A Name To Die As

20251017

Written for Bradley Ramsey's "First Indulgence" event.

Tom always expected his past would catch up to him one day. Sometimes he even hoped it would. Had a spiel prepared. Assuming whoever confronted him didn’t just draw their sword and run him through. He was fairly sure he’d be able to just let that happen.
Hadn’t settled on good last words in that case. “I’m sorry”? “Fair”? “May this bring you peace”?
But he hoped they might be willing to ask. To listen. To talk. And that’s where the spiel came in.
This, though…
A letter. Slipped under his door in midst of night. An untrained eye would think the blob of wax sealing it was unmarked. But Tom immediately tilted it to the light, just so, and his mouth tightened as the Hungry Crescent stared back.
Someone else from the Citadel had survived. And, if they were still invoking that Mark… No, perhaps it was just intended to identify.
He scraped the seal off with his knife and flicked it into the fire. Let it burn. Make sure naught remained.
That was one of the ways they’d got people. Wax was expensive. People kept it. And didn’t realise what they’d welcomed.
Paper whispered open to reveal nothing… visible to mundane eyes. Tom simply squinted, focusing arcana into lenses without bothering to use a ritual. While he only worked with cantrips these days, the Sight was a skill he kept sharp.
Hm. He didn’t recognise this handwriting. Then again, the cult rarely did notes. Communication was via meetings, so you could watch each other.
Addressed to ‘Vurode’. A name long buried but never forgotten.
That man was dead… but ghosts are their own kind of real. Especially when blood-soaked.
While couched in the circuitous, indirect language which had been commonplace in the Citadel, the message itself was simple; you will perform a spell for me, or I will reveal who you are to everyone.
Tom gazed out his front door, across the little herb garden, to the rest of the village. A modest huddle of life snuggled in a nook of the downs.
Would his neighbours string him up? If they were unwilling, how many strangers would come to do the job for them - and would those righteous murderers look poorly on anyone who’d declined to enact justice?
With sunrise staining the horizon crimson and smoke rising from every chimney, it was all too easy to imagine the village put to sword and fire.
A clamour of distant memories, tinged with regret, teased at his mind’s ear. Screams. Pleas for mercy. Entreaties for the gods, for anyone, to save them.
Vurode hadn’t listened, of course. Those words had meant nothing to him. Honestly, Tom suspected he still didn’t properly grasp their weight. But he was trying. He’d been trying for nearly a decade.
He sighed and closed the door, then set the letter on the fire. It caught at once and burned at a crawl. The sender had been waiting.
“An answer already?”
It took him a moment to place the voice echoing from the smoke. “Drevou?”
“Well met, Vurode.”
“That name is mine no longer. I’ve taken a third.”
“A name to hide as.”
“No. A name to die as.”
“You mean you refuse my offer?”
Tom paused. His thumb absently rubbing the scar on his palm. “I doubt I even could, these days. I haven’t touched death magic since leaving the Citadel.”
“I would accept a genuine attempt.”
“Mm.” Tom’s gaze drifted to the door. His mind drifting to what lay behind. Beyond.
He sighed once more. “No. If this is how it ends… so be it. All is swallowed eventually.”
“Fool!” The smoke writhed into glaring eyes. “Has that biddy truly warped your mind?”
Tom’s brow furrowed. “I don’t own chickens-”
“Ugh! The priestess! Wasn’t she why you betrayed us??”
“Oh. Her.” Part of the spiel covered that. It was comforting to have a script. “She asked me why I was doing all this. The death and destruction. And I didn’t have a good answer. So I asked her why she did what she did. She had lots of answers. And… she didn’t hate me for not understanding them. She asked why I didn’t understand. She listened. And she explained.”
“…Is that it?” Drevou sounded gobsmacked. “I thought she must have seduced you!”
“No? I don’t think it occurred to either of us. Pretty sure she was sweet on that jester. You know, the one following the heroes around-”
“What.”
Tom shrugged. Love was still baffling. He’d accepted it was something he’d simply have to respect without understanding.
“And just for that, you let her out to foil the ceremony and abandoned us, your sworn comrades??”
The corner of Tom’s mouth twitched. “Vurode for you. Right bastard, wasn’t he? I’ve been working on that.”
“Humph. You will die like the traitorous dog you are!” The rest of the letter went up in a furious puff of ash.
Tom grimaced at the fire - then started as the door was flung open.
“What did I just hear?” Farmer Matt demanded, his eyes wide and voice cracked. “I come to get cough syrup for Maddie and… Vurode? Death Bringer Vurode???”
“Yes.” Tom kept his fingers laced together so he couldn’t spell on reflex if the man attacked. “I know there’s no apology big enough. So I struck him down. Buried him deep as I could. Set out to try and do some good for the world, with what time I have left.”
“That… you…” Matt stood frozen, shaking, then turned and thundered through the herb garden towards the village square.
How long until he returned with a mob? Probably not long enough to make cough syrup. And, even if there was a bottle ready… he’d probably throw it rather than give it to Maddie.
But… it’s what Tom would do.
So he put a pot of water on and started chopping herbs.
It’s rare anyone gets to choose their death. But you choose who you die as.

Prompt was “You faked your own death and started fresh. Your new life is going great, that is, until you get a letter from someone claiming to know your past. If you don’t give in to their demands, they’ll expose your secrets…”