Dominic Lyons (incomplete)NOTE: The History Part is huuuuuuuuge (or will be once Angie and I am done. So yeah, just a warning. It comprises of mini stories with are full of angst, and are a blast to read)
Player's Name: Uz E-Mail: uzair1986@hotmail.com Other means of Contact: msn, Ezinbox etc etc
Name: Dominic Lyons Nickname: Dom, Domi Code Name: Sketch Affiliation: Brotherhood Gender: Male Age: 27 Birthday: April 12th Hair: Dark Brown Eyes: Light Blue. Mother: Marian Mocanu-Lyons/Original/Alive Father: Christopher Lyons/Original/Alive
Physical Description: Under Construction
Powers: Under Construction
History: (This is a collaboration between Angie and I. We each take turns to write a an incarnation of Natalia and Dominic. We'll add more as we finish our stories.)
Dominic is the name given to him in his most recent incarnation. He has been known by many names throughout history, most of which have been lost. Some were warriors, some fighters, some scholars, some simply farmers. A few lived great lives, while most died and were forgotten. But each death was tragic, and each ending heartbreaking. For you see, Dominic is simply one soul who has spent each incarnation seeking his great lover, his beloved- each time with heart-rending consequences.
.:Troy 1180 B.C:.
He awoke to find specks of sunlight playing over his body. Streaming through the billowing curtains, the rays illuminated the quiet room and gave life unto the darkened chamber. It was a good day, he mused lightly as his eyes opened to the world. Sighing, he turned his gaze to the woman who slept peacefully next to him. Dark hair the colour of midnight lay spread over her pillow, and there was the hint of a smile on her soft lips. Asleep and in peace, his wife looked like a Goddess; both innocent and serene. Running his fingers gently across her exposed arm, the dark haired man knelt to kiss her brow tenderly. In that moment he was truly happy. Gone was the dread, the emptiness, the restlessness. After finding her, it was as if Kalliades was truly alive for the first time.
Their path to their union had been a troubled one, and there were many obstacles he had to face in order to secure her hand in marriage. She was of noble birth, a veritable Princess of Troy, whereas he was a lowly commoner, a solider and son of a solider. It was not for them to marry, and yet it was as if they could do nothing else but be together. It was something they both knew as soon as the first caught sight of one another. Having fought one of the fiercest battles in the seemingly endless war between the Achaeans and Troy, Kalliades had been stabbed through his side, and was brought into the city to be healed.
It was she who had come to his sickbed, and it was she who sat next to him day and night, tending to a man she did not know, and yet felt deeply for all the same. He had finally awoken to her voice, and still believed her to be the reason he was alive. Looking down at her still form, Kalliades felt nothing but love burn into him, weakening his knees and sending his mind spinning. Nothing mattered to the young soldier anymore. The Greeks, the War, Troy, it all paled before the woman he had come to know as Kalliope. She loved him, and it was all he needed.
Their courtship was carried out in secret, their meetings taking place during the nights, and their eyes catching clandestine glances during the days. Whenever he walked onto the field of battle, it was if he could feel her eyes on him. He could almost feel her heart fluttering as he charged into the fray, the seconds passing by in agonizing slowness until she could finally see he was safe and alive. She was his princess, the one he fought for, the one he lived for. He would also fight for her today, as he did almost daily. But this time it would be special. Yesterday she had been his secret lover, his unknown flame. Today she was his wife and soul. He was her champion, and there was no fear in his heart.
The night of their marriage had been magical, and just the thought of her finally in his arms brought a small smile to his lips. She was his, and no power in the world could deny it. They were meant to be, he knew it. Across the ages, across the passage of time and space, Kalliades knew there was a deeper force at work between them. Every glance was fire, and every kiss was breath taking.
Their love was eternal, it had been written by the Gods.
Rising from the bed, he moved towards the cupboard and began to pull out his armour. Running a finger over the taught leather breastplate, he wondered if it would serve him loyally as it had for nine years. Pulling his sword from the scabbard, he found the light glimmering off it oddly off-putting, as if it was not meant to spill the blood it would draw within a few hours. He turned to look at her again, his eyes never wanting to see anything else. Once I have beheld her, what allure do the fields of Elysium hold? Slowly he began to pull on his armour. First his leather skirt, then a thin undershirt. He slipped greaves over his forearms and then strapped the sword and its scabbard to his waist. Finally he slipped into sandals before slipping on the breastplate and grabbing his helm.
