This short story is based off the backstory of one Dolphus Gorov, a character in the Boards RP Tales of Glory and Valour . I would highly recommend joining if you like to write.
That was the name given to one of the insectoid people which occasionally intruded themselves into Dolphus’ life, more often than not under the impression that by hanging around the influential, they would receive a handout or two, or perhaps some of the influence would rub off on them. The reason was never clear to Dolphus, as he was thoroughly disinterested with the creatures, inheriting some of his father’s spite for their entire race.
The chittering of their native tongue invaded the privacy of Dolphus’ ears as his eyes slowly opened to the dawn of the new day. The language of this alien people was generally unfamiliar to him, but certain words from their vocabulary rang in his ears, the meaning of each slowly crawling up from the depths of his memory. The meanings were more complex than his immediate equivalent, but avian and was hurt stood out from among the otherwise meaningless noise.
Squinting at the sunlight, the unkempt Dolphus craned his head up slightly from the improper position of sleep he had entered, crammed between two large crates flat on his back, and now making out the two figures which knelt before him, gesturing wildly to each other as their hysterical actions seemed to calm with each movement he made. They were significantly different in size, with one being as tall as a man and the other coming up just above the knee of the first. More words were spoken, though now directed at Dolphus as he pushed himself up on his elbow.
He took them in with a disinterested and groggy air, trying to maintain eye contact without slipping back into uncomfortable slumber. Some of the words were repeated over and over until it became clear the insectoid man was trying to communicate something in particular, making Dolphus once again wished he had payed more attention to his poor tutor’s instruction during his failed multilingual course. At first the sentence seemed to mean You are the Sun, which made Dolphus involuntarily cringe at the thought that these two already undesirable individuals might be involved with the even more repulsive magic, but some slight rephrasing clarified the meaning as You fell from the Sun.
His facial expression not conveying any sign of comprehension made the Druth roll his eyes and grab his wing, lifting it up while pointing at it with weariness. The realization struck like a bolt of lightning - his wing had slipped its restraint in the night, and this entity had made the assumption the boy had fallen from the sky. The thought had only half completed, however, before the delicate blade of his sword had slipped from its sheath and plunged through a chink in the creature’s resilient armor and into his brain, a bead of the greenish blood inside rolling quickly down the flat and onto Dolphus’ hand.
The creature slumped at the same moment Dolphus’ arm reacted to the shock of what he had done, buckling under the sudden weight and falling flat to the ground. The smaller of the pair recoiled, blubbered, clutched the hand of the one in front of him, and began shaking so terribly it seemed he would fall apart at any moment. Another realization, this one far greater than the one before, was that this had been a father and his son. No ill intent, no malice planned, only someone trying to help.
The smaller of the two suddenly looked at Dolphus and bolted away, prompting Dolphus to clumsily ascend and chase after him, throwing on his military cloak and retracting his alien arm. What would he do with the son? He could not kill someone so thoroughly innocent, and the thought of his father lying in that alley staining the stone with his vitals was turning Dolphus’ stomach inside out, yet he could not allow discovery of his deed or his condition to enter the public eye. Such a shock would spread across the Summer archipelago like fire in a field; exposure had to be prevented, but what would be the cost?
The cost for Dolphus today was to trade the shock of his own possible discovery with the shock of discovering someone else. As he exited the alley, sword in hand, the street before him was bare and empty save a small round object in the middle of the lane. Halting for a few moments before cautiously approaching, the item was examined with the point of his blade, and revealed itself to be the severed head of the now former juvenile Druth. No sign remained of any third party.
Dolphus returned to his shelter with the decapitated cranium and nestled it in the limp grip of its father, sitting opposite with sunken eyes and pale skin, trying to come to unsure terms with what had just occurred. Unwillingly, he had killed to keep his secret. Or had it been unwilling? It was an impulsive act, yes, but an act is was nonetheless. At least the creature wasn’t human. But was genetics the only boundary severing this bloodline, this people, from being people? Was this act of butchering not murder, then, if the creature forcefully skewered considered itself just as sapient as any man would?
Dolphus closed his eyes. A new hideaway would have to be found. A less pleasant one, perhaps, and a new method of securing his wing. No moral acceptance of his actions would occur, only a hasty smothering of his deeds and a thorough scrubbing of both his blade and his mind to detach himself entirely from the incident. His fingers seemed to grow ever callous as he covered himself in his attire and gathered his belongings, making a hasty retreat from his den, only a solitary feather from his inhuman limb overlooked in his flight.
Flight from his conscience, flight from his deeds, and flight, it seemed, from the heights to which the Gorov name had once visibly attained in the world. He had fallen from that pinnacle, that elevation above the world, what made him so incorruptible.
He had fallen from the sun.