Chapter 27: A Single, Solid Color

The rest of them, Men and aberrants alike, crowded around the two of them in a broad, loose circle. Staring, their faces grim, eyes cold. There was a tension in the air, the same as a static charge before a storm broke.

They were all there. Those who had been a part of his old life, and those who had come after. He recognized every face, even if he couldn't remember the names. All were quiet, and none of them approached. Instead, they stood there, bound by some silent agreement among themselves. Waiting. Observing.

Hicks struggled to get himself upright, slowly pushing his way back onto his feet. Blood dripped freely from his mouth. His head and shoulders shuddered as he tried to steady himself. He understood, then.

Two survivors. All of the sons of bitches wanted to watch. They were hoping for a spectacle—One last, grand show of brutality before the curtain was drawn on that long, long night.

So be it.

He spat blood onto the ground, then spat again, trying to rid himself of the awful, sticky taste. His entire face felt numb. Hicks took in slow, deep breaths, trying to win back some semblance of control. He could feel the weight of the stares and murmurs surrounding him. But he paid them no heed. The pain was starting to dull. His vision was darkening even more at the edges. He could no longer tell if the ringing he heard was real or just all in his head.

His legs felt shaky, unsteady. Ready to crumble into dust the moment he put too much pressure on them. He tried not to think about it. No time left to fall or fail.

Hicks kept his focus squarely on the man standing before him. Ansel stared right back, his lone eye unerring.

There was some strange sensation, deep in Hicks' stomach, churning, weighing him down. He couldn't quite describe it. Fear? Guilt?

Guilt?

What a joke. Who the hell did he take himself for? What right did he, of all people, have to feel guilty? Liar. Traitor. He'd chosen this path, from the very beginning. Every step of the way, he'd chosen to walk it. Even when he was alone, even when the world itself seemed ready to bear down on him, he had chosen.

Guilt had no place in his story—There was no turning back. This was the only way things could end.

And yet...

...And yet...

The words tumbled from his mangled lips, soft and low, before he even realized he was saying them: "This... It's our fate, isn't it?"

Ansel said nothing. His expression didn't change in the slightest. He just lowered his chin. Squared his shoulders. Raised his fists.

Hicks' throat constricted, and a shiver ran down his spine. He could feel the cold, clammy sweat on his skin, sticking his hair and shirt to his back. For a long moment, his mind was completely blank. Then, with an exhausted sigh, he mirrored Ansel's stance. Even though it hurt like all hell, even though his entire body trembled. He brought his fists up, his grip tight.

Hicks took a step forward, and Ansel matched it. The two of them circled each other slowly, never breaking eye contact. The crowd around them just... faded away from Hicks' mind. There was nothing else in the world. Nothing else that mattered. All his attention, all his awareness was centered on the enemy before him.

The enemy.

His body boiled over with the intense, searing heat of fever. It slid through him, burning away every trace of fatigue or exhaustion. The world narrowed and darkened. The only colors left were ash and blood, the sun and the smoke.

Then, prompted by some unheard signal, they moved at the same moment, lunging towards each other. The glass cracked beneath their feet.

Hicks managed to land the first blow. His fist slammed into Ansel's jaw, rocking his head back. Ansel's entire body shuddered from the impact, and he gasped for air. Without pause, Hicks followed up with another strike, swinging his right arm in a short, quick arc.

Ansel ducked out of the way of his hook, then brought a leg up, driving his knee deep into Hicks' stomach. Hicks gagged and nearly retched as the air was forced out of his lungs, the taste of acid burning his tongue. His knees buckled, his balance thrown, and he stumbled back.

Around them, the half-forgotten crowd cheered and shouted, screaming out oaths and insults. Hicks couldn't make out a word. It didn't matter.

Baring his teeth, he lunged forward again, swinging a wild haymaker at Ansel's face. Ansel stepped aside—just barely—and Hicks' fist smashed against his shoulder. Ansel stumbled back another two steps. Hicks followed after him, his body moving before his mind could catch up.

Another punch, this time catching Ansel in the ribs. Hicks didn't stop there, raining a series of strikes onto his foe. He swung, and he punched, and he kicked, and he hit and he hit and he hit, over and over again.

Then, Ansel gave up on the notion of defense. He threw himself forward, full-force, and smashed his elbow into the side of Hicks' head.

The world blurred, and Hicks' legs buckled. Ansel grabbed a fistful of his shirt, pulling him closer, before slamming his forehead against his.