Kalliope’s champion was ready.
The sun beat down upon him, and he could feel his sweat dripping from every inch of his body. The smell of blood and death was everywhere, and yet he was still alive. His sword gleamed crimson in the sunlight, and his heavy shield seemed riddled with arrows. The battle had been deadly and swift. The Greeks had swarmed the Trojans early, their morale boosted by the reappearance of Achilles; who had finally returned to battle after the death of his lover. He was in rage and seemed unstoppable. The Trojans had suffered heavy losses, and even now they were being pushed back, towards Troy. Yet Kalliades wasn’t afraid. His beautiful wife was watching him, and as always, he could feel his heart beating in synch with her worried one.
He loved her so much it hurt.
Stepping forward, he sword arcing gracefully through the air, the young Trojan dispatched a Greek, only to be replaced by another one. His vision blurred slightly as beads of sweat began dripping into his eyes from his hair. Raising his shield to bring his forearm back, he rubbed at his eyes hoping to clear his vision. He fought off the Achaean with his sword, and parried a deadly thrust to his face was some difficulty. Beside him, dressed in almost identical armour, soldiers of Troy continued to fight and continued to suffer. Cut down one by one, it seemed as if only Kalliades stood firm.
In the distance he spotted armour of shining gold tearing across the field. Carving a path of blood and gore, it seemed to be headed straight for him. Achilles was no less than a God in battle, and Kalliades saw bloodlust emanating from every inch of the Myrmidon. But there was no fear in Kalliades. From the walls of troy, secure and elevated, Kalliope would be watching him, and with her love in his chest, there was little room for any other emotion.
Soon the giant warrior was upon him, his great blade flashing like sunlight on glass. Tearing forward, it cut towards the Trojan with awesome speed and objective, leaving Kalliades only a hair’s breath of space to move. It was in that moment he knew he would die. As the cold bronze tore through his breastplate and skin, Kalliades felt the weight of separation from Kalliope descending on him. She was waiting for him on the walls. He had told her to do so, told her he would return.
But he wouldn’t.
He would die on the fields of Troy, like thousands before him had done, his wife waiting on the walls, a prayer to Zeus for his safety on her lips. “I love you, Kalliope,” he muttered, blood dribbling from his mouth. Kneeling forward, he slid deeper into the sword until Achilles kicked him off. He tumbled to the dusty ground, and found the warm earth welcoming. It was where he would be buried. It was where she would come and cry for him. Thinking of her brought another smile to his dying lips, almost at the same time as the light in his blue eyes began to die…
-Uz
.:Outskirts of Jerusalem, 1105 A.D:.
The wind whispered through rock and tree, its soft caresses rustling the sparse leaves and sifting the soft sands. The moon, luminous and beautiful, journeyed through the night sky, its light fading and increasing with the passing of distant clouds. In the distance, his eyes could almost make out individual lamps lit upon high balconies. Shining like a brilliant jewel, Jerusalem seemed to be ringed with a halo of light and serenity. It was the Holy City, The Navel of the World, as Pope Urban had claimed. It was why over a hundred thousand Christian men had marched across Europe and Byzantium. It was why they had shed the blood of countless thousands, and it was why he met his rise, and his downfall.
Constantine Williams had been a simple Christian Knight to one of the many Feudal lords who had heard the call for the First Crusade. He was flush with religious fervour, and was convinced he would liberate the Holy Land from the blight of Muslim Infidels. They had destroyed the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and were restricting God-fearing Christian pilgrims from entering the Holy Land and being blessed by the sight of Holy Jerusalem. Marching day and night, he had participated in the battles and wars fought against the Muslim occupiers. He had participated in the glorious siege and conquest of Jerusalem, and had even been one of the first to pray at the blessed spot where Christ, his Lord, had suffered.
And yet he was also one of the ones who had attacked the citizens of Jerusalem. Be they Muslim, Orthodox Christian or Jew, he had been an accomplice to the massacre which had followed. Thousands were put to the sword, and many more were made slaves. No one was allowed to leave with property, and countless scores of families had been separated. The streets of the Holy City were bathed in blood- a cleansing, as his Lord had said. Mass was celebrated soon after, and there was great rejoicing in the streets of Jerusalem- even as the Muslims and Jews gathered their dead for their final rites. It was one of History’s defining moments. The moment when Empires came to a head, and a moment which would resonate across the centuries.
