My Servant Is An Elf Knight From Another World



A harrowing scream momentarily eclipsed every other sound blaring through the night, and as the music, the traffic, and a gust of cold wind billowed back in, whimpers followed… the haphazard trudge of many feet… as George and his group stalked off into the darkness, leaving only the barrenness of the wall in their place, the broken knife still buried deep in its ruptured surface. 

Then, after a long while of muted ambiance, Dave spoke up, his voice nasally and slurred, a far disparity from its usual overwhelming appeal.

"I won't even pretend to understand what exactly I just witnessed. Everything that happened was just… and you threw that knife as if… and… oh God, he stabbed you… are you…?" 

"I'm fine, and I would greatly appreciate it if you didn't question it anymore." 

Dave went quiet, both in compliance and utter confusion. Instead, he just looked toward Michael, all his thoughts and questions funneled into one unblinking stare. 

"How about you?" Michael then asked, ambling forward and effortlessly withdrawing the knife from the wall, a powdery cascade of dirt and dust spilling onto his shoes. "I suspect they've been beating at you for a lot longer than I was watching." 

Grunting, wincing heavily, Dave staggered himself upright, hovering a precarious hand over the wall as his knees threatened to buckle. 

"I'll live." 

"You'd be dead," Michael said, picking up the other half of the knife amidst the mess of blood and rubbish. "If I hadn't been here, you'd be dead." 

"Then I suppose it's quite fortunate that you were." 

One by one, Michael returned each upturned bin back to their rightful place, discarding the knife and slowly clearing the alley the best he could. Doing so more out of habit than anything.

"You didn't fight, didn't do anything to defend yourself," he continued on. "Not very smart." 

"Four against one. Odds are I managed to somehow bruise one of them in the struggle - then what? The circumstances wouldn't have changed, so why waste the effort?" 

"Under duress, most people would try anyway."

"Perhaps," Dave said, beginning to wipe the blood from his injuries with a napkin he fished out from his suit. "Then again, I never did like fighting." 

With a final resounding thunk of a bin, all was finally pristine and unassuming within the alley once more, save for the lone two figures huddled within, a peculiar quietness bridging the look in one another's gaze. 

"You're smart," Michael said. "Smarter than this. From what I gather, George had already paid you a visit earlier today. The dissatisfied client you mentioned earlier. Logically he was likely to return, had ample time to do something about it - but you didn't. Again, not very smart." 

"Well, well…" pushing through immense discomfort, a smile manifested past the black, blue, and red that was Dave's expression. "Look who's awfully talkative all of a sudden." 

"Simply curious," Michael grunted, turning away from his wry stare. "People like you don't make choices like this unless they know they're the ones that would be in control." 

"Oh? And just what exactly is it do you know about people like me?" 

"Too much," Michael returned his gaze forward. "So, which is it then? Were you?" 

Dave nicely began folding the bloodstained napkin, pocketing it, his appearance vaguely once more resembling the gentleman sitting across from him all those hours ago.

"George, along with the rest, you see," He began to explain. "Let's just say I've presented them with an opportunity, and with that opportunity… some mishaps have occurred, errors were made - all of their own doing, of course - and as such, some reparations had to be made… and regretful at their own expense." 

Michael just listened, feeling again that uncanny familiarity stirring within him. A side, and shade to life brimming with nothing but lies and deceit. A world almost too close to home. 

"Most people typically tend to simply cut their losses and move on," Dave continued. "But as you've seen, some others tend to wallow and linger longer than they should. It happens, and I've made sure every instance would be dealt with accordingly." 

"How so?" 

"Despite what you may think, I'm not entirely despicable. I believe in a just world, and I believe people should get what they rightfully deserve. You make big mistakes, you fumble some financial decisions, be gullible enough to fall for something so absurdly obvious, then perhaps you deserve to lose money for it."

"So George," Michael said, glimpsing far into the darkness where his footsteps abruptly faded.  "Did he deserve to lose everything?" 

