User blog:Lordkenyon/Aftermath 2: Kjalek's Cessation

Two Months after The Hunt
Aftermath 1

Kjalek liked this cave. It was dark and cool, yet comfortably dry. A good a tomb as any. He removed his battered and ruined armor, piece by piece. It was rusted and dented and cracked. Charred and melted and twisted. The ruins of a once resplendent plate of steel, just as he was the ruins of a once good man. Or was he ever able to lay claim to the title of hero? More innocents than villians had fallen before him, in the end. He had betrayed everything he had dreamed to be. Everything he had tried to be. Just as ruined as the armor, but at his own hand, rather than that of his enemies. He had been a general, a sellsword, a father and husband, a sellsword again, a general again, a twisted ruin of bloodied flesh and bone, a traitor, and now soon a corpse. His armor and chainmail stripped away, he stood in the cave's cool breeze, clad in a sweat-stained shirt and matching pants. He wrapped his greatsword carefully in his rusted, torn chainmail, and laid it delicately next to the pile of steel. That sword had carried him through everything, never doubting his decisions, his choices. He wished somehow it could have. He sat cross-legged, and retrieved his carvings from his pack. They had been rendered in exacting detail. All had served him as companions in flesh. All were better, greater than he ever could have been.

The first was the oldest. It was a carving of a dunmer woman. He had always been proud to have captured her beauty in the carving, but saw now that he had also imparted it with a sense of her cunning intellect. He smiled grimly as he placed it on the ground next to him.

The next carving was a redguard, clad in dark leather, wielding a dark blade. The man was a true hero, and had risen to heights even Kjalek had not forseen.

Next was a breton woman, beautiful and terribly powerful. He was glad his carving had captured her kindness as well. He placed her next to the redguard, it seemed the right thing to do.

He withdrew a bosmer, its wooden fists were raised into a battle stance. Another good man, short where Kjalek was tall, joyful where Kjalek was grim, merciful where Kjalek was possessed with ruthless brutality. He hoped the bosmer had found a better end than he had. He placed it with the redguard and breton.

He removed an imperial woman from the bag. She had been a soldier, like him. They had found common ground when a group had scattered. They had gone to Solitude to plan their next move. She had moved on to new jobs. He had lingered around Solitude, enraptured by the site of his lost glory. Always a slave to the past.

Kjalek dreaded the next carving. The breton girl had been lovingly rendered, with more care poured into it than he cared to admit. Yet it was hard to see the carving as anything other than a spiteful monument to his most wrenching failure. He was tempted then to change his mind, to pack his memories up, to strap on his sword and armor, to head straight to the Imperial City. But he knew it was a folly. How was she to react to a man she thought long dead and long buried. A man now disfigured and crippled and aged, with a history of running off on her. A man whose most notable trait had been his festering madness and ruthless bloodlust. He had loved her, but had been to afraid for her, for himself, of her, of himself. He had ran, but now he knew he should have simply stayed. He placed the small breton next to her sister.

Another dunmer. Old and hardened and cold. Clad in rich armor, wielding a comparatively crude weapon. Ferylis had entrusted Kjalek with his daughter, and Kjalek had failed him. He placed the carving with its daughter, so it could finally see her one more time.

The next and newest carving was of a young breton man. A naive fool, wanting the same things Kjalek once had. But the boy had wanted them for the right reasons. Kjalek had taught him wood carving, in the short time they had worked together. Kjalek wished he had not betrayed the boy's trust. It was a horrible thing to do. The carving was reading a book, and Kjalek liked to think it was Breldon's favorite.

Kjalek had done far too good of a job on the last carving. The damnable nord stared with unspeakable hatred and malevolence, an essence of rage. Burnt flesh, terrifying dead eyes, and that mask. He shuddered, and turned the carving so it would not be facing him. He didn't want to give that demon the vindication of seeing him die. Kjalek had not been sure about this companion carving. But the man it represented had been a companion, for a short time. It still made him uncomfortable.

There were many more who had not been carved. Soldiers that had marched beside him. Companions whose names and faces had faded. Mercenaries who only cared about him for the coin he fed them. It didn't matter, he had failed them to the last. He whispered an apology, filled with sorrow at his failures. His path in life was a tangled road of bad choices and violent failings. It was time to reach the road's end.

He rose to his feet. He drew an ugly, brutish dagger from his wrist sheath. He took a deep breath. A voice raged within his mind, screaming that this was not the way. He ignored it, that same voice had spurred him to depravity, violence, and further madness. It would not win this time. He raised the dagger in both hands. He was ready to meet his gods, whoever they were. He hadn't been sure for decades. He blinked, then brought the dagger's point through the base of his throat. He moved for a second strike to the chest, before he had time to register the pain, before his strength left him with his life blood. He tried for another, but was too weak to wrench the dagger free of his chest. His hands fell to his sides. He fell to his knees. He tried to control his gurgling gasps, he didn't want to knock over any of the carvings with flailing. He took a shaking breath. His vision pulsed. He saw her walking towards him. She couldn't be here. A specter from the afterlife. Her red eyes locked with his. She reached a gray hand towards him. He overcame his weakness to reach towards it. Their fingers were less than an inch apart. His last breath was a pathetic gurgle. He fell forward, silently raging as he died, furious that he did not get to touch her one last time.