Old friend.

Last night I dreamed of her, just as usual. This time she just sat there, staring at me without taking her eyes off, not uttering a word. When I first saw her thirty-three years ago, she was just a tiny, frightened little girl. Over the years she changed, becoming a beautiful young woman. In my dreams she is a constant guest, only she usually talks to me, gazing so piercingly as if into my very soul, asking questions that I never want to answer, but I can’t remain silent either, nor can I lie.

- What did you feel when you killed me? - This is the first question she always asks me, one she repeats every night.

- I didn’t kill you, I killed the woman who was pregnant with you. - That’s how I answered her the first time, the same I answered every time.

These dreams were never nightmarish or scary; worse, they were heavy, exhausting, draining. The healer, to whom I turned for help, exhausted by the dreams, tried to convince me that the girl was a fantasy created by my conscience, tearing my old heart into tiny pieces each night. I know that is not true; she is my curse for the evil deeds I have committed, my personal demon, waiting for the old man at the gates of oblivion. I tried every kind of herb and decoction just to rid myself of the burdensome dreams - all in vain.

For thirty-three years, night after night, she has appeared to me in my dreams, thirty-three years - a whole life. During that time, dozens of orders carried out, lives ruined by me, hundreds of nights in which she came to me again and again, thousands of words we have said to each other, and one request of hers. A request that I fulfilled against all odds. I betrayed the brotherhood I served for several decades, I killed the man I called my brother. She was pleased with my deed, that’s why today, as a reward, she was silent, just sitting there and watching, not taking her eyes off me, not uttering a word.

I woke up when the sky began to lighten, chilled to the bone. The coals of the fire I built yesterday were still smoldering, but the firewood had run out; the night had been long and cold. The lazy, fat red sun, burning the tree tops with a crimson glow, slowly crawled up into the sky, offering no warmth. I didn’t want to get up, there was no hurry, so for about an hour, wrapped in rags, I admired the cold dawn. This morning I was as calm as I had ever been in my long life. There were no deep contemplations, no oppressive thoughts; there was only peace, only silence. People whom I called my brothers would find and kill me; I deserved it, and I didn’t care.

It’s strange that it can be so good and peaceful at a time when I should be running for my life, hiding in darkness, looking for a safe corner, cramming myself into the narrowest gap and staying there forever. Instead, I lay in a beautiful clearing, a ten-minute walk from a big city, enjoying every minute of my free life. Free life, which is now so precious. That’s why the air is so fresh, that’s why the spring water is so delicious, and why the sun shines so brightly and warmly; freedom makes them so, as if I had been deprived of all these simple things before, as if I had never lived at all. So many years strictly following orders, waking up just to fulfill a task, sleeping just to receive a new task in the morning; shedding all this heavy burden makes every step so much lighter; it’s just a pity that there is nowhere to go.

I truly didn’t know where to turn, I didn’t know how to make a living, I didn’t know how to live without the commanding finger, I didn’t know anything, so I didn’t want to do anything. After a while, hunger and boredom compelled me to rise. My modest supply of provisions had run out, and it was dangerous to go after them in the big city, though I had no choice. I don’t know how to hunt; it’s too late to learn this craft now. Moreover, all I have for weaponry is a sword, and to kill prey with a sword, I first need to catch it. I’ve tried; the animals are clearly quicker. I wouldn’t stoop to robbing travelers, my pride wouldn’t allow it; I’m a killer, not a petty roadside thief.

Weighing the pros and cons, I decide to head into the city anyway. I don’t think the word has reached Corrol yet; it’s only been about a day, and the brotherhood hasn’t even regained consciousness. I’ll slip into the city quietly, pop into the first tavern I find, buy just enough to fill my bag, and I’ll be out of there.

