“Tell them what you saw,” Darius ordered Luther as he felt the rage in his chest slowly subsiding. Luther had not moved, had only stood and watched from the moment the wings had burst through the armor on Darius’s back.
“I will,” he said, taking a careful step backward, then another. When it was clear Darius would not kill him, he turned and ran from the forest as fast as his old bones would allow.
Darius stood there watching until he was gone. The moment lingered, and he did his best to enjoy it. It was the calm after a storm, the peace of a quiet morning. The light of his wings dimmed, and with each beat he felt them losing their luster. The moment gone, the presence of Ashhur vanishing at last, Darius turned and began to walk. The wings faded from his back, shimmering away like soft white smoke upon the wind. His direction was not aimless, and he passed through the fire without a thought to its danger. With each step his exhaustion returned, the rage he’d known slowly draining into an emptiness in his chest that refused to fill.
“Was it right?” Darius asked as he felt the wound in his side reopen. “Was it right to let him live?”
Luther would return to Mordeina and inform the rest of Karak’s faithful about Jerico’s death. If they hunted for anyone, it’d be him now. Jerico was free. He could go and live, wherever, however, and perhaps make a life for himself. But was it worth letting such a terrible man like Luther escape? He didn’t know. But he’d killed enough that day, and he’d made Jerico a promise.
Jerico…
“Let him find some happiness,” Darius said, feeling a fever starting to burn in his face and neck. “Let him find some peace. Can you do that for him? If that’s possible. If you’re even in this world anymore. It’s so dark, Ashhur. So terribly dark.”
His breath grew weaker. Blood trickled down his face and neck. Step by step he pushed onward. The sword he’d held, once light as a feather against Luther’s neck, now felt like it weighed a thousand stone. It dragged behind him on the ground, the tip bumping against the dirt.
“Will she be waiting for me?” Darius asked, forcing his body to move forward. “Will Valessa…”
He screamed as he felt the bones in his right arm shatter and break. His sword fell to the ground, and he left it there. Staggering, he screamed again as the torn muscles of his chest pulsed with fresh pain.
“Please,” Darius said, his voice ragged. “Please, Ashhur, please. I don’t want to die.”
Another scream, this time when the bones in his left leg snapped, just as they had from the dark paladin’s mace. Every cut, every break, he felt them returning, the pain fresh as it had been when first inflicted upon his body. Unable to walk, he collapsed onto his stomach, his blood painting the grass below him red. But he wasn’t done yet. He wasn’t there. With shaking hands he dragged himself along.
“Was it enough?” he asked, straining to look ahead. Before him was the river, and he crawled to it on his knees. “All those people. Oh god, the family. The town. I watched them die. Was it enough? Will they be waiting too?”
Another inch closer he dragged his broken body, even as he felt the stab of a dagger through his stomach. He thought of their faces, of the terror he’d brought them. A family praying to Ashhur, killed to prove his faithfulness to Karak. The prophet’s words were poison, but he’d believed them anyway. He’d stood in Durham and watched it burn. Why? What madness had possessed him? Again and again he saw their faces, frozen in pain and fear.
“Will they be waiting?” he asked. “Will they forgive me? I slew your faithful, Ashhur. I slew them. So many…”
His fingers dipped into the water. It was cold, and he splashed some across his face, wiping away the blood. With that same water he washed away his tears, and then he rolled onto his back, his hands above him, still in the river. Could it really be that easy? Could he just kneel and plead for forgiveness, and it’d cleanse it all away? But it didn’t wash away the death. It didn’t erase the damage. The pain he’d caused would always be there, festering in the lives of others, sown like seeds that would sprout only thorns.
Unworthy, thought Darius, and he dreamed of meeting those pained faces in a shining land. He dared hope they would greet him with smiles, and when he fell to his knees before them, they would reach out and tell him to stand. It would be a poor eternity spent in a place that could harbor bitterness and blame.
“What’s it like?” he wondered aloud, his tongue so dry it was starting to burn. Would it be streets of gold as they said? He hoped not. For some that might be their vision of beauty, but Darius liked to think himself a simpler man. He wished for fields of grass, for tall mountains capped with snow, for forests and animals. There’d be large gatherings of friends, maybe a cool lake where he could wait for Jerico to join him, where they could embrace and forget the torment they’d suffered on Dezrel. More than anything, he wanted peace. He wanted there to be no more need for someone like him, no more need for the sword he’d left behind.