Mercy

"I did well with you." Spoke the father. He released his grip and moved away. "Help me get my armor son."

Jerald watched as the old man limped across the room, each step straining with effort. The old man proceeded to withdraw an old straw sack from a pantry.

A seed of pity began to grow within Jerald as he watched the old man struggle pathetically with the pack. He knew this was a futile endeavor. Even so, he proceeded to help his father open the sack and don his cracked leather armor.

"Thank you son." He looked up at Jerald through eyes gleaming with pride.

This time his father’s eyes made him shudder. He avoided his father’s gaze, hating himself for what he knew he should do. It was too much though, too hard.

"My axe." The old man motioned to a large battle axe hanging on the wall.

Jerald obliged wordlessly taking the axe off of the wall and bringing it to his father.

The old man gripped the hilt of the weapon like it was something long lost and he had just found it. Jerald released the weight of the axe into his father’s grip. Under the bulk of the iron, the old man collapsed to the floor, still gripping the weapon stubbornly.

"Help me up." He demanded.

Jerald’s heart plumeted. He reached down to his father and laid his hand gently on the man’s shoulder. "Pa, you can’t do this."

The old man shot Jerald a wounded look filled with confusion and something more profound, hurt. Tears began to form in his eyes.

Jerald tried to make his voice sound reassuring, gentle yet strong. "Stay with Mary, Pa. She needs help with the..."

"You’re no son of mine!" The old man croaked through his tears, batting his son’s arm away.

The look in the man’s face betrayed the anguish of the fate that Jerald had just sentenced him to. To live on knowing that you were too weak to fight. Jerald felt like the most vile and contemptous thing to ever live.

"I’m sorry Pa."

"Get out! Go! Go and die!" The old man screamed hatefully. He cradled the old axe in his arms.

Jerald collected his armour and left his house without ever looking back into his father’s eyes.

Outside the village was bustling with commotion and anxiety. Off to one side Jerald saw a man embracing his son for the last time. The embrace, an embodiment of all that was life and love. Jerald felt as if he were already dead.

#

A lone rider rode furiously down the path towards the village. His arm bled from a ragged cut at his shoulder. The battle had been horrible. They had been beaten badly, completely overrun by the enemy. In the chaos, he had fled. He cursed himself for being a coward. Behind him he could hear the thundering of the enemies horse as they began to sweep down into the valley. He urged his own horse desperately onwards towards the empty village.

As the rider entered the abandoned village he spotted an old man laying on the barren street, reclining against the wall of a house. The man sat impassively in his armour, a great axe rested across his lap.

The rider’s sense of fear gave way to pity, enough to bother his conscience. He could at least try to save the man. He reined his horse.

"Get on." The rider called down to the old man. "Hurry."

The old man ignored him.

The rider glanced behind him at the black swarm of specks spilling over the hillside.

"Are you deaf old man?"

The old man looked at the rider contemptously. As if he could see the cowardice in the rider’s eyes.

"Fool." The rider galloped off angrily.

#

The old man felt the thunder of the horses as they approached the village. He could now see them some three hundred yards off and closing fast. He struggled to his feet under the weight of the cumbersome old armour. Mustering all the strength that his tired old body would give him, he hoisted the mighty axe. The old man held the axe before him unflinchingly as the first wave riders swept into the abandoned village. He stood proud and strong as the tide of riders swept over him, his dying cry drowning in the mercy of the gods.