Just The Beginning

Swords, Knives, and magic. All stretched out in front of him. It was a blur of movement, barely registering in his mind. He knew he was fighting, that his body was moving, but he couldn't remember why. Stab, punch, kick. Ruin. Kill. Anyone who crossed his path, red eyes, and anyone who dared to fight him. Sharp pain, red eyes, a shield. Another spell came his way. Another person dead. Another face he didn't see. Again and again, red eyes, and again and again, something was wrong, and again, he couldn't control his body, and again, red eyes, a distant memory, and blood and pain. His body moved on its own. The sword in his hand, a hand he couldn't move, a heavy reminder of his predicament as he strained to understand what was happening. Where was he? His body continued through the wall of people, red eyes (he saw them in his mind. Who's were they?), and pain. He'd been hit. A sting in his side as his body turned to face the assailant, a girl, with red eyes. Red eyes, red eyes, red, red, red, he knew her. He knew he did. Who was she?   "Papa?" Her quiet voice reached his ears. He growled, an animalistic sound so foreign to his ears, and his body began to fight her. She had red eyes, she wasn't fighting back. He searched dim memories. Blurred faces, dull places, thoughts and people he couldn't remember and his mind scrambled for purchase on things he should have known. Why couldn't he remember? Why, why, why, and then it flashed before his eyes.   He could see it. He could remember. A young woman, dead, laying on a cot. A baby, carefully placed in his arms. A crying infant, born too small, too early, not ready, with red eyes. A baby, his baby, his Annie. A hard jolt shook him. His body was still moving, still fighting. But that was his Annie fighting it. She was holding a sword. She was casting spells. She looked scared. She was shouting at the people behind her. He couldn't piece together what she said. It seemed like she was trying to keep them back. She ran forward again. No. Why? He knew, through muddled, scattered, thoughts, how this would end. How she would die, his baby, by his hand. But he couldn't stop it.   Not as his body continued to push her back.   Not as it fought and pushed and stabbed.   Not as she dodged and yelled and stumbled back.   She ran forward, blade outstretched. His body lunged forward to meet her, to kill her. She needed to dodge, what was she doing, she still moved forward, was she crying? His arm moved forward, his baby, his Annie, all he had, his world, no, please no, and he moved. His arm moved. He moved his arm. Not much. Just enough. His sword missed her. He grinned.   He grinned as the sword fell from his hand. He grinned as he felt control seep back into his limbs. He grinned through the pain in his chest. He grinned and... he looked down.   At the sword in his chest. At his daughter. Annie. Beautiful, amazing, Annie, who had tears running down her cheeks as she looked at her hands, at her sword. "No," it came harshly through her lips. Broken, as if in disbelief. "No. No, no, no, please no,"   "Annie," he tried to speak, to say her name. It got caught in his throat. Blood filled his mouth. "Papa," she was sobbing. He lifted his hand to cup her cheek. To wipe away her tears. Purple veins in his arm and hand glowed.   "His head, Annie! You have to get his head!" The shout came from far away. Behind him. A person he couldn't see. He leaned forward and touched his forehead to hers, looked into her eyes. They were her mother's eyes. "It's okay, sweetheart." A whisper, so small, so quiet, but still all he could manage. He wanted to, tried to, comfort her, the little that he could. "Let me go." Her body shook as she cried. She looked as if she was going to speak and he thought that maybe, briefly, there was a spike of pain, before everything went black.