"So, little 'un, jus' what was it ye were needin' t'show yer ole father so very bad?" Becnel put on a face of mock impatience as he addressed his son, Dachlan, who was nearly bouncing on his footpaws with eagerness to gain some approval from his father.
The expression failed to trick the younger vulpine, however, as the cub was too well trained in the arts of fox-flavored lying not to see straight through such a ruse. He continued to grin.
"Jus' wait, dad! Jus' ye wait!" and with that, Dachlan was gone, vanishing inside the covered cart that made up the home and trade of his family. Becnel peered inside, only able to see the tail of his son peeking up amongst the numerous spice and herb urns.
As he waited for his son, Becnel looked over at the other five vulpine families in the caravan. It was a rather gypsy-like life the group of them led; six groups traveling together, selling herbal remedies, trinkets, fortune telling, and providing physical labor so that they could get by. In that regard, Mossflower had been good to them, providing Becnel's trade with herbs aplenty for the remedies and cure-alls he and his mate made, and plenty of woodpidgeons, fish, and roots for when trade was lacking and living off the land was required. That moment was one of those times.
It was unfortunate, but the last town the caravan of twenty-five foxes tried to make residence in had turned hostile after some shrill shrew asserted that one of Becnel's mate's potions had made her deathly ill and must certainly have been poison. Nevermind that Mordet simply prescribed a fever reducer, that the shrew was perfrectly well enough to shout bloody murder at Mordet in the middle of the town square, or that if Mordet did want to poison someone, then they would be dead on the very first sip; the band of foxes were run out of town regardless.
Becnel shuddered as he remembered the thread that the Long Patrol would be summoned if they didn't make haste in their departure. With an absent mind, Becnel raised his paw to his missing eye and shredded ear, then dragged his finger along the scar that linked the two. He could still remember the Long Patrol pike that almost felled him, as well as the very thorough routing the horde he'd been press-ganged into received. To that day he was certain that playing dead was the only thing that saved his life and ensured that he returned to his mate and son after ten long seasons' worth of forced service. Becnel could still remember spotting the twisted corpses of some of those who he knew shared his position during the long walk through the sea of corpses after the Long Patrol and the tattered remains of the horde retreated.
It wasn't until his son tugged at Becnel's coat that he realized that he was staring off into space, deaf to the world. The sight was familiar to Dachlan, who even at that age knew that his father was troubled frequently by his musings when he was afforded too much time to dwell on the past. The feeling of loss that came from so many seasons of unwilling service to a warlord, ten seasons ensuring that he missed his son's first steps, a hefty chunk of the life he and his mate promised to spend together was acute. And to think that he should feel lucky that he only lost that.
Dachlan stood on the absolute tips of his toes as he thrusts the prize into his father's face, nearly cracking the tip of Becnel's nose on the label of the wine bottle.
Dachlan was excited to the point that he almost squeaked, "Damson wine!"
The wine was far exceeding the typical means of his family's living, and Dachlan was more than happy to explain just where it came from in advance of his father's inquirey, "I pinched it from that ole sticklepig crone right afore we left while she was buyin' a loaf of bread!"
Judging by his son's beaming face, he was expecting plenty of praise for his nimble-pawed acquisition, and damn the calamity that would've arisen if he'd been caught. Becnel's mind, however, was hardly on his son's cleverness, but rather he was imagining what might have happened had the theft been caught. He had his doubts that the woodlanders would be inclined to take much mercy on a cub whose family was being run out of town under accusations of poisoning. Even worse, Becnel knew precisely who the damson wine was meant for, and it damn sure wasn't his lightfingered son. Becnel never met the mayor of that town, but he was certain that a mouse who refused to do anything about beasts being run out of town without justification would show much leniency concerning a vermin brat caught stealing. At the very least, Dachlan would have found himself imprisoned, and Becnel had a nagging suspicion that if there were to be some manner of "accident" that resulted in a broken paw, then the response would more than likely be a resounding "Oh well!"
Growing stern, Becnel crouched down and took his son by the shoulders, the pit in his stomach formed by overwhelming dread concerning the safety of his son causing him to squeeze a bit harder than he intended. Dachlan winced and squirmed, but Becnel held fast, giving his son a stern glare straight into a pair of eyes that were wide with confusion and apprehension. Dachlan's eyes darted around, trying to avoid looking into his father's, knowing full well that he was in trouble, and that this was something serious enough to actually require feeling guilt about.