But to Constantine, the guilt of murder was one that weighed heavy on his soul. The shining light of Jerusalem, for which he had prayed, was dulling everyday, and he had begun to miss his quiet English Shire more and more. He had requested to be released of duty so that he could return home and purchase land, so that he could live out a quiet life and hopefully tune out the constant screams dying innocents from his ears. Instead, he had been sent to occupy and fortify one of the many crusader castles which were being built all around the Holy Land. He had taken the task with honour, and yet his heart sunk with every passing of the day. He didn’t understand it anymore. The Muslims were portrayed as evil and ruthless, yet they seemed no different than a common man: sharing same desires, fallacies, hopes, and loves…
A sound to his right brought his gaze towards the road which wound its way up the hill from the city. Riding atop a horse, garbed in the veil of the Mohammedans, she made her way up the hill, her dark eyes shinning like polished onyx. There was no love in those eyes of flint, and yet they were the ones he loved with all his heart. Cool, appraising, distant, they seemed to regard him with a certain unfamiliarity, a distinct suspicion. No longer was he the warmth of her heart, or the shining star in his moonless nights. She came to a halt barely four feet from him, and yet the gap between them seemed miles wide. “You called for me,” he said, voice unsteady in the humid Levantine night. She did not reply immediately. Slipping off her horse, she stood before him and removed the veil which hid her face.
He had memorized ever curve of her visage, every emotion in her eye, and yet she still blew him away with her beauty. Dark, exotic, stunning, she was the polar opposite of the women of his homeland; women of ice and cold, beautiful in their own remarkable way. She took his breath away, and she knew it. “I want the truth,” she said, bypassing formalities. There was fire in her eyes. Traces of pain, anger, and love, all lingered smouldering behind brilliant black obsidian. “I want one moment of honesty between us.”
He could not meet her gaze. Head bowed, he stared at pebbles around her feet, willing himself not to cave. She had become his light, and without her loving gaze, he felt so bitterly cold, so covered by darkness.
After fortifying the Castle at Acre, he had been sent to accompany a Muslim emissary from Cairo to Jerusalem for talks of Truce and Peace. The Emissary, a powerful Arab merchant with a taste for the finer things in life, had decided to bring his family with him. He had figured they would bolster the image of Muslims are peace loving, family people, and had hoped to win a great diplomatic victory in the Holy Land.
That had not happened.
Along the route, in a small section of the Sinai desert, the Caravan had been raided by highwaymen from the nearby mountains, and was completely destroyed. Save for the wounded Merchant and his young daughter, the entire contingent had been wiped out, and the only one left to guard them had been Constantine. Alone in the brutal desert with a hot sun flaring overhead, the three travellers had snaked their way across the barren lands towards distant Jerusalem. The Merchant, wounded and in constant delirium, had been tied to a camel and was constantly attended to by his daughter, a dark eyed beauty by the name of Zahrah bint Abu Al-Khalil. She was everything a woman should have been, and Constantine admired her greatly for her courage, strength, and dedication.
In the weeks they had spent together, he had learnt a great deal about her. She was the youngest daughter of the old merchant, and was to be married to a client of her father’s in some distant part of the Muslim empire. Skilled in medicine and healing, she had stitched his battle wounds, and had cared for her father with remarkable skill and patience. Constantine, on his part, vowed to see them safely to Jerusalem, and acted as the only line of defence against possibly attacks by highwaymen in the future. It wasn’t long before the two were constantly conversing with the other. She fascinated him, with her strange, dark beauty, while he intrigued her with his tales of distant lands were snow fell, and there were mountains as tall as the skies.
Yet underneath their stiffly formal words, lay a hidden hatred. She was a Muslim, someone who resented every Crusader in the Holy Land, whereas he was a knight, a defender and protector of God’s Kingdom. She had told him of her brother, the light of her life, who had died fighting in Jerusalem while trying to repel the invaders. She spoke of how her father had to find him from amongst dozens of corpses, and how she had cried for her beloved brother night after night. Constantine, fearing this girl would close herself off to him, spoke of how he hadn’t been around during the first invasion. He had claimed he had arrived in the Holy Land years later, and had found it under Christian control. He had lied to her. He had hidden the truth of his past, and the blood he had spilt. The only reason she came to love him was because he was different from the men she saw as murderers and barbarians, men who had raped her land and religion.
