A smirk tugged at the side of Thren’s face.
“To be honest … I have no idea. Such are the ways of gods and servants. The moment you start letting right and wrong be decided by imaginary whispers in the heads of men, the world becomes a confused, twisted place. The weak think they are strong, the dead in their graves yearn to rise, the strong put chains on their wrists and bow their heads to idols and ideals.”
Thren looked to him, half his face in shadow, the other seeming to glow in the moonlight.
“You’re one such fool, aren’t you?” he asked.
Haern’s first instinct was to deny it, to declare his own strength to his father, and the realization nearly made him sick.
“You know nothing of me,” he whispered.
“I know you better than you would like to admit. That’s what frightens you.”
Haern crossed his arms, and he felt his patience wearing thin.
“What do you want from me?” he asked. “Why are you even here?”
Thren sighed and put his back to the moon, framing his outline in silver, his face in darkness.
“I have no more time for games, Watcher. No more patience for it. You stand at a crossroads, and just this once, I’d like you to open your eyes and see the correct path. Fire and death are coming to Veldaren, but we can stop it if we’re strong. If you’re with me. Luther’s future does not have to come to pass.”
“If I’m with you?” asked Haern. “Tell me you jest, Thren. Tell me it’s all a joke.”
“Our lives are the joke. Don’t you get it? Humorous playthings in the hands of gods. I know the symbol you wear around your neck, and it isn’t the salvation you think it is. It’s a prison, a shackle weighing you down.”
He took a step closer, reached out his hand.
“You are the finest killer I have ever seen,” he said, his voice softening, almost pleading. “You are a thing of beauty, and I will not deny your sense of nobility and honor. But you’ve crafted yourself into something that cannot be maintained. There is a natural order to things, and it is not what you desire. The strong rule the weak, Haern. So it is in the wilds, so it is in our cities. Stop flailing. Stop struggling against the current of the river, the winds of the grasslands, the pull of the earth itself. You don’t need gods. You don’t need creeds and rules, and you don’t need forgiveness to remove the guilt you’ve been taught to feel. Stand at my side. Cast off the burden on your shoulders, and let go in your heart of those who would drag you into the grave.”
The words were razors cutting into him, but Haern tried to stand strong. He looked into the eyes of his father even as his jaw trembled. From the chill, he told himself. From the icy wind.
“You’re wrong,” he said. “You have to know it. No matter how hard you pretend, I know you’re human. I know you grieve for loved ones lost. I know you’ve watched friend after friend die, and some by your own hand. You’ve sacrificed everything, Thren, and for what? A legacy of fear and bloodshed? A remembrance that will fade in time, fade like all other kings and conquerors? You’ve clawed and killed and set fire to everything your hands may touch. What has it given you? What worth have you found?”
Haern gestured to grasslands, felt a fire growing in his chest.
“Look around you. You have nothing left. It’s just you and I on this little hill. You claim I’m at a crossroads, yet you face the same one. You don’t have to go back. You don’t have to return to Veldaren and walk down that same road. Our lives, we’ll both find them cut short, and we’ll both die amid blood and metal, but my hopes are not for this world. My hope is that I will have loved ones to bury me, loved ones I’ll wait for, come their own time after. That is my hope, Thren. What is yours?”
Thren descended the hill. His lower jaw trembled, and his eyes were wide. There were tears in them.
“My hope?” asked Thren, standing before Haern so that he towered over him. “My hope? My hope is to carve a scar into this damned world that’s given me nothing, carve one so deep and so bloody that it never heals. And I’ll do it on my own, with my own two hands. No gods, no kings, no priests or prophets. Mine. Of my own body. My own blood. No matter who betrays me, no matter who abandons me. And do you know the difference between your hope and mine? I’ll never need to beg, nor surrender, to achieve it.”
“I’ll stop you,” Haern whispered. “You know I must. Don’t do this. There’s another life waiting for you, if you’d take it, and I promise you it would not be so alone.”
Thren reached out and grabbed the front of Haern’s tunic, yanking him close. Haern stood firm, matching his father’s powerful gaze.
“Alone?” he asked. “That’s all we are. Is that how deep the lies are buried in you, that you think otherwise? I know you believe Ashhur is where I’ll find some measure of comfort, but you’re wrong. When those you love are dead, when you hold one of them bleeding in your arms, console yourself with your prayers. Tell yourself whatever lies you need to put an end to your tears. Truth hurts, Haern. It never heals. Fuck the gods.”
Thren pushed him away, and as Haern stepped back, a question came to his lips, one meant only to hurt, and he was unable to stop it.
“Who died in your arms?” he asked, even though he knew the answer. “Whose death left you with so little hope?”
It was Marion, his mother, whose face he had clouded memories of, snippets of stories and half-remembered songs. But clear was the day his father had come home to their safe house, hands bloodied, a prisoner with him bound by rope. His older brother, Randith, had asked for their mother, where she might be.
“Dead” had been his father’s only reply, and it was more than Haern would receive now. Thren looked betrayed by the very question, and instead of answering, he drew his swords and held them at his sides.
“Put those away,” Haern said. “I won’t do this.”
“You will,” Thren said. “You said you’ll stop me, so here I am. Stop me. Put an end to this part of the game. I swear to kill, to murder. I promise you a thousand souls will suffer before I reach my grave. Aren’t you Veldaren’s Watcher? Aren’t you their protector? Prove it. Draw your damn swords and cut off my head.”
“No,” said Haern. “I won’t. Not here and now. Not while there’s still a chance.”
“A chance of what?” shouted Thren. When Haern did not answer, he swung a blade. Haern flinched, but he remained still, even as the edge cut into the side of his jaw and remained pressed there. Staring down Thren’s glare, he refused to give in to the fury growing in his chest, the despair at seeing just how twisted and hurt his father truly was.
“We’re all murderers,” Thren said, voice cold and quiet. “Some are just better at hiding it than others. Ashhur kills as well as Karak, or did you not see what your priestess did back there?” He pulled away the blade. “I don’t want your mercy. One day, neither will you. Mercy cuts deep and will only harm those you love. This cruel world will make sure of it.”
Thren sheathed the sword and walked past Haern down the hill. Haern turned to watch him go, the maelstrom of emotions in his heart rooting him firmly to the ground.
“Why’d you come back?” he asked. “Why not leave me in that dungeon if you resent me so?”
Thren continued without pause, ignoring the question. As if it were beneath him. As if it were obvious.
“Father…” Haern whispered.
Thren hesitated the slightest step at the bottom of the hill, then trudged on. Haern pulled the hood low over his face, felt tears swelling in his eyes, and he let them fall. For a long while, he stood there, watched until his father faded into shadow, became nothing. His chest hurt, and he wished more than anything he’d never come west.
Back at their camp, he removed his belt and placed the swords beside his bedroll. When he sat down, pulling his cloak and hood off his face, Delysia stirred.
“Haern?” she asked. He said nothing, only stared into the ashes of their fire. The priestess sat up, tossed the blanket aside. “Haern, you’re bleeding.”