"Why'd ye steal the wine, Dachlan? Answer me honest now!" Becnel was surprised to find that he was shaking. Hellgates, he was shaking more now than he did when he realized that he had a pike head trapped between his ribs and somehow survived.
Dachlan's ears pressed down against his skull as he was forced to weather the harsh questioning, and he could only mumble the rather weaky-reasoned response, "I jus'… I jus' wanted t'cheer ye an' mum up. I thought ye'd want t'celebrate when we got t'the new city… 'sides, that ole sticklepig was always mean an' she had more'n enough!"
Now that the parental worry full set in, all manner of scenarios involving his son being alone, afraid, hurt, hungry, or all four dancing through Becnel's skull like a coven of witches, Becnel's voice was rising in volume, gaining a razor-sharp edge to it that made Dachlan whimper, yet at the same time it kept cracking with emotional strain.
Vulpuz' breath! Please don't let his family be taken from him again!
"New ye lissen here and lissen damn good, whelp! I don't want ye t'ever steal from a woodlander agin, ye hear me? Don't ever give 'em a reason t'hate ye or hurt ye! Remember that yer a fox; ye've got 'un hell of a reputation, an' the woodlanders damn well know every inch of it by heart!" Becnel punctuated his tirade with a firm shake to Dachlan's shoulders that flopped his smaller frame around like a ragdoll.
By now, Mordet was listening in earnest, her ears ever keen to the sounds of her family, even while working on remedies over her cooking pot and with a four-month-pregnant belly. She shared the same instinctive worry as her mate, blanching under her fur.
By now, Dachlan was whimpering and hugging the whine bottle to his chest as though it were a doll that he could find comfort in. He still wasn't sure how the situation could have gone so awry and merely gave numb nods to his father as he spoke.
Finally, the harangue ended. "Now get yer tail back in the cart an' think about the danger ye put yerself in! I'll be out here decidin' whether or not yer getting' dinner t'night! Now git!"
With leaden footpaws, Dachlan trudged back to the cart, his tail dragging on the dusty road. At first he seemed as though he was far too limp to haul himself up into the cart, but slowly he managed to scrabble in and settle into the back of the cart in a morose and weepy stupor.
His father wasn't feeling much better. Becnel rubbed his forehead with the back of his paw and heaved out a rather hefty sigh. Shouting at his son was not something that he particularly wanted to do that day, and he was already starting to feel as though he'd handled the situation in a rather poor manner. Fox cubs stole things, that's just how the world worked, but Becnel knew that he overreacted just because he was scared that he would lose his son again. His cheeks burned with shame, but despite his concern for his lapse in judgement, he couldn't help but rationalize his fear. He knew that vermin who overstepped their bounds were seldom given mercy or a second chance in this world, and he was scared out of his mind that his son's theft would eventually lead him down the same dark path Becnel himself was forced down.
The only thing that ensured that Becnel made it out of the horde life he was pressed into was pure luck. What I fhis son wasn't so lucky? What if Dachlan's poor choices led to his last moments being spent slowly dying in agony in a ditch somewhere far away from everyone who cared for him? The thought wrenched at Becnel's heart, bringing on a weighted, sunken feeling all too similar to the one he felt late at night when the faces of the innocents he put his sword to at the behest of his captors cavorted around inside his skull. It was enough to send his paws to his face, his back turning towards the other foxes of the caravan so they couldn't see that he was suffering.
Whether or not they noticed, they ignored him and let their neighbor keep a small scrap of his dignity. But Mordet was unwilling to ignore the pains of his mate, knowing full well that he was far more delicate now that he was returned to her than when he was taken from her. She hoisted herself up out of the cloth seated wooden chair Becnel made for her in order to give her something better than the ground to sit on while she was pregnant.
Becnel felt Mordet lay a reassuring paw on his shoulder, but the gesture only made his posture stiffen, the urge to appear strong for his family unable to hide how he truly felt.
"Becnel?"
Mordet's voice was soft in tone, far softer than the typical rough grumble that she spoke in, concern for the male she'd pledged to live our her life with evident even in that single word. The tone wasn't unfamiliar to Becnel. Mordet tended to take on that manner of speaking whenever she was scared that a single harsh word would crumple him.
Mordet repeated herself, "Becnel, what's wrong?" And the grip on his shoulder was tightened ever so slightly.