The enormous carved gates of the city opened up to me obediently; I had been here more than once or twice, so I found the tavern without much trouble. The tavern owner is leisurely gathering my supplies, carefully packing them into a battered leather bag. I stand still, silent, and look at the floor; my long cloak doesn’t attract attention, and my wide hood hides my face. When the bag is packed to the brim with food, I pay with a handful of coins. My wallet becomes much lighter; I reattach it to my belt, and in a couple of weeks, buying food will become impossible for me. The kind owner wishes me a safe journey, and I slowly head towards the exit, smiling and nodding my head in return. Just as I expected, nobody cares about an old wanderer who has entered the city to replenish his supplies. At the moment I am almost at the door, I feel someone tugging at my sleeve. I turn around calmly to see an old Khajiit, thin and lanky, his ears perked with surprise, small black eyes squinted, and a joyful grin exposing half of his worn fangs.

- Hores? - The Khajiit stares at me, unblinking. - Old friend, what brings you here? I’m confused; what are you doing here? I had no orders; I wasn’t expecting you.

The old sly Kharh, no cloak or mantle can hide from his keen eyes. My gait or some characteristic gesture must have given me away, a detail that nobody else would notice, for Kharh, it’s a theatrical performance. This old Khajiit is the only being I can call a friend in the entire empire; we worked together for a very long time, traveled hundreds of roads, killed dozens of people. Now Kharh has retired; old age takes its toll, hanging up his poisoned dagger and taut bow, he has become the coordinator of the brotherhood in Corrol. He supplies the brotherhood with information, directs agents on the right path, and very rarely receives tasks himself, if at all.

Has he not yet heard the news? Have the news not yet reached Corrol, and Kharh is still in the dark? To him, I am still the old good brother Hores, not a traitor to the brotherhood and a deserter; otherwise, he would have silently followed me and, having escorted me beyond the city gates, would have killed me without a hint of regret. Instead, he looks at me, surprised, smiling, waiting for my reply.

- Hello, old friend! - I embrace the Khajiit and shake his paw. - I haven’t seen you for about a year. Time has been unmerciful to you.

- At least my face isn’t showing those horrid imperial wrinkles! - the Khajiit responds, responding in kind. We both laugh.

- I’m just passing through, old friend; work awaits me in the ruins near Bravil, so I’m stocking up supplies. - I try to come up with something that resembles the truth; it comes out poorly.

Kharh looks at the stuffed leather bag, my tattered cloak; he clearly suspects something is off.

- Would you have time, old friend, to stop by my place? The tavern isn’t a place for idle talk. - says the Khajiit, taking the bag from my hands and signaling that he won’t take no for an answer.

- With pleasure. - I don’t object and follow the Khajiit.

On the way, Kharh stops by the butcher’s, buying a large piece of fresh meat.

- It’s not often that my old friend visits me, - he tells me while walking to his home. - Today I’ll prepare my best stew for you.

The Khajiit is so happy to see me, his welcoming smile never fades, and his words are so heartfelt and kind. He doesn’t know, yet doesn’t know, so why not take advantage of the moment, and talk heart to heart with my best friend one last time?

Time flies so quickly during a friendly heart-to-heart conversation; before we can talk enough, late evening arrives. We reminisce about the past, victories as well as defeats, recalling the terrible enemies and good friends we’ve lost over the years, the first hunt against the demon, and the great cleanup of the caves near Mora Sul, where the brotherhood destroyed a good dozen followers of darkness. We dilute the conversation with wine, drinking, as per our old tradition, straight from the bottle, while the Khajiit prepares the meat. The aroma of the roasted meat intoxicates me more than the wine does; I am so hungry, but Kharh isn’t in a hurry; that’s not his way. His stew simmers slowly, soaking in aromas known only to him. When the stew is finally ready, I can think of nothing but food. The welcoming host clears the table, presenting to me the largest bowl filled to the brim with meat.

Ah, this is the signature stew of an old friend, those large chunks of meat, tender, melting in the mouth, with a light aroma of tomatoes, richly season with spices. Such a familiar and well-known taste; so many memories are tied to it. I fill my mouth full; I chew, savoring.

