The Weak One

I come from the Southern Lands, from the mighty army of the Nar'lo. We are taught from youth that we must be strong, each and every single one of us -- the men, the women. And those who cannot be strong are killed. It is seen as barbaric and inhuman to some, but we cannot allow weakness to exist in our culture. But a man known as Thorm-of-March-Dell, one of the weak ones, escaped our land. It is a scar on our entire people, a mark of shame that we allowed such a person to run from us unpunished. And thus my task is to track down this Thorm-of-March-Dell and kill him.

His escape led him through the Dale Of The Gods, which the North call "Korlam" in their weak language. The name means simply "Path", a weak name for a weak people. Thorm-of-March-Dell must have traveled through the Dale Of The Gods, on a path to a civilization that may take him in and protect him like the weak coward he is.

The closest city is one the North calls "Seamirth", a weak name for a weak city full of artists and hunter-gatherers who believe returning with a small bounty is somehow acceptable. Thorm-of-March-Dell would find a home there, hiding among the weak, possibly with a new name. I would wish a new name upon him, something like Thorm-The-Weak, but even in weakness and disgrace and death, our people keep the name given to them at birth. There are many, including myself, who find this a weakness, an unfortunate blemish on our perfection. But I do not waste my time arguing such frivolous things. My job is simply to find and kill this person.

Reaching this "Seamirth", or as I call it now that I gaze upon its laughable people, Blubber-Along-The-Mighty-Waters, I begin my search for Thorm-of-March-Dell. Disguised, certainly, but the tattoo upon his face will make it clear that I have found my quarry. He is a shell of a man only five feet seven in height, with barely any musculature, and a stammer in his voice that proves that he is not even fit to speak.

I take fresh fruit from their market when they do not look -- I dare not participate in the ancient, barbaric practice of the exchange of stamped metal for goods and services, the mark of an unevolved, unintelligent species of man. I only do so to augment my strength as necessary -- as strong and evolved as we are, we are still men, and men need nourishment. With a bit of water from a passing water cart -- again, taken, not purchased -- I am ready to find the escaped.

At the end of the day I finally succeeded.

I had heard of places like the one I found him in before, but had to see it to believe it. Men -- and women -- actually, willfully drinking beverages with an intoxicant. Shameful. To willingly dull ones mind is unthinkable. My rage was beyond measure, and when I returned to my people I would certainly report that these people are beyond saving and must be destroyed, as is our right. But for now, my only target was Thorm-of-March-Dell, who I espied sitting at a table, drinking those horrid drinks, loudly speaking with men and women from this town about trivialities. It was not even conceivable that this man was born a Nar'lo. His life had to end, now.

I drew out my knife and walked up to him, ready to see him face to face and proclaim that his life was over. Only cowards stab others in the back, even when that person is a coward himself. I closed my eyes for a brief moment and drew a sharp breath in, thinking of all my training, my life, and the ways of the Nar'lo. "Turn and face me, Thorm-of-March-Dell," I proclaimed, not in a loud voice, but one that was unmistakable and commanded attention.

Thorm-of-March-Dell turned in disbelief. His eyes grew wide as he realized who was standing in front of him. Suddenly he spoke. "I will not go back, Father." Father. Shame filled my body. Shame for myself and my wife and my other children who turned out just fine. Shame for my ancestors. Shame for all Nar'lo.

"You know the consequences of running." I held aloft my knife, readying the killing blow. "Now at least accept your fate."

All at once, the others at the table -- the weak Blubber-Along-The-Mighty-Waters inhabitants -- stood in defense of their comrade. "Leave 'im 'lone," slurred one middle age man who looked like he was unable to defend his home from a fly.

"Yeah," spoke a young woman, with agreements from all the rest.

As it would be a waste of time arguing with them, I readied the killing blow. Suddenly, a blow came from behind. One of the Blubber-Along-The-Mighty-Waters inhabitants had dared to strike me with a heavy club. The others drew small, weak swords, daggers, and other weapons of defense. They had actually bonded with Thorm-of-March-Dell and were ready to defend him. I did not want to engage in combat with them, but I had little choice.

That's when I tasted my own blood -- a sign that you had been bested, told to me by many of those who shaped me into the person I am today, and one that I tried to tell my own son who stood before me, surrounded by his new comrades. I had been run through by the weak-looking one who I had underestimated, even as the intoxicants flowed through his body. The others attacked me as well, and as I began to lose consciousness for the final time, could only think of how I had failed.

Maybe I was the weak one. Maybe -- maybe all the Nar'lo were.