"Not my way" - An Aramus story

“Not my way”

Part I

A young man sat at a desk, a place that he felt the most at home. He was busy writing about the differences between good and evil, a topic that often plagued his mind. He had often walked the streets of his city, coming across horrible acts of violence and often wondered why such a thing needed to exist.

The man smiled as he set his quill down and ran a hand through his thick black hair. The man was fairly handsome and had all the qualities that a woman would look for in a man, however he always felt different. He had often suffered under the pressure of his father, the man that had devoted his entire life to the sword. Though the man admired his father for fighting against evil, he had done nothing but try to persuade him to try and solve the conflict without the end result being a fight to the death.

The young man was named Aramus, a name that had been passed down in the Galenos bloodline for generations. Every man that had taken the name of Aramus in the family had grown to become a mighty warrior, a sword that fought for truth, perhaps more so than a paladin of the light.

His father had always looked upon Aramus with a degree of disappointment; the way that Aramus had chosen to live his life was completely unlike what his namesake implied. Aramus hated violence, choosing to simply write away his days with the ultimate goal of becoming a scholar.

Each day was lived in the same way, day in, day out. However, one night changed the norm.

Lucas burst into Aramus’s room in the dark of night, his hands stained with blood.

“Aramus! Wake up!” he yelled.

Aramus shot up in his bed, turning on the light beside him and peered at his father.

“Father, your hands and your armour… what’s happened?” he muttered with a look of confusion painted across his face.

“Your mother has been murdered, she tried to help a member of a gang in our streets, she paid the ultimate price and so to will they!” he yelled, his face was a mix of emotions, the more prominent being that of anger and sadness.

Aramus climbed out of his bed and held his hands to his face; he began to quietly weep into them. His mother had been a wonderful woman, she was beautiful, calming and more importantly, accepting. Her life as a priest had been spent helping anyone that would accept it and this was not the first time she had been attacked for trying to help the wrong person… but dead? Murdered?

Lucas walked across the room to Aramus and yanked his hands from his face.

“Now is not the time for tears boy!” he yelled angrily.

“Then what would you say it is time for? More pointless bloodshed? IS THE BLOOD OF MY MOTHER NOT ENOUGH FOR YOU?!” screamed Aramus as he lifted his head and returned the same look of anger that his father had often directed towards him.

“You would live the rest of your life, knowing that you had not avenged the death of your mother? The woman that accepted you for what you are? Why do you cry if you are not willing to avenge her death?” yelled Lucas.

“I cry for my loss, I cry for Azeroth’s loss and finally, I cry because all I have left… is you” said Aramus as he forcefully pushed his father back across the room.

Lucas looked at his son with a fierce glare before spitting on the floor.

“I will not let you sit in this room and cry for the loss of anyone! You will take up the sword and you will follow me, we will come back and mourn once we have their heads” said Lucas through gritted teeth as he moved over to a cupboard that stood in Aramus’ room.

The cupboard was covered in dust, despite the rest of the room being spotless in every other aspect. Lucas roared as he wiped cob webs away from the cupboard frantically before yanking the doors open, grunting as one of them broke away and crashed to the floor.

Inside was a suit of armour that Lucas had made for Aramus a year beforehand, a sword and shield accompanying it on a shelf above.

“I’m going downstairs, if you aren’t outside the house wearing this armour in ten minutes, you will never see me again” muttered Lucas as he walked away from the cupboard and out of the room, slamming the door forcefully behind him.

Aramus slowly walked towards the cupboard, tears still streaming down his smoothly shaven face. He rubbed a hand across his forehead as he stared at the armour and weaponry, clamping his eyes down again for a moment, as if trying to push the last of his tears out.

With one final loud cry, he reached into the cupboard and began pulling the suit of armour on. As he prepared the suit and grabbed the sword and shield, he began to feel the anger of losing his mother beginning to swell inside him.

