Note: This is inspired by a line in the book 'The Carpet makers'. That book is freaking beautiful. I would recommend to read this little thing listening to the song 'Stars ' by Warpaint. The lyrics may not fit perfectly but it set the mood while wrote it. Also 'Love is to die'. Either is haunting. Just a suggestion.
The End
There is nothing in the distance. He's searched in the horizon and even in the limitless sky but there is no signal, no clue or promise of relief. As he drags himself forward he realizes he's been shuffling across a sea of blood and there is no cry of outrage from up above. No gods are watching, no one cares. It's only him and the pieces of broken bodies that remain.
Hope has died. Somewhere along the way it simply vanished, easy as a tiny and fragile flame. Somewhere along the way he lost something even more precious than the will to keep on living.
Grima has finally given up.
Among the corpses of young and not so young heroes, haunted by the ghosts of ages and still spiteful, still furious, still greedy and still dissatisfied, Grima has broken down. He no longer functions the same. His quest, a timeless one, ends as it began - dark and confusing, cruel and meaningless.
He looks upon the horizon and smiles a poisonous smile, full of derision. He is not appeased. Had he ever truly believed that fulfillment would come his way in the end? He feels himself become separated from that which held him up all this time.
He remembers being young and full of ambition, wanting to gather the world and all of its treasures in the palm of one hand, wanting to reach into thin air and feel the universe respond to his call. It'd been a wonderful start. He'd been driven by many lusts, had delighted in vile desires and committed atrocities history has no interest in keeping record of. All of it, the sinister and purely evil - it'd all been so much fun.
Everything had felt so new and exiting. He cherished his existence like a precious gift and worshiped his own power like a blessed tool. He took over several bodies in order to walk among the humans, his limitless source of entertainment, and sauntered the way one does in a big custom party. He scurried among shadows and bestowed his cruel will on the mortals, planted the seeds of fear and superstition in the hearts of weak fools.
He had set out with a goal in mind, with a vibrant soul that always yearns for more.
More blood on his hands because he loved to struggle and come out victorious.
More screams and despair because he liked knowing how much pain his bare hands could cause.
He put his mind to it and succeeded in conquering all. Naga and others of exalted blood had posed an almost worthy threat, but they had fallen too easily. A challenge? Hardly. Standing against Grima is just the same as letting yourself drown in the middle of a stormy sea. He couldn't even say their ridiculous efforts deserved a special mention - what had they been thinking, charging at an opponent immensely powerful and ruthless as none but him can be?
Their wrath had been fun to watch, he'll give them that. Death is something awfully beautiful in its own way, even more beautiful when you get to watch others make grand scenes in its gruesome presence. He'd found rapture in witnessing dying words or last breaths gagging on blood as well as in promises of avengement.
So far he's been nothing but a silent spectator of death, but now he wishes it's his number that comes up. For the first time he desires death for himself.
He has it all, and all is meant for him. The moon and stars belong to him, the sun rises only for him, the air is sweet and delicious as he breathes it all in. His own ambitions have tolled him to this very moment. It was inevitable, a lost cause, hopeless to try and deviate the course of the path he forged with so much effort. He'd been born with the capacity to do anything and everything but lacked the answers to the basest of questions. The foundations of his own existence eluded him, so he struggled to attain a sense of purpose - by any means, with all his strength, mercilessly and with no remorse he had searched for his answers. And even if he got none, in the end it had always been his inalienable right to try. It's everyone's right.
Blood follows him everywhere he goes, it's a clear crimson trail, and he feels nothing along the way. His weary, desolated eyes sweep the land, his heart beats sluggishly and idly he entertains the thought that humans were lucky to have their mortality - blessed even. It's a bit funny that even now he can still feel jealousy.
Grima rejects his immortality. It has rendered his strife hollow.
As night falls Grima looks up, stares into the measureless depths of the black void above him with an almost blank face that appears human for once. His voice is quiet, soft, shallow.
"I regret nothing."