For years, was it?
For five years he had taken the mask of justice. Every bullet screamed truth, even as they seared through the skulls of the transgressors. Truth! He and his brothers lived for it. “Let us bring down a revelation,” they said, faces in shadow. “Men are equal in the sights of God.” Through bullets he would teach this. For fame is a sin.
The door slammed shut behind him, rejecting entry to the angry rains outside. It was as if nature had answered today’s teaching. The water beat down on the lonely street, devoid of life and mirth, and even the windows were dim in light. He walked to the center of the room, a room of sparse furnishings—merely some chairs here and a table there, nothing more but a single light bulb. The scoped rifle he placed on the table gingerly, and he regarded it some time with solemnity, as if contemplating the deeds it had done. It is for truth. For fame is a sin. Those who reveled in the arrogance and wantonness of fame and fortune had to die, to let truth seep in through the holes.
He opened his eyes, grey as they were, and said, “You may reveal yourself, Brother.”
A tall man materialized from the darkness. He was garbed much the same way as he was; in blacks and grays and dull beiges. Upon a gaunt face were a set of clouded eyes and a mane of dark hair. He had his gloved hands entwined behind his back.
“You disposed of them, Charlemagne?” the man asked, voice icy.
Charlemagne nodded. “Indeed. Quick and swift, for that is the way of our mighty Brotherhood. None stood in my way. In the face of truth, their highborn lordships could do nothing.”
His Brother did not answer, only stared at him with those clouded eyes, which seemed colder than usual and not quite so blurred anymore. He withdrew a hand and flung a newspaper onto the table. With his other hand, he held a gun to Charlemagne’s temple.
For a while, Charlemagne was dumbfounded. “Brother, what is the meaning of this?”
“Truth is all the meaning you need, Brother.” The gun pressed against his forehead. Only then did Charlemagne take a glance at the headline on the newspaper:
ASSASSIN OF MANCHESTER STRIKES AGAIN
“Truth, Brother; that is what we live for, for fame is a sin.”
For five years he had taken the mask of justice. Every bullet screamed truth, even as they seared through the skulls of the transgressors. Truth! He and his brothers lived for it. “Let us bring down a revelation,” they said, faces in shadow. “Men are equal in the sights of God.” Through bullets he would teach this. For fame is a sin.
The door slammed shut behind him, rejecting entry to the angry rains outside. It was as if nature had answered today’s teaching. The water beat down on the lonely street, devoid of life and mirth, and even the windows were dim in light. He walked to the center of the room, a room of sparse furnishings—merely some chairs here and a table there, nothing more but a single light bulb. The scoped rifle he placed on the table gingerly, and he regarded it some time with solemnity, as if contemplating the deeds it had done. It is for truth. For fame is a sin. Those who reveled in the arrogance and wantonness of fame and fortune had to die, to let truth seep in through the holes.
He opened his eyes, grey as they were, and said, “You may reveal yourself, Brother.”
A tall man materialized from the darkness. He was garbed much the same way as he was; in blacks and grays and dull beiges. Upon a gaunt face were a set of clouded eyes and a mane of dark hair. He had his gloved hands entwined behind his back.
“You disposed of them, Charlemagne?” the man asked, voice icy.
Charlemagne nodded. “Indeed. Quick and swift, for that is the way of our mighty Brotherhood. None stood in my way. In the face of truth, their highborn lordships could do nothing.”
His Brother did not answer, only stared at him with those clouded eyes, which seemed colder than usual and not quite so blurred anymore. He withdrew a hand and flung a newspaper onto the table. With his other hand, he held a gun to Charlemagne’s temple.
For a while, Charlemagne was dumbfounded. “Brother, what is the meaning of this?”
“Truth is all the meaning you need, Brother.” The gun pressed against his forehead. Only then did Charlemagne take a glance at the headline on the newspaper:
ASSASSIN OF MANCHESTER STRIKES AGAIN
“Truth, Brother; that is what we live for, for fame is a sin.”