He looked at his hands, clasped in chain mail, one tightly gripped around the hilt of a broadsword.

“This is what violence causes… now for one act of violence I will commit murder and I can already feel my resolve wavering” he spluttered through tears.

He walked across the room and picked up his quill, staring at a photograph of his mother briefly before he began to write.

“Mother,

I am truly sorry for what I am about to do.
I beg that when you are surrounded by the light that you adored,
That you do not hate me or damn my actions.
I love you mother.
More than you will ever know.

These are the last words to be written by Aramus of the house of Galenos, the words of a man that will soon become a murderer”

He snapped the quill in his hands and ran to the door, swinging it open with force and charging down the stairs. As he came to the front of his home, he could see his father already engaged in battle with the murderers of his mother.

It was almost as if the rage inside him was turning his tears to steam as his face rid itself of emotion and he charged into battle, immediately removing the head of one of the men.

As he continued to fight, all that he could picture in his mind was the warm face of his mother, her arms open wide to comfort him, usually due to his father’s words. The last thing that his mother had ever told him, was to keep his chin up and ignore the taunts of his father, that one day, he would solve the problems of Azeroth with his diplomatic nature, his words.

Because of this, it was almost as if Aramus’ limbs were moving without his consent, his mind constantly focused on the image of his mother, hearing her voice in his head over and over like a broken record, all of which was going on as Aramus joined his father in murdering the men.

The battle was soon over, the murderers of his mother lay in bloodied heaps on the ground. The grip around his hilt had not wavered as he breathed heavily and peered at the death that lay in front of him, their blood spilt not only on the ground but on his blade and even on his face.

“My son, that was truly glor-“ started Lucas.
“Don’t”
“Because of you, I have gone against everything that I am. I will never be the man that went to sleep this evening”

Before the two could even engage in an argument, the law enforcers of the city arrived on horse back, all of them with their weapons drawn.

“Lucas Galenos! Aramus Galenos! For shedding blood on the streets of the king, you are under arrest!” they yelled.

“Come now, Aramus!” shouted Lucas as he grabbed Aramus by the arm and yanked him into running from the soldiers.

They ran behind their home and into the stable, quickly mounting two of the horses and charging towards the oncoming soldiers. Lucas slammed his shield forcefully into the face of one of them, sending him back and resulting in two soldiers being thrown from their horse.

Without thinking, Aramus simply swung his sword out to his side, beheading a soldier. He was numb, his eyes were glazed over and still the same image of his mother played inside his mind, the never ending cycle of the mother he adored with all his heart.

As the pair charged away from the city, Lucas peered to his son, watching as his face held no expression, his limbs made no movements.

“You will thank me, one day” he said.

“Not my way”

Part II

Aramus lay in a bed, his hands placed beneath his head as his vision fixed itself upon the ceiling. They had travelled far since their escape from Lordaeron and now Aramus found himself following his father without question, as far as Darkshire.

He hadn’t spoken a word since they ran from the city, guards and soldiers chasing them for hours on end. He couldn’t bear to sleep for the images that ripped through his mind, the thought of his mother and the death that Aramus had caused in her name were more than he could take.

All the while his father stood at his side, pushing him more and more into a life he hated. Because of this pushing, it was not only the life he had or even the man that he was becoming that he hated, it was his father. He cried at night for forgiveness from his mother, crying his apologies into the night, the thought of killing his father with his own two hands lay dormant in his mind.

It was if the actions of his father on that fateful night had planted a seed of hatred within his mind and no matter how much Aramus refrained from watering that seed, it would continue to grow, changing and twisting him into something he desperately did not wish to become.

He turned his head to look at the door as it slowly opened, the outline of his father filling his vision. He turned his gaze back to the ceiling, letting out a sigh as his father stepped over and sat on the end of his bed.

