Monday, September 12, 2011

Of Sour Fuel (The Tale of the Proud Swamp Dweller)

Young Trygve always knew what distance meant. He'd spend his days hidden in the barks of dead trees, watching people passing by the swamp he was abandoned in. The innocent flame inside his heart always made him want to belong, but he would only be mocked by the villagers. Sometimes he tried to amuse kids with tricks he made up, but they laughed at him and once one of them hit him with a stick on his leg, leaving him with a wound that would keep him from walking properly ever again. Men and women would laugh at the scrawny, lame boy, making jokes about how pathetic he was, and laughing hysterically.

The swamp made him lead a solitary life he was never comfortable with. He never wanted it, and yet that's all he has ever had. Often he'd drown his heart with sorrow, though it never leaked out from his eyes.

It was a rainy day, and in the midst of the fog and the trees he was walking around with difficulty. As he felt some cold drops of water touching his ill-looking skin, as the desolation rain washed his soul, he wanted it to put out the fire inside him. But, in that last moment, when nothing else could be done, when all he could do was to face his complete disgrace, he felt a seed of hate to be born inside him, as he realized he had always lived like this against his own will. He felt hate as he realized he was so used to pain that it felt comfortable to him. He felt hate and joy as he accepted his own condition. And from that day on he sweared an oath to pain.

It was a wondrous feeling, and he became addicted to it. It was actually the only feeling that felt truly real for him, the only one he could trust that would always be there. He gave in completely to it and he would everytime go even farther as he needed the excitement pumping in his veins. Soon he longed to be ugly, and terrifingly sick, so he could could make people feel truly threatened by his deformit, and he would be excluded for a reason he could understand why.

He wanted the disgrace to happen upon him, so he could celebrate his fall. The fire inside inside him exploded furiously with every dream tasted for the last time before being shattered unmercifully. He lived in the dirt for that's the place he felt comfortable in, tasting the stench of his misery and feasting on his flesh. He had always been weak, but this made him feel strong. He believed to be invicible. And deep inside there was hope, even though he intended to chase every hint of it.

Sometimes the moonlight would serenely find a way through the dense treetops to shine on his face, and the moon's smile always made his young innocence burst through his eyes. But it was always an ephemeral moment of peace, as soon he'd find himself with all but the silent dark in front of his eyes and only the cold wrapping his body, and that always lead him to confusion, a turmoil of fear, despair, frustation and anger that would bring him every once again to his distrust of all but pain.

Soon there were rumors, of course, of a foul beast haunting those lands as the villagers heard soarful laments winding through the air, sometimes shyly, sometimes savagely, and tales were told of dark ghosts and undead men lurking around the distant moor.

It was in a rainy day that a small party of hunters decided to investigate the matter, and there in a clearing in the woods, it was in midst of the fog and the dark trees that they found a powerful beast, a man so huge trembling on his knees, ridden with violent spasms. The soldiers stopped for a moment hesitantly, as they noticed the at first seemingly wounded giant now acknowledged their presence and slowly stood up to face them. His skin looked vigorous despite of the unhealed wounds and overall battered appearance. His movements were slow as if there was fiery beast within hold under leash. The eyes, witnesses of his world of suffering showed only an unchanging and focused stare.

It was in this moment of reciprocal study when one of them stepped forth, removing his helmet and tossing it aside while unsheathing his sword. Tygver silently watched the hero's arrogance, and watched the other soldiers starting to cheer him for his bravery. The jealousy fed his heart with hate as he saw this handsome man as the one who had all that he could never have. That man became to his eyes a symbol of all that brought him to that state, and he felt an uncontrollable anger, an impulse so marvelously strong that his fueled veins and muscles raised his fist and, as heavy as a god's hammer, it crushed the man to the ground, becoming now an horrendous pile of heraldic iron and bloody flesh.

The soldiers were watching in horror, now vulnerable to his rage. But all he could do was to stand silent, slowly being flooded with a feeling of unexpected unfulfillment. This was a victory he never intended to win (though he could also never recognize one). He felt regret under the realization that he was now finally able to spread pain out from him, and his heart soon trembled as he felt his life to be wasted on a meaningless pursue. In a moment he stood there, as the lack of peace and love that never his to be achieved weighted over him unbearably.

As he felt the drops of water on his scarred skin, he begged for the desolation rain washing his soul to put out the fire inside him. All he could do was to face his disgrace, and he bashed his soul with blame once again, but this time he knew he was the responsible for all the misery he lived in, guilting himself for the useless pain that he lived throught was a pursuit on his own.

The seed of hate was reborn inside of him, the sorrow filled him again, and his thirst for pain lighted up his fire one more time. But pain for him was no longer something he could punish himself with, and he felt blindly desperate as he watched the soldiers regaining courage, directing their spears towards him. All he could think of doing was to charge onto them, and it was such a furious sprint that the lacerating pain from his lame leg was easily ignored.

Just before the soldiers acknowledged what had just happened, Tygver rised his chest, lifting the spears and their wielders up in the air in the process, waving his body just once to toss them away like ragdolls, and then he deepened the spears into his chest, into his flesh, into his ribcage, cutting his organs open. With a last tearful and cynical smile, and he kneeled, and died in silence. The suffering disappeared from that helpless body like the ending hint of pulsing red from the last live coal.

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