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Sal is tired of being drenched in a substance he can no longer tolerate; not that he ever truly could. Even from the beginning it made his stomach churn and his chest silently heave.
Blood - with its vile, coppery tang constantly drifting through the air, overpowering and putrid - stained far more than it had any right to. Sticky, wet and clogging, it seeps through his clothing, turning all it touches a deep, sickening scarlet.
It doesn’t matter how often he kills, how discreetly the act or how merciful the death, all he sees is red.
The red of wide, bloodshot eyes as fatal poison kicks in, leaving his targets reaching for the throat with trembling, desperate hands. Choking on wet, frantic gasps as they turn moonlight pale or vivid indigo through loss of air.
The red of his blade as it tears through tough tendons and thick muscle alike; a mere slice to the front of the windpipe, no matter how clean or deep the cut, not nearly enough to guarantee the certainty of death (despite the common misconception).
Instead, the vital liquid oozes fatality out with a weighty stab to the side of the neck. Scarlet staining silver, as hot, damp fluid runs over steady, pale fingers, coating them in the glory of a job well done, even as his soul shudders with the brutality he possesses in the moment.
The red of his eyes as he closes them amidst the heat of the summer sun, sordid colour still visible beneath thin lids despite the longing and ease for darkness alone - that wretched hue forever infiltrating his senses.
And finally, red when he dreams; a sea of it. Clogging his own throat, stinging his own eyes, embedding itself under his fingernails once more. He drowns in it, chokes, sputters and heaves, gasping for air that will not come. For an end that will never arrive. He prays for death, for the blessed ease of nothingness to greet him. He’d take an endless night without stars, over the foul bitter taste, repugnant stench, and sickly sensation of it sliding over his skin. Filling his mouth like a rising tide, seeping into every pore. Searing his already tainted, tired soul a brutal, bruising black as the blood of enemies not his own dries, staining him.
And Sal is tired, so very tired, of being stained. His existence the same whether asleep or awake; drenched in blood, drowning in remorse. He’s grateful for the nights - the vast majority really - that he doesn’t dream. Where he wakes, restless and drained, unable to recall anything but the occasional vague wisp of darkness.
His exhaustion remains the same however, no matter the amount of rest he gets. And he rarely allows himself more than a few hours between tracking people down and needing to stay vigilant. Particularly in the areas most affected by the war.
It might pay well, but this job brings an unbearable weight that simply can’t be shaken off.
And the constant burdens drag wherever he goes, like chains wrapped around his ankles and wrists drawing him closer to the ground. He’d almost prefer to be in the ground. The emotional turmoil is far heavier than the mercenary sword he carries. Which he’s willing to bet almost anything, is surely laden down with the souls of the damned; souls he put there for a reason no longer necessary.
He sighs, the drawn out sound heavy and fatigued even to his own ears.
He can’t keep doing this.
The end no longer justifies the means.
So he makes up his mind, turns his options over like a stone in his palm. He can stay on this path. Wait for a target to strike first and stop his own heart, wait to be caught and thrown to the wolves in the name of tentative, chaotic justice. He can keep killing until his last breath leaves his body of natural causes… (his least favourite option).
Or, he can simply… stop.
He can put down the sword, step away from this weary life and begin again. With gold glinting in his pockets and unforeseen possibilities rife for the taking.
No more dealing with other peoples troubles, no more constant fear, and most importantly; no more red.
His heart sinks in his chest when he recalls he has a contract to complete. One more job. One more kill, then he’s done. Right?
The red has stained his life too long, he wants to feel clean again.
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Kain is tired of existing, the weight he bears within his aching chest heavier than the sword resting upon his back. His muscles are worn out, gone slack due to the shock of a wasted journey - a wasteful life spent seeking justice and vengeance. A quiet, constant yearning tucked into the confines of his heart, for no one else to witness or acknowledge. Not everyone is cruel, but kindness itself can often be a weapon, and Kain is hardly in the business of letting his innermost secrets be scattered to the wind in the form of idle gossip or misguided help.
His sisters back home would’ve only told him to choose a different path, strangers are too hostile to ever be trusted, and he’s never been one to easily form friends. Trust is a promise, and promises can be broken as easily as the autumn leaves will soon glide off of trees.
Some secrets are best taken to the grave anyway, an irony he can almost appreciate.
The cold, brutal reality of seeing two graves where at least one cowering body should have been, has drained him of any remaining fight, every inch now leeched of the fire he once possessed. That burning brilliant heat of anger which so often kept him warm from the numbness, kept him alive, sane, and willing to face the day when nothing else would, or could, motivate him to do so. It’s power and familiarity now snuffed out by the icy fingers of fiendish fate.
Not that he ever truly believed in such a thing; fate didn’t send him hurtling off a cliff with little care if he survived. Fate didn’t decorate his slight body with an abundance of bruises, as though he were his parents' personal artwork; a mosaic of all their own poignant pain, regrets, and bitter disappointments.
Leaving pale skin a garish patchwork of handprints, ones that even now he still feels the faint trace of. Fate didn’t lash out with callous, demeaning words - sharpened tongues ready to deliver cruel, taunting blows until Kain learnt how to tune them out. How to only pretend he was listening.
No, if there was a fate, the only thing it did was yank his one chance at retribution away from him.
There is nothing left now. Just a pile of dead ashes rattling round in his numb chest.
Typical.
His life has been one cruel act after another, a rock forever rolling down a hill never knowing when it will land, only that it must. Heading for one particular spot only to be forcibly diverted, and end up tossed into a rough, unforgiving river. He shudders violently at the thought of being submerged by water.
