His head was throbbing. All of them.
How?
When?
Why?
He was here.
His blood ran hot. His heart pounded. His flesh screamed for justice.
The power inside him urged him on. Go, kill, destroy.
His head was calm, focused. He had the power, he just had to use it.
Flashes of memories.
A sword, clean, unstained by the atrocity. His fault.
A red carpet, stained with his own blood. A grin, his own.
Fire, pain, screams.
A cold room, sterile, blood running down their faces.
A blazing bonfire, heating his veins, driving him to action.
Was it power? Was it pain?
Did it matter?
It was meaningless.
He drifted....
The Dark Lord was in front of him.
The One.
The Darkness.
Beacon of the Light.
Blood everywhere.
Clean murder.
Warm death.
Cold fire.
His body sparked with energy. It was too much. He stood in front of the man, the one who was not a man.
He couldn't tell. Everything was jumbled. He was too many different people.
Power and Pain. Not two sides of a coin, but halves. Fused together, mashed by a power beyond any bounds. The power and the pain. There was no difference. Power was pain, and pain was power. He lived as he died, his savior tore him to pieces with his bare hands.
A cold breeze ran through him, the energy pumping around. Cold strengthened him.
A fierce fire burned inside him, stoked as a tempest in his veins.
Cold, calm, calculating. His power was his to control.
Broken, dead, gone. He was a husk, a slave wielding is master's power. But it was his.
The true mark of who he was. A protagonist was not one who had power. A protagonist was one who could tear down his enemies with impunity, simply because he wanted to.
It was always a struggle. The protagonist was broken, betrayed, left. A remnant of a simpler time, torn to ash and shred in the face of peace.
He survived. He did not overcome the challenge because he wanted to, but because it was there. He did what had to be done.
He was a soldier. A misfit. Left in the past as the world progressed past him, come to save them from death.
He was Death itself. No incarnation, no avatar. Just Death.
He was the Broken, the Empty.
He didn't deserve it. But someone had to do it. And no one else was willing.
When had the screams stopped? Could this really be the right thing, finally?
Where had his passion gone? When he had been young he had broken his brother's arm to win an argument. Now he was flat, a still pond of steel, never raising his voice. It was just as dangerous to kill without passion than to fight for the wrong reason.
He killed. Death, no mercy. Had he once fought to protect, like the strange man had said? He had never been noble. It was the only excuse. He had been like this since childhood. None of those years had happened. He had learned to fight like this from an old veteran in his village.
He was the last defense. The only roadblock. In the way of Annihilation.
He was Apocalypse.
All burned inside him at once. All were cool. They were all him.
It all ends the same.
He walked forward. He was at the end, the undoing. All there was left to do was kill.
He drew his weapon.
A sword.
A huge broadsword, crafted from ten others.
A long, curved scimitar.
A bastard sword.
A falchion.
A katana.
A rapier.
A knife.
A sinuous blade, crafted on a snake's backbone.
A curved blade, deadly glinting in the red light.
A wide blade, a katar.
A long, thin blade.
A morningstar.
A warhammer.
A greataxe.
A spear.
A maul.
A flail.
A bow.
Recurve.
Wood.
Short.
Long.
Horn.
Oak.
Ash.
Elm.
He set an arrow to the string.
He let loose a war cry.
He remained silent, watching.
The thing came towards him. It was too many different things. So was he.
An angel.
A demon.
A vampire.
A werewolf.
An elf.
A human.
An orc.
A dwarf.
A monster.
A guardian.
No order. Chaos.
He swung, he released, he stabbed. He hit the thing, in the eye, in the head, in the heart.
It fell before him. It was over.
The pain. The lies. The fighting. The darkness.
The truth. The light. Hope.
Death.
Life.
Everything.
He lived. Somehow, barely, with great pain, easily, with his ego intact.
One last strike.
Justice.
Corruption.
It was over. He could rest.
He collapsed to the ground, consciousness fading almost immediately as he realized it. No more pushing himself until he was forced to rest.
He stood tall, glad of the peace, glad that the fight was over.
He didn't understand. He was too many people. It shouldn't be like this. It should be simple.
He faded to nothing. In an instant, he was gone.