( 8 )

Darkness had fallen by the time the two had disappeared from the scene.

The alley was overcome with a dark and quiet stillness, illuminated only by the faint traces of moonlight peeking from over the silhouetted rooftops. The place was silent. Not a single thing moved. It was as if the bloody fight that took place mere hours ago never happened. True, that could have easily been the case, if not for the two bodies collapsed on the alley floor.

At a first glance, they seemed like motionless corpses. A pool of scarlet blood gathered around the first body who was lying flat on his chest, displaying the deep wound on his back, a diagonal slash from a sharp weapon. The second one was a few ways farther than the first, this one belonging to a man of tremendous build and covered in armor. However, from his head, an adequate amount of blood trickled down his hideously scarred face. There were countless deep and small cuts on his exposed arms. One of his legs was twisted at a painful angle. The only indication that the both of them were still alive was the uneven rise and fall of their chests as they breathed. If not for that, they might as well have long been dead.

As the silence and night seemed to stretch on continuously, the second hunter suddenly twitched. A stray cat hissed sharply from the shadows, startled by this act, before darting away in haste. A moment later, a small groan escaped from his mouth. He raised his head weakly and opened his eyes, the other one tainted red with his own blood. Another groan. His mouth moved slowly, forming a quiet sentence. As he continued to speak, his words slowly became louder and clearer.

"—aven't... lost... yet...," he whispered to himself, repeating it hoarsely despite the state he was in. His eyes glinted with a look of what could only be described as hatred. "I haven't..."

He froze as he heard the sudden sharp and unexpected footsteps coming from the darkened end of the alley.

For some reason, a terrible sense of fear overcame him at that very moment. A chill came over the air. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. His body began to shake in fear without his permission. He focused, narrowing his eyes so he could see better. As he did, he saw an unmistakeable silhouette of person approach him from the mouth of the darkened path. Yet, something told him that whatever it was that was coming, it was not a human. He held his breath as the silhouette continued towards him, finally coming to a stop once it was a feet away. Despite the feeling of fear that had taken him, the wounded man weakly looked up with as much courage as he could muster.

A young man was looking down at him.

For a moment, he doubted what he was seeing. He looked no less than a youth already of age. Dressed in bleached pants, stitched boots, and a yellow ragged shirt, he looked like any poor citizen of the kingdom. A string of random trinkets hung from the right side of his belt. On the other side hung a small and empty dagger sheath. His shirt was ornamented with layers of patched clothing and cheap crusted jewels. One side of his face was covered with a red and gold mask which was tied around his head.

However, it was the expression on his face that made the wounded man tremble in fear. The boy's expression was devoid of emotion, dark and filled with an underlying threat. In the darkness, his eyes glowed a faint wisp of red, like a demon told in tales. Amidst the shadows cast by the isolated alley, his very presence was menacing, haunting. The wounded man could feel the suffocating amount of bloodlust emanating from the youth's figure.

For a moment, the young man simply looked at him without moving or saying anything. Finally, after a few seconds that seemed too long, the wounded one chose to speak first.

"You... are...?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. He tried his best, but could not hide the fear evident in his voice.

Slowly, the youth's mouth formed a cold and sinister grin. A feeling of fear took hold of him. Then, very quietly, the masked one spoke to answer him. Although he, too, was talking in a whisper, his voice was sharp and piercing, a voice that vividly sounded inhuman. Unnatural.

"... Me?" he asked in a jolly tone that seemed more sinister than friendly. "Ah, nothing at all. I am simply a remnant of a forgotten past self. But... I have been named many names over the past years. My latest and current one is Pierre. Or, simply, The Pierrot. Yes, that has a very nice ring to it..." He left his words to hang in the air, the grin still on his face the whole time.

It took the wounded man only a few seconds to realize what those seemingly harmless words meant. His eyes widened at the realization, and it was only then when he finally figured it out. The reason why he felt his unexplainable fear, the chill in the air, how disturbed he seemed the youth's mere presence.

The boy—The Pierrot, as he had called himself, was not alive. He was one of the nonliving. One of the dead.

The wounded man felt his heartbeat accelerate in his chest. A deafening roar came to his ears. Blood dripped from his head, trailing down to his chin. The pain in his broken leg throbbed ceaselessly.

"Were... you summoned...by... that witch?" he asked weakly.

The Pierrot shook his head, his eerie grin disappearing from his face.

"No... " He trailed off for a moment, as though thinking of what to say next. He tilted his head. "I am a temporary free being. The power necessary for this current form is borrowed from a... certain source. But I have not much time left. Years have passed. I am about to run out of mana. I suspect I'll fade away very, very soon."

The wounded man felt a lump in his throat as he heard that. He swallowed it down. He managed to ask another question. "What are you... doing here?"

