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Ogier

I cannot remember much of my homeland, for it was at the tender age of ten years that the paladins of Francia came upon my village; and it was also then that they wrenched us away. Away from our homes. Away from what we knew.

The Danes were an isolated people. There were no empires, or emperors. We lived near the brooks and hills, wanting naught but what nature granted us and to prosper while surrounded by our kindred. My time as a Dane was short, but I treasure it nonetheless. It was only as a Dane that my life was simple. Simple is good. In my ailing years, I wish for nothing more than to spend my last days in dull monotony.

But such a gift will never be granted to me.

My mind slows with each passing season. The luscious green meadows and the flowers that laid before our steps… my memories blur of that time. I remember frolicking, and laughing, but I cannot see the color. Were the flowers blue, or red? I do not know. I remember running into the arms of those I called parents, but I cannot see their faces. Whether they greeted me with brimming smiles, or an endearing sigh and a ruffle of my hair—I do not know.

All I remember is being taken from them. The Franks arrived on frightening large boats; and they descended upon us while donned in hulking armors and steel. We were no louts. Our people had fought against the beasts and monsters ever since the first ancestor made landfall. My father himself was a proud and confident warrior, but the last I ever saw of him was of his impaled body. I remember seeing the blood drip from his chest - his eyes pleading me to run away. I remember that very clearly, even if I do not wish to.

I do not know what became of my mother. The Franks had captured me before I could run into the forest. They stowed me away on their boats, as well as the other youths my age. Shackles bound my hands and legs; I remember how the chain scraped into my flesh, the dried blood on my parched, withered lips. I was but skin and bones when we finally docked against land.

They shuffled us off in dirty rows toward the capital. This part I do not remember much. I was too tired, too fearful of what fate awaited me, and so I closed off my eyes and ears. I buried my heart and silently obeyed as they forced a new name and identity on me. Holger Danske was not Frankish, and so I was to be called Ogier.

When I had awoken from my daze, I found myself in a strange new land. The people here were dressed in different cloth, and they prostrated before a being I had never heard of. It was then that I learned religion. They said I was a child of the Mother, the Imperial Eagle from whose womb all life had emerged. The rites of my ancestors were filthy magics corrupted by those who turned away from Her embrace. But now, I could be saved. They told me that they had freed me from hell, and that if I followed their words, then God would bring me to Paradise upon my passing.

I remember feeling confused. Was I already not in paradise, before? My home was beautiful. But they called it stained. I wondered to myself then—how truly great must the Paradise of God be if my hearth I thought perfect was as unruly as they claimed? I wished to know. I wanted to grasp after what hope I could, or else I would not be able to carry on.

I was young. I was naive.

From thereon after, they shoved us into cold buildings with barred windows. They called it a school, and it was there we were taught the values of the Frankishmen: how to properly speak, manners, and of course the holy scriptures. They said to us that the Emperor was the avatar of God, that the one called Pepin, the cur responsible for my people's massacre, was a deity I had to worship.

I remember feeling conflicted, because I could never hold reverence for that man no matter how much they spoke of his greatness. Even when I rebelled, and they whipped my shins and ankles, I could not bring myself to forgive him. I needed someone to bear all of my resentment, for otherwise it would return back to me—I would have drowned in my guilt, in emerging the only survivor amongst my family, had I not cursed his name.

Fortunately, he was a vile, vile man. Perhaps I would have felt worse if he were truly as divine as the priests proclaimed, but with every season I had learned more of his atrocities. He was the source of all suffering in this world.

I remember resolving myself to end his tyranny. I thought that if I became a high-ranking priest, if I spread the true word of God and not the one touted by his forked tongue, then Francia would become the paradise I had long sought after.

But the world played a cruel jest on me. Upon the dawn of my first step into adulthood, I discovered the warrior blood that ran through my veins. I was larger, stronger, more powerful than others my age. The priests took notice of my change, and before I could resist, they whisked me off toward a new building. They called this one a barracks.

I was to be trained as a paladin—to become the same as those who terrorized my home.

They gave me no choice. I was too afraid of what they would do to me had I refused, and so my hopes were smothered as I was handed blade instead of quill.

The years passed by, and on one fateful day, Pepin the Irredeemable declared war against every nation on the continent. His invasions of the Danes and the other neighboring tribes were mere preparation for his grand conquest. I was sent along with the other paladins to foreign lands; and it was there that I had taken my first life. Not a beast. Not a mindless creature. I gutted the bowels of a man just as frightened as me, and he cursed me with his dying breath. "May you forever writhe in agony, haunted by the grudges of all you've slain," he said. Those words have never left me, even now.

Yet, it was during those times that I found true friendship. I laughed and locked arms with my fellow comrades. I shed tears when they fell before my eyes. The Frankish paladins treated me, a foreigner, with kindness for the first time; and it was then that they had finally accepted me as one of their own. How cruel God must be, that the happiness I had always longed for came at the cost of others; and how twisted my own soul had become that I took pride in being that monster of a man's loyal mongrel.

After five long years, the war ended. I was granted peerage for my accomplishments, and recognized as a hero.

The people looked out to me and celebrated my deeds. They cried out in the streets the stories and tales of Ogier the Giant—the stalwart defender of the faith. And I accepted their admiration, even if the name they cried was not the true me.

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I remember feeling joy, for the pain I had suffered was finally being rewarded.

But then, the demons lumbered out of the mountains. And I was reminded again the horrors of war.

Look at me now, gaze upon my miserable visage. The man I had wished to become is not here, replaced by a drunken, doddering old fool. I failed in my duties, and now I grieve in this lonesome cabin.

No matter how much I drink, I cannot forget my woes. I have no more bottles to drown in.

