Tim Akers - The Horns of Ruin

Long breaths without movement, his eyes burning cold and bright. Eventually, he nodded.

"I, Alexander, Brother of Morgan and Amon, godking of all Ash, last of the Brothers Immortal… I killed my older brother, and cast the guilt on my younger. I am the Betrayer. But only for the good of-"

I pulled the sword away, slicing lightly through his flesh. Enough to sting. He gasped, then I wrapped my fist around the pommel and punched. Holy teeth and a divine nose crumpled.

"That's enough," I said as he fell to the cobbles. I flicked the blood from my sword, sheathed it, and turned to leave.

No one got in my way.

* * *

I gathered the bodies myself. Cut each one down, carried it, and laid it to rest in the charred ruins of the Chamber of the Fist. Tomas, Isabel, and Simeon. Stories were being told of the walking Barnabas, seen leaving the city shortly before the cataclysm of divinity. I swore to find him later, and offer him the quiet of the grave. The Strength was a ruin, but the stone still stood. The high halls were smoldering. It would be days before I could walk them, and gather the rest of my brothers. And then I would stand their watches, and lay them away in the Last Rest. Fire hadn't touched those cold stone walls under the monastery.

A crowd gathered around the plaza. None getting too close, but none going away, either. They watched me as I performed the duties that were my burden. When it was done, I sat in the nave and cleaned my revolver and my sword, clearing a space in the ash to lay out the rituals.

I went to the door and looked out at the sea of faces, burned robes, charred faces, and bewildered eyes. Behind them the city smoked in its ruin. The impellors were silent, burst in the might of their divine siren. I stood in the doorway of the Strength of Morgan, and they waited for me. They would continue to wait.

I turned away, closing the mighty doors of the Strength behind me. I had a church to clean, and then a city, and then a godhood. There was ash in our blood, ash deep in our flesh, a history of tragedy and betrayal that could not be denied, but that we could not discard. It was our history; they were our gods. A divinity of ashes and death, and we would have to burn them clean. The Warrior stands.