Tales of Paper & Pen

Sin One: Pride

It was dusk—the time when shadows stretch and stretch until they disappear and become one with darkness. The sky was dimming from blue to violet, and the world let out a sigh as another day went by. Below that sky stood an archaic mansion. Its design was that of a castle, grand and imposing.

Below the sky and under the castle’s tiled roof, sat a man whose ego was higher than the castle and beyond the sky itself. His long, black hair flowed down his shoulders with the grace of a fountain. His pale skin almost seemed to glow in the flamelight of the hall, and his violet eyes stared down at the dirty rat in front of him with clear contempt and disgust.

“Graham, what is this?” The violet-eyed man asked his attendant.

The attendant wore a black chokha coat. A shortsword was sheathed at his waist, and fourteen stiletto knives were fastened to the coat, ready to draw blood at a moment’s notice. Graham’s eyes were of a dull gray, void of the slightest hint of emotion and feeling.

“This…beggar was loitering around the east gate, my Lord. The guards had dragged him away, but he had come right back a day later.”

The lord of the castle nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the despicable stain on his floor. Without hesitation, he raised his hand and brought it down as if he was smiting the deplorable beggar.

“Then take him to the Pit. I don’t feel like bothering with this rodent that trespassed on my property.”

As the lord gave his verdict, the dirty man looked up at him with a menacing glare. Flames raged in the depths of his bloodshot eyes as his body trembled in fury.

“You…” the beggar said with a voice shaking with rage. “It was you. The man who killed my son was you! Was beating him not enough? Was torture not enough? Was mutilation your only option!? Was walking across the street in your presence a crime worthy of unimaginable pain!?”

The violet-eyed lord had already lifted his gaze from the dirty man’s figure. In an obvious act of ignorance, he stroked the hilt of his sword with pride.

As the beggar was dragged away, he kept cursing the lord, damning him to a pitiful life and eternal agony even in death.

“You are the devil incarnate. A being unworthy of the joys of this world. I will make sure you return to the abyss where you belong. Even in death, I will fulfill that role with glee.”

As the wrathful man was about to exit the hall, a crazed grin spread across his face. His eyes turned from bloodshot to a chilling calm that held a promise of revenge. With one final chuckle filled with hysteria, the beggar was gone, on his way to the Pit where his son’s remains had been disposed of and where his death awaited him as well.

* * *

Six days had passed since the bothersome rat was disposed of. During those six days, the violet-eyed lord hadn’t left the castle. It was currently the morning of the seventh day, and the lord was resting in that same hall he had ordered the death of the beggar.

His eyes were closed peacefully. His breathing was calm and the corner of his lips were raised slightly. A violet sword rested by his side in its sheath while his hand gripped its base with a strength not normal for someone who was sleeping. It was as if he didn’t want to let go. No, something was preventing him from letting go.

Standing in the shadows, watching over the lord, was Graham, still adorned by the black chokha coat, fourteen knives, and silver shortsword.

It was…quiet. Peaceful even. But, it seemed it was too quiet. Much too quiet. Suddenly, the lord’s eyes fluttered open. They were hazy from sleepiness.

“Huh? When did I—”

*Ssssss*

The subtle sound of something sizzling entered the lord’s mind. Startled, he glanced to his left and right, trying to pinpoint its origin. He found nothing.

‘Hmm.’

The next moment, it was gone, without leaving even an echo behind.

“Strange,” he muttered.

And so, the seventh day passed.

It was during the evening of the eighth day when the lord heard something once again. He had been tending to his “tools” in the basement dungeon, preparing them for an upcoming project when something whispered in his ears.

“Vindicta,” the voice murmured.

Unsheathing his sword in one swift motion, the lord slashed to his right, yet he could tell that no contact was made. Instead, the sound of something metal hitting the stone floor echoed throughout the dungeon. Curious and wary, he looked down to his right.

Resting on the floor was a weathered silver pendant. Its thin chain was broken and its clasp was unlocked. Inside the pendant was a picture.

At first, the lord paid the figure in the picture no mind. But with a closer look, he realized who it was, and when he did, a cold chill crept up his spine.

With a quick thrust, the lord shattered the pendant with his violet sword in anger and left.

The eighth day had finally passed.

Day after day, the violet-eyed lord would be visited by sinister whispers promising something he couldn’t decipher.

“Perdant superbi,” a voice whispered on the ninth day. On the tenth day, the sound of screams tormented the lord’s mind. On the eleventh, a cry of agony sounded along with the words, “Eum occidere!” The twelfth day was filled with the sobs of a woman, and finally, on the thirteenth, a raspy voice whispered, “Unum diem.”

It was close to midnight on the fourteenth day, and the violet-eyed lord was locked in his room. Scars littered the walls and floor. Much of the furniture was out of place, either flipped or shattered to pieces, and countless stains of dried blood dressed the floor. Huddled in a corner with his violet sword in hand, the lord trembled and panted for breath.

“Away. Get away,” he muttered, his pride gone.

The whispers were now constant. Screams, cries, and sobs echoed in his mind as indecipherable words were sinisterly placed in his ears.

Soon, the sound of the bells tolling twelve times reverberated inside the lord’s room. The shadows beneath him deepened and stretched, making way for skeletal hands with flesh still stuck on the bones. They latched onto him and started pulling him into the abyss.

“No, no, no, no! Stop! What did I do to deserve this!?” The lord screamed amidst a feeling of overwhelming terror.

“You really don’t know?” An unknown voice questioned. “You…don’t remember?”

As the lord looked down with bloodshot eyes, he noticed moving lips on the backs of the numerous skeletal hands.

“Drowning.”

“Torture.”

“Burning.”

“Dismemberment.”

“Decapitation.”

The countless voices of women, men, and children continued to list the many forms of death and torture until there were no more words to describe what they had gone through.

Meanwhile, the lord was speechless. The words of that beggar echoed inside his head as it rolled on the ground. The last thing the lord saw was a figure standing above him dressed in a black chokha coat. In the figure’s hand was a silver shortsword stained red with fresh blood.

“I hope you are welcomed in the abyss, you vile demon.”