It was the first time he'd felt anything in hundreds of years. He'd forgotten emotion long ago. Initially, he'd been driven by rage, by a yearning for freedom, a craving for revenge. However, time had caught up, his wrath had faded, extinguished by the truth of his curse, the relentless toil of a servant's life. He'd once been Filipe de Leon, marquess of the notorious Spanish counties of Valencia and Granada, now there was left nothing but a broken shell of a man, cursed to assist the one he'd once looked upon with disdain and superiority.
Still, this had been different.
It had stirred a spark that might feed a great flame. An inferno. Hell itself.
It had awoken a monster that had long lay dormant.
Not hope, hunger. Hunger to be free once again, to spill every last drop of his master's blood onto the man's prized Persian sheepskin rug.
It had all started that morning, Filipe had been listening to his master, Enrique de Montoya, rant about the daily business and anecdotes of the royal palace in Toledo when one of the maids entered the office.
“Sir, there is a visitor who wishes for an audience,” she said with a courteous bow.
“Very well, you ought to bring him in then,”
She curtsied again and added, “Shall I fetch a tray of tea?”
“That would be lovely,” he answered. “Make sure to use the new porcelain set.”
“Yes, Sir.”
The first thing Filipe noticed when the guest entered accompanied by the maid who set the large tea tray unto his master’s mahogany desk before leaving was the enormous black cloak the stranger wore. Cloaks were never a good sign, who knew what weapons could be hidden under the thick dark material that seemed to wrap this strange man in eerie shadows? A large hood covering his face revealing nothing but thin pursed lips and skin so pale and sickly it resembled the colour of ashes turned cold.
His master's face twisted into a grimace, “El Cuervo”, The Raven. “To what honour do I owe this visit?” he asked gesturing towards the empty seat facing him.
The man sat and poured the hot tea into two cups steam billowing around them. He took a light sip of his tea with his pinky sticking out. Enrique trembled fearfully.
“Why so scared, after all, your closest servant” - he gestured towards Felipe with his cup of tea – “isn't much of more of a man than myself.”
“What do you want filthy viper?” snapped Enrique.
“Him,” he pointed his pinky towards Filipe once again.
“He is not up for bargain.”
“You ought to know that I tend to be very displeased when I am not given what I ask for.”
Summoning his last bit of courage Enrique retorted, “You will leave the second or I will have to force you out.”
The Raven leaned forward until his chapped lips rested centimeters away from Enrique’s ear, “It would be quite entertaining to see you try. I'll warn you once again; you don't want me as your enemy Montoya.”
He wrapped his long delicate fingers around Enrique’s throat and used his other hand to slowly remove his own hood. His face appeared somewhat youthful with his bright silver hair which shimmered like the moon on the obscure winter nights. Yet unlike Filipe who was fascinated at the sight, Enrique whimpered upon noticing the man's eyes. For he had none.
Empty hollow dark sockets.
Skin stretched tight over the sharp bones of his face where the eyebrows should have been.
Thin white scars running down his temples over the bridge of his nose and all around these empty holes.
No, not quite empty.
Obscured.
A shadowy mist swirling where the man's eyes should have been.
Darker than the ink bottle that had spilt over the mahogany desk.
Darker than the soul Filipe had lost so long ago.
Darker than a Ravens plumage.
Dark like the deepest pit of the abyss reigned by Beelzebub, the Demon himself.
“You don't want to be subject to my wrath Montoya. I expect your servant to come with me and if you refuse then I shall gouge your eyes out and feast upon them as the raven does to the corpses left in the conquistador’s wake,” he whispered as he let go of Enrique.
The Raven settled the weight of his gaze onto Filipe right as he got up to exit.
That was when the sensation had filled him.
The rage that he thought forgotten resurfaced deep within.
A small spring that might feed a boundless ocean.
“Ah… you feel it too” - his mouth broke into an ugly toothless grin – “Like calls to like, so the darkness calls to you as it calls to me. Forget this life, forget this idiotic man you serve. You believe yourself bound by a curse, the never-ending retribution for the evil you caused hundreds of years ago. The darkness rules all. Let it break this malediction. Embrace the wickedness that has rotten you to the core.
“What must I do? Filipe asked.
“What must be done,” he answered handing him a small blade with the words “Tomalo todo. No te aflijas. No dejes nada.” carved onto the hilt. Take all. Grieve not. Leave nothing.
Filipe took it sealing his fate. He brought the blade to his face and slowly pierced the corner of his tear duct. The tears he hadn't shed in decades came again, yet this time they ran red. He sunk the blade a bit deeper; relief flooding every inch of his body, his mind, his wretched soul, for he cherished the pain he felt in this moment because truthfully it was the last time he'd feel or cherish anything...
