Gilded Grimoire #05 - Down the Barrel - Obligation

It's been a lovely weekend for me. In between the bustling of revision, I managed to slip a little petal that's blooming me open. So, yeah, you can say I'm a bit on the emo side right now.

Before going back from West Coast, I went around the park for a whiff of fresh air, with "The Loneliness - Babyface" ringing in my ears while messaging a new cordial acquaintance. It was a momentary bliss, but a memorable snapshot in time.

"You've hardly ever been kissed, but the kisses you've given are very missed."

With such inspiration and emotions running high, I've decided to release another one of my short stories. And boy, was I surprised to realise that the last fiction was in MAY!!! This time I've made 'obligation' the theme, so enjoy!

WARNING: The following fiction contains themes involving war, alcohol and death. NOT for the faint hearted.

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Gilded Grimoire #05 - Down the Barrel - Obligation
A fiction by Seraphim

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Had he and I but met
By some old ancient inn,
We should have sat us down to wet
Right many a nipperkin! (nipperkin: mug of beer)

- The Man He Killed by Thomas Hardy


I gave a cold stare at the man before me. There really was no reason not to. I was the one directing that morbid scene, an intense scene of the powerful over the helpless. It was not mercy that I showed, but something else.

I could have done it quickly, but for some reason a diabolical will within hissed me to do it slowly. As the despair of my prey surged through me, I could not help but shiver as my finger caressed the trigger.

Whatever sanity that I had was wondering at what I was doing in such a situation. Here I was, in the midst of this hellish battlefield, at the edge of victory, savouring a moment with my very own pet enemy. Maybe the bloodlust from the ongoing war was not enough; maybe a little indulgence in sadism was what I was really craving for. Whatever it was, I had my share of the fun now. I was short of reasons to keep him alive any longer.

A snigger slipped by my lips. I prominently cocked the sidearm, making sure that the cocking sound was audible to the both of us. At point blank, I squeezed an eye shut and took aim. My hand wavered around a bit to browse for a satisfying target. Out of ideas, I just decided to go for the head.

I cocked, I aimed, I shot.


But ranged as infantry,
And staring face to face,
I shot at him as he at me,
And killed him in his place.

- The Man He Killed


I was no fool. The battle might be lost, but no chance in hell was I going to skip down to hell without company. There was a fool in front of me though. Bloody Americans, always thought that they would win it all. Tough luck mate, not for you at least.

There was no point in living then, it’s either valour on the battlefield or torture in the hands of those bloody Americans. I watched that bastard prepare my ticket to hell, inside me screaming at my allowance for this humility. All was not lost, I reassured myself. I had his ticket to hell down my back. It was my blessing that he did not notice the loaded revolver tucking out of my back pocket. One way trip to hell coming right up.

Expected as it was, there was nothing to prepare me for staring down the barrel of that loaded gun. It was fear in its purest form, as the carnal instinct to survive kicked in. Accepting death was never part of nature’s plan. If I were not on my knees, they would have been nothing better than jelly. There was that damning sound from the gun, and a violent tremble shook through my body. This was it, I thought.

He cocked. He aimed. I aimed. He shot. I shot.


I shot him dead because--
Because he was my foe,
Just so: my foe of course he was;
That's clear enough; although

- The Man He Killed


Not my day I guess. And that would be the last day I would ever have. But I have to admit, that was a nice trick. Making me think that I had won the day, then pulling out the fast one back on me. It was not that bad at least. I died in pleasure from the sadism he granted me in my final moments.

Time really did seem to slow down, as I became part of the final act in that theatre of tragedy. They say your whole life flashes before you when you die. Well, not really. I only got to see the night before. It was a happy memory. My comrades and I spent the eve of the battle like we always did, bar hopping at the nearest town.

It was especially crowded that night. Not just with our men, but there seemed to be others out merry-making as well. There were the usual dose of drinks, cigars, and girls of course. Exhaustion prevented any bedroom activities that night, so we just settled for drinks with the locals.

There was this particular cheery man I happened to be of acquaintance of. Seemed like a local. We talked about life, family, war. What else do people in the middle of a war talk about these days? We never did talk about why we were there, but it was apparent that he was on the same boat as I was. Trying to find a bit of cheer in a graveyard.

That was it then. The ending chapter to my sad story of life. Nothing else to it. I had a final glance at that bastard before my eyes finally closed. Might want to thank him down in hell. Kind to think of it, the face was…


He thought he'd 'list, perhaps,
Off-hand like--just as I--
Was out of work--had sold his traps--
No other reason why.

- The Man He Killed


The look on his face was definitely worthy of the final moments of my life. It sure made all that tension worthwhile. As I was falling down to my final resting place, I felt no regrets. Life was that, a sad excuse to die. Getting a bit of excitement before the end was the most I could get out of it.

I knew that this battlefield would be my deathbed. The cockroaches in the pantry were outnumbering our troops. The atmosphere back at the bunkers was a cold whisper from death itself. I escaped the murder into the heart of the town, to do what any troubled man would do around there: drink.

At least people were more at ease there. Despite all the worries that burdened any soul around there, everybody acted carefree. Had a bit of a chat with the people there. The girls did not seem too willing that night. Even had a real conversation with a foreigner. The drinks were sure not strong enough that night.

As I was falling, I finally looked beyond the barrel of the gun into that bastard’s face. It was a memory happy enough to ease my stay in hell. Kind to think of it, the face was…


Yes; quaint and curious war is!
You shoot a fellow down
You'd treat, if met where any bar is,
Or help to half a crown.

- The Man He Killed


…his. …his.

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Alright, maybe this one is a bit on the morbid side. But what the hell. I felt like it. So what do you think? Comment!

An advice to whoever wishes to hear:

If the love is true, then you would be willing to part from her.
For only if you return, and there is still love, then the love was true.
If you are never willing to part, obsessed with what you thought was love,
Then there was never love in the first place.
Just an obsession.