"I jus'," began Becnel, still facing away from his mate. "I was jus' worryin' that I was too hard on the kit. That's all."
Mordet could tell when there was more on her mate's mind than he admitted, and in the same gentle tone as before, Mordet applied a bit more pressure for the truth. "Is that really all?"
"…No, not it's not. I'm terrified, Mordet. I'm terrified that ev'ry mistake I make's goin' t'push him away from me. I'm scared I'm goin' t'lose him by bein' a bloody wretched father."
Mordet was patient while she listened. She'd taken pains to learn patience for the sake of her mate, and she let him finish airing out his fears before she spoke, "Yer not goin' t'lose him, Becnel. Even if he doesn't get it now, when he's older, he'll know ye were jus' lookin' out fer him."
Becnel's paw sought out Mordet's, both of them connecting at the tod's shoulder, and for a moment they both stood there holding paws until again, Mordet broke the silence, "All that garbage about ye bein' a wretched father's not true anyhow. 'sides, ye can make it right if yer scared ye were too strict anyhow."
"What d'ye mean?"
"When supper's ready, take Dachlan a bowl an' talk with him. Both of ye will have had time t'calm yerselves by then."
Becnel bit his lip, dreading the encounter. What if Dachlan already decided that Becnel was detestable and that there was no hope that they could reconcile? Dachlan wouldn't be the first fox Becnel knew who'd come to despise his father.
When he didn't speak, Mordet added, "Ye love him. An' he loves ye jus' as much."
Becnel muttered, "Yer right… I know ye are, but I jus' can't stop thinkin' that somethin's goin' t'take Dachlan or ye from me. I can't live through that agin, I jus'…"
"Why d'ye think that?" interrupted Mordet, though she had a nagging suspicion that she already knew.
Talking about this sort of thing was difficult for Becnel, but by then the dam was broken, and the words came spilling out in a hushed, weary, and wounded tone.
"I did some awful things when I was in that horde, Mordet, sum real awful things! If fate were real, d'ye really think that it'd let me keep the both of ye? D'ye really think that a beast that took part in the slaughter of whole villages deserves a happy liddle family when… when he did his part in killin' the families of others? Dammit, I left mates an' cubs cryin' over bloody bodies!" Though Becnel's voice was still hushed, it had grown almost frantic in tempo, and his chest heaved with emotion.
Mordet had heard enough. This wasn't the first time Becnel riled himself up over his past, and she stepped around her mate and turned him to face her, took his face in her paws and stared straight into Becnel's damp eyes. In a firm whisper, she said, "Enough, Becnel! Enough! Ye weren't the beast givin' those orders, ye didn't join willin'ly. They had to threaten ye an' me an' Dachlan with pain an' death t'get ye t'do anythin'! It wasn't ye!"
But Becnel thought it was, despite the ardent reassurances of his mate. How many nights had he lain awake thinking about how different things could have been? There might be better beasts than him still alive if only he'd not been such a coward! He felt he should have had the bravery to risk desertion and the execution that would have followed if he'd been caught. Or, though he never would have dared to admit to Mordet, he felt he should have had the courage to outright defy the orders or simply fall on his own sword. Either would have been better than to be a warlord's implement of pain.
Ever the tactful vixen, Mordet couldn't know what her mate was thinking, but she could at the very least give him something he needed. Without a word she turned and pulled Becnel's paws around herself, her back pressed firmly against his chest. It took little more than that for Becnel's grip around her to tighten into an adoring embrace, with Mordet making both herself and their unborn cub an anchor for Becnel to hold onto.
With Mordet in Becnel's arms, there came yet another bout of silence, but this time the silence was not so terrifying or oppressive as before, and when at last someone spoke, this time it was Becnel, his mind much more at ease.
"So…" he bagan, his paws moving to rest lightly atop Mordet's stomach. "Does the cub feel like a tod or a vixen? Females always seem t'be good at guessin'."
His muzzle buried into the soft fur on his mate's neck, and Mordet's head tilted down to return the nuzzle as she answered. "I think the kit'll be a vixen this time. I've jus' got a feelin'."
Becnel let out atranquil sigh as he felt the kit making the barest movements inside Mordet's body. "Good… I'll bet she'll git her mother's beauty, an' her wit fer healin'."
A serene smile spread across Mordet's muzzle as the pair of them speculated on their kit. "An' she'll git her father's pretty eyes, an' his big heart."
