AN:Anyone who is reading this that is suicide sensitive...you might not want to read this. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Every night, Gangrel was haunted by a dream. He was aware it was a dream, but that did not detract from the terror that accompanied it.
The nightmare was always the same: he stood in the border wastes, standing upon a mountain of broken bodies, his sword and hands streaked with crimson blood. In the distance, he could see a the gleam of Falchion's bright steel, held by a slowly advancing Chrom. Gangrel would take his own blade and go to meet the Ylissean Prince, and once there, they would fight. Every night, no matter the strategy the Mad King used, Chrom's blade would carve out the bloody brand across his chest, and he would wake up in cold sweat.
But tonight it was different. As he waited upon his throne of corpses, he could see the sword, but the figure that held it was shadowed and blurred. When Gangrel left the pile of bodies, the ground began to quake beneath his feet, crevices opening, earth spiraling down into darkness.
As he approached his opponent, Gangrel realized that he felt heavier with each step. Bewildered, he looked around and gasped; the pale hands of a thousand ghosts-each one a person he remembered killing-clung to him, dragging him down. More spirits piled on him, until he was forced to his knees by the sheer weight of them.
The earth continued to crumble away, falling into the abyss. The wind whipped through Gangrel's red hair as the shadow of his Ylissean enemy blocked the sunlight.
He knew where he was: the cliff where the Exalt had died, high above Plegia Castle Courtyard. Mustering all the strength he had, Gangrel raised his head, preparing himself to look death in the eye. But it was not Chrom wielding the sword: it was Emmeryn.
She smiled at him tenderly, the kindness in her face more terrifying than her brother's hate-filled glare. Paralyzed, unable to lift even a single finger under the weight of his guilt and fear, he watched Falchion's sharp tip slowly advance until it rested in the joint between shoulder and throat. As the cold steel traced his chest, Emmeryn's kind smile never wavered, never faded, though it did become apologetic.
Instead of blood spurting from the wound, a thick black smoky substance spiraled free, swirling around the dead exalt before vanishing into the sky. As the darkness bled from him, Gangrel felt lighter, the ghosts flying away. When the black smoke was gone, Emmeryn tossed Falchion off the cliff, extending her hand to him. He took it and she pulled him to his feet. Her lips parted, perhaps to tell him something, but what came out was a gasp of pain.
Emerging from her chest was the point of a blade.
Gangrel stepped away, surprised and afraid. Something behind the blonde woman shoved her and she fell off the stone cliff in a graceful arc, the exact same way as before. The Mad King did not dare let his eyes follow her, more concerned with what had killed her.
There, standing before him, sword in hand, was a black figure. Made from the dark wisps that had sprung free of his wound, the figure was shaped as him, the golden crown of Plegia resting on it's brow. It stepped closer to him, extending it's dark hand.
Gangrel did not want to touch it; he was afraid of it, more afraid than he'd ever been. If it made contact with him, it would pollute him, turn him back into a monster, only cloaked in human skin. Yet it did not back down, pressing after him. Gangrel couldn't go back, couldn't let it reenter his soul. As he moved away, his foot slipped and he fell, plummeting down, down down...
Thunder crashed outside the ship, a violent heave of water rising under the hull. The resulting sway was enough for Gangrel to fall out of his hammock and onto the cold wooden floor. He struggled to sit up, drenched in cold sweat, his breathing heavy.
Oh gods, he thought. It was just a nightmare. Gods, pull it together, you dastard.
When he managed to silence himself, he stood, despite the pitching of the floor beneath him. Stumbling a bit, he managed to stagger on deck, away from the loud snores of the crew still unconscious in their hammocks. The cool night air-mixed with a flood of raindrops-helped drag Gangrel from the hazy world of dreams back into a semblance of reality, though the haunted sensation did not fade.
Leaning against the ship's edge, Gangrel stared blearily at the foaming waves, raindrops pounding on his head, running down his face.
What was he still doing here? he wondered aimlessly. Why hadn't he died a long time ago and saved himself this mess of blood and tears? He received no answers, no crystalline insight, same as every time he'd posed the question before. Each drip of water that touched him only added to the depressed atmosphere, weighing down his very soul.
Gangrel unsheathed the shining knife he always kept on his belt, watching his reflection lifelessly. It wasn't a man that stared back: it was a drowned rat. A dog that should have been put down a long time ago.
The husk of a man straightened, tightening his grip on the knife, his heart rate picking up as he steeled his nerve. The metal was colder than ice, over the exact spot where the white scar from a failed attempt rested. Lighting streaked across the dark sky, electrifying the very air.
Gangrel tipped his head back, taking a final long breath, watching the black clouds spiral in the sky. His eyes fixed upon a single gap in the chaos in darkness, silver stars shining through. For a moment, he could have sworn that he saw Emmeryn's dismayed face looking down at him...
His heart pounding, his breath quick and shallow, he added pressure to the knife, the steel biting his skin. He was afraid, the primal fear of death and instinct to survive battling with his mental resolve. Lighting flashed again, indistinguishable from the clap of thunder that followed. The knife pressed ever harder, warm blood beading through his thin shirt.
One motion. One motion, only a few muscles contracting, and he would be gone. So simple, so easy. He had done the same movement a thousand times before, tearing lives away like leaves in the wind. He had never hesitated to deliver the blow before, but now he could scarcely move the blade.
He couldn't do it. The knife clattered to the deck as he fell to his knees, panting. He couldn't do it. He was too weak, too afraid to just end it and save the world the grief of his presence.
Shame flooded him as he stared at the discarded weapon. Emmeryn-for all her hypocrisy and claims of nobility-had been stronger than him, throwing her life away without a second thought, without a moment's hesitation. What was the difference here?
Tear, hot and wet, poured from his tired eyes, joining the rain that pounded upon him.
I am a wretched human being, he thought. I have nothing to live for, yet each day I wake to continue this excuse of an existence. I can't even bring myself to bring down the knife. All I've done is suffer, and it has brought nothing, no great change in the world, or even a betterment for my people. What gods decided that I should live? What right do I have to walk the earth?
Slowly, he raised his head, the water stinging his face. He couldn't see the stars; they were concealed behind the dark storm.