The Young Boy

Sunrise burned a deep rose red in the sky above the rolling hills and vast plains of England. Ser Alyx of Montaeth stood facing the opposing rebel army and an army stood behind him. Unlike the rebels, his army was a variety of all ages and all highly trained in combat. The rebels shook in their rags at the mere sight of glistening black and gold armour. The inevitable was clear and sharp as a knife: one foot forward and it begins. Yet no one took that one foot forward for what seemed like hours. Then Alyx took one breath, one step and drawing out a scream, ran forward with his armour clattering and the rising red sunlight reflecting in his blue eyes looking like they were forged from fire.

His army followed suit, and it began. Steel and iron sang together like fluttering birds in spring, skin tearing all around spilling blood like wine. The youngest of Alyx’s army stood close by, fighting anyone who came near him. One of the rebels came up behind him and took hold, pulling him down to the ground. The young boy managed to stab him in the neck before getting his breath back and Alyx pulled him to his feet. He looked ahead and saw the rebel leader stood between two guards, Alyx saw three women. Standing there, still as statues. Watching. Everything went quiet for one long moment before he remembered where he was. The rebel leader was Ser Goran Mount and Alyx recognised him immediately. He ran forward pushing anyone who got in the way, but the young boy got there first and was seized, held knelt to get ground, jaw held open by one guard as the other hovered his sword over the boy’s open mouth.

“No!” Alyx cried, but the knight plunged the sword deep down the boys throat into his stomach and twisted it before pulling it free and slit his throat. The guard holding him pushed him forward into the mud and stripped him bare from the waist down and pushed his penis into the boy’s dwindling warm body, laughing. Alyx dropped his soward and removed his two long daggers from their hidden sheaths and charged forward. Both knights prepared to meet him, and he tucked his head between his legs and rolled forward on his back, slicing their ankles as they started running. They both fell in ear-splitting agony and began to crawl away as Alyx turned back to them. He drove each dagger into one calve, pinning them to the ground as they screamed. Ser Goran stood firm in his spot, sword raised. Alyx stopped, blood dripping off his armour like rain, and picked up his sword again before slowly walking to Goran. When Goran’s trembling sword touched his breastplate, Alyx stopped, breath heaving. He turned and glanced back at the raging war, like two world’s colliding in an angry mob of blood-stained steel, and without question, swung his sword at Goran’s neck. His body fell backwards on his knees and his head rolled away. The guards were still screaming in pain behind him, and he sat them both up, squeezed their jaws open and drove his sword down their throats before cutting them open like onions.

Leaderless, the rebels surrendered immediately. Alyx picked up and dumped corpses into a pile like dolls. He found the young boy, face pushed into the blood drenched soil, backside bare and bloody. He pulled up the chain mail and cloth back to his waist and sat him up. The boys blue eyes were open still, staring at nothing, and the blood in his mouth had gone death cold. Alyx knelt, closed the boys eyes, and wept as he cradled him. “My son… my poor boy…” He said, voice breaking as his tears fell, mixing with his son’s drying blood.