There was a wet crunch as Hicks' nose broke, sending a fresh spurt of blood running down his face. As his vision turned white, everything seeming to turn upside down, Hicks lashed out, blindly. Ansel did the same. No kicks, no attempts to block or evade. The two of them just punched forward into each other with all they had.

One strike.

Two strikes.

Three strikes.

Their fists crashed into each other simultaneously—If Hicks had had any doubt that his hand was broken before, the flaring pain of it made that uncertainty fade away. It burned for a single heartbeat, as every bone within shattered at once, then went numb.

Ansel fared no better. Hicks almost expected he'd have the upper hand, but he was barely limping along, his face becoming a swollen mess of red and purple.

Four strikes.

Five strikes.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Neither gained nor gave ground, neither seemed to tire, neither really knew where the next blow would come from. Their swings became more erratic, sluggish. Perhaps, if they'd been in their right minds, they would have fought a different battle. Maybe Hicks would have relied on his agility, sticking to Ansel's blind side, weaving in and out of range. Maybe Ansel would have tried to apply some of his fancy knightly forms and techniques.

Nine.

Ten.

Eleven.

Twelve.

But there was no semblance of anything like that left in either one of them. It wasn't anything that resembled combat between men—It was something far more primal. Just two animals pouring every last ounce of hatred and anger into the other. Everything else melted away, leaving only the two of them, fueled by the most basic instinct to kill.

Thirteen.

Fourteen.

Fifteen.

Sixteen.

Seventeen—!

Too late, Hicks realized that the last one had been a feint. Ansel spun, bringing his other fist up and around in a wide hook that cracked against Hicks' temple. His sight blanked again, and he stumbled back another two steps. He was vaguely aware of Ansel lunging forward, another fist cocked back. Hicks let it hit him in the stomach, sending a nauseating wave across his insides.

Ansel's other hand wrapped around the nape of Hicks' neck. And then, Hicks' face was rammed straight into Ansel's knee.

The world became a whirlwind of colors and shapes and sounds and sensations. Something in his skull creaked and crunched, and the world tilted sideways.

He...

He was on his back. Ansel went down with him, driving a knee deep into Hicks' abdomen. His lungs were burning, the wind knocked clean from him. Some cold, jagged thing brushed against his fingers.

A fist slammed into his face, once, twice, three times. His head jerked to the side, and he was dimly aware of a tooth or two falling loose from his mouth. Then, another fist, crashing into his jaw. And another, smashing his cheek. And another, crushing his nose. Again.

And again.

And again.

Ansel kept going, hitting and hitting and hitting and hitting. Hicks' mind went blank, but still, he reached out, trying to find that thing he'd felt earlier. There, at the edge of his fingers. His hand found purchase around it. It was sharp—His fingers were bleeding just from brushing against it. So Hicks gripped it, tight, until his knuckles popped.

Another punch knocked the last bit of air from his lungs. His head rang. He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe. Another punch. His head rolled to the side. His eyes stung. He couldn't see.

And then... it stopped.

Slowly, Hicks opened his eyes, barely clinging to consciousness.

Ansel had just... stopped at some point. He was kneeling over Hicks' body, one hand still reared back, fist clenched, just a motion away from swinging. But he didn't. His expression was blank, and he just knelt there, panting hard, gasping for air. Ansel stared down at him. Raised his arm again, fist clenching up for one last blow.

With a jerky, unsteady thrust, Hicks drove his arm up and sideways.

They both looked down together at the shard of glass that jutted out from Ansel's side, jabbed deep below his ribs, right through his stomach. Hicks' hand, now slick with blood, held it tight. He couldn't quite recall how the piece had found its way into his hand, or how he'd found the strength to thrust it so deep. But here they were.

Ansel didn't resist at all when Hicks rolled him off, reversing their positions. He just stared up at Hicks, his mouth falling open.

"You stupid motherfucker." Hicks' voice was raw and ragged. "Stupid. Stupid! Gods! What the hell'd you have to come back here for?"

He didn't expect a reply, and he didn't receive one. He didn't know what he'd hoping for, really. "You... you just don't get it, huh? I shouldda killed you. Every one of you, I shouldda just let you die, right there in that shithole. It was all supposed to be over, but you just—!"

A hand rose up slowly. Hicks slapped it down, and brought both his own up to Ansel's throat.

Pressure.

