I just want it to stop…

The Pain. The Anguish. The Suffering…tormenting him since he had been so little…the anguish that was synonymous with his very life.

Is it the blood in my veins? Tell me, Fate! What did I do to deserve this!

Blood, crimson, hot and oddly soothing ran down his arm, dulling the pain in a way that made him want to weep. The knife moved again, gashing only a small slit, away from any veins that would have threatened his life.

He owed his life to Visla, he couldn't throw it away. It had been ten long years in the service of the scarred weasel, years learning to fight and to kill, to survive.

The dual-toned eyes narrowed and his fangs pressed together as the agony of decision weighed against him. How many more would die for him in the years to come? Why did he live when his friends and loved ones died at his feet?

His mother had been the first, he'd never forgotten her, even if he did things that would horrify her. He'd watched his father grab her, drag her to the window and-

He shuddered, the beginnings of a sob escaping him. Pyria, his dear, beloved, older sister; his protector had died protecting him as well, from the assassins Hadras-he would never dignify that two legged snake with the title 'father'- had sent. They had raped and killed her while he had been helpless to interfere. Helpless as the second of many died for him.

He could see the knife stabbing over and over again into Hadras, stomach, thighs, chest and groin, seeing the shock on the brutal lord's face change to-pride?

"You are…what I wanted…my son…" He had rasped, reaching to embrace Taren as death's chariot tore his soul from his body. "I am…so proud…" He had slumped against the young fox then, life leaving in a gurgling sigh.

The throne was empty, inviting and seductive before him, but with a choked son, the young fox had hurled the knife to the ground and ran, ran from his father's keep and territories, into a new life; as a petty thief.

He closed his eyes as the veins began to look even more inviting, the knife's edge pressing to them unconsciously…one cut, just one cut; he was good with knife after all…open the veins, watch the blood pour out, then it would be over, it would be over, it would be ov-

"Taren…?" A sleepy, female voice, the vague sound of bare flesh sliding on silken sheets as a golden-brown furred paw, seeking the warmth of his body touched only empty space rang in his ears like the winds in a gale. Not now, please not now…don't let me lose my resolve; the pain is about to stop-

No words came from his lover's mouth, but he could feel the hard glare of her eyes against his bare back, perhaps clouding with tears, perhaps furious. There were too many possibilities.

Sariss was over ten years older than him and indeed had found the fox when he had been a worthless vagabond on the streets and she had taught him to fight, and how to feel again. The difference in age and species meant nothing: He loved her deeply and passionately.

All who loved him died. He had to spare her this fate…

A gentle paw laid itself on his shoulder and he felt her forehead press between his unclad shoulders. "Sariss…" He whispered her name, "Just-"

"Just what?" She whispered, voice growing tight with the authority all the soldiers understood so well, "Walk away? Let you kill yourself?"
"I have to make it stop…the pain-"
"The pain? Everybeast has pain…" She hissed. "You think about my pain? Or Mahk's? You stop to consider how we'd feel with you dead?"

"I just want it to end…" He whispered numbly, blue and red eyes closing.

"So you die…is your whole life just full of running away?" Her tone had become a near snarl, "You fucking coward!"

"Shut up!" That was more than he could endure and he turned, eyes full of blazing fire and chilling ice. "You can't understand! Nobeast can understand! What I've been thr-"

She smacked him.

In all their time today, she had never struck him and instinctively, he dropped the knife and his paw flew to his cheek. Dumb with shock he stared at her, no longer the brilliant young commander, but the frightened child, the scared boy in need of comfort, who sought only to escape his pain.

Her face was filled not with loathing or hatred, not with anger, but with the most heartbreaking expression of love and concern that he didn't even try to hide his sobs. Warm arms encircled him and held him close as he wept into her shoulder. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" He whispered the mantra like it could absolve it.

"Never do that again…" She whispered, her own voice tight with unshed tears. "You stupid bastard…how could you even think that?"

"It hurts so much…"
"That's the most selfish thing you could do…we all hurt, Taren," She replied softly, "But we don't run away and neither should you."

The tears stopped eventually, the strength returned, along with the sick feeling of what he had almost done. "From now on, I'll keep a blade away from me." He tried a weak smile as Sariss shook her head.

"You poor, poor fool…" Her paws ran over his cut and bleeding arm gently. "Let's fix this up. Taren," She looked him in the eyes, mouth tightening into a line, "If you ever feel pain again, just talk to me. If you ever pull this again, I'll kill you myself."

The frightened child inside him was buried now, buried with Sariss…

He was the leader, the General, the warrior.

