Henry is floating.
Well, he is not. But he feels as if he is. As if there is no ground beneath his feet, and no body to house his soul. And it is not the feeling of the ground giving way, of his body broken and torn apart — rather, it is the feeling of drifting, of being so incredibly far from the world and from himself.
It must be joy, he thinks. The sweetest vindication, now that he has fulfilled his mission — here he stands, in the den of the gnawers, aside only the unsuspecting and the helpless; here he stands, with the warrior babbling desperately by his side, his purpose fulfilled; here he stands, an hour, a minute, a second, for what is time when he has as much as he could want, from his new life, his new allies, his new family, his new strength—
Luxa is speaking to him. Something about helping her with tying the sorry excuse for a warrior's sickly father to Aurora. He only half hears — and when he hears, the words are muted, as if he is covered by a suffocating veil which presses on his ears.
It is joy. It must be. It is joy, and it is liberation — he has no more fear, he has no more weakness, and so his body becomes unfeeling.
This numbness and this distance must be what strength truly is.
"No, Luxa." For a moment, he is confused where the noise comes from. Then he realizes that he is the one speaking. "We have no need to hurry now."
At those words, every face contorts in confusion. For an instance, Henry feels like a spectator on the sideline, and somewhere, he knows this spectator ought to make a face of weak understanding, too.
Then Ripred — and, Henry thinks, is it not pathetic that that rat, who had everything, who had all the strength in the world, would give it up for the sake of some warped, implausible idea of peace? — says, "No, I believe Henry has taken care of everything."
Yes. Yes, Henry has. Henry has taken care of everything. A sense of calm settles in his chest. It is an odd feeling, something he had forgotten he knew — a breath he had long forgotten he had been holding.
It is peace.
Henry has taken care of everything.
He has done what he must. He has delivered the warrior to King Gorger, he has betrayed Regalia, he has done what he must.
These people will die. Luxa will not, of course, and neither will Aurora. They will hate him, he knows, but they will soon see that he was right. They will soon see that he had to do this. He had to do this for them, so that they would not drown in their weakness.
Ares will understand, surely. Ares has always been strong. Ares has always been on his side.
Henry has taken care of everything. What more is there to understand?
"Henry had to," he says. His fingers move to his lips all on their own. The sound that emerges is high and grating.
The warrior is saying something. The fliers' wings are fluttering erratically. The rope slips from Luxa's fingers.
But it is alright. It is alright.
Henry is still floating when the rats come running.