- Eat, old friend, - Kharh hisses, smiling.

At that moment, I glanced at him; our eyes met for a moment. The Khajiit suddenly dropped his gaze, first staring at the floor, and then, as if coming to his senses, looked back into my eyes, but with such terror that it only made it worse.

The stew that I hadn’t had time to swallow, I spat back into the bowl, spitting out the remnants, scraping them with my tongue. I raised my head and caught Kharh’s heavy gaze on me again. Now he is staring at me intently; when everything became clear, and there was no need to hide anymore, he no longer needed to avoid looking me in the eye.

- The stew is excellent, - I look the Khajiit straight in the eyes, averting my gaze is now impossible, an attack will follow. - But your new spice… You put it in for nothing, I don’t like it.

- I didn’t have time to put something more effective and elegant, something more worthy of you, old friend, - the Khajiit replies - I added what I had on hand.

He speaks softly and calmly, not changing the tone of his voice, giving no signs of distress whatsoever. Someone unfamiliar with Khajiit might think that a friendly conversation continues between friends, but for someone familiar with the ways of this beastly race, such behavior spoke otherwise; he was preparing for an attack, and at that moment more than ever, he was composed and resolute, waiting for the right moment.

- The red root, a bitter almond aftertaste; I liked your old recipe much more. - I stare into Kharh’s eyes but don’t see his face, not taking my eyes off him; I glance around the room with my peripheral vision, evaluating my position. My position leaves much to be desired. My sword is about five meters away, hanging on the wall near the entrance; I have no chance to reach it. I sit with my chair tightly pushed against the table, my legs awkwardly wedged between the woven feet of the table. I’ll need at least two or three seconds to free them, another second to get to my feet; by that time, I fear I’ll already be dead. I concentrate again on Kharh, assessing his state; he is prepared to attack.

- Did you feel it among the dozens of spices? And when did you develop such refined taste, old friend? You couldn’t tell a boot sole from a juicy piece of meat before. - he says, smiling. Everything is still the same; he remains calm and collected; not a muscle of his face twitches, not even a whisker curls.

- Apparently, instinctively; you know, I was poisoned with that red root once, after all, it was you who saved my life that time. - I only have a fork in my hand; what can I do with a fork, apart from finishing the poisoned stew? I could try to stab Kharh in the eye with it, but the cursed Khajiit are too nimble, it’s easier to stick a dozen quick cockroaches on a toothpick. On the table, besides the bowl of stew, there is only a piece of stale bread; it’s no wonder the welcoming host had cleared the table so thoroughly.

- However - I continue, - Actually, your guilty look gave you away. You’ve been working as a coordinator for too long, been out of the hunt for too long, you’ve lost your edge. The Khajiit’s whiskers twitched slightly, his fangs exposed just enough; my words irritated him, good.

- Perhaps you’re right, old friend - the Khajiit tried to collect himself again, but no longer looked so calm and confident; notes of irritation and disappointment were apparent in his voice. - I’m getting old, and I haven’t killed anyone in a long time.

Right now, he won’t spring on me; there are a few seconds to glance around again. Out of the corner of my eye, I survey the surrounding objects in Kharh’s space; the tables, the rickety shelves of his kitchen. A meter away from the Khajiit, I notice a dagger, the handle pointed towards him; he was well-prepared, calculating the possibility that I wouldn’t eat his poison. I must not break the conversation, not tear my gaze away, not even blink, until I know what to do. My position right now is that of a rabbit in a cage before slaughter; I am the victim, but there must be an escape; I am sure… there must be.

- No, in fact, you aren’t so bad at all, old friend; I’ve been your guest for almost an entire day, but only now have I learned of your intentions. - Talk, talk, talk… He stands very close to the knife, to grab it, the nimble Khajiit will need only a second or maybe two; it doesn’t seem that this gives me any advantage, but still.