It is upon the first bell of the twilight hour that I hear a knock on my door. I do not open it, for beyond the wood will no doubt be the grim face of Ruggiero. I already told him of my wish. He should not bother with a wretch like me.

"Do pardon me, my good sir, but may I come in?"

However, it is not the voice of Ruggiero I hear—no, it is Lucius.

I do not move for a moment, but an odd feeling soon compels me to stand up. Is it because he is an otherworlder: a person uninvolved in the affairs of this realm? I am not so concerned with his perception of me, for I know it shall never change. He is unlike the others. The gentleman has regarded me as an equal since the very beginning.

With a grunt, I stagger over and open the door. There, before me and wrapped in shadow, is the smiling face of Lucius.

"Good evening, Sir Ogier," he says, tipping his hat. That is new. I did not see it this morning. "How do you do?"

"I am lucid, unfortunately."

The man chuckles and enters my cabin with a cheerful step. It is not long after I sit down that a cup of tea is thrust into my worn hands.

"This one is a jasmine tea." The gentleman conjures a chair out of thin air and elegantly seats himself. I am no longer taken aback by his oddities. "Simple, but sometimes that's for the best, hm? The rush of life can be overwhelming when we least expect it. It's important to savor quiet moments like these, and reflect on yourself."

I raise the cup and take a sip. It is good.

"Reflection… yes, I suppose I have done much of that."

"And what have you discovered?"

"Nothing."

I look down at my fingers, rough and uneven from the years. They are ugly - a reflection of the husk I have become.

"All I have discovered is what I already know. That I am a failure."

Lucius tuts in disapproval. "Now what makes you think that?"

I wave out toward the outside. "How many have died today? Paladins, priests, and even you otherworlders… look what has become of us. The fortress will not survive another invasion."

"The Demon of Eyes was unexpected - no one could have predicted its arrival. You did the best you could, my friend. The survivors here are proof enough."

"But have I truly?"

If I had been more diligent with the otherworlders training, or perhaps confronted the elders about our dwindling supplies earlier… could this tragedy have been avoided?

I do not know. And it does not matter. The mounds of the dead grow ever more, and I am to carry their resentment as I always have.

Lucius sets his tea down, and looks at me with an odd air.

"You are quite dedicated to maintaining this charade," he says.

"What do you mean?"

Lucius rubs his chin and ponders. "What was it exactly about this day that eats away at you so? Was it the lives lost, your failure to slay the demon sooner?"

He snaps his fingers and grins in realization. "No, that's not it. It's because you were forced to cut down your own, wasn't it?"

I do not know what to say in reply.

"Your blade carved through them without hesitation. Their blood showered you until every corner was splattered in red."

Something is different about Lucius. He is… goading me. His tongue spits forth venom as if to provoke my anger.

I pound my fist and glower at him. "What is the meaning of this? Why do you mock me?"

But the man simply shrugs. "I am doing no such thing, my friend. I simply wish to help you."

"Help me how?"

"By making you realize what you truly felt."

I do not understand. What does he seek to uncover? I committed a sin, a horror that can never be forgiven—there is nothing else to be said.

Lucius's smile disappears. He no longer exudes warmth; no, something cold has replaced him. I can feel his gaze examining me, unraveling my skin and bone, peeling away the surface until my soul is laid bare.

My brow perspires. My breath chokes. I feel small before his presence, an unfathomable pressure that is neither hostile nor gentle. It is as if he is a god casting down judgement, unveiling my doubt for all to see.

"What did you feel when you slaughtered them, Ogier?"

I clutch my head and groan, trembling until my teeth begin to clatter. I do not wish to hear this. I do not wish to remember. "It was… it was guilt, of course—"

"No it wasn't. Do not lie to yourself."

Please, stop. No one will benefit from this. Do not make me acknowledge it.

"I saw it, Ogier. Your face. Your eyes."

It is for the better if I keep it buried. It will only bring others disappointment.

"Ogier, oh my poor, deluded Ogier… shall I say it for you, then?"

If it escapes now, I will never be the same again.

"Very well. Listen closely, my friend."

Lucius slowly stalks over. I try to back away, but there is no escape. I cannot flee from his grasp.

The man leans in, and his face changes, replaced by a strange floral mask. There is naught of his features left save for a single eye: a piercing, bottomless eye.

"It was relief. You were relieved, because they could no longer burden you so."

Pain rises up from my body. It burns my blood, suffocates my heart and lungs. I desperately try to deny him, to dismiss his bitter, painful truth, but it is no use. Even as my mind crumbles from the strain, I am unable to utter a single word.

"No longer would they be your responsibility. No longer would you be forced to be their ever-composed leader. For so long you have shouldered their expectations, but the truth is… you wished to be free."

I am disgusted with myself. I abhor myself. And yet, what I despise most of all is the bliss that now threatens to consume me. It whispers to let go, to rid the burden I have placed on myself for all these years.

It seduces me with thoughts of freedom.

"You wished to die, Ogier. To escape from a peerage you never wanted to take."

But I refuse to answer its call. I scream and claw at my own body, scarring it in long bloody trails so that the pain might distract from the vile thoughts worming into my brain.

With the last remnants of my strength, I open my mouth and speak. "No. No, that is not… me. I am Ogier, defender against the demonic forces. I care for my people. I am not some despicable whelp who would abandon his duty."

Lucius tilts his head, and then laughs. "Then tell me their names."

"Their… names?"

"Yes, of the people who died today. Tell me just one name among the fallen you can remember. Surely, that should be easy enough if you are who you claim to be."

I clutch my head and groan. One name: It is just one name. That is all I need—all I must say to prove myself.

But no matter how long I torture my memory, no matter how desperately I dig into my soul, it doesn't come. A name, there is no name.

I cannot remember them.

Not a single one.

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