Clouds passed loftily overhead, indifferent to the foul deeds that had just occurred far below.

I can't get it tight enough. I'm going to die...

That was Marcus's pervading, terrified thought as he lay dying on the scarred woodland battlefield miles away from his home—the city-state of Arcadia near the border of the Faelands—slowly bleeding out from the spear wound in his right leg despite the tourniquet he'd just fastened.

I don't want to die alone...

Marcus had hoped to pass out from blood loss and slip away unaware, but fate hadn't allowed him the reprieve. The agony of his wound kept him alert and provided ever-increasing levels of nausea and fear. Short of falling unconscious, he wished he could puke.

He'd tried calling out when the screams died and the front moved farther afield. The effort had been in vain. Everyone was dead, and the living world, it seemed, cared little for the dying.

I don't want to die alone...

Poised on the edge of consciousness—between life and death—he almost didn't notice the sound of approaching footfalls. After spending so long crying out, alone amongst the dead, he'd almost given up on the idea of someone coming along.

Whoever it was, they were coming closer.

Seeing a living person stumble through a field of mutilated corpses after all had remained still for so long was a curiously odd sight. Marcus did his best to slow his labored, pain-stricken breathing as he watched the man limp past.

The stranger was also wounded, ankle twisted at an unnatural angle as he dragged it behind him while he held himself up with a quarterstaff. A mix of dry and wet blood matted the dark hair on the left side of the man's face, coupled with a long gash as seen through shorn cloth and armor along the length of his upper left arm.

The man was clearly not an Arcadian regular. That meant he was a rebel—the enemy.

All Marcus could do was wait for the inevitable as the man drew closer. He steeled himself, ready to cast a spell.

By the time the rebel came within a few paces, Marcus spotted another of the man's wounds—a dagger, caught fast in the right side of his gut.

The rebel stopped, his head turned, and their eyes met.

They held an uneasy gaze for only a few seconds, though the exchange seemed to last a fear-laden eternity. The renegade was a decade older and had a likeness to Marcus himself, reminding him of how much life he had yet to live and wouldn't.

All the while, Marcus braced for the worst—strangulation, impalement, or perhaps incineration if the rebel had magic at his disposal. None of these things came. Instead, the rebel did something he did not expect.

The traitor, still watching Marcus, shuffled nearer and braced himself against a nearby tree. Slowly, he seated himself to Marcus's right at twice an arm's length away. Between them was a dead man lying face-first in the soil. Despite the pain caused by having to crane his neck, Marcus still tried to keep the man in his field of view.

He'd seen it before many times during the battle: men fallen, hacked, and cut to ribbons, clearly unable to fight as they pleaded for their doomed lives while their enemies mercilessly destroyed their bodies. He didn't want to be brutalized, but had already decided that even grievously injured and faced with torture, he wouldn't be able to take his own life. Current circumstances had demanded he consider it. He could only wish the man would leave him in peace.

The rebel turned his head to the sky and spoke, voice hoarse and stricken with pain. "Lovely day...isn't it?"

Marcus swallowed the dry lump in his throat. He'd almost forgotten he still had a voice of his own. Before he could think of a reply, however, the rebel continued. "My daughter should be playing by the river... She loves days like this."

Marcus did not look away.

"Care for some water?" the rebel asked.

The sight of it was strange—a man with a dagger lodged in his belly, accompanied by other wounds from battle, resting beneath a tree while he casually pulled a waterskin free from his belt and offered it up as if he and Marcus had just taken a lengthy stroll through the woods together.

The offer made Marcus aware of his thirst, but he resisted the urge to accept it.

"Suit yourself, then." The wretch took a swig and made a bit of a show of how much he enjoyed it with a sigh; again, as if he'd just enjoyed a leisurely walk. "What's your name, lad?"

Marcus, at last, turned away, deciding that if the man wanted to kill him, he'd have done it already. Besides, he almost welcomed the semblance of everyday conversation, even if it was one-sided.

I don't want to die alone.. Dread threatened to overwhelm him again. "Marcus," he finally heard himself say. "My name is Marcus."

"A strong name, that..." The rebel grunted in pain.

Marcus tried to speak again, but the words caught in his throat.

"You must have very proud parents."

Mother... Father...