Their love was forbidden, this they knew from the start. She was a heathen, and infidel, an offspring of the race which had burned his Church to the ground. He was amongst the men who had raped her lands, had killed her people, and had defiled the holy sanctuary. Yet they fell in love anyway. Deeply rooted in their differences, they grew to love one another with passion and infatuation. She was betrothed to a man who loved her deeply, and yet she could only find a place in her heart for the defiant knight with brilliant blue eyes and dark brown hair. Together, they believed they could somehow take on the world.
“You lied to me,” she spoke again, her voice trembling. “You told me you were not there when it happened.”
He finally found the strength to look up at her, and found himself looking into eyes where seemed to resonate with eons of pain. “I’m sorry, Zahrah.” he could say no more.
“When I met you, I hated you. You were one of them, a heathen and barbarian who had snatched my brother and my land from me. Yet you saved my father and I, and led us to Jerusalem. I grew to love you, Constantine Williams. You become my sun and my stars, the reason I wanted to wake up to a new day.”
Trembling fingers slipped through his hair and she came to kneel before him. “I loved you so much, and yet I have never known such hate. You betrayed me, lied to me, and then broke my heart. Yet why does it still beat with passion when I think of you? Why can I not forget you?” She wrapped her arms around him, her face buried in his chest. “I hate you so much…”
He was silent, the tears streaming down his cheeks. “I’m sorry. What I did-”
“Did you kill children?” She pulled away from him, her dark eyes lined with moisture.
Silence.
“Did you kill Children?” She asked again, her voice rising.
“Yes,” he said, his voice a bare whisper.
She stepped a few paces back. “Murderer”
“Yes.”
Dark eyes flashed with hatred. “This is the last time we will meet. Your presence disgusts me, and yet I know I cannot resist much longer. I am to be married in a few weeks to a man who loves me, who will not lie and betray me. I cannot love someone who kills innocents, lies, and then deceives someone else. Yet hope you find someone some day. Perhaps in your lands of snow and tall mountains there is a girl who can live with your sins…”
“Zahrah..”
“That’s the last time you will say my name. Farewell crusader. May Allah guide you to your ultimate destination.”
He slumped backwards onto the rock, his mind reeling in disbelief. Tears continued to stream down his cheeks as the sounds of her riding away began to fade.
This is the last time we will meet…
Her words had cut him like daggers and had left him frayed.
“I’m sorry, Zahrah.”
-Uz
.:Bergen, Scandinavia 800 AD:.
Cold winds blew down from the mountains, hissing through the streets of Bergen. Rattling windows and billowing through snow, they spoke of the chilly winters often associated with Scandinavia. Thunder rolled overhead, while flurries raced across the inky sky. It was a night few would venture into the icy streets, and even the guards posted outside the massive Viking lodge were sparse and dressed in their heaviest fur lined cloaks.
Inside, seated around blazing fires, the people of ice and snow seemed to cower before the wrath of their king. A tall man, powerfully built and radiating cold, furious authority, Leif Gottfriendssen was in clear rage. His massive war axe, embossed with protective runes, glimmered in the firelight, while his icy blue eyes flickered in fury. He was dressed in his huge fur cloak, black as the night, and his massive helm was placed upon his head. He had been silent for a long time, and yet everyone still seemed to tremble before him.
“How long?” he said, rough voice barely containing his anger. Thick fingers flexed across the axe’s hilt as he awaited an answer, his cold eyes on his most formidable warriors.
A man stepped forward. Slender, scarred, and with his armour glowing in the firelight, he looked like a twig before the enormous bulk of the king. “Five hours, my king.” he replied, standing at a safe distance. “He took two horses with him and headed north.” There was no fear in his voice, and yet the court knew how terrified the warrior might have been. The king was a cruel, harsh man with a destructive temper. Even messengers who brought ill news were not safe before his wrath. Last week alone the blond warrior had killed a page, furious over an unsuccessful raid upon the Irish. No one angered the king. It was a death sentence to do so.
“Let me hunt him down, father,” another voice spoke, almost identical to the King’s. Seated next to Leif, Erik, his eldest son seemed to be an almost mirror image of the Viking king. “I will bring his head for his transgressions.”
Eyes the colour of frozen lakes turned towards Erik Gottfriendssen. He was his favourite son, the one who seemed poised to take the throne after his death. The younger man had led a multitude of successful raids across the British isles. Burning down churches, castles and villages, his son had brought back a horde of plunder both rich and fruitful. Even the slaves he had brought back seemed to be a higher quality, and were far more productive than those brought by the other raiders. His personality, his courage, and even his fury were identical to Leif’s, and because of this the king was immensely proud of his eldest son.