"I begged, I pleaded, I fought for your lives. Every single one of you. And for what? For this?"

Ansel was breathing shallowly, his throat bogging against Hicks' palm. Hicks squeezed tighter. "For this? Asshole! I was in on this from the start! And you- You all just trusted me, no question! Like complete idiots!"

Pressure. The muscles in his arms twitched and spasmed, his thumbs trembling as he pushed the down tighter. The words kept coming, his breath hissing through his teeth. He was panting. His entire body shook. Teeth chattering, fingers clenching, hands squeezing, his arms pushing. His eyes were stinging. "None of this wouldda happened... If only I'd never met you. If only none of you'd ever existed...! I never would have turned into such a half-hearted piece of shit."

Ansel wasn't looking at him. His mouth moved, forming silent words. In that moment, the gruesome light in his eye flickered and vanished.

And for the first time in a long, long while, he looked like the Ansel whom he had known before all this. The dumb soldier boy. Too naive, too gentle, the one who saw nothing but the best in everyone.

"What?"

Ansel's lips continued to move. He was mouthing something, slowly, over and over again, again and again.

Hicks leaned in, bringing his ear closer. "What'd you just sa—"

Ansel lunged forward, mouth opened wide, teeth bared.

For a moment, Hicks could only stare down at him, dumb and uncomprehending. Ansel just bit down even tighter, his teeth sinking deeper into Hicks' throat. He made a fierce, savage shake with his head, and came away loose. Blood dribbled freely down his cheeks, down his chin, down his neck, staining the collar of his shirt.

Hicks staggered back, clutching a hand over his throat, blood pouring from between his fingers. The crowd of onlookers had gone deathly silent, the air itself still.

Ansel didn't say a word. In between his teeth, he held a strip of red flesh. He spat it out.

I'm dead, Hicks realized, mind racing to keep up. Artery. No saving that. Death within minutes. Some sound escaped Hicks, a wet, gurgling rasp. His head was already spinning as the life pissed out from his torn throat. His heartbeat pulsed weakly in his throat, just behind where Ansel had ripped open the wound. 'Shouldn't gotten curious. Should've finished him while I still had the chance. I should've...

That brief lull was broken by a chuckle. Deep. Gravely. All too familiar. Hicks didn't bother to look up towards the circle. They parted like water around a rock, allowing Vault to step past them all, and approach the two of them. He limped forward, leaning some of his weight on the Thousandlimbs. And yet he was still grinning like a fool, looking so damned pleased with himself.

"That's beautiful," said Vault. "Gods blind me, but you two boys're a real sight. Ain't no theater in the world that can match you two. None."

"Out... out of my way." His voice came out as little more than a whisper. Hicks forced his gaze upwards, ignoring the twinge his neck gave. "You said... I'd get to end it myself. Stay the fuck out of it..."

Vault stopped to regard him for a long moment, before finally shaking his head. "Mm, yeah. I do remember sayin' somethin' along those lines, sure. But the problem is that you've just gotten too damn slow. And too sentimental." He squatted down, reaching forward to place a hand on Hicks' head, examining him.

"I mean, look at yourself, Longshanks. Always the fastest, always the cleverest, always the best of the lot. You were so good at this sorta thing, way back when, but... Aww, hell, you just ain't got it in ya no more." He leaned in close, tousling Hicks' hair.

He drew in a breath, beginning to speak, but Vault just stood up and turned away. He walked over, stepping right past Hicks, and turned to Ansel.

"You, though, Ansel? Gods alive, man. I've seen hemorrhoids that've been less of a pain in the ass than you. I had some seriously grand plans for tonight, you know that? But you, you went ahead and ruined every last one of them. Just pop!" He said, snapping his fingers to emphasize the point. "Up in smoke. Fucked 'em up good." Despite his words, Vault's tone remained light, just shy of outright laughter.

Hicks' fingers clawed at his neck, digging into his skin, as if the gesture would somehow be enough to keep him alive. The world was already beginning to grow dim and distant. He could barely even make out the shape of anyone's face. He could feel his blood pouring, thick and hot, down his throat, into his mouth, filling his stomach.

And despite all that, Vault didn't have the decency to let him die quietly. He just kept talking. "Credit where credit's due, Hicks, I admire your vision. If we could've had a guy as stubborn and hardheaded as Red here... Damn, we could've gone anywhere. Done anything. You could've been part of something great. Both of you."

