The Dawning Dream Setting
The man stared intently into the innocence in his eyes, for there was much left to be said and done. Braedon tried his best not to look away from him. How could he? He deserved this lesson, he admitted. The man's brow furrowed as he struggles to begin.
"Bastard…" he struggles to say to the boy, his emotions masked behind pain.
Bastard? Braedon agreed with the statement, but it was hardly the answer he was hoping for. The man attempts to clear his throat and take a breath before starting again. This time the words are cut short and it ends with a raspy exhale. Their eyes trail down together to the arrow lodged deep between the man's ribs. He grasps it, perhaps in a bout of confusion, as if pulling it free would solve his problems.
"I… I wish this would all have a clear answer, but I can't seem to understand it either." Braedon admits, placing his hand over the stranger's.
The man's face twists sour as he leans forward painfully, and reaches weakly to the boy. Braedon leans forward, giving in to the dying man's wishes. The man grabs hold of the soiled fabric tabard over Braedon's brigadine armor, his hands soaked in blood now tainting the once proud standard of Mournloch.
"… Hope they hang you, traitor." The man spits with a now drowned voice. He then releases his grasp of the boy's garb.
Braedon stares back into the man's eyes for a moment longer, trying with futility to process his last words and the intricate morality behind them. He watches as the man continues to die slowly and very painfully. He should've killed him then, but he just couldn't bring himself to take the final step. Almost as if holding out hope that someone else could save the man. Instead, he pulled himself away and stared up at the darkening sky over the wartorn streets.
The king was dead, murdered by a trusted general whom Braedon serves. By all rights, he was on the winning side but he didn't feel for celebration. He felt more alone than ever now, as his former brothers-in-arms are slain all around him. His eyes glisten with the reflection of the shimmering stars and the moon as it travels curiously to meet the sun. Moments later, a bright flash is snuffed out as the moon engulfs the intensity of the sun. In the reflection of the of the boys eyes the sun's final efforts to glow are consumed by the following darkness.
The king is dead, murdered by the Gods that went with him.