By now, Becnel was feeling at peace enough that he didn't feel the need to correct Mordet that he only had one eye now, and that his heart couldn't be half as big as she thought considering his past. For now though, he was happy, and he let it pass without comment.
"Is Dachlan excited fer her, or scared? I still remember bein' a nervous wreck when my liddle brother was comin'," asked Becnel.
Mordet laughed. "He seems as ready as the rest of us. Coupla nights ago while ye were getting' firewood, he was pressin' his ear t'my belly an' tryin' t'talk t'the kit. Kept askin' what the kit's name was."
A laugh died in Becnel's throat and his body stiffened once more, his eyes fixed squarely down the road, wide as if the shades of the past truly had come to haunt him. Mordet could feel his paws shaking and twitching against her stomach, and she glanced up at her mate's terrified face.
"Becnel? What is it?" she couldn't help but let fear creep into her own voice, the reaction far too fast to be a simple return of her mate's distemper.
"B-bad… badger!" stammered out Becnel in gasps before calling out much louder. "Badger! Badger on the road!"
That outcry was loud enough for the other foxes in the caravan to hear, and an immediate scramble for weapons or anything that could be used for a weapon took place, those who were too young or two weak to fight being sent into the carts to hide. Not a single fox expected the badger dressed in full plate and armed with a great halberd to just pass them by. Stories about Bloodwrath and badgers were rampant in many vermin communities, and it served to turn them more into boogeybeasts than flesh and blood creatures.
"Mordet! Hide with Dachlan! Now!" said Becnel. The order was half between a frantic plea and a frightened demand.
Knowing full well that she could hardly fight or flee while pregnant, Mordet nod and did as her mate asked, loping behind the cart to hope for the best, silent prayers that she'd thought she'd long forgotten springing to her lips, every last one of them begging for the safety of her husband and her friends.
It was the work of a moment for Becnel to find his old sword and join the line of foxes protecting the caravan. He loathed the longsword in his paws, but it had simply been too good of a weapon to get rid of, and now Becnel was glad that he did keep the wretched thing around. Even just a quick look about showed that he was one of the only beasts who had any proper military weapon or any experience in an out-and-out fight. One vixen carried a pitchfork, a tod besides her clenched a set of gardening shears in a white-knuckled fist, one more squeezed a sledgehammer for dear life.
Most of the others could handle a tavern brawl or hold their own with a knife, but that was hardly the kind of fighting prowess that would get them far against a badger. Becnel swallowed a lump as he realized that some of these beasts, maybe many or most of them, would die. And certainly he could be amongst them. He'd seen multiple squads of hordebeasts die before they were successful in bringing a badger to his knees, and his mouth grew dry as he reflected on just how slim the caravan's chances were.
Dimly Becnel could hear the call to charge coming from the badger's side of the road, and then, loud and clear as a death knell in the still, frozen night air came a cry that made Becnel's body go numb.
"Eulaliaaaaaaaa!"
Then the badger was hurtling towards them, and with near thirty hares rounding the corner of the road in his wake! Thirty hares and a badger against a paltry twenty-one foxes! Thirty trained, martial hares against spice merchants, fortune tellers, traders, and handybeasts!
It was only pure shock that prevented Becnel from thinking that each and every one of them was going to die. The shock was such that Becnel forgot to breathe and simply held his breath during the charge.
Terror! He felt true terror as the badger came close enough for Becnel to see his eyes! The only other eyes Becnel ever saw that were so rage and hate filled belonged to the leader of the horde Becnel was press-ganged into after he'd publically executed a lieutenant plotting a coup! The badger's eyes were the eyes of a beast who was happy to spill the blood of those he declared his enemy, they were eyes eager for the red, obfuscating clouds of the Bloodwrath! Their owner wouldn't be satisfied until every last vermin lay bloody and dead on the ground.
The leather hilt of Becnel's blade creaked as his paws constricted around it, bracing himself for the inevitable crash between the onrushing Long Patrol and the defending foxes, calling out mere moments before, "Don't try t'block 'em! Dodge 'em!"
That good sense he recalled being given to a lightweight group of hordebeasts facing a charge was all the advice that Becnel had time to give before the badger's upraised, massive halberd fell and cleaved one of the defenders in twain from the shoulder across the chest. The other fox fell before he even had any time to scream. Slightly more luck was to be had when the hares connected with the front line of foxes. Nimble footpawed vermin were better able to guard against beasts closer to their own size, and they were already taking steps backwards by the time the hares reached them.
