Black Project

The darkness of the sky peers despairingly from its great height at the city it blankets. A cobble stone street gleams from the moisture of the ocean and lanterns burn radiantly at each end. They emerge from the darkness like glinting eyes, reflecting every fear that contorts your imagination. Alleyways can be seen darting away from the very thought of light, creating dark tunnels that can only lead a person to a worse state of mind than when first entering. The sea can be heard as a mixture of growls and purrs, roars and sighs. Some would say she was restless, while others could suggest she be content. Being far from the gale of the previous night, the zephyr is but a gentle kiss from the lady’s salty lips. Blissful life is scattered throughout the city, providing a privacy various persons can appreciate. The emotion brought forth at such an hour is bombarded with the sense that you are surrounded by entities of thought and feeling, an epiphany that is sadly realized only when one has the time to freeze for a moment to obtain such bearings. Any one person can find loneliness on such occasions, but a true comfort exists in that the ocean never sleeps. She is but a companion never to be lost. The city bides a breath as the stillness of the night escorts nothing but the most heightened sagacity of foreboding. Footsteps reverberate across the lonely street and reconcile with the originator in their return. A soft wheezing, one that could be imagined from a hummingbird, mingles with the scrapings of boots on stone, which stumble away clumsily. These footsteps have not a single inkling as to who they are alerting, for following them are four sets of more experienced footsteps, in that the silence is not disrupted as it is by the person they pursue. It is this moment which must be recognized. It is the choice of all parties present that prompts this tale, and establishes our beginning.
The wheezing lungs belong to a boy of six years. He shuffles alone, guiding himself by his right hand as he half leans against the buildings while walking. His clothes suggest an air of aristocracy, with a light blue jacket trimmed with gold, shorts of a matching sort, and white hose that end in shiny black shoes. Large blue eyes, unfathomable and bereft of any surface, search the darkness with an exhausted obsession. Sweat has accumulated atop his forehead, a cold sweat that couples with the relentless anxiety pulsing through his breath. His hair is short and golden, which, along with the rest of his appearance, adds quite the contrast between him and his surrounding environment. In his left hand he clutches a golden pendant that has been smothered in blood. The gold chain ends swing delicately from between the fingers of his tightly balled fist, while the occasional drop of blood floats down to be splattered upon the stone street.
The boy’s speed dwindles as the whine from his lungs grows steadily in volume. He kneels under a lantern at the end of the street, the harbor being in direct line of site. His face is to the floor, his thoughts being far from the ocean and what possible future it has in store for him. The soft eyelids are shut tight and the small frame quivers at set intervals. The imagery inhabiting his mind’s eye prevents him from noticing the shadow cast by a figure blocking the lantern which the boy was regaining his strength beneath. When he finally opens his eyes the child is startled to see a large shape, clearly a man, who has no defining features the child could tell since the light he was previously bathing in is being blocked.
Jumping up, as though to get away, he turns to run into another man. Peering about the boy swiftly learns that he is surrounded, for there are four men blocking any avenue of escape. Each held a wicked grin with gleaming yellow teeth. Two holding daggers, while the others have their arms folded.
"Whatchya doin out at this hour boy?”
“Shouldn’t you be a sleepin in yer chateau by now?”
The group chuckles in unison, each taking a step closer to the frightened child.
“But while yer up at such an hour, I bet ye won’t mind handing out fer charity like?”
“Please,” stammers the boy, knees visibly shaking, “I have nothing.”
“Oh, nothing ye say? Whatchya got in that fist of yers?”
“Please, it was my grandfather’s. It’s all I have!”
“Oh, I bet ye grandfather wouldn’t mind helping out us poor gentlemen.”
The child, shaking his head slowly, began to back up, but alas! Surrounded he is. He plummets to his knees but for the second time, legs no longer able to support him.
“Kill eem, ee’ll make less noise!”
A man with a dagger grabs the boy’s hair and pulls his head back, leaving the throat extremely vulnerable. Putting his dagger to the unprotected throat, there can be seen a thick vein pulsing rapidly. Just as the boy’s heart was about to beat its last, a fresh sound is heard that freezes the four men. A new set of footsteps couples with the dragging mettle upon the stone street. Turning to see the newcomer, the boy’s eminent death is postponed.
A man, rather young in appearance, stands before the five of them with his sword drawn and pointing to the ground. The skin is pale, but weathered, stretching around a gaunt face. The smooth hair that shapes around his face is of the same brown as his eyes and thickly luscious, stretching its way just past his broad shoulders. The man’s shirt is white with ruffled cuffs and a string weaving down the front to tie it shut. Thick black pants defy the slenderness of his shirt, and the brown buccaneer boots are heavy and solid. What makes the four men hesitate to take action is the expression that is put forth on the man’s face, for it is the eeriest of appearances to be seen at such a late hour. His face is utterly blank, but deeper than would be called normal. Portraying nothing on his face, there is the whispered suggestion in all of the men’s ears that this person has more than meets the eye. Perhaps over exaggerated, but caution is wiser than stupidity.
“Let the boy from your grasp,” said he, as calm and quiet as though addressing the child himself.
Getting a hold of themselves, the men begin their menacing act again. The one who holds the boy in Death’s caress says, “Get ye back, or we’ll be painting those shoes of yers with the boy’s blood.”
Without taking his eyes off he who just spoke to him, the man appears hardly to move as a flash of silver envelops the darkness at his side and the nearest of the four men drops dead with this throat slit. “I said, let the boy from your grasp.”
His expression startled at the sudden loss of life, he demands, “Who be ye?!”
“That is unimportant, unless you value not your life. The only way of keeping such a precious gift, is if you let the boy from your grasp.”
“One mer move from ye and―”
The man steps twice in the forward direction, casting but a flick of his sword in either direction, and dropping two of the others in a similar fashion as the first before the speaker could finish his sentence.
Gasping, the remaining man glances down at his three comrades, all bleeding from their throats and quite dead. That latter fact begins to show as a worrisome factor in his decision making.
“How?”
“Your final warning: let the boy from your grasp.”
“You can’t possibly get ter me befer I kill eem.”
“I advise you not to wager on such an assumption.”
Before the evildoer could move his dagger across the boy’s throat, there is but one last flash of silver. The boy is freed as his apprehender loses his grip, a knife now lodged in his left eye. The child jerks away and says, “But how…?” before collapsing. His grandfather’s pendant still tight in his fist.