Heart of ice

A heart of ice should be easy to own, easy to control. A heart of ice shouldn’t make you sense anything: no pain, no sadness, no sorrow, nothing. Then why did he feel it? Why did he feel the cold, the freeze clinging on to his chest in such a tight grip, that blocked his breath and stole the air out of his lungs? What was the use of a frozen, anaesthetised heart, if the absence of emotions was also an emotion? In the years he had come to the conclusion that he had been cursed. Whatever thing it was that he had done to deserve such fate, it had to be something grave. And whatever thing it was, he had forgotten it, like all the rest. He looked around: the grass was high, the wind was blowing, but no trace of the man he was waiting for. Instead, some figures in the far distance started take shape from the haze: they were armed men. Five of them, and Killian was alone. But no fear grazed his nerves and no chill ran through his body, it had always been part of his curse and at the same time his gift: Killian was born to kill. He remained still like a statue, as they advanced on their horses. Each of them wore differently coloured uniforms and carried diverse weaponry. There was no doubt, they were the Five Generals. Rumour had it they were the strongest warriors that ever existed, trained since they were children to fight for the conquest manias of the king. But Killian wasn’t there to fight, he had come to that tulip field for another reason: one which apparently had been just a setup. A thick and sudden fog ran up against the plain, surrounding him, so that Killian wasn’t able to see anymore. The point of a sword had stopped right in front of his right eye, because he had managed, just in time, to hold down the stroke. Rapidly, he had emitted from his left hand a piece of ice, which he then had used to block the weapon of his enemy. In the fog he saw two grey eyes staring at him: the general hadn’t stopped and continued to bombard Killian with blows. But for Killian that game was like breathing, he modelled the piece of ice that he held in his hand into a sword, which was hovering in the air like it was possessed of a life of its own, with vehemence and solemnity, directing a concert of squeak and crashes. The rival was exhausted and the fog dissipated. A mere few minutes and the other three generals were on the floor, visibly aching. Ridiculous… The last of the Five Generals had been sitting on a rock the entire time, enjoying the show. To Killian’s surprise, the last general’s skin turned to stone, and he charged at him like a furious bull. Pure primal strength: for the first time in that fight Killian felt fear. But as soon that feeling propagated in his bones, he became a demon. He froze the only part of his adversary’s body that was still human: his eyes. Shocked and in pain, the rock-guy screamed and turned human again. A singular strike and Killian’s katana pierced right through the middle of his heart. The other generals were aghast. Killian withdraw his sword from the corpse violently , then with devilish eyes and the iced sword, stained with blood, in his cold hand, headed towards them. But suddenly he heard the echo of an applause from behind the trees. “Compliments, five minutes.” A laugh also joined that silly pounding of hands. Killian didn’t even bother to turn around: “you must be Zaka. I was told that you wanted to talk with me. What was the use of this little theatre?”