“I’ve found us some work here. The village is plagued by a ruthless gang of bandits by the name of the Caans. They have asked us to eliminate those that lie in waiting on the roadside. Get up and come with me, we have to exercise our honour”

Aramus sat up and got out of bed, still refusing to speak a word to his father and walked over to the suit of armour he burnt with hatred towards. He watched as Lucas left the room quietly, allowing Aramus the time to fully equip himself.

Lucas slowly walked down the stairs as he calmly lit his first cigarette since he had married his wife, the second promise he had broken in the past week.

“I will always protect you; keep you safe, you have my word”
“If you hate the fact I smoke, then I will cast it out of my life, for you”

Lucas stepped out of the inn and peered up, dark clouds were forming in the sky, and if a storm was to arrive it would make locating these Caans much more difficult.

“Aramus! Hurry it up!” he shouted as he flicked ash carelessly on the ground.
Lucas was shoved forward as Aramus stepped out of the inn, pushing past his father without any care. He looked down at his son with a glare, only to be met with the same eyes of hatred he had seen since they fled from their city.

“Come, grab your horse, we set out immediately” said Lucas as he walked towards his horse. He peered behind him before climbing upon it, to make sure that Aramus was doing the same. He shook his head slightly as he watched Aramus mount his horse lazily, as if his body were not being controlled by his mind.

The two charged away from Darkshire at high speeds, following the twisting paths towards the last known location of the Caans. From the information that Lucas had been given, the Caans were proud of the way they tormented anyone that dare travel along “their” road. Countless supply wagons had been looted by this family of bandits and it was said that each and every one of them was as ruthless as the next.

The man that had issued them with the task spoke carefully about the subject, telling Lucas that he had lost two of his sons to these people and that it had hurt him beyond his wildest dreams.

Lucas peered to his right, staring at his son whose eyes were focused on nothing, as if the idea of getting out of bed was a harsh task for him.

Lucas could not help but feel he had broken his son by forcing him into the life he now led but where would he be otherwise? Lucas did not regret his actions, he would never have left his son to idly plead with the evil of the world to lay its weapons down, no, not his son. A Galenos is born and bred to fight, much like the Caans they would face soon enough and Aramus would rise up to claim that place among the bloodline, even if Lucas had to push him to the ends of the earth.

Lucas turned his gaze back to the road and brought his horse to a halt; he listened for Aramus to do the same and nodded, staring at the group of bandits before them.

“This ‘eres our road, y’wanna give us yer feckin’ stuff n’ piss off. We’ll ‘ave the ‘orses n’ all, make a fine meal outta ‘em.” shouted one of them.

Lucas jumped from his horse and drew his sword from its sheath, holding it in front of him with a smirk on his face.

“Isn’t it lucky for me that you decided to show your faces so early into the night, I am here to rid this forest of your kind” he shouted in return.

Aramus slowly slid from his horse and stood a few steps behind his father, his blade in his hand, though it pointed towards the ground.

“Stay strong, Aramus! This is the task that has been given to us, wipe out these scumbags with no remorse, you are a Galenos!” shouted Lucas before charging directly at the bandits.

Aramus slowly lifted his head, his eyes seemingly empty of colour, watching as his father’s large blade swung around the bandits like an enraged lion. If he concentrated enough he could almost hear the roaring of such an animal, perhaps that was the roaring from within his heart.

It was and he knew it, the roaring of his crying soul as it released the rage and hate that he felt for his father. His hand gripped tightly around the hilt of his blade as he suddenly charged to aid the man he hated.

As he slid into the fray, one of the bandits turned and fired an arrow in his direction. Aramus jolted backwards as the arrow pierced his armour and stabbed into his shoulder, as he slowly rested on one knee he could hear the laughter of that bandit, his words echoing in his mind.

“The feck is this kid? S’jes a target lads!”
“Look at ‘im, one lil’ arrow!”
“Feckin’ pussy!”

With that last sentence Aramus stood up and launched himself forward and stopped the jeering bandit in the only way he knew how, his sword rammed through his throat.