And yet …
His mind doesn’t have to be haunted by memories if the cold, fatal liquid fills his lungs. The rage is gone anyways. Why not let the thing he fears most take away the gnawing emptiness, the gaping hole, and the crippling ache of loneliness, amidst the knowledge he was never wanted?
Why keep breathing in a body for the sake of breathing alone?
What exactly does he have to live for any longer?
He closes his eyes mid-stride, lets himself picture hurtling down once more - this time into a raging river. (He’s never been to sea. Has no desire to stand on a boat and jump. Why expend further energy on a more elaborate death?)
He braces himself for the imaginary impact. It’d be cold, wet, like the worst kind of storm. He can’t see it being fun, but it would most likely be quicker than any other way. Even jumping off of a high cliff or a mountain, re-experiencing that sickening loss of gravity, as he hangs semi-suspended in the air for what feels like forever, until he plummets down, wouldn’t promise an easy death. His bones could shatter upon rough, jagged rocks, skin cracked open, oozing blood. He could be left in that state longer than he’d like. Pain alighting every nerve as he bleeds out slow.
He shudders again, eyes flying open.
No. He doesn’t want that.
Not least because it would be granting the ghost of his parents their deepest wish. Fulfilling what they set out to do all those years ago; break his body against hard stone.
He won’t give them that satisfaction, in life or death.
If he dies it’ll be on his own terms, in his own way.
He supposes he could live to spite them. Mulls it over like the fine wines they had back at the palace. Their taste too bitter and sour for his liking.
It would be the opposite of what they wanted, and no one knows what happens after death. There is no rulebook, none he’s ever known. So it’s possible they can still see him, that they would watch him carve a promising path for himself from some forsaken afterlife. He could revel in the joy of that… for a small amount of time, at least. Perhaps.
He envisions dragging and drawing his life out. Decades upon decades spent living out of spite, in the vain hope they can see him thrive. But it’s no use. With the fire in his belly gone, he sighs, a hagged sound. Ashes unable to be rekindled into sparking embers.
The emptiness persists, gnaws on.
The fantasy quickly fades. Idea souring until it starts to resemble curdling milk; growing more revolting by the second.
He doesn’t have the strength to spend a lifetime alone for the sake of ghosts.
He’s too tired. Worn out.
He’s had enough.
Closing his eyes once more, he re-imagines succumbing to the inky blackness of being underwater. Tries to visualise himself drowning. Lungs straining for air so far out of his reach. He wonders if it would hurt, and how much.
The last vestiges of late summer have left, and the colder seasons are fast approaching. By the time he makes it to a worthwhile river or lake from where he is now, the blistering heat will have dwindled completely, replaced by a mildly chill, autumn breeze.
The frigid wind will no doubt make the temperature of the water icier than it already is; he’s banking on that. Someone told him once that the body goes into shock when faced with freezing climates for too long or too suddenly. That the edges of one's consciousness fades, turns a hazy black until they lapse into unconsciousness.
If he passes out he won’t have to struggle against the forceful currents for long; it’ll seep into his bones, leech the breath from him as it stiffens his muscles. He won’t have to bear the brutal lack of warmth, too accustomed to a climate of constant cosy, toastiness due to the fire sigils placed all around Burnkind.
Maybe, hopefully, the biting, sharp sting of cold will stop his heart before he even fades to black.
The late evening should help plummet the temperatures yet further. It’d have to be night - too much chance of being stopped during the day. And something about witnesses feels too exposing, too vulnerable. His final moments being visible for strangers and the world to see, doesn't sit right with him. The notion makes him far too uncomfortable.
He wants to be completely at peace as he's being swept up by a vicious current. Prefers the freedom of being alone over dealing with potential scrutiny.
Xennith stirs, thrumming quietly. Whether in warning or acceptance of his tentatively made decision, he can no longer tell.
Her dependable form remains that of a sword - he has no use to turn her into a whip - and he wonders; does he keep her on him, just in case?
He can’t return her.
Burnkind is no more than a thousand memories scattered through the mind like stars; beautiful to behold, impossible to reach out and touch - his sisters are flickers of light amidst the dreary dark of growing up in a place where he was always just a little too different, as a human. Always having to dodge the question of who he was and where he came from.
Usually in the form of fantastical, entertaining stories that were so obviously a lie they’d have people bursting into fits of laughter before they had a chance to continue with their enquiry.
And then that other place, the house before Burnkind, cramped and cruel and dreary with dusted cobwebs once tucked into every corner now roaming wild and free; he’s glad something is allowed to exist there in peace.
The haunting echo of rage almost stirs through his veins again, spurred by thoughts of the life he craved but never got to have.
What good is a dream or a prayer if it can never be actualised?
If death was going to take from him, he’d make it give him something in return; either a peaceful solitude or a lifelong dream fulfilled. If an afterlife were assured, he’d find his parents and deliver on to them every devastating blow they had ever given to him. If not deal out a far worse fate; an eternity of torture for all the scars he’s had to bear.
His lips quirk into a smile at that.
He straightens himself, pleased with his choice.
He’ll figure out what to do with Xennith along the way, ask her even. She can choose her own destiny, try to shift the sails of her own life. He’d hate to make the decision for her simply because she was a sword; she is a sentient being after all.
‘‘Come on then,’’ he tells her, voice still hoarse with loss but holding a hint of lightness now that he has options. ‘‘Let’s go find a bridge.’’
Xennith thrums once more, and he takes it as a sign of trust, a signal giving him the okay.
He needs nothing else in this world.
He’s done.
Kain is exhausted, and if hell exists then he may as well go home.
It’s not like anyone else much would care either way. His sisters would never know, and no one is going to magically appear in his life to change the outcome. He outwitted fate all those years ago, by some miracle, if it did exist. He may as well succumb to it now.