And yet he did not love him like he loved the other.
Roger.
The very name brought a stab of pain within the king. How could his younger son , the one he loved and treasured, let him down so? Had he not been a good father? Had he not overlooked the dark haired child’s weakness in battle, and pardoned him for falling prey to the monks and their feeble new religion? Had he not shown mercy to the boy when he should have let his brother kill him? It was known that only the strongest of Leif’s sons could survive, and when Erik had defeated Roger in single combat, the smaller man should rightfully have been killed.
Yet Leif had stepped forward to save his son, and had spoken of his great love for the fey teenager.
And now the twenty three year old boy had taken Leif’s favourite slave and fled into the mountainous wilderness.
At times he wondered how his usually craven son could steal away with the girl. She was beautiful yes, and possessed a strong dignity, but she rightfully belonged to the king. He was free to do whatever he pleased, and Roger had no say in it. Looking back, Leif knew he should have killed her after the first night. There was something troubling about her which he couldn’t get over, and it drove him to lash out at her, to treat her like the dirt she really was. Maybe it was the fact that she never cried out, or the fact that she always seemed to regard him with a certain amount of disdain, but whatever it was, she was constantly on his mind.
Maybe a bit too much.
Looking at his older son, the King nodded slowly, the anger etched sharply in his gaze.
“Do what you must, my son. Go now.”
Within the hour, a team of ten horsemen rode north from the massive lodge, moonlight glimmering off their blades, and snow billowing like powder under their hooves.
The winds whipped through them, lashing at their clothing and freezing their skin. Climbing up the steep mountain slope, the bodies were pounded with snow and sleet, while not an inch of them felt dry anymore. There was snow clinging to the fibres of their clothes, and their hair seemed to freeze in the frigid winter gales. As tired as they were, they could not stop.
They could never stop.
“I cannot go on any longer, Roger,” she whispered, clinging to him as the wind screamed through her dark hair. She seemed so weary, so broken. She was shaking in the cold, and the sparse cloak she wore was barely enough to keep her alive, much less warm her. But the look in her eyes was what worried him. He had never known her to seem disappointed, or filled with such hopeless thoughts, but the way she looked at him told him a tale of defeat and failure. There was no hope in her dark gaze, and Roger found himself extremely worried. This wasn’t the way he planned it. She was supposed to fight on, to struggle for a freedom he believed so strongly in.
Clinging to branch as she held onto him, Roger pulled them further up the mountainside, until both of them were soon within a small glade. They had left their horses behind and Roger had spooked them to run away. Hopefully the pursuers would follow the horses, and not the footprints in the snow leading up the massive mountain. It had been two days since their flight, and yet he knew his brother was still out there, scouring the lands for him in order to undo their father’s choice in keeping Roger alive all those years ago. “You need to hold on,” he called over the howling winds. “We cannot stop now.”
They tumbled into the clearing as the last of their strength began to give way. Slumping against a tree where the wind wasn’t quite as fierce, they snuggled together for warmth, hoping the storm would die out soon. He reached into his bag of provisions and brought out some jerky. “Eat this,” he instructed, handing the dried meat to her. She took it without a word and began chewing on it, just as she began burrowing into him more. “We should be safe,” he assured her. Though his words were ones of certainty, Roger knew he was doubtfully honest as best. She looked at him with her dark eyes and nodded silently. He could read the truth in her gaze; she knew it was hopeless as well.
Hours past as they huddled against one another, both weaving in and out of temporary bouts of sleep. The storm also seemed to be dying, and the winds didn’t seem quite as fierce as they had before.
“You are very warm,” she said softly, smiling into his cloak. “Thank you.”
He knew the thanks wasn’t for the warmth he provided, but for everything he had done. How he had braved the wrath of his father and brother to save someone he hardly knew. How he had lead her across the fjords and mountains across the coast of Scandinavia. How he had protected her from the onslaught which seemed to be growing closer with every hour. Yet deep down, he was still the weak little prince everyone saw him as. He was no great warrior, and he lacked the ruthlessness which was valued highly amongst his people. The Vikings viewed him as somehow less than a real man, and the fact he had embraced the new religion seemed a betrayal of the old ways.