He was Taren de-Droka. He was Mordath.

And as he stared out at the stormy seas, arms folded and eyes narrowed in anticipation of the battle he knew would soon approach with Dukat Nidas, he knew that maybe, just maybe, that was all he needed to be.

Falis had been cremated, as befitted a true leader of the Nameless Clan, Edrin and Khorda stood by, their heads bowed to hide the fear and fury they both felt as Falis and the other victims of Jirik Valrik's massacre were put to the torch, watching the flames lick the starry sky.

"This…was horrible." Khorda replied, the rat placing a paw on the hilt of his sword. "No creature with a soul could've done this…Falis, his beasts, those woodlanders…even the kids."

Edrin Namas nodded once, "So, we're dealing with something without one then…you got a name, Eroket?"

His gaze flicked to Eroket Nightblade and Jald Nightson who stood nearby, watching the procession with unreadable expressions. Eroket looked to the fox and nodded, the pain of the child's death fresh in his mind, reflected in his eyes as he nodded and spat the name: "Jirik Valrik…"

"The Reaper," Khorda shook his head and smiled bitterly, "I'm tempted to say we're doomed. He was the one creature feared the most for his bloodlust and cruelty in thenorth. Even down south, he's made a name for himself."

"He can bleed. I've seen him bleed." Jald replied with slow deliberation, "Years ago. If he can bleed, he can die. We can kill him, Khorda."

"It's not just him," Edrin shook his head. "We can only assume they're elites, even if-"

"Leave it to us." Eroket's command was delivered with harsh finality. "You can't afford more soldiers dead, employer."

Khorda frowned. "You two may very well be our last hope…we can't permit you to-"

"Trust us," Eroket replied grimly.

Edrin sighed lightly, guessing correctly that neither Jald nor Eroket would change their plans. "Khorda…" He shook his head. "Let them go."

Eroket nodded once. "You doubt. I can't say I blame you, but this isn't the first time we've been in rough situations." He bowed lightly. "Geras Iridanis will die within the season…we'll learn what we can if we can finish or capture one of this band and report to you…do whatever you can to get us help in the long run."

Edrin didn't know what surprised him more: That Eroket seemed to command him or that the ermine believed what he was saying.

He reclined on the makeshift throne his children had erected for him in the rough hideaway. He would wait one more day, and then he would return to the north. He was tired of waiting for his wayward son to return with news: Already Zamaz was late.

He noted the velvet footfalls before Zamaz emerged from the gloom, dropping to a knee and folding his arms across his chest. Like all his brood, Zamaz possessed jet black fur and crimson eyes, dressed in a simple black mail.

"Rise, Zamaz," He replied, raising a paw. "You are my son, not my slave."

Zamaz stood, but kept his eyes on the floor. "Father…I made contact with your Chosen Blade."

"Indeed…" His voice was calm. "What is his location and condition?"
"Successful thus far," Zamaz replied with a light shrug, "A few massacres, but you expected that when you assigned him to this…sir," He added quickly.

The elder fox leaned back and turned his head to make out other tall, slim forms beside Zamaz, more of his beloved children, each different, each a brilliant weapon.

"Characterize this…Eroket Nightblade, the ermne who helped to bring about the death of your sister, Vandashira, Zamaz, the one I hear Jirik is so interested in and who causes his 'master' unending grief."

Zamaz frowned, "Father-?" The cautious fox clearly did not understand.

His father smiled lightly. "Zamaz, you are precise, Jirik is brutal. Our beings can be summed up in but a word. Characterize this ermine."

From Zamaz's left, one of the foxes replied suddenly, "Relentless."

The elder Valrik hid a pleased grin. "Good. Now, Geras Iridanis."

Before one of his brothers could reply, Zamaz hissed in contempt, "Arrogant…"

"Relentlessness in moderation is dedication. Arrogance in moderation is self-confidence. Remember this, my children. Anything in excess is dangerous…"

An ebony furred paw wave lightly and the body arose from the throne. "All of you, your assignments here are ended: We leave it in Jirik's paws. In exactly one year, we will meet in the city of Haldrine. If we are successful, you will know. Things continue as they always have."

And they departed into the night, all separate, all heading to the north where each, a Prince of their dark sect of shadows, returned to a group of loyal killers and schemers. The aging Lord Valrik returned to his own domain, the journeys would take the better half of the spring, but by the time they arrived, the news of Jirik and Kirathal's success-or failure- would be known.

As each of the Princes of Shadows returned to continue their machinations under the watchful crimson eye of their father, Jirik Valrik went along with the beast he called his master to plunge the world into war.