The Pierrot suddenly flashed a cruel smile, bending down to get closer to him. The hunter shivered slightly at this as the cold intensified, chilling him deeper than the bone. The youth tilted his head to one side again, softly clapping his hand. Then, he raised a finger.

"Let's see... Yes. That's right. The main reason I am here before you right now is simply we have decided you needed to pay an equivalent exchange for what you did."

The hunter's frowned slightly in confusion. "... Pa... y—?"

"Yes, yes," The Pierrot interrupted. "You see, you've done terrible things that we simply can't stand idly to watch. Not only did you try to kill to our Snow, you also tried to bring harm to our... child. And that is something we cannot possibly forgive so easily. And so, we have decided to let you atone for your crimes..." He paused for a moment, before continuing on his next sentence with a light and amused tone. "... In exchange for your life, that is."

An absolute silence overcame the alley at that. The next second later, the fear that he had been hiding for so long emerged without restraint. The wounded man's body shook. His heart hammered in his chest. A sharp noise throbbed in his ears. He felt himself unable to resist his trembling as his mind spun in panic.

"My life...?" he managed to choke out.

The Pierrot nodded back. "Yes."

At that instant, every muscle in his body told him to get away from him. He heeded this warning immediately, not stopping to doubt himself. He turned to get away without saying anything. However in his battered and injured state, he could only manage to drag himself uselessly on the ground. He reached out and pulled himself away from the Pierrot inch by inch, clawing at the ground. His vision blurred unsteadily as he moved. His leg burned in pain as he dragged it, leaving a trail of bloodstains on the floor. It was a pathetic sight.

The Pierrot stayed in his place, looking at him as the wounded man desperately tried to escape. The look on his face was distant and expressionless. Then, he sighed.

"Hey, witch hunter," he called. "Would you like to see an interesting trick?"

The wounded hunter ignored him and continued to crawl uselessly on the ground, mumbling to himself in his panic and fear. "I can't die. I can't die. I'm the great and undefeated Worick. I still haven't lost yet. I still haven't beaten the witch. I still—"

The Pierrot suddenly laughed, bright and cheery. Then, he stood up, patting his legs.

"How pathetic. And how misfortunate for you," he taunted as he leisurely walked towards the hunter, who had only managed to move a few feet away from him. The Pierrot crouched in front of him, the wide grin back on his face. He raised a finger.

   "Let this be a reminder of what happens to those who try to harm our favored ones."

"No. No," the hunter pleaded, deciding to give up the last bits of his honor and dignity. "Mercy, mercy, mercy. Please, spare me, I won—"

The Pierrot did not wait for Worick's pleads. He reached out and lightly touched his forehead.

The moment he did, Worick froze in the middle of his sentence. His entire body became as still as a rock. The only part of him still moving were his eyes, which were wide open in alarm, his pupils trembling with fear. They looked clouded and distant, however, as though he was seeing something that wasn't there. Something terrifying.

Then, gradually, his soul was ripped apart from his flesh.

It was a silent process. From the point where the Pierrot had touched him, the color of his skin seemed to drain from his entire being. Like a kind of corrosion, it spread like a slow disease, covering his entire body in a pale hue until there was nothing left to taint. The hunter's eyes rolled up. He shuddered violently once, before becoming still. He never moved again. The Pierrot pulled his hand away. When he did, the hunter's head fell back lifelessly on the ground in a hollow thud. His eyes were still open, and blood spilled from his mouth. It all happened in a matter of moments. Worick had become nothing but a corpse now. An empty lump of flesh.

The Pierrot sighed quietly. Slowly, he stood up, the look of delight wiped away from his face. He stayed there in the silence for a short while, looking down at the body of the hunter he had killed. Then he raised his hand, stretching it out in front of himself. Despite the darkness, The Pierrot's eyes scanned over the tips of his fingers which had begun to disappear like a mirage. He noticed that his flesh was turning transparent bit by bit, as though an invisible something was slowly consuming him. He was fading away.

"Ah... I guess... It's time to go then," he muttered to himself quietly, peeling his eyes away and turning to look up at the night sky, where the early stars were shining in the distance. Dreamily, he whispered, "... With this, I've done my task..."

He blinked, a look of surprise etched on his face. Then, to himself, he asked, "Hm... What was the tune of that old song again?... 'Bones of the Sky'? I think it sounded like..."

He paused for a moment, recalling it in his head. Then, he opened his mouth and started to recite a melody in the eerie silence, his soft voice sounding distant and gradually disappearing. The song had always sounded nostalgic for him. He closed his eyes, a sense of peace washing over him.

For the next few seconds, The Pierrot continued to hum the tune of the song to himself. One moment, he was still there. Then, there was only the darkness left.

----> thank you for reading!

Q:
Who do you think is The Pierrot?