"There were sixty of them in total. . . I only managed to kill fifty three. . ." Pitcher responded, looking away from the boy on the floor. A silence hung between them. A knowing silence. Somewhere outside an owl hooted. Moonlight flooded through the open window, it hit Pitcher's sword and didn't reflect. He had confirmed the boy's worst fears.

"Shit. . . It was you. . ." his voice trembled, "Shit! Shit! It really was you! Fuck, stay away from me! It was only a rumor! Shit! They didn't tell me it was actually you!" He lurched to his feet, clutching his hand and running to the trapdoor.

Pitcher launched forward. Literally launched forward. Covering the distance in a single dash. Tongues of purple aura flashed around him as his feet left the floor and he rocketed past the boy, tripping him as he went. 

"No-no. . . No!" he yelped as he hit the floor a second time. He tried to pick himself back up with his damaged hand by accident and screamed in agony as tears rolled down his face. He began laughing in pain, spewing nonsense.  

Once he had calmed down a bit more, he asked, "how did you do tha-that. . .?" 

Assuming that the boy was talking about his burst of speed, Pitcher twitched his sword hand, indicating the sword, which caused the ex-assailant to shiver and let out a hopeless laugh.

"So that's devilsbane huh? They told me that he would have it. . . They told me you would have it. . ." He started panting hard. "Oh Gods. . . I'm gonna die." He began hyperventilating, ragged breaths went in and out of him, breaking the melancholic silence of the moonlit barn. 

Pitcher gave him some time to calm down and collect his thoughts. He stood before him, sword in hand, blocking the window and closing the trapdoor with a bang. Minutes passed. The boy before him stopped writhing and moving. Seeing the opportunity, Pitcher began his interrogation.

"What is your name?" 

"Jack. Jack Spargreaves."

"Nephew of William Spargreaves?"

Jack nodded.

 Pitcher hung his head and took a deep breath. He recognized that name. It brought back bad memories that made his stomach curl. Sounds of cursing, whipping and crackling fire came to mind. He put them aside for now. 

"How many winters past?"

"Twelve."

"Who sent you?"

He remained impassive. Pitcher crouched down and grabbed his broken fingers before he could react, bending them in the opposite direction as before. 

Screams and screams echoed through the derelict farm. A flock of birds flew out of the forest at the sound. Another while of waiting filled with sobbing and laughing later, Pitcher tried again.

"Who sent you?"

"M-m-my-my uncle -please not again!" he screamed, sobbing, noticing Pitcher's free hand twitch, "My u-u-un-uncle William S-Spargreaves sent me. I-I-I trained under him and-and he s-said to go investigate t-t-th-the rumors surrounding the black swordsman I-I-in Ainston. When that advisor person got killed, uncle became suspicious."

Pitcher sighed. "I'm sure he would. . ."

"He told me that there was no way that you would be alive. . . but to be sure he said to incorrectly say the number of dead at the murder of the South Flags." He began to shiver on the floor. His broken fingers had turned purple. Occasional tears fell from Jack's eyes. "Please that's all there is, I don't -"

"Why did you agree to your uncles remands?"

"I'm a good swordsmage. I wanted to test myself against this black swordsman everyone was talking about. . . I didn't expect it to be you. . ." His eyes took on a glazed look.

"Why don't you test yourself against me. . .?" Pitcher asked, knowing his answer.

"My uncle told stories. . . about the Devil of the South Flags, the Purple Swordsman, the Sword Devil. He told me stories about the boy who fought with sword and coin. . . No chance in hell was I going to come out of a duel with a devil alive. . ."

"So he told you about the coin huh. . ." he said, more to himself. "Fine then -"

"Can I ask you one thing? The mayor's advisor you killed. . . he was one of the seven who lived that night. . . right?"

Pitcher nodded. 

"Ah -I thought so. . ."

"You aren't gonna plead for your life?" 

"Uncle told me, a long time ago. . . that pleading with devils only postpones the inevitable. And besides -" he smiled sadly, looking up to face Pitcher, "-you made up your mind the moment I entered the room. . ."

"That much is true I guess. . ."

"Uncle often told me, that the day I incite the devil is the day our family will die. . . When you kill uncle, please. . . please make it fast. . . I don't want him to suffer."

"No. . . I won't kill him -at least not just yet."

"Eh. . .?

"Either your uncle had too much faith in you or he sent you as a scapegoat to incite my vengeance and fall into his trap. . . It's probably the latter. . ."

A pause. Crickets had started chirping outside. Jack's whole face changed. He wore a broken expression. Pitcher knew that the boy had realized it prior, but it was now that it fully dawned on him. He was nothing more than a pawn.

"And also," Pitcher said, breaking the silence, "I was unaware of whether or not the other six were alive. I only had news on the whereabouts of the one I killed so yeah. . . Maybe its their way of telling me to come find them."

Pitcher walked forward as Jack cowered, his hands over his head. He crouched down to the boy's level and put a scarred hand to his shoulder. "So. Jack. There is something you should know about devils. . ." Pitcher said, deciding to play into the whole Sword Devil persona, "pleading with them will often result in death... but there is a rare occasion when a compassionate devil will allow you amnesty in exchange for a service, and I am willing to give you amnesty."

"What's the service?" Jack asked in a dry voice.

"Leave your uncle, leave this life, leave anything that has to do with the South Flags, and go find something better to do. Do contracts for the guilds, work at a tavern. Do anything. Something. Just not this. Make absolutely sure that you don't return to your uncle."

"It's a ploy isn't it?" Jack asked, his eyes focused on a point behind Pitcher. 

Pitcher decided to be honest. "Yes."

"You're using me to send a message to uncle." It wasn't a question, it was a statement. 

"Pretty smart."

"Yeah, nah. I'll do it. I just recalled a few things uncle said -and. . . yeah you're probably right. He's using me." Tears welled up in the young boy's eyes.

"You're to young to be doing this," Pitcher sympathized.

"As if you can talk!" Jack shouted back, chuckling and crying at the same time. "You should be two winters older than me at most. . ."

"That I am," Pitcher said, walking to his satchel and digging in it, pulling out a roll of bandages and tossing it to Jack. "Make no mistake. . . we aren't friends. Take that and leave my sight. If we cross paths again. . . you will die." 

"Understood." He walked towards the now open trapdoor cautiously, expecting his head to be lopped off at any time. Before he descended the ladder, he turned and asked, "do you have a name now?"

"Pitcher."

Jack nodded and began descending the ladder, going one rung at a time. 

Pitcher walked to the open window and waited for a little while. He saw Jack walk off. Satisfied, he gave a long sigh. He reached the hay pile and flopped down again after sheathing the sword and leaning it on the wall. He stared up at the ceiling and whistled quietly. That was new. First time I didn't kill an ambusher. He was too tired to form any plans or get his feelings in order. He was outraged to find out that of the seven who had escaped his wrath that night, six had managed to survive, and what's more, thrive again. 

No matter how hard he tried, the purple flames that solved most of his other problems just wouldn't burn these memories. These memories plagued the poor boy. The memories of a bad time. A time when he truly was. . . a 'Devil.'