Belief
Silence. Utter silence. Alone, with none left to hear or speak.
He had made sure of that, 'twas true. He'd proved his strength; claimed victory deserved. They would believe in him, the only way they could.
But with Lucrece gone, emptied 'fore his righteous fury, what then? Who left to know, to keep the faith, even to cling to him above them?
And so Odio had turned then, to his brethren, felled unjustly by the craven fools. Heroes, called, only for their victory! He'd prove his power to them as well, show how it should have been! He was the hero true, seven victories to show.
They believed in him. They must! They did! They fell to Odio times seven over! If victorious standing made them heroes, he'd surely proven his unfairly-slain villainous brothers the saviors true.
...Over, then, as soon as it begun. They believed. Only in death did they believe. And so Odio was left to reign o'er nothing. No one.
Silence, then: through woods once traveled hopefully, through village and castle once filled with damnable cowards, and...
Dungeon and cabin once filled with the last two noble men, those dead for daring to hope. They'd believed in him once. And he in them, surely so?
But they were gone, abandoned by traitors just as surely. There was no one left. No one who believed. No one to believe in, either.
And his hand had slain them all, ensuring it.
'Twas no more than they deserved! They damned him first, deserved damnation in turn! They...they...
They could not believe. Or was it that they had no chance? They would not, all for him! All for reckless pride and greed.
He stood upon the balcony, not knowing how or why he'd stopped there. But he'd had the hope there once, had he not? Believed in the future set before him, future earned by his own hand, and...
"Believe," he gasped. "Believe in me!"
Who, then, would believe in him? 'Twas his own fault that none left who could.
His own hands struck them down, stained in a red that could not wash away.
He looked down over the kingdom, deafening in its silence, mocking his victory, and then he knew. He knew.
He fell to his knees, alone, abandoned; for faith he'd done these things, for faith he'd fought, and yet he'd given no faith in turn. There was a spark there, of the man who'd once known and realized too late.
Believe. Believe. None were left to see him recall that he was one who should believe. Oersted remained. Yet he'd ensured that none could witness his realization.
Had he stood against his crawling doubts, Oersted would have been the hero, the one he'd longed to be. But too late, as always.
Odio stood victorious; Oersted loathed his realization's cost.