Some hideous, rasping noise rose up from somewhere. It took Hicks a moment to it was coming from Ansel. The laughter sounded distorted, garbled, as it rose up from somewhere deep in his chest, forcing its way up his throat. Ansel laughed and laughed, harsh and guttural, each bark punctuated with a wet cough, spittle and blood flecking from his lips.

And then it stopped. Ansel was on his feet again, swaying. "Something great? Are you stupid?" He asked Vault, voice a wet croak. "I already was part of something great. We were called the Black Hounds."

Something changed. Somehow, Hicks felt a shiver run down his spine, and goosebumps rise across his skin. A feeling, deep in his gut.

"That right?" Vault asked, his voice low. "Funny. I don't remember you ever being a member."

Ansel just tugged the shard of glass out from his stomach, clenching it in his fist. A wet, sucking noise came as it slid free. "Go figure. Don't remember ever seeing you there, either."

Vault's expression shifted. That easy smirk, the perpetual amusement, all of it seemed to fade, just for a moment. Something dark replaced it. He didn't have a response to that. Vault just heaved the Thousandlimbs up off the ground, holding it aloft. He took one step towards Ansel.

...Hicks fell. He was on his hands and knees, gasping desperately, trying to fill his lungs. Everything was fading away. Every gasp was weaker than the last. His fingers twitched. He couldn't feel them. He couldn't feel his legs, either.

...I deserve this.

His head was heavy. Right in front of him, Ansel stood, staring Vault down. As if he was going to take on the entire world with a piece of fucking glass and a dream.

I deserve this.

It was like a fog was clearing from his mind. He had been a part of something great. Something meaningful. Now, he was about to die. Surrounded by everyone and everything he'd thrown away. No one would remember him. And... it made sense, in away. He deserved that.

But... you don't.

Hicks lifted his head. The world seemed to brighten. Color seeping back into everything. There was a strange feeling, deep in his stomach. Some intense, violent energy. He couldn't tell if it was anger or desperation or something else entirely. Either way, it'd have to do. He'd find a use for it.

Get up.

The world tilted. Hicks was running.

His shoulder slammed into Vault's side, knocking him off-balance, throwing his swing wide. Hicks reached out at once, hand going for Vault's waist, wrapping around the leather strap of his dagger's sheath. He yanked it, tearing it free, then pulled it out, the blade glinting.

Hicks turned, lunging, at the same instant that Vault began putting momentum into his backswing.

Hicks managed to move first. He was faster than most men he knew; he always had been. But speed didn't mean much in the face of a sword like the Thousandlimbs.

More than anything else, though, the strike felt like a slap across his waist, barely even enough to make him grunt. Vault must have missed him, somehow. Perhaps he'd just caught him with the flat of the blade, or only managed to graze him with the tip. Hicks had fought through much worse than that. He could still put some distance between them, and then he could...

Could...

Something wasn't right. His legs didn't seem to carry him where he wanted them to. Back away, he commanded. But he was tumbling down, twisting over in the air as he did so, until he landed on the dirt with a grunt. And right there to Hicks' left, some idiot was laying down, his feet splayed out on the ground. Who in their right mind would decide to... to just lay down?

In a place like this? At a time like this? Why? And why on a pool of fresh, bright blood? Was he so desperate to get those nice boots all dirtied up?

Hicks tried to stand himself back up. Didn't quite manage feel his knee. So he ended up rolling over, away from the man's booted feet. Hicks was laying prone now, on his stomach. He was facing Ansel now. He still held the jagged, broken piece of glass.

"Ansel, I'm," he said. "I'm." He was out of breath. Hicks opened his mouth again. The noise that came out wasn't quite language. It shouldn't be so difficult to say finish a sentence. But it was. That last word wasn't happening. He felt sluggish. Sluggish like he never had before. Even his thoughts felt slow now. Icing up, coming to a standstill.

Funny enough though, he was warm. Deliciously warm. Like he'd dipped into a hot bath. Who would've thought.

A girl was standing over him. Bare feet, dirty with mud. Ratty clothing. Blonde hair too long, too messy—Hadn't been groomed in a while. Was that someone's kid? Was the whole world just... mad? Who'd bring their kid here?

The sun was rising. It peeked up, shy, over her shoulder. But it got dark. And it got silent.

Empty eyes, unseeing. Unmoving.

