anymore, and the fever that once burned through his head simply vanished. The simple meals brought in by Hans lacked taste, and their conversations lacked any joy or engagement. Even the colors in the room appeared to have gone hiding. The sounds soon gave away as well, and within moments, he was surrounded by a pitch black darkness, simply devoid of all feeling.
All feeling save for emptiness.
The man was no fool to be confused at what was happening. His life was seeping away; not because of a wound, or a deadly illness. It was seeping away because he lost purpose. Because the shadows of his sins finally dawned upon him, composing the dark blanket that enveloped him so powerfully. His goal had been achieved, after all. He had slain that who had betrayed him so vilely, that one soul who tortured his heart for their own gain. Finally, that image which he hoped to see for so long had played before his eyes: her body mangled, her throat giving out its last, terrified breaths as crimson leaked so beautifully out of her wounds.
But at what cost?
His band of Ritterbrüders was slaughtered, the few survivors scattering or outright leaving the group. He lost five years in a haze of unending wrath searching for a woman who had already thrown away all memory of him, leaving a trail of death and destruction in his wake. His reputation was stained, beaten to the ground by his own doings: the once outstanding, chivalrous Zimmermann morphed into a horrendous, bloodthirsty demon, feared even by his most ardent admirers. And lastly, his mother: oh, his sickly, scarred mother, who took her own life upon hearing about her beloved son's crimes.
There was a heavy sigh, and he swore that he saw more of his life force leaving through his mouth, dissipating miserably into the emptiness that surrounded him. All those memories crumbled upon him, crushing, piercing and tearing his body apart. He collapsed onto whatever he was sitting upon, defeated. His sight blurred, his breaths slowed down, and a freezing cold began to seize him.
Perhaps, it was finally time for Gerhold Zimmermann, the hero and the monster, to simply fade away.
Then, just as the last string of life prepared to slip away from his carcass of scarred flesh, something halted it in its tracks. A blinding light; warm, cozy, welcoming. He furrowed his brows, eyes narrowing with a bout of energy that surged through him. The man brought himself back up, that warmth filling him with vigor never felt in ages. His feet brought him to a window that he swore that wasn't previously there, and he leaned forward, curious as to what lay beyond it.
In a flash, it all returned to his conscience. A gentle breeze kissed his face, and the chirping of birds filled his ears with a joyous, arrhythmic symphony. The green trees outside stood proudly, their leaves and branches swaying with the wind. Nestled between the clouds above, the sun shone brightly, its golden rays having just peeked out of the horizon to announce a new day.
His eyes widened, realization having struck him. Familiar words rung inside his head, in a calm, motherly voice.
"No matter what happens, dawn will always come the next day."
He gripped the wooden windowsill tightly, enough to make the structure creak in protest. Footsteps came behind him, and with a glance over his shoulder, his eyes met with Hans' shocked gaze. While Gerhold was never one to smile, the ghost of one marked his lips, and he breathed deeply. The younger man approached him, quickly covering his body with a hefty fur coat.
There was a pause, and the two exchanged looks, neither saying a word. Hans nodded with his head, motioning to the door leading outside the room they stood in, from where the scent of a recently cooked meal emanated strongly, albeit ultimately pleasing. Gerhold strode forward, his steps reflecting his newfound confidence; weak, yet enduring.
After all, he understood that all he had done had no fixing, though it was in the past. Just like the events of yesterday, he could leave them behind, though he'd never forget them. They should remain, not as shadowy hands yearning to drag him into despair, but sage reminders of his sins, a means to keep him from entering a loop of mindless destruction and hate.
Perhaps, it wasn't time for Gerhold Zimmermann, the hero and the monster, to fade away.
Perhaps, Gerhold Zimmermann could change, and rise again, just like the sun with each passing day.
Last edited: