"You better not do anything stupid," Elya replies dryly.
You groan. "Have you no faith in me?"
Her tone shifts to one of annoyance. "It was a joke." She shifts uncomfortably, signaling the end of the conversation.
You glance back at the men behind you and sigh.
"Let's just hope they're ready…"
Next
It's a full moon tonight.
You can just barely see it in the sky from the inside of your personal tent.
It helps with visibility. It's nice, being able to see well every now and again.
It makes cutting yourself much easier.
Next
Over the last week or so, you've begun to use your dagger rather than just clawing yourself. It makes the whole process much more… efficient.
Your mind keeps reliving the same moments over and over.
With ferocity and brutality, you dispatch a rebel knight.
You wander a field of corpses, the only man left standing.
You stand above the broken form of Obren, wounded because of you.
Your hands are filthy with the blood of young men. You're a hypocrite, a killer who loves to fight but hates to kill. You hate and cut yourself because of what you've done, and yet don't even try to stop.
The building pressure in your chest, a whirlwind of self-hatred and pent-up rage, subsides as you cut across your wrists. It is the vengeance of the dead; the penalty for the living.
You are worth nothing. You are nothing.
Your body is shaking now. Your heart pounds, your blood fires through your veins. Your mind races. Thoughts and memories pour over you, spilling out with your blood.
You cut and cut to push away the pressure. The grief. The guilt.
Soon, your hands are as filthy as they are in your mind. Your left wrist is coated with the thin cuts.
There is an art to your morbid actions. You use a weapon of war and must be very careful to avoid serious injury.
When the cut is too shallow, it doesn't relieve the pain. It just serves to piss you off.
Too deep, and you'll bleed to death. Not that such an outcome would be a tragedy. In fact, it would probably be best.
Wouldn't it?
Why don't you just end it now?
Experimentally, you raise the blade over your neck. You feel the cold—
A voice startles you.
"Arthur Hornraven?"
Next
You quickly lower the knife and look up to the entrance.
Darin has pulled away the flap and looks inside. His jaw is clenched, his face is unreadable.
Immediately, you pull your left arm to your chest and press it against your tunic, concealing the blood. A mask of indifference settles over you.
Darin doesn't respond. He is dead silent as he enters into the small space of your tent.
You shift the bloody dagger behind your back.
After a few moments, he asks, "With my dagger, too?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Show me your wrists," he says flatly.
"What?"
Darin pauses and takes a shuddering breath. He opens his mouth to speak, but a sob comes out instead.
Tears stream down his face. Emotion chokes his voice as he says, "I know, Arthur Hornraven."
A spike of dread shoots through you and settles in your gut. But still, you remain calm. He might be bluffing.
"You okay?" you ask, continuing to feign ignorance.
Blood stains your tunic. You can feel your wound burn with the beat of your heart. A rhythmic pulse of pain. Your dreaded secret. A part of you nobody is supposed to know.
He manages to recompose himself. In a low voice he says, "Pass me the dagger."
"Darin—"
"Please."
You hesitate.
Emotion overtakes him as he says, "Goddamn it, Marshal, I know! I know what you're doing! I know what you've been doing since Wrido."
The pressure inside you grows. You swallow hard and shift. The dread grows. Regret. Guilt.
"Please. Give me the knife," he practically begs.
You grip the dagger behind your back.
Panic sets in.
Next