Asher the Insane

47 - Aebshem the One of Passion

Five of them, and all restrained, though some needed more restraints than others.

In the main hall's shadowy interior, which had enough space for at least a few thousand people, they were surrounded by innumerable of my children wearing black-clad robes and hoods.

Two of them were swearing heavily, the elf and the dwarf. The goblin was talking nonstop. And the orc was too stupid to make sense out of his situation, asking the others what was happening.

But one of them was silent. Not a word came from his mouth.

"Where were they?" I asked a child of mine.

The response was, "They've reached the balcony of the main hall. We let them slay twenty-six of our rank."

"Let us? I'll show ya what you can lemme reach!" The dwarf said in anger.

The only thing he received was my indifference.

"You heard that?" I asked the prisoners, "twenty-six..." I let that number hang in the room, "you fancy yourself heroes, do you not? Would heroes really kill twenty-six people with no regard for their life? Their families? Everything they were or could have been?"

"Twenty-six insane cultists, so what?" The dark-elf shrugged the notion away. "They were worth as much as they believed in life. Praying to a god of death lessens your own worth very much."

I violently grabbed her collar and pulled her towards my face, "they were not animals, they were real people, with their own lives and beliefs. They did not deserve to be murdered and then discarded by people like you. Why would you deserve to live while they were not?"

I threw her to the ground.

The loss of our compatriots saddened me, but today was a day when everyone would experience loss.

I peered down at the lone, silent man. He appeared elderly, frail, in my eyes, and human, yet he still retained some of his fighting spirit.

"Who are you?" I asked the old man.

He didn't respond and turned his head to avoid my gaze.

As I reached out to touch the person's forehead, memories of his past blurred before my eyes.

"Oh, you are simply a miserable little man, tormented by thoughts of the men you have killed and led to their deaths. How they would curse you if they were here, would they not, Mine?"

His face grimaced into anger but still didn't respond.

It didn't matter.

"I suppose little Zedro wasn't aware of the depth of our power. Why else would he send only five pitiful individuals to rescue what I perceive to be the most sacred artifact in the entire nation?" I laughed and said.

"What are your plans for it, then?" The drow questioned.

"What do you think, elf? You are aware of its capabilities."

"Summon a god?" she mocked, "you don't really believe that, right? It's a myth that you humans tell one another to persuade others to worship your gods."

"You say, 'you humans'? I don't share much in common with these people you seem to hold in such disdain. Not me and not any of my children here. We are not like you or them, neither the dwarves, the goblins, and certainly not the orcs."

"...why?" The old man finally broke his silence.

"It is all rather difficult to explain. And I do not have the patience to sum up our philosophy for you in the little time you have left," I replied to him.

"No, not that. Why all this? Do you wish to die? You worship for that reason, do you not? The God of Death is your chosen deity, but why?"

"Because he is bat-shit insane," the dwarf yelled out.

"Might I share a short story with you all?" I started, "Once there was a man who lived an abnormally long life, which made even elves appear youthful.

He had everything in this world that he could possibly desire, including strength, wealth, and freedom to do anything he pleased. But he never appeared to be content.

On the other side, there was a young, impoverished boy who had nothing to his name. No power, no love, no family.

He was thrown away like common garbage.

And when they met one day, the man attempted to murder the boy.

The man was already on the edge of death. His past mistakes caught up to him, leaving him with little choice but to see escape as a hopeless endeavor.

The man had the capacity to take over bodies and transfer whatever he had into his new one, but it was too late; the instant he attempted it, he died, and sadly, the boy was also erased at that moment.

Save for the man's might and the boy's physique, nothing of the two was left.

The death of both of them made the world a better place.

No one would endure suffering at the hands of the man any longer, even the youngster whose life had only been a burden to bear."