David Dalglish - A Sliver of Redemption

The ghost of Velixar shimmered into view, hovering behind them as the memory froze.

“Do you hear the truth you once spoke?” he asked. “The truth you now deny?”

“We are more than killers,” Qurrah said. “I swallowed a lie, and now this world suffers for it.”

Velixar shook his head, and it seemed the red in his eyes dimmed.

“We are killers,” he said, sad, almost wistful. “Murderers, butchers, now granted purpose within that. You have lost your purpose. You have lost your place. It is at my side, learning, growing, becoming my greatest apprentice, my worthy disciple, my only friend. Do not deny the strength you once wielded. Do not deny the certainty you once felt, now thrown away for vagaries and promises that you cling to with childish faith. Go relive your proudest moment.”

The phantom of the prophet vanished. The memory resumed, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop speaking. He couldn’t stop approaching. He couldn’t stop himself from readying his whip and eyeing the town’s defenders as targets for practice and nothing more.

“We’ve come for you!” Harruq screamed.

Blood spilled by his blades. Qurrah killed a young man with his whip, burning his neck to the spine. More fell to bones he flung from his pouch. Every second of it he fought against the memory, the sight and sounds were terrible. Worse, though, was how the feelings then returned to him: total elation.

Just the past, he told himself, wishing he could close his eyes and make it all go away. All in the past. You made mistakes. He can’t condemn you for them. They aren’t who you are, not anymore.

But it was hard to remember that as he made a man wither away as if the blood in his veins had turned to dust. Hard to remember as he froze his arm and mocked his attacker. Such superiority…such power…

He heard a cry from his brother. He remembered it well, a cry made after butchering two little girls in their home. He’d thought it one of battle, a victory howl from the primal depths of his brother’s soul. But now, though, knowing the compassion his brother had hidden, the love he’d felt for the elf, he heard something else.

He heard torment. He heard horror and pain. His brother screamed against everything that he represented, suffering through to bury it down. That was what it had taken for Harruq to become what Velixar had wanted…what Qurrah had wanted. At one point he’d felt pride, but now he wanted nothing more than to silence it. His vision shifted as everything became liquid, and then he saw darkness, then stars, and then the rest of the world as he emerged from within the memory.

“You never understood then, but I did,” Velixar said, his deep voice almost a whisper. “Your brother’s love for you was so great he buried his true self, despite the pain, despite his revulsion. You are no different now. I know what you are, and it is a brilliant man, skilled in necromancy and driven by logic. You know this world is corrupt. You know it brings pain, hunger, and despair. But you have let out your own brutal cry, and buried it for the sake of your brother.”

He crossed his arms and stood at his side. Together they watched the last of the distant village burn.

“It is beautiful,” he said, “watching fire cleanse away the last bits of hurt and chaos. Remember, Qurrah. Remember not just who you were, but who you really are. Don’t deny it. Don’t hide it. It took incredible strength to do what your brother did, and it has taken you great strength to do the same. I am no blind fool. I know the trials you have endured. I know the struggles of faith your stillborn brought to you. But let us persevere. Let us become the reapers. This world is aching for the harvest.”

He turned to leave.

“Think on that,” he said. “And think on your own words. Purpose. What is your purpose now? What has it ever been?”

He left, and with no other choice, Qurrah stood there and let his mind whirl around and around, feeding on itself like a snake consuming its own tail. He wanted nothing more than certainty, but all he felt was doubt. Could Velixar be correct? Could he really? For hours he waited, memories flooding him, good and bad. What was their reason? What was that purpose? He thought of the battles he’d fought with his brother, and the ones against. Who was right? Who was wrong?

When the sun rose, he felt miserable and broken. Its heat was a strange, muted sensation on his skin, yet he wished for nothing more than it to blaze hotter and hotter until his body was consumed and his mind finally put to rest. He wanted to cry, but his eyes could produce no tears. He wanted to weep, but his heart refused to break, for its beat was dead, his throat was dry rot, and his mind knew nothing but ache and desire for death.

“Qurrah?” he heard Tessanna ask. He glanced back. She stood slumped, her hair covering her face, her eyes looking to the grass as much as him. Behind her, Thulos’s army prepared for another long day of marching or flying. Qurrah felt anger burn hot within him, wild and sudden. She was responsible. She’d killed Aullienna, turned him against his brother, led him down dark paths that he’d have never…

No. Lies. Cowardice. He wouldn’t cast off his blame to her, not when she still so clearly loved him.

“Yes, Tess?” he asked once he regained control of his emotions.

She slipped her hand into his and stood beside him. Together they stared at the sun rising in the east.

“Was it bad?” she asked.

He nodded. “Velixar torments me without end. I don’t know what is truth or lie anymore.”

She smiled. He sensed a bit of the shy side of her, the one more like an innocent little girl instead of the deadly daughter of the goddess with blood on her hands. Still, it wasn’t complete. She seemed more together, more whole.

“Then think outside yourself,” she said. “Think of someone who you trust. What would they say? Does he lie? Or does he speak truth?”

Qurrah thought of Harruq, and what he’d say to Velixar’s honey-coated words.

“He’d say Velixar’s words are poison, and I’m an idiot for even listening,” he said, and a bit of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Good boy.”

She pressed against him, but pulled away only moments later.

“Am I cold?” he asked. She didn’t answer, but she squeezed his hand and looked at him so sadly he thought his heart might break, if it wasn’t broken already.

“You used to be the only warmth I knew,” she said. “Velixar took that from me. That is why you must never believe him. That is why you must forever hate him. He didn’t just take your life, Qurrah. He took it from me. Should Celestia ever return her blessing, I will destroy him. I’ll cast his ashes to the rivers so he’s washed away forever from the land of Dezrel.”

Qurrah winced.

“He’ll make me stop you,” he said. “I won’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

He looked down at his wretched dead body.

“Not like this. Not anymore. And for that I hate him most of all.”

A ntonil ate with a few of his trusted soldiers and generals, all of Neldaren blood. The soldiers of Mordan still honored him, but he found it difficult to relax with them around. The men of his home country had been with him as he struggled to accept his appointed role. They knew his faults, his weaknesses. But Mordan? They expected him to be a king, and many blamed the loss of their capital and the death of their queen squarely on him. Most kept their mouths shut about it, but every now and then, while he wandered throughout the campfires…

“At least we’re back on Mordan soil,” he said.

“What’s so great about Mordan soil?” asked Sergan, his long-time friend.