“Your words are like poison!” he yelled as he ripped his blade sideways across the bandit’s throat, the roaring that had only been felt in his soul now erupting to the surface.

Aramus turned and swung his blood-coated blade straight down, slicing another bandit across the face and chest. He breathed sharply and stood staring at the dying men in anger, his hand gripped tightly around the hilt of his sword and yet his arm shook wildly.

Lucas stared at Aramus with a degree of disbelief, though he had quite clearly taken down two of the bandits, he was still terrified of combat. He shook his head and looked across the row of corpses before feeling a sharp pain in his back.

“What?!” he yelled.

Aramus quickly looked up and saw as the only remaining bandit sliced into Lucas’s back with his large axe. Lucas fell to his knees and dropped his sword as his head turned to look at Aramus.

Aramus charged towards the bandit and watched as he removed his axe only to swing again, forcing another mortal wound onto Lucas.

Noticing that he wasn’t fast enough, Aramus moved his hand to the very end of the hilt of his blade and threw it towards the bandit. Aramus fell to his knees at his father’s side as his blade pierced the chest of the bandit, sending him falling towards the floor.

Aramus lifted his father into his arms and peered at him, he was bleeding heavily, blood seemed to be flowing from his mouth like a river, and there was no chance of survival.

“You must be what I can no longer be, Aramus. Be the soldier that your name demands” he spluttered.

“TO HELL WITH YOU!” screamed Aramus.

Lucas’s eyes widened for a moment before the last shred of life fell from his body. Aramus growled slightly and simply dropped his father’s corpse onto the ground and stood up, peering around at the death that surrounded him. This was the life of a soldier; this was the life of a man that cut people down for money.


Aramus looked at the last bandit to fall and leant down to pick up his axe. He struggled to wield the large axe, its weight proving too much for his scrawny arms. He sighed as he let the blade hit the floor and walked away from the corpses, dragging the axe behind him.

“Not my way”

Part III

Three months had passed since the death of Aramus’s father. He had travelled from the woods that had taken his life and made his way to Lakeshire, where he had taken up residence in the inn with the gold he had made for completing the job they had been assigned.

He sat at a desk with his face in his hands, something that he had spent the majority of his days doing in those three months. It had taken him weeks to even clean the blood from his hands; he was going through so many changes at once. He sat back in the chair and let his arms flop down to his sides, as if there was no life in them. He stared at the ceiling with cold eyes. It was at times like this that he would have usually cried, cried for everything that he had lost and all that he had done since then and yet he could not. There were no more tears left within him, he could shed none for the deeds he had done or for the death of his beloved mother.

“What am I now?” he said aloud as he leaned forward again and stared at the fresh parchment on the table. He had bought plenty of it since arriving in Lakeshire, yet he had written nothing. He couldn’t even bring himself to put his quill to ink, let alone press any of that ink on the parchment. He was not that man anymore, he knew that what he was had died that night. He growled and swiped the pile of parchment from the table, before swinging his right arm and slapping the inkpot and quill away as well.

He stood up, letting the chair fall to the floor and shook his head quickly, and he wasn’t even a man. He was a boy, a boy that had wanted something so different to what he had now, he wanted a new life. He turned and stared at the axe that he dragged with him from that night, the axe that had taken the life of his father.

He walked across the room and knelt down in front of it and reached forward, taking a hold of its handle. He pressed the handle against his forehead and closed his eyes, he knew that the path he had been set on would be full of everything he was truly against, he knew that he would have to do things that he would forever despise himself for, but there was nothing left.

He would have to become a man that fought to solve his problems, fought to solve the problems of others and maybe, just maybe, he would be absolved of his sins in the end. He stood up and walked over to a trunk sat at the end of his bed and leant down to open it with a sigh. As the lid flicked open and revealed the armour his father had given him he was hit with a wave of anger. He stood up again and walked away from the trunk, rubbing his eyes with a single hand.