He'd never see his family again, just as he'd never again see his squad—his friends. He was going to join the latter in death soon. Their bloodied, lifeless faces flashed before his eyes. He could feel himself breaking. But it wasn't happening yet. No, not yet. Here he was, talking. Everything would be fine. "I think I'll have some water—if you don't mind," Marcus said, blinking back tears.

"'Course. Heads up, lad."

The thud of the waterskin striking the dead man startled Marcus, but the rebel was kind enough not to mock him for it. He reached over, snatched the skin from atop the corpse's back, and unstopped the cork, drinking greedily—not minding as the rush of cool water threatened to choke him. When he finished, he turned to toss it back.

"Keep it."

Marcus didn't know how to feel about that.

Before the battle had even come close to starting, he'd already made it up in his mind that each of the rebels were brigands at best—deserving of nothing save death. He decided he still believed that. But despite that belief, he also decided to respond with the cordial civility he'd been raised to show. He wouldn't stoop. "Thank you," Marcus said.

"My pleasure," the rebel replied.

A few moments more of silence passed between them.

I don't want to die alone... "You have a daughter?" Marcus asked.

A grunt of pain, conjoined with a chuckle of laughter, escaped the rebel's lips. "Aye. Too young for the likes of you, though..."

"I wasn't implying—"

The rebel laughed again, louder this time. "I jest, friend."

Marcus couldn't help but smirk at the gibe. His humor, though, began turning sour as he reflected on the word "friend" and the carnage he'd witnessed and participated in. "We might be exchanging pleasantries," he said, "but make no mistake: I am not your friend, traitor. Had I wished, I could've killed you on sight."

"Is that so?"

Marcus nodded vehemently—anger overcoming the haze of his fatigue and pain.

"So, why haven't you? You're a mage, yes? One flick of the wrist, and I'd be at your mercy. Go on, then... Do it. Save us both the trouble of my company."

He weighed the idea. The effort would be minimal, even in his current state. He would just have to get a line of sight to kill with magic. However, the more he deliberated, the less inclined he became to kill.

"What are you waiting for? Are you going to or not?"

Marcus attempted to suppress the pain and anger in his voice, though with little success. "Your daughter... Is her mother alive?"

A pause.

"Speak! Your daughter's mother! Your whore! Does she live?"

"Mind your tongue! Would you have that I call your beloved such a thing? Do not be foul!"

"Well?" Marcus asked again, determined to be unfazed. "Speak, damn you!"

"She's dead."

It wasn't the answer Marcus wanted to hear.

The rebel laughed softly, which reached a hearty crescendo that permeated the air. It went on for some time until the man's pains overcame him.

"Just my luck," Marcus decried. "Here I am, at the end of my days, listening to the ravings of a madman."

"You think me mad?" the rebel asked, laughter tapering into a derisive chortle. "I'm not the one sitting there, moralizing on murder."

"Murder? Murder? Look around you! This is war! How is it you find yourself on such high ground that you feel exempt from this?"

"I never supposed I was. I am complicit. Yet the battle is over, and we have lost. Now, here you and I sit—two men sharing a drink—discussing how to best spend our last moments."

"Is that what you think we're doing?"

"Can you move?"

"What?"

"I asked if you could move, Marcus."

"It is unwise to do so."

"That doesn't answer my question."

Infuriated, Marcus spoke louder than he meant to. "I can damn you. I just can't stand is all."

"Why can't you stand?"

"What are these questions? You're—"

The volume of the rebel's voice increased with his repetition, "Why can't you stand, Marcus?"

The questions felt like admonishments, which stirred his ire even more. Was he not a man grown? Why was he being spoken to like this? Instead of raving like a toddler, however, Marcus decided to humor the man. He could, after all, do little else. Becoming angry seemed to only hurt himself. Increasing his own distress would do little good. "Aside from the pain, I cannot stand for fear of bleeding out faster."

The rebel chuckled. "So, there you have it. There you sit, dying, and here I sit, doing much the same. I was part of the vanguard, you see. I fought for as long as I could until I was buried beneath the dead that began piling up on the frontline. I should be dead."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I want you to understand why I stopped to sit with you, Marcus."

"Tell me then, and let us be done with this prattle."

