The finality of a last stand [CW]

[Felicity]

Hey, I'm writing something.

Sigmund sat himself down on a rock.

It was a good rock, quite strong. It had to be, to withstand the force slung around by the large warrior. The force that had flattened a whole army and most of the trees growing in the nearby area.

Sigmund had chosen this place to make his last stand because it was a textbook chokepoint. Black cliffs stood, towering over him with an ominous gaze. A crack, big enough for two people to walk through side by side, led into the Dripstone cave curved, like a sideways grin. A part of him thought the smile was mocking, a reminder that he was no longer with his friends. A larger and louder part decided it was congratulatory.

Against all the terrifying, malicious odds, he had survived. The horde of goblins, ogres, treants and even a godsdamned minotaur had not been able to put him down.

It had been a tearful farewell. Elaine, Sigmund’s wonderful lover, had been crying. Sigmund had wiped the tears away from her blue eyes, so vivid in his memories now, and stroked her chestnut hair one last time as he held her close. Being the fantastically stubborn wife that she was, Elaine had to be dragged away by Arjen and Keith, his other two friends and companions. She kicked and screamed. Cries of her undying love and curses at the two men trying to save her life echoed in the cave. Sigmund met the eyes of his two friends. Keith's eyes had glistened but no tear fell for his friend. Arjen’s steel grey eyes were hard though sigmund knew what hid behind them. Arjen thought it a cruel thing, not to let him stay and die by his friend. They had promised to die in battle together, after all. Blood brothers, Arjen had always said. Sigmund hoped Arjen would not hate him for long.

With a grim face, Sigmund had turned. He drew his handaxe, enchanted by the sorcerers of the Steelspine Mountains, and his round shield, similarly altered.

He remembered every moment of the fight in crystalline detail. He had caved in the goblins skulls as often as he cleaved them. The ogres had been clumsy compared to his superior speed and deft footwork. The fury in Sigmund's mind had been cold, it left his mind clear and focused on the terribly impossible task at hand and he went about it with a horrifying efficiency. What’s more, the enchantments in his weapons had fed on his focus, amplifying and then projecting his blows. Soon his strikes began demolished the area behind the forsaken soul who had actually been hit.

There had been so many of them though. So, so many. He swept his way forward continuously, forcing himself to move faster than his foes lest he be overwhelmed on all sides. He dared not rest for a single moment. He had to keep fighting, they could not be allowed to adjust.

The fight seemed endless. The faces of the monster all blurred into one vague entity in his mind. It bore a blend of horror, rage and shock. An eternity later he had found himself coming to blows with the humongous minotaur that had been the strongest beast in the Exiled’s service. He had met it resolved to take a limb, sure he could not best the beast.

It was with surprise that Sigmund had found himself pulling his axe from the beast's forehead, a vague approximation of surprise etched onto its bovine face. He had looked around to find everything… dead.

Now Sigmund sat on a rock, surrounded by blood just a shade too dark to be human and grey, dying organs separated from their owners. His brown eyes were glassy and out of focus as his mind haunted him with the memories and his body ached with exhaustion. His black hair was slick and his face spattered with blood.

He had survived.

“Quite the feat, friend. Bards will spin a fine song from this I’m sure.”

Sigmund barely registered the dusty, withered voice that had spoken. He belatedly turned his head to look at the source, his eyes registered a young man. He wore a grey tunic and pants as well as a thin black hat that tapered to a point at his brow and the back of his. Shaggy brown hair, barely a shade lighter than black, dropped to his shoulders. Grey eyes gleamed as the stranger looked at Sigmund. His heart ached as he thought of Arjen.

The ache turned into a fluttering of hope. He realised, belatedly, that he was alive and this stranger had called him friend. With his help perhap Sigmund could rejoin his comrades.

Sigmund opened his mouth to speak but the stranger was faster.

“It’s my unfortunate duty to inform you that you have to die, friend.”

The fluttering sensation rotted into a foreboding dread.

Weariness wracked Sigmund's body. He could do nothing but mutter a low response.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.” The stranger said patiently. Sigmund repeated himself

“...Quickly, please. So I feel no more pain.”

The stranger was silent for a few moments. Then he spoke again, almost as quiet as Sigmund.

“It’s rare I meet men like you, who survive one of these onslaughts only to oblige so easily. I think it takes a certain amount of modesty, to know when you’re done fighting. I appreciate that friend, and I will do my best to oblige you.”

“I think it’s the voice. No mere boy would have a voice like yours.” Only the village elder of Sigmunds home spoke in the same raspy tones. “ I was always told to listen to my elders, those who have voices like yours. Although I do wonder why you speak so” Sigmund's voice was louder this time.. This was probably his last conversation. He would be heard.

The stranger chuckled, his eyes gleamed once more with mirth.

“I’m afraid I look like this as a part of immortality. My voice is the only thing I fought for, the only mortal part of me I desired to keep.”

Sigmund thought about that but didn’t really understand. He did not know if this stranger spoke truthfully about immortality, no one knew if such things were possible for any but the gods.Nor did he understand the desire for an aged voice.

“May I ask your name, friend? I’d like to know my killer.”

“That didn’t stop you from facing this horde.” The stranger said with a smile which Sigmund returned ruefully. “My name is William, son of Sandoval. I am an agent of the forces that be.”

“What do you do?” The question came from lips that did not wish to ask.

“When someone decides to do something extraordinary, something from the grand stories of bards, it doesn’t actually mean much in the grand scheme.” William started. He paused, as if trying to find the right words.”It really doesn’t matter if the hero killed the dark lord or archdemon. It was one life pitted against another, it happens quite often, to be honest. What makes them extraordinary are the circumstances around the act, not the act itself.”

Sigmund's mind boggled. Stories from his childhood of the grandest warriors and mages in all of history raced through his mind. The Twins of Stoic Keep, who had held the same keep from an army of 50,000 with only 200 men, only to slay the grand lich behind it all, The Battle of Dragonspine hill where Astrid Jarlson slew an archdemon with only an army of 1,000 at her back. These were deemed normal?

“You, on the other hand…” William continued. “Just took the lives of 7,345 living beings. However they may be aligned, those lives were worth something. Everything has a price.”

Williams grey eyes no longer sparkled. They were sad, pitying.

“That cannot go without something to balance the scales. Regardless of your own skill, or Lady Luck, your decision to take those lives meant that your fate was sealed.”

Sigmund's mouth opened and then closed, repeating the motion as he tried to speak, to convey his lack of comprehension somehow.

“You were meant to die.”

William stood in grim silence.

Sigmund felt nothing as the life faded from his eyes.

Last stands were meant to be just that. The Last.