The realization came to me slowly, gradually, as if I were still processing what had happened. But as my awareness returned, so did the rest of the world. Everything around me was an enemy. Every person who'd been watching this spectacle, every creature that'd joined in, every one of them had their eyes fixed on me.

Vault raised his gaze to meet mine once more. I'd already began moving by then.

I couldn't understand why I was doing it. There no victory here. The rest of my life could easily be measured in a handful of heartbeats. If I tried to turn and run, they'd swarm me. And they idea of fighting back might as well be a sick joke. And yet, somehow, my legs wouldn't stop. My body moved, propelled by some unknown force, driven by some insane will. Vault was right there, just within reach.

Even if there was nothing left to fight for, even if there was nothing left to live for, there was still this.

Forward, forward, forward. A step. Another. One after the next. I brought my hand up. Clenched the piece of glass, the edges biting into my flesh. The ground below was steadily being painted red just by having me step on it.

Vault snarled, still reeling from his own momentum. Hicks' last, desperate charge had caught him completely off guard. He'd only just managed to catch the Thousandlimbs from going flying off, and his balance was thrown. That was my one and only chance. I wouldn't get another.

He met my eye, his expression darkening, and let go of the sword. Instead, he brought up his hands to try and catch my thrust.

—At the very edge of my vision, I caught a white glint. Given that it was in my blind side, it was a miracle I even managed to notice it. I almost wanted to laugh when I realized what it was. Because, of all people, Keane would never be the one to pull such a stupid stunt. Keane would never swing a sword with his skinny arms. And yet, there he was. Mid-swing, about to be the one to kill me. Despite everything else that had happened tonight, somehow this felt like the most absurd.

As clumsy as the swing was, and despite the awkward grip, Keane's aim was true. Its arc dipped lower and lower as it approached, closing in on the side of my head.

Too close. Far too close and too fast for me to evade. The blade was practically upon me when I saw it. A flash of silver, the edge gleaming in the dawn's light. I could almost see the reflection of my own face within it.

I didn't think. Right then, with my body completely numb, while the shock of impact coursed through me, with my consciousness fading with every passing moment, there just was no room in my mind left for thinking.

I clenched a fist and swatted at the incoming blade.

Keane's sword missed me by probably less than a finger's width, the blade slicing past my head and into the air.

And so did my hand, which sailed off after it in a bloody arc.

It's just a hand.

It's just a hand.

It's just a hand.

No big deal. I'm left-handed, at any rate. I never really used my right for much anyway. It was always awkward. Always clumsy. I won't miss it.

I hold the shard up, feeling my body tremble and sway. I don't look down. I can't look down. Even though I know, I won't be able to bear actually seeing it.

It was all I could manage. The rest of me was trembling uncontrollably. My entire body was shivering, shaking itself apart, as if it were a puppet whose strings had been cut, but... I couldn't feel anything anymore. Not pain from my wounds. Not the weight of steel in my fingers. Not even the numb tingling of my body, telling me that something was horribly wrong. Nothing.

Am I dying?

...Hah. What a stupid thought. Of course I'm already dead—My heart probably stopped beating a while ago. Right now, my body is the only thing refusing to acknowledge that truth. It bluffs, conjuring up whatever excuses it can, pretending that there's still something left.

So, if that's the case... Then who am I to doubt it?

Something crumbles completely. Eventually, I stop trembling. The world reshapes itself into a bizarre canvas. It's not black and white. It's not shades of either. It's just a single, solid color throughout. The enemy in front of me becomes the center of it all.

...I can't remember his name. I can't remember my own, either. I can't remember why we're here, why this is happening, why I'm fighting. All I know is that I have to erase him from this world, before the last of me burns out. That's just how things are.

I'm not sure whether it happens instantly or gradually, but I'm lunging for him without realizing it. Before I know I've taken another step, before I know that my feet aren't touching the ground, I've got the sharp edge pointed straight at his throat.

He meets it with a frown, catching both my hands in his. His teeth are clenched. The glass is cutting into his palms, drawing blood. "Even after all that, you've still got more fight left in you?"

Individually, I recognize the words coming from him, but only their sounds. The meaning is gone, as if it were some language I don't actually speak. When I try to process them, my mind goes blank. After a moment, I forget what he's said altogether.

...Whatever. I yank back my sword back, and two of his fingers come back with me. Sword? No. It's not a sword. It's just... a piece of glass. I lunge again. This time, he steps aside, avoiding the thrust entirely. He says something again. Something short and simple that I can't understand anymore.

