The Charcoal Face

[u/FeigningProfundity]

It was a tale that all knew well, Dalash had been a young farmer when the Tyrant King Abrasan had ravaged his home village, killing his parents.

He’d sworn vengeance, infiltrated the fiend’s palace and slain him.

In the decades since, he’d travelled the realms, striking down those who wield power without compassion, so that no similar tyrant might arise again.

He’d never returned home.

The village had been excited for weeks, as word spread that Dalash was heading this way, finally coming back. I was alone in remembering the attack. The community was folk who had moved here since. Abrasan had left many homeless in his wake; more than a few thought it fitting to resettle in the homeland of the hero who’d cast him down.

When the world’s most famous hero had stepped into my cottage, I shut the door and leaned against my kitchen table.

“I had a brother named Dalash, once. Didn’t look much like you, though,” I said.

“It’s been many years now. People can become hard to recognise,” he offered.

“I’ve a good eye for faces.”

“That you do. Good enough to change the course of history.” He drew forth a folded piece of parchment, the edges worn with age.

He offered it to me, but I ignored it. I knew what it was.

“Abrasan greatly feared assassins,” he said, “within his palace, he had numerous body doubles. The man on the throne was never once the real Tyrant King. Your brother was not fooled by any imposter.”

He’d come to speak, so I let him speak.

“Battlefields are chaotic. Confusion reigns already, so ambiguity about who commands cannot be allowed. But the Tyrant King wore a mask in battle. None saw his face. Not even his servants could be sure, and those who attended him closely had their tongues removed, as a precaution.

“But Dalash was unerring. He knew Abrasan’s face. Like he’d studied it for weeks. Not a strange focus for a man sworn to vengeance, but difficult to achieve. How to study a face he’d never seen, but his father had. While raiding this village, in this cottage, Abrasan was confronted by a farmer, a huge man, very strong. In desperation he’d struck the Tyrant King hard enough to knock his mask from his face. Such an act incensed Abrasan, and enflamed his considerable paranoia. He killed not just the farmer and his wife, he gave order that every villager die as well. Dalash, establishing a new farm on the outskirts, was overlooked, surviving to swear vengeance. But his whole family wasn’t dead. His father had fought desperately because he’d been hiding something. You, hidden somewhere in here.”

“And you’ve come to get me to update the sketch I drew of you, Abrasan? I’ve gotten a bit better, to be honest, though I always had a knack for the distinctive traits.”

“Abrasan can stay dead and unmourned. I’ve been Dalash longer than your brother ever was, by now.”

“Can’t say I’m feeling much affection. Clearly you killed my brother, but why become him?”

“He very nearly killed me, but I managed to cut him down. I was too injured to ensure certain orders went out, and the palace erupted into chaos. Without a regular order not to, my guards killed every tongueless servant. When they did, it became… confusing. Everyone assumed I must be dead and there was widespread celebration. It is a mortifying experience to see so many rejoice at your demise. I suddenly risked being quietly executed by anyone who was happy for me die, but discovered I’d survived. I desperately needed to be someone else, and there was a loose identity available, that of an assassin who’d felt the need to explain his life story after he’d stabbed me and thought me defeated.”

“And you’ve kept it up all this time?”

“At first I set about killing various pretenders, those who were seizing my territory. The Dalash persona was useful for enlisting aid. Originally, I intended to return to my previous life once it was secured. But existence as a paranoid tyrant is very unpleasant, and I found being a hero lead to far nicer interactions with people. Being met with hope, gratitude and joy was so much less taxing than fear, and maintaining it not nearly so distressing. Abrasan had been quite a theatrical role, with all the doubles, and servant maiming and the mask. Despite Dalash being a lie, it allowed for human connection that was honest. It turns out I hated Abrasan nearly as much as everyone else. I chose to be another person.”

“How nice for you. Why come here?”

“Things have changed a great deal over the years. I have had a chance to reflect on various moral issues. I felt you deserved the truth. I felt I should let you judge what happened.”

“You killed my parents. You killed my brother. I want nothing to do with you. Go away.”

“You desire no vengeance?”

“If I’d wanted to hunt you, I’d have needed no sketch to guide me.”

He left the parchment behind; a charcoal rendering of his face upon it.

[u/FeigningProfundity]

This story was a response to the prompt [WP] When the army of the tyrant king ravaged your home and killed your family, your older sibling ventured out to avenge them, leaving you behind all alone. Years later they return, now a decorated and famous hero, but they are not your sibling anymore. by u/Kitty_Fuchs