The Fool Recognizes his Fate

“Are you awake?” the voice says.

I try to move, I can’t. I try to scream, it echoes around the helmet.

“That won’t help,” the voice tells me in a reassuring tone.

“What? What is going on, who are you?” I sputter. The suit of armor around me shrugs, my shoulders go with it, I wince.

“I am a knight. At least, that’s what they tell me. I don’t remember anything before they put me here.”

“Why? Why did you take me?” I ask, trying to ignore the suffocating darkness.

The Knight is silent.

“Hello?” I call. It reverberates around the inside of the helmet.

“I—“ the knight whispers, “I don’t know, you looked sad and I wanted to help.”

I frown in the dark.

“I’m not sad. I’m perfectly happy and my friend is waiting for me so, could you let me out?”

An uncomfortable sigh fills the helmet.

“I, I don’t think that is a good idea. If I let you out now, they will get you. Like they did your friend.”

I feel a pulsing in my head. “What do you mean?”

“But!” the knight says, ignoring me. “No reason we can’t have a nice evening together, so!” My leg moves, not of my own accord. I begin walking, the suit of armor controls everything. My hands swing awkwardly, my left leg cramps. My stomach flips twice over.

“Stop! Stop!” I call. The moving stops.

“I feel like I am going to vomit.”

“Oh, sorry.” The knight says. The visor of the helmet slides open. The room is in a dull light, the cold air feels good on my face. I vomit anyways.

“Aww,” the knight moans.

I cough. “Sorry,” I grumble.

“That’s okay,” the knight tells me, moping. I begin moving again. Each step cracks along the marble floor. We stop in front of a wall of what appears to be knights. Except they are made from rusted iron, old broken gun barrels, ammo shells, and all sorts of scrap metal. One even has an empty can of instant borsch as a head. I frown up at them.

“What are these?” I ask, my curiosity taking over for a moment.

“They are called Dyedushkas,” it informs me. “The Babushkas created them from war-scraps to be their servants. These ones are some of the first models. Today you can hardly tell the difference between them and a normal man. It says here they run on cognac and canned gin and tonics. These models are old. Very volatile. If you were to put, say, vodka in them. Well, it isn’t pretty, boom,” the knight finishes, dramatically.

I stare for a moment into the depths of the twisted barrel of a grenade launcher acting as a forearm. I wonder what L would have told me about them. Then suddenly I realize.

“Wait!” I cry as the knight begins moving me again. “What did you mean they got my friend?”

The knight scratches its own head. It pierces my ears.

“I really shouldn’t say.”

“Tell me right now!” I flounce.

The voice mutters something.

“What?”

“The babushkas,” it groans.

I shudder inside of the suit of armor.

“Let me out right now.”

“I can’t. Not till morning.”

I grind my teeth. “Then take me to where she is.”

“But—“

“No buts!” I growl, channeling my mother.

“Geez, fine,” The Knight pouts. We are moving again. He walks to a wall and presses on the head of an antique mace hanging there. The wall opens. We go through.

TO BE CONTINUED…

For the prequel, click here