- Why did you do it, old friend? Why did you go against us, your brotherhood? - In the Khajiit’s voice, notes of regret could now be heard. I wonder, is Kharh afraid of the upcoming battle, or does he really not want to kill me? In any case, it doesn’t matter; the slaughter cannot be avoided now; the old man will not back down halfway, or else he will lose respect for himself. I can’t just walk away, turning my back on him.

- She promised me peace. Promised to leave me forever. - I say, not believing my own words. The Khajiit prepares for the attack; soon everything will end; one of us will die now, and there’s no turning back. It doesn’t mean we hate each other, or that we’ve stopped being friends; the circumstances have simply turned out this way; we have met on a shaky bridge over an abyss, and there is no turning back or moving aside anymore.

- A demoness?! The cursed demoness from dreams promised you peace? You have gone mad, old friend, or else! You’ve fallen for the demon’s empty tales; it’s worse than I thought! - The Khajiit brightened a little, leaned forward momentarily, glancing at the knife. Has he become that bad? Has he completely lost his edge? Staring directly at the knife shows me his next move, behavior unworthy of even a novice of the assassin league.

- That’s my curse; I’ve carried it for thirty-three years, my friend; it’s too heavy for my old shoulders. Though what difference does it make now? What’s done is done.

I calculate all options; perhaps Kharh is deliberately distracting my attention towards the knife, actually plotting something else. For example, he may try to do without the knife, using his claws and teeth, as he has done many times before; this will give him a significant time advantage. I will certainly not manage to get up from the chair.

- It is so. What has happened has happened; now what will happen will happen; you will die, old friend, but many will die because of your choice. Your act is like a snowball that will turn into an avalanche; now you can no longer control its consequences. - The Khajiit spoke slowly and steadily.

- I couldn’t have imagined that the news had already reached you. So little time has passed. - Gazing at my friend, I realized that he would soon pounce on me, and the conversation, anyway, I wanted to end.

- When such things happen, they use a special type of communication; they already know everything; you’re being awaited in every tavern, at the gates of any city. - The Khajiit breathed steadily, gazing at me, letting the hairs on his nape ruffle. It’s about to begin.

- The beauty of the secret brotherhood, after working for it faithfully and truly all my life, I had no idea that a special type of communication was at hand. - I’m ready; come on, old man; attack, why are you hesitating?

Unnoticeably, I move my feet, the woven legs of the table shift slightly away from me. It’s already easier; it isn’t fixed to the floor, thus, should I overturn it, it may provide me with a second or maybe two; it will serve as an obstacle on the Khajiit's path.

Suddenly, I notice a thick, cold sweat trickling down my back, my heart pounding somewhere in my temples, my mouth parched to nausea. These sensations are painfully familiar, familiar to the point of trembling, to hysteria. Poison. I haven’t eaten enough of the poison to die immediately, but enough to die soon after. That’s why the cunning assassin is delaying the attack; the longer the conversation continues, the weaker I will become. It’s time to stop talking and move into action.

- Tell me in the end, who sent after me? - Who knows what awaits me; at least I’ll know who to expect from behind. He cannot refuse to answer me; just not now.

- The best were sent after your trail. Kamal Kah, Tarashit, and someone I don’t know, a promising newcomer, seemingly a sorcerer. - The Khajiit inhaled deeply. - May I ask you one question? I really need to know. Do you regret your actions?

The question doesn’t require an answer; I have less time, so I must start first.

With a sharp move, I overturned the table, my legs slipping free of its constraints as if by themselves. The Khajiit spun around sharply, grabbing the knife. Yes, he truly is that bad; he is indeed that old and useless. Not bad, it means I have more chances than I thought. The fork flew towards the Khajiit’s face; he deftly evaded it, bypassing the table that obstructed his path, but lost a lot of time; I was already on my feet.

