Rain isn’t common in Tethyr. It is a fertile land, of course, but villages, towns, life was concentrated along the three great rivers, arteries of travel, of trade, of life. Further afield, the land was more arid, and could be harsher, crueller....Well, that distinction was rather meaningless these days. Since the Black Days, there was little but cruelty to be found between the people of Tethyr.
He rose to one knee, greave squelching in the mud as he forced himself up. The puddle was a dark red, lit by the fires of a dying village but of an altogether more arterial hue. The pulsing flow had been too much for him to stop, too much even for Tethyr’s thirsty soil. Her gore smeared his gloves, his jerkin, one cheek as she thrashed, croaking her last.
“She’s dead.” He said. “You killed her.”
Donnar shrugged, his blood-stained dagger still in hand. “What did you expect?”
“I said she wasn’t our enemy. I said to leave her be. Not...this.” His eyes were fixed on Donnar, and he barely noticed some of the others coming over to watch the quarrel.
“Yes, I remember.” quipped Donnar. “I disagreed.”
Something changed in him as he looked at Donnar. The doubt before he spoke was gone. The fear…was not important. Something burned hot. He stood. Donnar’s smile faded, face growing taut, eyes narrowing. “Come, Nishan. You’ve done worse. I’ve seen it. Do you think yourself better than me? This is just another bloody royalist.”
“We were fighting back. We had a cause. We were taking justice for those who can’t. ” He replied.
“I’m sure the Count’s daughter felt that way before we hanged her, aye.” Donnar’s eyes gleamed with a cold, triumphant light. “She wasn’t much younger than this one, was she?” He pointed with the bloody dagger to the fallen villager that lay between them. Although at this point there was far more between them than her.
At Donnar’s words, he broke eye contact, eyes stinging.
It came like a cleansing jet of saltwater, blasting away years of caked blood and hardened skin, yet stinging raw wounds he’d never known he bore. He looked at the downed woman he’d failed to save, lying dead in the village that had housed her friends, family, husband and child. This morning, at least. No longer.
Tears flowed freely down his cheeks. “I can’t do this anymore, Donnar.”
“What else do you think there is for you, Nishan? Going to start tilling the earth, is that what you think? Find yourself a little wife like this one was and raise bawling brats?” Donnar’s voice wavered, the sarcasm an unconvincing mask.
He turned, gaze locking on eyes so like his own, that had seen the same things since they were children. The same suffering, the same oppression, the same hunger and violence. And the same sins.
Until today.
They drew their swords in the same moment, followed after a few breaths by the gaggle of their watching comrades. Donnar held up his hand. “Stay out of it. Any man who touches him will answer to me.”
Neither were master swordsmen. They’d learned their craft in Ithmong’s back alleys, and when they’d exchanged shivs for swords, their opponents had - mostly - been people who couldn’t hope to defend themselves, whether due to skill or inferior numbers. Mostly, but not always. And in that time, Donnar had shown himself to have a talent uncommon.
They still fought like street rats, though, savagely and cruelly. And also swiftly. Donnar didn’t just fell his foe with the blade. A knee to the gut and a backhand opened the way to a savage cut to his opponent's waist. A gut wound, short of a disembowelment, but messy.
He thudded into the bloody ground. “Gonna take you a long time to die from that, Nishan.” Donnar said, standing over him. He scraped at the damp earth, gasping in agony. The gore-soaked mud was already drying. It turned out Tethyr’s thirsty soil could still drink more.
Now it was time for it to drink his own.
“Wonder how far you’ll crawl from this bitch.” mused Donnar. “Would be a shame to split you up.” He shifted a pace, and then swept his blade down once more, twice more, cutting hamstrings.
He yowled in fresh agony, sobbing as he writhed next to the innocent he’d failed to save. His vision was darkening.
“See lads, that’s what happens to weakness!” Donnar cried above him. “Mount up!”
The last words were from a great distance. Or perhaps whispered. “Never thought it would end like this, Nish.”
Then there was the jangle of spurred boots walking away, and he was left with the smell of burning wood, roasting flesh, and fresh blood.
In time he stopped struggling to live. His head slumped to the side, his blurring vision suddenly coming into focus. A cottage was collapsing into flames, it was the one Donnar had pulled the woman out of. The one where her family had ceased to exist.
To have seen such things, to have stood by and watched such crimes. Perhaps it was best to let the pain in his body consume him, for it would be nothing to what he would suffer if he now lived.
No. Endure.
