The Shadow of Eons

Chapter 17

When Jonas had finished slitting the throats of the other men (who deserved to die, unlike the soldiers in the king's palace), he wiped his brow and sat back against a tree. He ran a hand through his hair, stroked his beard and gazed at his unmoving surroundings: at the still figures of the men who were dead where they stood; at the kneeling forms of his friends and family; at the small group of bison who were drinking from the other side of the watering hole.

Even though he had tempered the sword's power by giving Robart and the men a chance to explain themselves, he had still ended up killing all of the men in a bloodthirsty rage. He had given in to his inner desires, and in doing so he felt like he was back at square one: being a slave to the sword.

But he had accomplished something: revenge on the men who had killed Ana. But even though he had accomplished his objective, he still did not feel any satisfaction. He had thought that revenge would be sweet, but in fact, he had felt nothing at all. It was like scything wheat. It was mere work, and there was nothing special about it. It was just a bunch of dead bodies, and a bunch of dead bodies would not bring Ana back.

The fourteen dead men, who had been suspended in their previous positions, suddenly came crashing to the ground. Oliver, the women and the girls were standing once more and looking around, blinking in bewilderment. "Jonas!" cried Agatha, who must have been quite alarmed to see men falling dead all around her. "Jonas, what happened?"

"What happened is he did it again, girl!" Oliver spoke, raising his arms in elation.

"Did what?"

"Slowed down time, of course!" said the god, heartedly smashing both girls on the back so hard they almost flew to the ground. Agatha, in particular, was standing bent-over with her arms on her knees.

"Oliver, there's no cause to celebrate," Jonas told him gravely, "for there was another."

"What do you mean, another?" said Oliver pompously, his hands on his hips. "Another man escaped?"

"No, Oliver: another man was there with me in slow-time. He hid from me and then escaped."

"Another!" Oliver's eyes widened. "Perhaps there is another with a sword like yours!"

"It doesn't matter," Jonas said, slumping down against a tree and pushing a dead man out of the way. "Nothing matters. For revenge has not sated the emptiness in my soul. Perhaps I should become an Eater of Life—at least then I would derive some satisfaction from the demise of other beings."

"Don't say that, chap!" Oliver exclaimed, gingerly stepping over dead bodies to reach Jonas and pat him on the shoulder. "You killed Ana's killers; that has to amount to something."

"Well, if it does, I don't feel it," Jonas said miserably. "I feel nothing."

"Don't you love me, Father?" Agatha said, coming over and laying her head on his other shoulder. "And don't you love Rose and Oliver? And Lucille and Marta?"

"Perhaps," Jonas mumbled through her hair. "It's just that I have been driven by revenge for so long. . . It's what kept me going when I was wandering through the wilderness of the Northlands."

"Yes, scrounging on rats and bugs and whatever else you could find," Oliver said. "We know, mate, you've told us a thousand times around those campfires. But think of the positives now, of those you love and those who love you. We are the ones who will keep you going now, mate."

Jonas found that tears were running down his face; perhaps Agatha and Oliver were right, perhaps he did have something to live for instead of the anticipation of revenge. "I will take that under advisement," he sniffled, leaning on Oliver to rise from the ground and stand. He stretched gratefully, giving his tired muscles what they sorely needed after their intense workout of death-dealing.