"Not everything," Dave quickly clarified. "Being naive and foolhardy isn't a reason to deserve losing everything, and he didn't. I made sure he didn't, all of them didn't. Just enough for them to think twice in the future before accepting another seemingly golden proposition."

"Everything, he said," Michael interjected, recounting the look on George's face. "Unless you're expecting me to believe he was simply exaggerating." 

"And that's when a simple matter of cause and effect becomes frustratingly more complex," Dave heaved. "I repeat, I make dutifully sure each and every one of my clients is left with just enough to rebuild, to survive, to move on… but how they choose to do so, whether wisely or foolishly… I'm afraid that's simply out of my control." 

"How convenient a worldview that is," Michael said dryly. "To do as you do and still be acquitted of all responsibility and fault." 

"Would you rather I go further, actually squeeze them dry for all they have?" Dave asked calmly. "As evil and cruel as you might think I am, I oblige you to consider for a moment that it can easily be so much worse. At least with my belief, the convictions I hold… it's as you say… all is much more convenient, no?"

"And is it that very conviction you hold that compels you to simply stand by and do nothing as four men pummel you to near death?" 

"As I said, it could be so much worse," Dave took another wheezing breath. "The people I associate with, should they be made aware of what George and the rest were planning - I, you, them - none of us would be standing here right now, especially so for them, and even more so than money… none of them deserves to lose a life. Not for something like this. I told you, every client, every grievance, I make sure to deal with myself accordingly." 

"They were going to kill you."

"An oversight," he admitted, shaking his head. "I failed to gauge the level of animosity they had for me. I wished to settle things amicably, reason with them. I knew they'd beat me, kick me, bloody me to a pulp… but I never once considered that they'd be willing to go all the way. A mistake on my part. A mistake I would have paid for dearly if not for you." 

"So you did let them beat you willingly."

"They were angry, rageful, and apparently I was more than deserving," Dave reached a hand into his suit again. "If that's what they think, so be it. Who am I to argue with the worldview they have of things?"

Dave appeared to be missing something, his hand delving deeper into his suit pocket, important enough, distracted enough, to rifle through his other pockets in search of it. 

That's when Michael withdrew something from his, pulling out a glimmer of bright silver that instantly caught Dave's attention. 

"Full of surprises, aren't you?" he smiled appreciatively, taking the cigarette case from his hand. "And somehow I'm supposed to thank you for all of this, how exactly?" 

"Don't," Michael advised. "I don't want anything from you." 

"Why? Because you know how people like me really are?" He inquired, his skewed, swollen gaze somehow still surprisingly sharp. "Curious how right at home you seem to be with all of this." 

Michael chose to keep silent, and lingering in suspicion, Dave snapped open the clasp, lighting a stick with a strike of a match, and promptly began puffing away, the agony visibly ebbing from his body with every smoky exhale.

"Speaking of gratitude," he said after a while, a swirl of gray dispersing overhead his stare. "It's quite difficult for me to do when I don't even know the name of the individual I'm grateful toward." 

Michael contemplated for a moment, before finally answering, "It's Michael." 

"Well, then, Michael, thank you for saving my life," Dave said, and past a haze of smoke, and through grimy layers of dry blood, he gave a sincere smile. "Is there anything I can do to repay you?" 

Once again, Michael gave the thought a brief second of ponder.

"Keep far away from me," he said, briskly turning and departing through the same path of darkness he arrived from. "That's all I want." 

Behind him, he heard and smelt another deep exhale of smoke. 

"I'll try my best." 

And so, Michael strode away, eager to leave the shade and return to the light, to the world he had left. It was late. The others might be wondering what could be taking him so long. He had work early tomorrow too. A wife, a home to return to.

A way life much different. 

Then, halfway between both, Michael suddenly stopped in his tracks.

"Did you think you deserved it?" He asked out loud. "In your view of the world, do you believe you deserve what you got?" 

Glimpsing back into the distance, Michael could barely make out the figure still standing in place, and the red glow of a cigarette stick smoldering bright. 

"Well," He heard a voice echo, snigger, and breathe once more. "Who really can say?"