The Death of Ferwin Howe
(Previously: “A Proper End”)
Old Ferwin rubs his naked belly, fingers following the deep groove crawling underneath his navel, where he’d spilt his guts once. After that unfortunate defeat, he’d joined the stable, fought for nearly seven years as one of Langrun’s gladiators. Good work, but it took its toll; by Ferwin’s count, he’d butchered some eleven-hundred men, all told—old men and young, free swordsmen and enslaved. By and large, as the crowds had demanded, he’d gutted his foes; slitting stomachs was simple enough, but surviving was harder. He’d guarded his bowels, though his body bore no end of other wounds, some petty, others grave. He’s thirty-five now, but between the rigors of those years of brutal combat and the constant, burning sun, the former fighter looks much older: tanned and leathery and wrinkled, hide marred head-to-toe with ugly scars... and yet he’s strong still, muscular and wiry, no less a man to fear than when he killed for coin.
It’s been eight years now since he came back to the coast, fifteen since he set out upon this journey in the first place, spilling Breccan’s innards on this very beach. A fisherman again, he’s happy to have left that gruesome life behind... yet, deep within his heart, he’s sure it won’t last. As the boy approaches him, short sword in hand, old Ferwin knows at once just who he is, and what he’s come to do...
The lad is lanky, only just a man but growing swiftly into his inheritance. His lean frame blooms with newfound muscle, taut and firm beneath his rosy nipples and his milk-white stomach. Like his father, he is freckled on his chest and shoulders, and his close-cropped hair is reddish-gold in hue. Soft tufts of fur have started sprouting underneath his collarbones and from his sternum, while his slender, almost concave belly remains smooth. “I wish to fight you,” he announces.
“No, you wish to kill me—do it, then.”
“So you are Ferwin, he who slew the gladiator Breccan... Never did I meet the man, but I would have my vengeance all the same. How did my father die?”
“Upon my trident,” Ferwin tells him, holding out the three-pronged, rusted spear; when Rowan sees it, he begins to shiver, picturing the hooked tines piercing Breccan’s meaty middle. “He was disemboweled... I gutted him.”
“Then I shall spill your guts in turn!”
“If that is what you wish.” Old Ferwin throws his weapon down, approaches Rowan; once within arm’s reach, he stands tall, back arched tight, his scarred, brown belly thrusted forward like an offering. The boy extends his sword arm, lays the tip against the deep groove carved between the man’s hips. Ferwin puts his hands upon the blade’s hilt, as if meaning to assist him in his task.
“This wound...”
“I’ve been eviscerated once before,” he tells him. “It will not be hard to open me again. How old are you, boy?”
Rowan puffs his chest out. “Old enough.”
“Aye, that you are... Now, get it over with.”
The lad begins to push, while Ferwin at the same time pulls himself upon the steel, meeting him halfway. Young Rowan, with his free hand, reaches underneath the elder fighter’s arm and grips his shoulder, steadying them both. He feels the weapon piercing Ferwin’s waist, and looks up: Ferwin looks him in the eye, then bites his lip and nods.
Thhhlutch—
“Ernghhh...!”
Rowan’s eyes grow wide; indeed, like Ferwin said, it isn’t hard, and as he draws the edge across the killer’s battle-ravaged stomach, following the scar’s path, Rowan sees a man’s guts for the first time: pale, shiny as a prize—the bitter fruits of combat. As the slippery intestines bulge forth in the blade’s wake, Ferwin doesn’t protest—no, instead he leans back, lets them slide out, falling down the damp crotch of his sea-soaked trousers. Chuckling, he stumbles backward, then collapses on the rocks.
Resembling a victor in his triumph, Rowan shoves his sandaled foot upon the dying gladiator’s chest, and puts the sword’s point at his throat.
“So... y-young,” groans Ferwin, shivering with pain. “You’ll be... like him... one day... Like... me—hurghk—!”
Blood erupts as Rowan stabs his neck; old Ferwin’s eyes cross, then fall dark. The lad is shaking with excitement, smiling slightly. He has never in his young life known such power, such intensity of pleasure... and before long, he will need to kill again, that he might sate this queer, rapacious need!
(Next: “Good Death”)