"Death comes for us. It was my thought that we should greet it together... That is why I sit here, speaking with you as I would any other man. Even if you did not believe it in health, you must understand now that you and I are now equals."

Marcus remained silent, stricken.

I don't want to die alone...

"Who is it you'll be leaving behind? Tell me, and I will tell you more of my daughter and the memory of my wife she carries."

Marcus shook his head defiantly, crying. To speak of them would bring death closer.

"Your father. Tell me of him first."

"I cannot." It was all he could manage between sobs.

"My daughter is five... She is...the light of my life—the reason I decided to fight. I knew a pogrom was coming to the fae in these lands, and not even half-fae would be overlooked. If anything, they would be treated worse. I still fear that may come to pass, but there is nothing more I can do but hope she's been taken to safety." The rebel coughed again and began to wheeze.

Marcus could only listen in part as thoughts of those he'd loved came unbidden to his mind: the touch of his mother's hand on the back of his head, his father's embrace, the laughs he and his friends had shared, and the first and only encounter he'd had with a woman while in basic training.

I don't want to die alone...

The rebel continued, "I fought because I wanted to protect those most precious to me. Who did you fight for?"

Marcus's moans of despair came unbidden. He didn't want to face this again. Yet, he knew he could no longer avoid it. He was being forced to face it. He would die before day's end, no matter how slowly it might be happening.

Someone else will come, he thought in vain. He came... Someone else will come...

"Marcus?"

He wept, and he forgot the world in his grief. He wasn't sure how much time had passed when some measure of consolation reached him. It was the thought of his mother. He imagined she was there, cradling him—crooning as if he were a babe being laid to rest.

I'm going to die. I don't want to die... I don't want to die... Please, gods, no, I don't want to die...

"Marcus?" came the rebel's voice again. It wasn't demanding. It was an invitation.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed when he came to, nor did he care. Confronting death, he reasoned, made the measure of time inconsequential.

Clearing his throat, Marcus said, "My mother is a seamstress. She's probably worried sick, waiting at home with my father. She was so proud to have a mage for a son but scared, too. I never understood why... Not until today..." Hearing his own voice reminded him that he was still alive, and death was still on the way. He was almost ready for it.

"Why did you fight for them?"

He continued, choking back a sob as he wiped snot from his nose, voice strained, "I wanted to protect them... I wanted to make them proud. I wanted to do something I could be proud of... I-I wanted to help my friends." Thoughts of his comrades led him to weep openly yet again. Images of them falling to blades, bolts, and arrows filled his mind. "I couldn't save them," he blubbered. "I thought we'd all be safe, but I couldn't save them... They all died, and there's nothing I could do about it. It's my fault they're dead... It was my job to protect them and I failed! It's all my fault..." He struck himself in the side of the head once, twice, and a third time. He meant to do it again, but something caught at his wrist. He tried again, but he was held fast.

"I'm sorry, lad," came the rebel's voice. It was much closer than it had been before. Softer, he said, "I'm so very sorry..."

Marcus managed to pull his hand away, though not without some effort. Instead of hitting himself, he simply buried his face in his palms. The rebel let him mourn, comforting him as a brother under the same pall. He spoke again when Marcus quieted. "There is another reason I sit with you now. It weighs heavily on my heart, and I fear I must confess it before my time is done."

Marcus didn't reply. The most he could do was listen as he fell into serenity.

"I did what I felt I had to. My own people turned against me, you see—against my family. When I heard my wife had died, I lost all reason. To kill a fae is no small feat. Imagine what she must have endured to have died at their hands...the things they must have done to her... It is unthinkable."

In his stupor, Marcus began to process the rebel's words. They brought him to the torrential surface of the calm depths he'd only discovered. "You're Arcadian?"

"I demanded answers, but they denied any wrongdoing. They said her death was as much a surprise to them as it was to me. They cast me out—threatened me with imprisonment when I refused to accept that as the truth, and I still cannot. The fae do not die so easily."

Great and terrible understanding began to dawn on Marcus. He realized he'd never asked the rebel's name. Now, he knew he wouldn't have to.

Everyone in Arcadia knew this man's name.

