That’s lucky number seven. Seven pints of swill in this shit bar with some shit kid.

They don’t even know that this “chosen one” is the seventh I’ve recruited from the provinces to assasinate Lord Dugan… ahem “defeat the dark lord.” I almost felt bad when the first one bit it. Only twelve years old and so easy to tempt with delusions of grandeur. Ah well, too bad so sad. This chosen one is fourteen. Hey. Fourteen is two times seven. That sounds like some sort of prophecy.

Shit, I’m drunk. Too drunk this time. I’m starting to think about how I’ve been sending kids to their deaths. No, not kids. Just peasants. Peasants are there to use, that’s just what they’re for. Sometimes you have to tell them it’s their destiny. They’re stupid so they always fall for it. Just peasants, they’re disposable. It’s fine.

Goddammit it’s not fine. I’ve gotten six of these kids killed so far. The king said he was fine with losing hundreds, why am I do bothered with losing six? Why was I so upset losing just one? They’re just peasants…

As much as I keep telling myself that I just can’t believe it. They’re kids. They believe what you tell them. I believed what I was told when I was a kid. Some official looking knight could have sent me to my death just as easily. Only they didn’t because I was a noble. Nobles aren’t disposable, they’re whole people…

I can’t believe that anymore. I’ve been to scores of villages at this point. Everyone is as much a person as everyone else. It’s obvious and I can’t lie to myself about it anymore. All these kids… this kid… is the same as anyone. These are people I’ve been sacrificing! For what!? My job!?

What am I even doing anymore? What’s so important about my position in the court? What could ever be worth killing kid after kid like I have? I’m not even the only one. Why do I even want to keep company with a court who orders me to trick kids into journeying right to their own ignoble deaths?

I’ve had enough. I waddle over to the little dupe and tell him “Arthur, you’re not special. Go home and live a good life. I’ll go kill that fuck Dugan.” That face he gave me when I told him that. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

As I stumble out of the tavern I don’t even know that Dugan is the one I need to be after. How many kids did he send to their death? Eh, probably more than a few. Kids believe what you tell them. You can get them to do anything if you say it’s a prophecy or some shit.

I don’t care anymore. I don’t want to do this anymore. I am Sir Percy and I’ll go die like a dog myself for no good reason. Let the bards make something up about me after I bleed out in a ditch for the glory of a monarch who couldn’t care less. Let all those kids who I would have conned listen to bedtime stories about all the heoric acts I never did. Let Sir Percy live in infamy so little Arthur can go home and tend the farm.

I took another drink from my pint. The tavern was busy as usual, and the main character was in the middle of it laughing with mirth at something a friend of his was saying.

‘I want that’ I said out loud. Nobody heard, which wasn’t surprising. At the end of the day I was just a background character, only to be mentioned in passing. I sighed and realised my role is to always be present, in the background of the main character’s life. I was the ‘blond, snotty child’ when he was of school age, I was the ‘a single character at a table’ and I wanted more.

I have always been envious of Main Character. His words had power, others heard his voice…

I took another drink from my pint and rose to my feet. I knew what I was expected to do: go into the backroom and be ‘a mysterious figure by the fire’. But what if I didn’t want that?

I felt the push of the Narrative and took a step forward. What if I want to do something else? Another forced step. What if I want to be somebody else? I took another step towards the backroom. What if I want to be someone? I stopped dead in my tracks.

I noticed a dog looking at me. It was the first time anyone or anything even looked in my direction. What if I disregard the Narrative?

I took a tentative step towards the exit. The direction was opposite to the one I should’ve taken. I felt the slight push of the Narrative in the back of my head but decided to take another step. I felt nothing. It was like the ink itself stopped writing to see what direction I wanted to take.

I rushed towards the exit and went into the fresh air. And now what? What was my purpose if not to fill in the Narrative? What was my purpose if not to be a background character.

I heard noise behind me and seen the door to the tavern open. ‘Great’ I thought. ‘Now I am going to be ‘confused man on the street’’. I sighed again. It seemed like no matter how much I struggled the Narrative would always find a way to put me in the background. I was doomed to always be nobody, to never be my own person. Unless….

I had an idea! It was an incredibly dumb move which could might just work. I stood straight and turned towards the tavern. With a confident stride I went towards the Main Character. I noticed he stopped and looked at me. Seeing an opening I extended my hand towards him and said: ‘Hi, I’m Rowan! It’s nice to finally meet you!’

Knock, knock, knock

A series of quick knocks stirred me from sleep. I looked around the room trying to orient myself. Was I in my bedroom? No, the end table wasnt there. The coffee table was though, this must be the living room.

Knock, knock, knock

I sat up on the couch. I must have fallen asleep. The thin cheap curtains barely stopped the light from the street lamps from getting into my apartment. I rubbed my face trying to clear my senses.

I looked to at the cable box on my old television. 3:30am. I stood up and felt wobbly, still drunk. I started to walk towards my bathroom to answer the knocking.

Knock knock knock

The knocking was coming from my front door, clearly still high. I walk to the door and opened it. In front of me was a tall, muscular man with brown hair and brown eyes. He was soaking wet. His white Tshirt clung to him like a second skin and his jeans look vacuumed sealed to his body. My heart skipped a beat.

Before I could react he had wrapped himself around me in one of those hugs you are convinced the goal is to actually merge you both into one person. My first reaction was shock. I realized in that instant I was only wearing boxer briefs. I resisted for a split second then gave in and hugged him back. Even though he was soaking wet the warmth radiating from his body overcame the shock of the cold. I could feel my body reacting to his. That feeling in the pit of your stomach. That shot of adrenaline.

I gently pushed him off me. I held him at arms length, my hands resting in his biceps. My body continued to betray me and my boxer briefs were failing to cover up what I was feeling.

I looked him in the eyes. He looked back.

“If you tell me to stay, I will” Kurt said to me. My knees nearly buckled. This shit doesn’t happen in real life. My heart was now pounding. I wanted nothing more to say yes pull him into my apartment and have a life with him. I wanted to adopt kids with him, watch him mow the lawn. Curl up with him in bed at night. Have coffee in the morning.

This is everything I have ever dreamed of.

I let go of his arms and looked down at the floor. “Kurt, we had one perfect day together. I’m gay though, you aren’t. I know how this story ends and I’m not going to put myself through it again.”

I looked to at him. His body was shaking from gentle sobs. I leaned forward and kissed his lips gently. I could taste the salt on his skin and it set my blood on fire.

“Now go Kurt, go back to your wife. Have your perfect life with her.”

Kurt looked back at me. “But Ethan, I love you”

“You don’t Kurt, you think you do but you don’t”

I gently guided him out the door, locking it behind him. I sat on the floor and cried harder then I ever had, and it turns out, harder then I ever would.

Blood.

Blood.

Blood.

I bang my fists on the bar and cry,

Blood

Blood

BLOOD.

The bartender’s hardly noticed, he gets this all the time. There are plenty of blood orderers in this town.

I bang my fists on the bar and cry

A SWARM

A SWARM

A SWARM OF BEES

An eye flicks upwards.

He’ll kick me out.

I whisper.

A pint.

A pint.

A pint of plain.

Black with white cream up top.

Nothing special, nothing new.

He whispers that I have no name, to keep my head down and keep it that way.

A gulp

A gulp

A gulp it’s gone.

Not Joe the Joker. Not Steve the Sailor. Not Éanna the Mé Féiner.

Just me. The drunkard. The No Namer.