Kapital
March 31, 2023
The still, midnight soundscape is pierced by the screech of whetstone on honed steel. Sparks dance across the warm soil, turning the yellow firelight white for a heartbeat. The hunched figure is statuesque but appears a roiling specter of soiled iron, covered in stubborn shadows that cling to form as they wrestle with the dancing yellows and reds of the pit-fire dying nearby.
Statuesque save for the loud, well-practiced ritual whose sound is unmistakable to similarly experienced professionals. The sound of a loud conscience's guilty hands seeking absolution in monotony, attempting to strike blood from steel and soul alike. The sound of the wicked seeking rest that will never come. The sound of a fool's errand.
"I was doing what I had to do to survive"
Another stroke. Another screech, another deluge of sparks. Another memory pushed away, into the dark recesses of business as usual, taking the crouched traveler one step closer to blissful forgetfulness, however temporary it may be. They'd lost count somewhere after two hundred perfect executions, fingers flexing and wrist coiling ever so slightly at the fuller to compensate for cosmetic imperfections that came with the blade; a smooth movement each time.
They adjust their position ever so slightly, releasing a breath that sounds suspiciously like a sigh. A practiced flick turns the blade to begin work on the back edge.
Another stroke. Sparks dance as the stone begins to sing and the smooth screech ends midway as the ceramic edge catches an unfamiliar notch in the blade. A token of failure from morning past. The wages of a sloppy backswing with hasty edge alignment; blade meeting bone and chipping as it skittered away from its mark. Unnecessary suffering. A mercy kill. Another voice crying out for quarter, repeating endlessly, to join the nightly din.
"If I hadn't, someone else would have."
They managed to avoid eye contact as their victim failed to avoid the heart-seeking plunge. This new specter will be faceless, at least. The realization is enough to draw a mirthless chuckle from cracked lips.
Another stroke; this one adjusted to perfection on the fly, as any professional's work would be. The first of a hundred more perfectly aligned passes, with echoing rasp and shower of sparks to match. Their eyes follow an ember as it dances its way to a small satchel of leather, sagging with the weight of the worth of a dozen human souls. Their grandmother was a scholar and the thought of what her horrified face would look like if she knew is strangled and discarded, but not before the damage was done.
Another stroke. Or, the beginning of one. A deep breath. A long, hard blink. Another sharp inhalation, held for two-score heartbeats and released over four.
"I'm just trying to survive.", they whisper to themselves in the darkness. A single bead of moisture carves a salty path in the dirt of their ashen face, past sunken crow's feet and around teeth gritted in apparent agony. Others begin to well and flow.
"Them or me, This is the only way."
The flames flicker out.
A sound like choking sobs is swallowed by the wind.
The air smells of blood and lies.
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