"So, you see, Marcus..." the rebel continued, "I'm truly sorry that you and your friends were sent to die for a cause that was not your own. I did what I did to protect my child. I did what I did to stop a war with the Unseelie. I had to show both sides that at least one man was willing to fight for peace..."

"Peace?" Marcus asked. A storm brewed within. "Peace?"

He felt the rebel's breath on his neck. "Yes... Peace. And revenge, I admit."

Marcus turned to meet the rebel's face. It was inches from his own. "You're...You're Alpheus."

The man nodded. "I am."

"You... It was you. You led the rebellion. This is your fault! All of this—because of you! And it was all for nothing! A fantasy!"

Alpheus's face contorted with rage. He gripped Marcus by the collar. "A fantasy? A fantasy! They killed my wife! For sport! For satisfaction! Because they think themselves superior to a people they refuse to understand! Because they believed her to be an Unseelie spy! And for what? Because she disguised herself as a human to avoid persecution?"

Thoughts of pain and death were pushed to the side. Marcus's world was fury and resentment. "You ignorant, stupid man! I was there!"

Alpheus's eyes widened. For a moment, Marcus feared the other man would turn on him just as soon as he'd spoken the words. Instead, Alpheus maintained his composure and asked the question Marcus hoped would come next. "What? What do you mean?"

Marcus shook his head and leaped on the opportunity to reveal the truth. How could this man be so blind? The entire rebellion had been a pointless bloodbath.

"Your wife was caught stealing—"

"The fae do not steal!" Alpheus interjected. "They are creatures of magic—one with nature. They believe the world's bounties are offered to all peoples, likened to a mother and her children. It is not their nature to steal what they believe has been freely given!"

"Even so! And such was taken into account. It was decided she was to be freed. I opened the door of her cell myself. No one had touched her. She died in the night before she could be released."

Alpheus shook his head. "You're lying... Liar! You're all liars. That can't be."

"It is the truth."

The two men stared at each other for some time, both in misery and disbelief. Marcus was the first to break the silence. Cold, resentful anger growing with every word spoken, "So, there you have it. There you sit, dying, and here I sit, doing much the same. And for what?"

Alpheus buried his face in his hands, muttering to himself. "No... No, it can't be. I can't... I didn't... Arethusa, my love..."

I'm going to die alone...

The thought had a new meaning for Marcus now. He had accepted death during his short time with Alpheus. Before, the fear of not just dying but dying alone had kept him alive. Now that he understood just how personal death was, he understood the choice he'd now been presented with.

Like Alpheus, Marcus had made up his own mind on how to broach the subject of revenge. Marcus was going to die alone. And like Alpheus, he would also fight for a peace of his own making.

Marcus looked into the eyes of his enemy—the focus of his intent.

Burn.

Nothing happened.

Marcus expected his magic to work instantly, as it had every time he'd called upon it. He tried again.

Nothing.

Alpheus turned away, whimpering in the dirt next to one of the many soldiers he'd been responsible for butchering. Marcus held his breath, concentrating. Why wasn't it working? It'd never happened before—not to him or any other mage he'd known. Perhaps it was because he was mortally injured?

He decided he no longer cared how he killed Alpheus so long as the man died.

Rolling over was excruciating. The anticipation of what he was about to do got his blood pumping as adrenaline fueled him. He wasn't sure he'd be able to do it.

Nonetheless, he was going to try.

Marcus turned the rebel leader over to look up at him. The panic and surprise in Alpheus's eyes were enough to almost disarm him. Images of death, love, and loss from his short life passed before his mind's eye, strengthening his resolve. He caught the rebel's throat between his palms.

If he couldn't kill him with magic, he would do it with his bare hands.

Despite his weakened state, Alpheus was surprisingly strong. At first, he tried to pull Marcus's hands away from his throat but gave up after realizing he was outmatched. In a desperate bid to survive, Alpheus reached for a weapon.

Marcus didn't hesitate. He brought his knee hard against Alpheus's dagger wound. Still, the other man struggled. Realizing he could only strike at Alpheus for so long before losing his grip, Marcus took a risk by letting go with his left hand to jerk the dagger free from the rebel's side. Alpheus, however, anticipated the move. He held up his hand, hoping to catch Marcus's wrist on the downward stroke. His miscalculation earned him a stab wound through the hand. Marcus jabbed again, this time skewering Alpheus through the forearm as he struggled to defend himself.

