Revenge
by Jay Young
Posted 1/31/08
A floodgate of memories ruptured the very moment Druiden laid eyes on him. The d wave crashed over Druiden that boiled fiercely from the white fire of lifelong hatred. The magent was instantly swept away. Sweat rolled from his dirty blood-stained forehead into his eyes, but he did not blink. He could only stare at this man. And with wide eyes, the man recognized him, too. Frozen in his stride, he returned Druiden’s gaze with the look of a criminal who knew his days of running were finished. Druiden used to fantasize about this moment, playing over and over in his mind all the wonderfully ic ways he would kill this man and cause him to suffer just as he did. But that was before he met Cassandra and Alexia, before he knew people that actually cared about him. Since he experienced love, the for revenge faded just enough to allow healing to begin. Now, however, he was confronted squarely with the decision. And so it was that Druiden weighed this man’s fate.
His name was Eandur, and he was 47 years old. Eandur lived with his wife and two children in a comfortable mansion just two days’ ride southwest of Minas Tirith. He adored his family, constantly lavishing them with the attention due a loving father and husband. That Eandur was a member of the Gondorian parliament assured him both power and wealth many times greater than any of his merchant brethren from Pelargir. All these facts Druiden knew and more. He remembered vividly when he first learned Eandur’s role in his family’s death. Druiden was only seventeen on that dark night in the slums just outside the walls of Minas Tirith.
“Sydon, it is a pleasure to see you again,” Eandur said reaching out to shake Sydon’s fair-skinned hands. Eandur pulled out a chair, gathering his robes about him to sit down.
“And you as well, Eandur.”
Two tables away, Druiden sunk low over his mug keeping a silent eye on Sydon. An hour ago, he followed Sydon to the Dark Knight’s Tavern, a favorite gathering place among thieves looking for work. Given that Sydon was an extended relative of King Pelandur, it seemed an odd place to track him. But who was this Eandur? Druiden, just beginning his new career as an assassin, made a mental note of the name. His memory was getting sharper by the day when it came to remembering small details—especially names.
“Thank you for coming to see me on such short notice,” Sydon began quietly. “I need to ask a favor of you.” Saying nothing, Eandur folded his arms in an apparent gesture to show he held the superior position. Sydon continued, “It has come to Lord Aglarond’s attention that Damion’s boy survived.”
“He had a son?” Eandur asked somewhat disinterestedly.
“Yes. Apparently he was in the fields when my men burned the farmhouse,” Sydon replied.
“How old is the boy?”
“He’s seventeen.”
“So how does this seventeen-year-old serf concern me? What does Aglarond want? As far as I’m concerned, he has run out of favors,” Eandur responded.
Sydon sighed deeply with a hint of frustration at Eandur’s attitude. “Perhaps I should remind you that you have a stake in the outcome of this… little wrinkle.”
“My friend, I merely took care of Damion. The rest is completely Aglarond’s mess,” Eandur replied as he rose to leave.
Sydon spoke quietly, “Eandur, we intercepted a messenger from Kaliman. He was bearing a sealed scroll bound for you.” Sydon met Eandur’s startled gaze, and then nodded towards the chair. The politician resumed his seat without a word.
Finally, Eandur said, “Alright, talk.”
“It’s very simple. All Lord Aglarond wants is this boy’s head. Both of us already have men looking for him. We think he’s still in Minas Tirith somewhere.”
Eandur smiled, “So then you need my network?”
Sydon nodded silently.
“Very well,” Eandur said, evidently relieved this is all Aglarond wanted. “I shall put all of my men to the task. Get me some kind of likeness of this boy, and I will have every spy from here to Tharbad scouring the countryside.”
“That would be most good, my Lord.” Then Sydon leaned forward, “His name is Druiden, and he’s a welp. Tell your men that if they find him, Aglarond will pay handsomely—not less than five hundred pieces of gold.”
“Well, this welp managed to get past your men, Sydon,” Eandur replied. “Nevertheless, for that amount of money I might kill the boy myself. Aglarond should get what he wants within the month.”
With that, Eandur rose and made his way to the door.
Had Druiden carried more than a knife on him that night, he would have killed the both of them right there in that tavern. Druiden later learned that after Aglarond killed his father, he enlisted Eandur to dispose of the body. Eandur followed Aglarond’s wishes in having the body mutilated and the remains buried at the foot of the Grey Mountains. Druiden spent nearly a year in vain trying to find the site of his father’s grave. Memories resurfaced of weeping with a shovel in his blistered hands as he dug countless holes in the hot sun in search of anything that could have been his father’s body.
A tear rolled slowly down Druiden’s cheek. Cassandra told him many times that revenge would never bring his family back. Yet now, half a world away, her voice was but a whisper that only occasionally drifted through the clouds.
For another few moments, Druiden continued to meet Eandur’s gaze. Hatred swelled within him. If Eandur sought forgiveness, he must ask it of Mandos.
“Druiden?” the politician whispered frailly. With one quick swing of his scythe, Druiden’s judgment was swift and complete.