I'm getting slower. Still, I push forward. Again, and again, and again. He evades each of my clumsy attacks, his expression slowly morphing into one of anger. For the life of me, I can't really imagine why.

Halfway through another swing, he bats away my arm, and retaliates with a swift punch to my gut. There isn't any air left inside my lungs, so I don't even gasp out in response. Instead, I continue to press forward, bringing the sword down in a heavy chop towards his side. He moves away from it easily.

Another swing. Another evasion. And yet another. He responds to every miss with a punch. He doesn't even use his sword at all. Each attack becomes heavier than the last, and it gets harder and harder to lift the sword in my hand. The strength seems to seep away, leaving me limp and lifeless.

I see stars behind my eyelid, and feel several things shatter under the impact. The world darkens around me, becoming a blur of movement, sound, sensation. I'm still on my feet. Somehow. I stagger back, unable to focus properly, my vision swimming. I grit my teeth, forcing my muscles to respond to my commands, and bring the glass... the sword up once more. High, up high, above my head, as far as I can raise it, until it's nearly parallel to the sky.

Vom Tag—The roof guard. I remember this. Someone taught me this, a long time ago. She told me that instinct alone could only get you so far, but practice would hone it. Practice would give you skill. Skill would save your life. That was her lesson.

She was right.

But right now, instinct is all that's keeping this corpse upright. Everything else is gone, scattered across this wasteland with the smoke. The only thing I have left to give is this.

The blade sweeps downwards, cutting through the air. Downward, downward, faster and faster, until my shoulder is torn from its socket. The enemy in front of me is ready for it.

He sure as hell isn't ready for the way I twist at the waist, and the sudden change of momentum. I pivot my hips, turning with all the force in my legs, putting everything into the motion. And as I spin, I lash out, as if I'm going to strike him with my right hand.

Only, there's no hand there to reach him. Blood, dark and rich, sprays from my open wound, splashing onto him. His nose. His neck. Dripping down his brow. Over his eyes.

Eyes close on reflex. His breath catches in a sudden gasp. He freezes, stunned, just for a moment.

And a moment's all I need.

I keep turning, completing the pivot, and drive the glass shard forward.

There's no resistance. It just slices right in, as if it's parting cloth, tearing through his cheek, along the side of his jaw. The tip scrapes off his earlobe, and he stumbles backwards.

Missed his throat. But if I can just—

My legs give out.

I fall.

The earth is hard and cold. My back hits it heavily, jarring the broken bones beneath my skin.

The enemy steps back. He wipes my blood from his eyes, his hand shaking. The gash along his face is wide. The skin is torn in jagged edges, red and raw.

It's not enough.

I still need to kill him.

He looks at me. His face is unreadable, eyes cold. As if measuring me up, weighing me in his mind. What he wants to tell me goes unheard. After a few moments, he turns away.

I don't understand. Why not end it? Doesn't he get that I'll keep getting back up?

I begin to rise. Only to find that... I can't. My limbs outright refuse to cooperate. They're heavy, leaden, as if I'd spent hours carrying sacks filled with sand. The effort of standing is just too much, and so instead of rising, I collapse backwards once again.

"Oh..."

...I lost.

That... shouldn't be as much of a surprise as it is. I was outnumbered. I was exhausted. I was injured. And yet, despite all that working against me, I'd somehow expected that I'd beat him.

I lie flat on my back, staring up at the sky. It's all I can do anymore. The few clouds overhead seem indifferent, drifting lazily along, as if they aren't even aware of what had just happened below their very noses. The sun shines on me, though I can't even feel the warmth of it. It's just a dull, distant glow.

My hand is moving. There's no strength behind it, just a faint twitch. I've lost the shard, and now my fingers are reaching for something. It takes me a moment to realize why. I would laugh, but I don't have that kind of energy left in me.

Gods, don't I know when to give up?

I can't open it. It's held in between my teeth now.

All I want is to sleep. To pass out from exhaustion, and let myself rest, just for a little bit. I'm tired. I'm hurt. I'm alone. After everything we've done and seen and been through, I need a break.

But... there are a lot of things I promised to a lot of people. A lot of promises I made to myself. If I sleep now, I won't get to remember any one of them.

And I'll never avenge anything.

I bite down. Hard. The thin glass shatters.

The taste is sweet, like nothing else in the world.

I felt pain.

I...