Several small skirmishes broke out inside of the larger battle as the foxes continually retreated and gave ground in a futile attempt to avoid injury, striking out only when there was no chance of being caught by the lengthier blades wielded by the Long Patrol hares. Every now and then a fox would land a glancing or wounding blow, but eventually they would be caught making some kind of fatal error, taking far more grievous injury than they were giving. They were too inexperienced in true war to know techniques that would trick the enemy or that took on high risk to yield greater rewards, and so they never had half a chance of gaining the upper paw.
Foxes began dying in droves as their steady dispatch led to a battle where more and more foxes were fighting two hares at once. There was little chance for a vermin victory when lashing out at one hare only brought on a sudden stab to the back or the flank from his friend.
Worst of all though was the havoc wreaked by the badger! No beast who he fell upon managed to do anything more than scurry around and prolong his own inevitable demise by that vicious halberd blade for a moment or two. Wherever the badger lord sought his enemy, they would fall back, until the foxes were pushed so far backwards that they were starting to bang their heels on their own campsites. In a desperate, last-ditch attempt undertaken far too late to have any hope of turning the tides, the foxes tried to push back against the hares and their great, ogre-ish demon of a lord.
Becnel found himself pushing forwards alongside the vixen with the pitchfork and the workbeast carrying the sledgehammer, but their path towards a thinner group of hares was blocked in short order. Like a great mountain of fur, flesh, and sinew the badger hoisted his polearm before them. Utterly desperate, Becnel lashed out with his sword, trying his hardest to cut open the badger's footpaw and hobble him so that they might at least have even a small advantage, but the only mark made from his risky onslaught was in dirt. The blade of his sword stuck in the earth where the badger's footpaw once was, and a savage kick plowed Becnel backwards, his sword twisting out of his paw and skinning his palm.
The vixen, trying her absolute best to help Becnel recover, thrust her pitchfork towards the badger's face, but he only had to rear up to his full height, and the prongs skidded off his chestplate. Before the workbeast with the sledgehammer could even pull his weapon back to try his luck at saving the lives of his fellow vulpines, their brief role in the battle was brutally ended.
The halberd fell once more and claimed the flesh and blood of three more vermin. The workbeast was utterly obliterated, the blade hacking straight through his body, a sickening crack sounding out as his spine was snapped and he fell to the ground in two pieces. Carrying through, the blade carved a trench in the vixen's rib cage after severing her arm, the impact of the weapon flinging her backwards as if she were hit by a battering ram, and a long peal of a scream echoed through the air. She would bleed out and die quickly when she hit the ground.
The halberd was swung by a champion wabeast of supreme strength, two lives snuffed out in a single swipe, but with three beasts hit. Becnel was last, being on the weakest and slowest part of the swing, yet he was too off balance from the bruising kick to dodge it. The very tip of the axeblade tore across his midriff, only stopping when the spearpoint of the weapon hacked into his ribs and became stuck.
At first, Becnel only gasped, unable to make a single noise, his entire body almost numb from the trauma of the impact, but then the blade was wrenched from between his ribs, and the agony came all at once in searing, tearing waves. Still standing, Becnel clutched at his ruined chest and stomach, feeling between his fingers the warm blood and… something almost slimy and slippery.
Becnel screamed. He screamed in an agonized rasp as his viscera spilled over his paw and slopped out onto the ground, feeling in his core a thoroughly torturous sensation as though he were somehow falling off a cliff, yet already able to feel the pain of hitting the ground and bursting before it happened.
Even as he stood there, feverishly attempting to hold the remaining guts in his split stomach, something flickered in the back of his mind, pain glazed eyes at once seeing both the body-filled road and the fuzzy, blurry past. He recalled through the pain and the sound of his own screams the time Becnel's own father and mother had taken him to a county faire when he was a young kit. He recalled how he was too frightened to ride the massive, polished wooden slide until his father guided him to the top and held Becnel in his lap as they went down. The amorphous regret that he'd never gotten to take Dachlan to a faire like that swam in the ocean of suffering within Becnel's skull.
A single shift of Becnel's footpaw and he fell, slipping on his own organs and landing heavily on his side, every last bit of air forced from within him and his screams ceasing with an abrupt finality. Now he could only choke and gasp, Becnel's suffering passing beyond his ability to show with his voice.