The blade of the knife whistled through the air close to my face. I seized his arm gripping the weapon by the forearm, Kharh’s claws sunk into my shoulder, and his teeth clacked near my neck. I kneed the Khajiit in the stomach; he attempted to bite me again, we lost our balance and collapsed onto the floor. Finally, his hand yielded; I sharply twisted it, seized the blade closer to the edge and thrust it into the Khajiit's chest. For a moment we both froze. Through the knife’s handle, I felt the desperate thumping of his heart; its beats, passing through the blade, hammered against my palm. The struggle was over. I looked into the eyes of the Khajiit; they were filled with horror, and then I pulled out the knife abruptly, a spray of warm arterial blood poured forth after the removed blade. Kharh screamed, clutching his wound with his hands. I hastily got to my feet; the Khajiit lay doubled over on the floor, blood flowing from his grasped wound in streams; he silently looked up at me, either begging for help or asking me to end his suffering. I intended to do neither; dawn would soon break, I must leave the city without delay; besides, the poison’s action, which the fighting blood rushed through my body, was becoming more palpable. My head spun, my fingers went numb, dark spots pulsed in front of my eyes; everything seemed to sway.

Taking my travel bag, I collected several bundles of useful healing herbs that were so neatly displayed on Kharh’s walls, I tossed the bloody dagger into the bag. I put on my cloak to conceal my wounds from the patrolling city guards, washed my face and hands in a wooden tub that stood by the table. I cracked the door open, glanced around, checking if anyone had heard the sounds of the struggle, if an alarm had been raised, but the city was asleep; only the mad crickets screeched in despair.

Before exiting, I turned back; Kharh still lay on the floor, watching me with gritted teeth, not loudly whining.

- Farewell, old friend - I said, looking into the eyes of the dying Khajiit. - You were a good killer; you were my best friend. - Both statements were true, just that they were true a long time ago.

At that moment, it seemed that the dying Khajiit had come to an understanding of the inevitability of his death. From Kharh’s mouth came a loud, prolonged wail that resembled the cry of a child. He turned his gaze away from me and released the wound. Blood sprayed onto the floor, streaming down the wooden boards and flooding between the gaps. I had no intention of witnessing the last minutes of my friend’s life; that was not the kind of death I wanted to savor. Wrapping myself in my cloak and tightly closing the door behind me, I stepped out.

Leisurely passing through the night city, I encountered a few passersby rushing about their business, they paid me no mind; I left Corrol unnoticed. Once outside the city, I headed down a path leading into the forest, soon the walls of the fortress disappeared from sight, and I was enveloped by the dark, unwelcoming woods. It became harder to walk with each passing minute; the poison, spread through my blood, was now fully in effect. My legs felt like cotton, they stopped obeying, buckling; I dragged them with my last strength.

When walking became utterly impossible, I veered off the path and found a small glade, collapsing into the tall grass. The next few hours would determine whether I would live or this meadow would become my final resting place. Not the worst place, whatsoever, to die. Indeed, I could have easily perished in the rot of the city’s sewers or the swamps of Morrowind, rather than this blooming fragrant woodland meadow. However, I crave to live invisibly much more than I want to die, even amidst such beauty. Therefore, I pull out the bundles of healing herbs from Kharh’s travel bag; there isn’t enough time or strength to brew a potion, so I chew the dry herbs, washing them down with water from my waterskin. The stems of dry herbs get stuck in my disobedient, already spasming throat; I try to swallow - it doesn’t work, I attempt to spit it out - but can’t do that either; gradually I lose consciousness. The night forest buzzes with a cacophony of bird songs and animal cries, the cool gusty wind sways the treetops back and forth, night surrounds me, and my mind plunges into darkness.

The End.

Thank you to everyone who read, for not sparing their ups, and even more to those who leave their precious comments.

If you liked my writing, take a look at the story - Fallout: Krasnoyarsk.