“No, I can’t let him stop me doing anything. Everything is his fault and to spite him… I will become something he never was” he said to himself as he turned to face the trunk again, staring at it like he was stood before an enemy. He walked towards it and began reaching into it, pulling out the various pieces of mail and setting them on the edge of his bed.

If he was going to be better than his father, if he was going to live a life of war and death, he would need to practise and the first step of that practise was learning how to use the axe that rid him of his father.

--

He stepped out of the inn and turned right, heading up a hill towards an area of Redridge where he wouldn’t risk hurting anyone. He had managed to keep the axe from scraping across the floor yet was still having trouble lifting it. He grunted as he came to a halt and let the blade hit the floor, he had reached a safe enough place, he was sure of it.

He began doing basic stretches, something that his father had taught him long before he decided to become a scholar, long before any of the tragic events had taken place. As he slammed himself against the floor and began doing press ups, he realised just how write some of his writing had been. How life is a fickle thing, how even the most devoted servants of the light are not always the most kind or the most correct. Lives could be taken so easily, he thought. In his mind he knew he would not allow his life to be taken with even a shred of ease and with each push up, he began more determined. He stopped and rolled onto his back, deciding a few sit-ups would benefit him.

As sweat began to form on his brow his mind travelled back to the moment he had seen his father die and the last thing he had said to him. “TO HELL WITH YOU!” echoed in his mind as he continued to exercise, words that he did not regret. The last words he thought he could give that ever had any true meaning. He was a boy with a future indeed, but he would never consider that fact. He was a boy stuck in the past, trying to break free.

He stopped exercising and let out a deep breath before slumping onto his back and breathing sharply. It had been a long time since he chose to exercise of his own accord, he was by no means unfit but he certainly wasn’t used to it. He peered up at the setting sun in the sky and reached up, as if trying to grab it with his hand.

“Do not set on me yet, my friend. I’ve work to be doing” he thought as he stood up quickly and peered down at the axe. With a large amount of determination on his face he grabbed the handle and began to lift with all his strength, feeling the muscles in his arms tensing and burning. He grimaced slightly as he got the axe upright before letting out a small smirk. Once he had gotten himself used to the weight he would be able to practise as much as he liked with the weapon.

With that came hours upon hours of Aramus simply lifting the axe from the floor and back up again, before slamming it back down and repeating the process. He had the same method in anything, a method he had always poured into his writing. He would never move onto the next step until he was certain he had achieved the first step completely.

With the final fluid lift of the axe, Aramus smiled and looked to the sky. He hadn’t paid any attention to his surroundings at all, he had managed to go through the entire night doing that simple routine, the sun was rising again. He stared at the axe before peering at a nearby tree. He shook his head and rested the axe handle over his shoulder; he had worked for far too long, even if he had achieved what he had set out to do, it was time for him to rest.

--

Aramus lay in his bed, simply staring at the ceiling again. The satisfaction that came with achieving a goal was still not enough to help him sleep soundly. There would be many more nights of this, he thought. He closed his eyes and rolled over, hoping the dreams that awaited him were not of bloodshed and tears.

“Aramus? Can you hear me son? What’s that you’re doing?”

An even younger Aramus peered up his mother, smiling widely as a young boy would. The sound of his mother was enough to fill the boy with happiness, the sight of her would cause anything from a laughter fit to an attack of hugs, however, the boy simply smiled at her today.

“I’m.. wr..” he started before frowning and looking at the page, he was still struggling with speech, something had baffled most people in the city, since his writing was well beyond that. “I’m writing!” said the boy with a toothy grin.

“Of course you are. Never stop writing Aramus, I will always appreciate and love you” said his mother in the soft tone that he loved.

--

Aramus shot up in bed, his arm outstretched.

“Mother!” he yelled, before looking around the room. He was still here, she was still gone and he was going against her wishes. “Dammit” he whispered before letting the arm hit the bed.