"Yeah… I guess so," Obren replies, sounding distant.
He continues after another brief pause, "This ain't exactly how I wanted to spend it."
"No shite, gov'nor."
"No… I mean…" He hesitates. "Marshal, I killed twelve people out there. And I did it on my fuckin' birthday."
"My condolences."
The knight says, "It's almost funny to me, in a sorta twisted way. Fuck, Arthur Hornraven, I still remember my seventh birthday. Gettin' pulled from my village. Headin' off to be a page." He gestures to the bodies. "Never thought that this is where I'd end up, thirteen years later."
You remember your own seventh birthday. You rub the stumps of your ring fingers. You try and keep the memories away.
"We were children once, you and I," he says.
You have no response. Your mind is still trapped back on that horrid day. Your seventh birthday.
The day that marked the start of your downfall.
That thrust you onto the path you've been drifting on for over eight years.
And then you get angry again. Angry and frustrated. At the world for placing you here. For killing all these boys. At yourself for daring to feel tired. For daring to appreciate your own suffering in the presence of so much death.
The frustration spreads through you. It manifests as a pressure in your chest. The world around you goes out of focus. You feel as if you're going to snap. You're a blade bent to its limit. You're a tree against the wind.
You're on the razor's edge of a mental breakdown.
Next