"Die! Just fucking die!" Marcus shouted. His head pounded, spittle flying from gritted teeth as he struggled through his own agony to bring his foe to ruin. He attempted to stab Alpheus again after pulling the dagger free. The hilt, slick with blood, slipped from his grip, and the blade slid over the length of Alpheus's inner arm—flying free after striking bone. Marcus let it fall and reaffirmed a double-handed grip on Alpheus's throat. "Fucking die, damn you!"

Just when Marcus started to believe he'd won, a searing pain shot through his right leg. A hand—belonging to Alpheus—squeezed and clawed at his wound.

The pain was unbearable. But, instead of letting go, Marcus focused on that pain. He channeled it into a strident scream of desperation. His grip tightened—much like someone would do when biting down on a strip of leather while removing a limb.

Finally, Alpheus's grip loosened. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, white contrasting his nearly purple face. Impatient with the process, Marcus lifted Alpheus up by his throat and slammed his head down. He repeated the motion until Alpheus let go of his leg.

And still, Marcus didn't stop.

He drove Alpheus's head into the ground again and again.

Marcus was fury.

He was pain.

He was death.

He screamed again into the face of his enemy until it turned into a chain of broken, wracking sobs. Then, he released his grip.

Fleeting adrenaline left Marcus without much left to keep himself upright. He collapsed next to Alpheus's body. Overhead, he could see the clouds drifting lazily on through blue skies—just as indifferent as before.

The sight of the sun told him he should feel warm. Feeling the opposite left him confused. He began to shiver.

The world was quiet for a time until a choking gasp came from the right of where Marcus lay, followed by quick, desperate, and gargled inhalations. He listened to the gasps and groans for a while before he realized what had happened.

Alpheus had survived.

Marcus sat up and glanced down. The tourniquet had been pulled over the tear in his flesh, caught between gory folds as blood pumped freely from the wound. On the verge of fainting when he glanced over at Alpheus. The rebel leader lay coughing and choking, glancing over to lock eyes with Marcus. They sat like that for a time—staring at each other as their worlds ended.

A shrill cry resounded throughout the woodlands.

Initially, Marcus had thought it a figment of his imagination. Blood loss did funny things to people he knew, such as hearing or seeing things that weren't there. But when that single, piercing shriek was joined by many others, followed by a multitude of human cries, he realized what he'd heard hadn't been his imagination. He couldn't discern whether the sounds were coming from the front or in the opposite direction of Arcadia.

The ground began to shake, and the sounds of the dying fell silent as the intensity of otherworldly shrieks grew louder.

Death, Marcus realized, was approaching swiftly in a new and terrible form he hadn't anticipated. But what could it be? The Unseelie, come to take revenge? Some sort of horrid curse released by a desperate arcanist during the battle?

That's when dawned on Marcus.

The fae's death... His own magic failing. Something very wrong was happening in the world.

And if all magic was failing, mankind's petty squabbles meant even less now by comparison.

The Veil—a prison created by magic to lock away the army of Erenyx, the long-defeated fae god of death and darkness—had vanished. Mankind's only defense against that army was magic. And if magic was well and truly gone, along with the Veil, then all was truly lost.

Mother... Father...

Alpheus, too, must've understood the implications of what they were hearing. He hadn't moved or spoken, but the wide panic in his bloodshot eyes spoke for him.

He fears for his daughter...

Marcus collapsed, not wishing to see the horde as it approached. The sound of the creatures' screeching frightened him enough. He'd heard the stories of ancient battles with such creatures, and as he remembered them now, he wished he could die before they came, but they were fast approaching. He tried to loosen the tourniquet, but the anguish of it dissuaded him from following through.

He did his best not to panic. There would be pain—more than he'd ever felt. He just hoped it would be quick, both for him and Alpheus.

He didn't want to hear the other man's screams.

Marcus had almost fallen unconscious or died, as far as he knew, by the time they arrived. He did his best to keep the fading sky in focus, deafened by the sound of the creatures' advance, imagining his world was different.

Marcus barely heard his own screams when the Deathless began turning him inside out.

⊱─━━━━⊱༻●༺⊰━━━━─⊰

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