He was responsible for the deaths of tens of thousands.
My father, Ezekiel Blood, had been born sometime in the fourteenth century, though I know not exactly when. From what I gather, he had been born in what is now Denmark, and both his parents had been Danes.
When he was ten, his parents brought him to England. They were to pay a visit to where one of his ancestors had fallen in battle, and it was in this same place that he killed his first man. As his parents went into the town, my father chased after a pair of puppies racing along the roads. My grandparents had allowed him to do so and inadvertently saved his life.
My father told me that he had caught up with the puppies in a small copse of trees, and it was from there, with the puppies on his lap, that he saw his parents slain.
Somehow, the townspeople had learned of my family’s unique traits. Somehow, the townspeople knew that they were related to the men who, centuries earlier, had pillaged the town.
As my father watched, his parents were pierced by pikes, pinned to the ground, and set aflame.
It took them nearly ten hours to die.
My father remained hidden, the rank stench of his own parents’ burning flesh heavy in the air.
That night, when the townspeople butchered the charred corpses and sealed each portion in a separate container and spread out through the town, my father crept into town.
He moved from house to house around the perimeter of the town for hours, patient and silent. In his small hands, he held a slim blade, and he killed hundreds. No one was spared. Not the aged nor the infirm, neither mothers nor suckling babes.
All died at my father’s hands.
When it was close to dawn, he began to set fire to the buildings.
Few made it out of the flames alive. Those who did, he hunted down over the following months until not a single citizen of the town remained alive.
With the puppies as his companions, my father stayed in England and learned about death.
My father was the finest of men.