Unable to do anything but stare ahead and wait for death, Becnel could see the badger turn away after seeing what he considered the righteous vanishing of yet another foebeast, and just barely he could tilt his muzzle upwards the watch the armored back stalk towards the next victim.
Oh no… No! No! No! flitted and trashed through Becnel's head as he saw Mordet peek out from around the corner of their cart, only to shriek when she saw Becnel's mangled body.
Acting on pure rage and instinct alone, all rational thought purged, Mordet dashed to the cooking pot she was working out of earlier, plucking it from the fire by its wrapped handle in one paw, and the other taking up the kitchen knife she was using to chop roots and herbs. Her paw moved backwards, a furious cry tearing from her throat as she prepared to lob the boiling emulsion onto the badger who'd slain her mate.
At the same time, her outcries roused the attention of one of the ranking members of the Long Patrol, and the sergeant shouted out, "Kill the demmed vermin! There! Now!"
Straining to force his broken body to move, Becnel's limbs twitched, keening huffs coming from his mouth as he tried his hardest to call out to his mate, to tell her to run, to hide, to do anything but to stay and try to fight. He pled with fate, thinking that he would die a hundred times if only he could reach Mordet. Vulpuz himself could use him as a plaything if only she were spared!
Nothing came to spare Mordet though, and Becnel was forced to watch impotently as a young hare leapt to perform the orders of his superiors, approaching Mordet from behind… and thrusting his saber straight through her, the point of the weapon rupturing through her chest and a scream of pain tearing from her throat. The saber was pulled from her body and she fell face-first to the ground, writhing and moaning and trying to haul herself up to get away, though her arms kept giving out, forcing her to crawl on her elbows.
Helping Mordet being entirely out of his grasp, Becnel wept as he watched her suffer. With a frantic and panicked thrust, the hare stabbed Mordet again, bringing another cry of pain, but not death. He stabbed again and again, the cries growing weaker until; at last, Mordet lay still, her soul and the soul of her unborn kit fleeing her remains.
Yet Becnel's spirit remained, tethered to a body which shouldn't be able to support it. His spirit suffered in its ruined husk as he saw the blood of the vixen he loved so dearly running red into the dirt. Everything that mattered to him was gone, yet he remained! Mordet was dead, the kit who they'd had such high hopes for was never to be born, and Becnel was certain that the only mercy fate was showing him that day was that he didn't have to see Dachlan die. But against a foe that would kill a pregnant vixen, what were the chances that Dachlan weren't slain as well? Becnel knew for sure that his small body lay ravaged and bloody somewhere nearby, and he could only pray to any powers who were listening that he was no longer suffering.
The torment and sorrow Becnel felt; he was certain that it was fate's reward to him for killing innocents at the bidding of a warlord. For doing what he did, his family was taken from him in the most brutal ways, and he was dying in slow, burning, hellfire agony.
Digging his fingers into the dirt, Becnel began to drag himself towards Mordet's body, every inch feeling as impossible as moving a mountain and rewarding him with more pain for his troubles. Though he hoped to the depths of his soul that Mordet's anguish was ended, he was determined to clasp her paw, just in case. Becnel didn't want her to be alone if she were still dying, and even just being able to hold her lifeless paw would be a meager comfort to him and ease his passing.
Even this was to be denied to him. A hare stumbled backwards and fell as one of the last remaining foxes tried a final, vigorous assault that cost him a claymore chopping into his back. As the hare fell, the blade of his broadsword whipped out, lashing across Becnel's eyes, cutting through the bridge of his muzzle in the process. Utter blackness and white-hot pain joined as Becnel was blinded, no amount of frantic scrabbling allowing him to find the paw of his mate.
Left with nothing, he lay down his head, giving up, letting his body settle into corpselike motionlessness, regretting every misstep and evil he'd done in life, regretting the missed opportunities, regretting that many seasons' worth of time with Mordet and Dachlan were stolen from him. And most of all, he regretted that his last words to his son weren't of love, but of admonition and punishment. Becnel was certain that his son died thinking that his father loathed him after spurning the present he was attempting to give.
Silently Becnel begged for death to take him, wondering why he was still alive, starting to think that this might have been part of his judgment: a taste of the Hellgates before he even felt their heat. But by inches, an even greater darkness overtook the pitch-black nothingness of blindness, and Becnel's last remaining bit of life faded away with a whimper.
