Remarkable

From the moment of his birth, he had felt utterly alone. From the mother that did not wish to hold him, to the father that had not cared enough to attend. Even the midwife who wrapped him in his blanket, did so with a practised chill that betrayed her detachment. What little warmth could be garnered from the coarse material, did nothing to comfort the child, as he was denied the love and attention he so craved.

Age did not stymie this desire, but instead brought his pain into a sharp focus, that cut him to the core with greater severity each time he was rebuked. By his seventh summer, he had come to understand the desperate nature of his situation, a boy who could not and would not find affection from those whose love he most coveted. Whether by the cruelty of a hateful god, or the ever random touch of circumstance, he was cursed with an understanding of his position in life. Yet, for as much comprehension as he possessed, it was impossible for him to resist struggling against his fate.

With a face as plain as the oats that supplemented most meals and a name so common it reeked of complacency, Durk had little in his life to offer distraction from his predicament. The other children found him strange and unapproachable, while the adults saw him as another body to work the fields. It was his greatest fear and his only reality, to be thoroughly unremarkable.

A child of no significant wealth, nor beauty, would find few chances to succeed in this world. Yet, while others were bonded by their acceptance of this fact, he found himself an outcast through his desire to ascend. Had their Kingdom not risen from the dirt? Had the first King not once been a pauper? Though not learned, the boy knew this to be truth, he held it close to his heart as gospel and lived by the insatiable lust for more than his ken.

Whether by the heavy hand of his drunkard father, or the ever present threat of the King’s own soldiers, Durk had come to understand what the world thought of him. He was expected not only to accept his life, but to be grateful for it. With each passing year, he was beaten further into the dirt, toiling for those whose love he would never earn, in service of men who would never know his name.

By the time of his eighteenth summer, Durk had learned an irrefutable fact. The Kingdom he lived within was controlled by a duplicitous society, that forced those who had little to pay tribute to those who had so much. Their comfort was born of his suffering, yet to stand against such tyranny was to be consumed by it, destroyed by men whose strength was fuelled by the very food they took from his table. He was little more than a slave, scuttling through life, unseen until the moment he had use, then tossed aside just as suddenly.

Fever claimed his mother before she reached her fortieth summer, taking her as quickly as it had countless others. Though she offered no final words of comfort, her death did at least allow her food to be divided among those who outlived her. His father remained as enamoured by the taste of watered down mead as ever, less than reluctant to offer sympathy to his child and more than willing to drink away what few coins they had.

When his twenty first summer arrived, Durk was struck with a revelation, a singular thought that motivated his new beginning. He had lived his entire life without power, informed by each person he knew that this could not be changed. His very desire to do so had made him a pariah, but without the strength or knowledge of better men, he had been destined to a life of pain. Yet, as he stood within the pig pen, scattering feed for them to gorge themselves upon, he realised that he had always taken them at their word, never once trying to escape the drudgery of his existence. He had dreamed of making his name heard, yet had not taken a single step to make it a reality.

To those who might have been watching, it seemed Durk was simply daydreaming as he often had, a sure sign of his eccentricity. How could they ever understand that his entire world had just been rewritten? In one moment, with a single thought, he had re-spun the threads of fate to fit his design. He had no skills as a tradesman, no strength as a fighter, no knowledge of greater things and no power to inspire others. He remained as utterly unremarkable as he had always been and yet, he had been forever altered.




As the dank, unnamed village of his birth fell into a slumber, Durk crept through the dreary wooden hut he had always known as home. He knew his father would not awaken, lulled by the sweet taste of honeyed wine that had so effectively drawn him into it’s grasp. He stopped only long enough to wrap his fingers around the hilt of his fathers axe, lifting it from the wall and feeling the familiarity of it’s weight. This he knew, was the instrument of his ascension. He slipped through the fur entrance and into the dark night, knowing that his people were unaware of their most mundane son, or the fact that he had found a purpose. It mattered not, for when they awoke, they would know him well.

Each step he took through the village was coupled by the cold sensation of wet mud pressing beneath his bare feet, a feeling almost as chilling as the grotesque sound it produced. He thought it an unceremonious melody, given the great deed he knew would make him beloved at last. Perhaps it was fitting though, one final ballad of the unremarkable, before the roaring approval it would herald.