“Why did you do it?” She asked, her dark gaze tearing into him. “You owed me nothing.”
He did not want to meet her piercing eyes, and yet he did. He had watched her for weeks, ever since his brother had brought her back as war booty. The way she moved, the way no one could break her spirit, he had silently observed. She watched how she waged a silent battle against his father, a man who had broken the spirits of a hundred men. He claimed her as property, yet her countenance proclaimed she was the cattle of no man. She was someone he had begun to admire, and soon he wanted to know her, wanted to understand her. It came to a point where nothing mattered anymore but the strange love he had begun to feel for her.
“I…” he began, lips quivering in the cold. “I do not know.”
There was a pause as she looked at him, not buying the truth he presented to her.
“So you freed a slave, angered your father, risked your life, and ran away knowing full well you’d be captured and killed because you…do not know?” She wasn’t mocking him, he could tell. She simply wanted a coherent answer, something which would confirm her suspicions.
He smiled, his teeth clattering in the bitter winds. His ice blue eyes watched her for a few seconds, drinking in the way her cheeks were tinted with pink, and the way she held onto him. He did not want to let her go, and yet he knew they were doomed from the start. The only thing now was whether he could tell her how he felt, or let her drift away knowing nothing.
“I love you” he whispered, voice barely audible in the wind. “I…wanted to know you, wanted to foresee a life with you. You were so different from anyone I had ever known. So proud, so strong, so beautiful.” His fingers reached for hers and they entwined, sharing the last of the body heat. “You did not deserve to be my father’s slave. You deserve freedom”
She smiled at him and reached out to cup his cheek. Tinting her head up, he placed a soft kiss on his lips and pulled back. “You are a strange man Roger Gottfriendssen.” She said softly. With nothing more said, she nestled her head back into his chest and let the cloak drape her whole form. It was minutes before either of them spoke, and when she did, her words broke her heart. “I am with child.” She said quietly. Her words were like a hammer to his heart, and he felt himself crumbling. “It is your father’s.”
He did not believe her. He did not want to believe her. Her words hurt, and yet…
“Do you still love me, Roger?” She asked, her voice neutral.
He would never get the chance to answer.
From the edges of the clearing, a dozen armed men broke through, their stern faces and wild hair billowing in the wind. The tallest amongst them, his brother, wore the Viking Raider’s helm; a massive metal helmet inlaid with the mighty horns of a ram. He was armed with his father’s axe and tore towards Roger without wasting his breath on pointless words.
Roger made a move to grab his sword, and rose to shield her from the onslaught which raged around them. He was stopped in his tracks by a metal fist which broke into his jaw and sent him spiralling through the air. The metallic taste of blood flooded his senses as he recoiled to find his brother grabbing the love of his life and hoisting her to her feet. He then struck her across the cheek with the back of his hand and watched with a amusement as she crumpled to the floor. “Bitch,” he sneered, watching her squirm and writher in the cold snow.
With blood pooling from his mouth, Roger staggered towards the man, his sword trembling in his hands. He was met with an axe swipe across his chest, the blood seeping into the fibres of his shirt, and drenching him in a smear of Crimson.
“Roger!” She screamed as he fell to his knees, his life blood pooling into the white snow around him. Clawing across the cold ground, she struggled to move towards him when two pairs of hands grabbed her and began to wrap rope around her slender form. “Roger!” she screamed again, her voice piercing through the billowing winds. “Please, someone! Have mercy on him!”
He watched with waning vision as the dark form of his brother towered over him. Erik had a smile on his broad face, and there was hate in his glacial blue eyes. Around him, he could hear her voice screaming for them to have mercy on him, just as he could hear the sounds of their mocking laughter booming through the clearing.
They were Vikings. They did not know mercy.
“Our father, who art in heaven,” he began, the blood dribbling down his chin. “Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done-”
A booted foot slammed into his chest and pinned him to the ground.
“Yesss!” the voice hissed through his ears. “Call upon your pathetic God to save you.”
“On…earth…as it is…in heaven”
He found his eyes going to her as she struggling to scream. A sad smile crept across his ashen lips as he found himself thinking of the life they never got to live. He would have kept her safe from the storm, would have made a good husband. He would have been a good father, and would have shown her the world…
The light began to fade from his eyes as they dragged her away to sire his father’s child…
“Give us this day our daily bread…” he whispered with the last of his breath as the blood continued to smudge the snow around him in a dark shade of crimson.
-Uz
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