Before long, his feet were pressed not to dirt, but to the coarse gravel that pathed the way to his goal, a single house made of chiselled stone. Seldom had he seen such frivolity, adorned as it was by plants of varying colours along its base and lush green vines that clutched it’s side. It was easily twice the size of his hut, with windows carved into the side and shutters of wood to close them. Through the gaps, he could see the flickering of fire within, a luxury his wooden home had never allowed.

As he reached the door that barred the way inside, he reached out to tap the edge of his chipped weapon against the wood, giving three sharp pokes to draw the attention of the man within. For a moment, silence… broken only by the strange pitter patter of flesh against stone. Finally, the door was pulled open, revealing a man of advanced age, with porcelain coloured skin, waves of well groomed grey hair, a bare chin and a wide belly that brought to mind the pigs Durk cared for. He wore a long green tunic, simple in design yet lavish to the one who saw it. He looked as different from Durk as night to day, yet as the lowly peon stood before him, he offered a wide and gentle smile.




Without a word, he took a single step to the side, gesturing for the poorer man to enter. Surprised by the welcome but raised on a principle of obedience, Durk walked into the house. While his hut held only a loose collection of furs to sleep upon and several pegs for tools, the elder man’s home was furnished with wooden chairs, a luxurious looking bed and a table, atop which sat foods Durk had never even dreamed of. Built into one of the walls was a hollow, where a controlled fire merrily blazed. For all the oddities of this house however, there was one that Durk simply did not understand. Pressed against the far wall was a long sheet of metal, polished beyond anything he had ever seen. It seemed to reflect the world back at itself, much like water.

Drawn to the silver mirror, he could not help but to make his way forwards, stopping only once his entire form was visible within it’s frame. The older man came to stand by his side, revealing the disparity between them. Durk’s skin was the colour of the mud he tended, with matted black hair that fell about his shoulders. His eyes were deep, uncomprehending brown, entirely different from the alien blue colour of his Elders. Where this homes owner was ripe and fat, Durk was skeletal and malnourished, dressed in a loose tan tunic, caked in dirt and incapable of covering his entire chest.

Durk had never seen himself so clearly, his body ravaged by constant labour and lack of proper sustenance. Was this what the world saw when they looked at him? As surprising as this was, the constant smile on the pale strangers face was even more so. Nobody smiled that way at Durk, yet this man did. For the first time since his birth, he felt what it was like to have someone show affection, even if it was from a stranger. His fingers trembled around the cracked wooden hilt of his fathers axe, causing them to loosen their grip, dropping the weathered tool onto the stone floor with an echoing clang.

Though taller than the elder man by a head, he could not help but to feel small and insignificant. To see this place was to feel more alive than he ever had. The others surely hadn’t, yet here he was, standing in this house, gazing at himself in the metal reflection. For the first time in his memory, dirk’s cracked lips curled upwards, twisting into a toothless smile. He felt happy, confused and overwhelmed, but above all, he felt remarkable.
A sharp pain shot through his back and into his chest, an odd searing sensation that he did not recognize. Was this happiness? Was this what it was to feel joy? His vision started to fade, growing darker with each passing second, even as the strength to stand left his legs and a warm passed down his buttocks. There was no time to contemplate what it all meant, no chance to understand what had happened. As he fell to the flame warmed stones, his eyes falling shut, Durk knew only that final moment of peace, before it faded away forever.

The old man stood over the slave’s body, gazing at himself in the mirror. This wasn’t the first time one of their kind had decided to try and kill him, nor was it the first time he had ended their lives in retaliation. He reached down to grasp the hilt of the blade, tugging it from the lifeless flesh and wiping the blood off on the filth encrusted tunic. He had done this many times before and would do so many times in the future. Why should he feel any pity to creatures such as they? With their small huts and menial tasks, what did they know of his suffering? He had to organize them, control them. He was their shephard, one they should be grateful to have watching over them.

Yet, even as this self assured arrogance settled in his mind, his gaze was drawn to the common features of the man he had slain. He had on many occasions brought these people to their end, yet never before had he seen them smile in such a way. This slave had seemed so truly happy, just to see the splendour of a better life, even if he would never experience it.

Unsettled by the thought, the elderly slaver had to admit that though he had never known the slaves name, he had been truly remarkable.