A World Without Permanence

He couldn't understand it.

Fitzroy raised his arm in a perfect counter. Movements that went beyond the cognitive along with reflexes so acute that the gap between stimulus and reaction was non-existent had taken over.

Metal sang.

Like a hammer hitting a gong the sword crashed into Fitzroy's forearm with force sufficient to sunder flesh and shatter bone. Fitzroy's, however, was not such basic flesh. He poured his focus, power, and will into the arm and the golden barrier projected by his brand held. After that, repelling the attack was a simple affair. A flick of his wrist sent the blade and the woman who held it careening backwards. Fitzroy watched the woman stumble back a pace, steady herself and lunge at him again.

"Why you", was his only thought.

He knew this woman. It made no sense. The lines did not connect. He had always been something of a blunt tool, but he was never a fool. This was wrong, something was off here.

He couldn't understand it.

The air broke, flashed, then screamed. Tendrils of roaring electricity scoured their way towards him. This would not be a simple affair. Fitzroy raised both hands, held them out and caught the lightning in the palm of his hands. As the arcane energy struck him and threatened to surge through him, he willed it to stop. As the lightning pushed him back and the force of the strike sought to overpower his grip, the brand on his chest heeded his call. The mark of the Asura, the brand of his people, awakened. He needed more hands, and the brand provided. Four limbs of the finest gold sprouted from his back. With the will that had shattered an immortal Fitzroy overpowered electricity itself. Not just dissipating but erasing energy. He dug his two natural hands, now encased in gold, into the ground, arresting his moment.

Fitzroy stared out. He saw the mage that had cast the spell. He knew his face, knew it well. He had seen it countless times around the campfire. Yet he had never seen it with an expression like this before. The sight stretched credulity.

He could not understand it.

"Why"?

Fitzroy had achieved it, enlightenment, the truest understanding. He had grown beyond the limitations of human vices and human power. Yet his mind failed to comprehend its own thoughts.

Pain. Every thought was dragged to a halt as the surging heat of a wound spiked his brain. He felt blood dribble down his side. Fitzroy did not think, by the time he had decided upon a correct response his body had already executed it. He was at his prime. He was at the prime. He had never been more powerful. He had never been more at one with himself. The pain fuelled his anger, and the anger fuelled his brand. The six golden limbs, the final legacy of the dead kingdom he had once been heir to, burned with the fury of a demon. Thus was the gift of the Asura.

Reaching down he pulled the dagger from his side, willing his wound to close and watching as his power turned desire into reality. Fitzroy went to discard the blade but hesitated. He blinked; his anger dulled. His mortal life rushed back to him. Memories forgotten in pursuit of perfect, golden understanding returned. He knew this blade. He had watched it take many lives. He looked out at the crumbled figure that had once held it. He knew that figure.

As the two others rushed to her side helping her to her feet, attempting to correct the arm he had broken in his retaliation, Fitzroy grew more confused. He knew them all, the warrior, the mage, and the thief. Why were they attacking him? What was going on?

He couldn't understand it.

The three launched back into their attack.

Fitzroy defended himself, but despite his demands for an explanation. Despite his calls to the past, they ignored him.

These people, these assassins here to kill him, had all once been his friends. They were the fellow outcasts and fellow lost souls he had travelled the world with. He could not understand why they had turned on him. He had done all of this for them. He had stained his hands and sullied his soul for them. He had abandoned his humanity, all in service of a greater goal. Why of all people were they here?

Did they not see it? Did they not understand, despite his explanations?

This is what it took to save the world. This is what it took to spit in the face of nature. This is what man had to do to stop the wheel, to bring an end to the eternal cycle of destruction and renewal. He had to do this, he had to sacrifice everything and everyone. It was for the greater good. True, it was a tragedy, but it had to be done. What good was a world that lacked permanence? What good was a world that so heartlessly devoured everything? It had taken him his whole life to realize that sometimes it was evil acts that brought about the greatest good.

He knew this. This he understood. This he was willing to die for; and to kill for.

Yet, before each lethal blow, before every killing strike or executing manoeuvre, he hesitated.

It would have been so easy to kill them. They had never been his equals and now that he was fully awakened, they were like children to him. They knew that. He could see it behind each of their eyes. He could see that this fight pained them. That they didn't want to be here, but they were. Not one of them had hesitated. Despite their conflictions they were sure about one thing and that was his death.

What had happened to them?

What had happened to him?

Where had those days spent idly conversing around a campfire gone?

How had they all gotten here?

As Fitzroy pondered these things. As the brutal dance of life and death played out. As his friends bloodied themselves against his golden form, Fitzroy's conviction wavered. His will stuttered. The Asura demanded absolute certainty, a weak heart did not deserve its power.

In their position Fitzroy would have hesitated; he had hesitated at every opportunity to end the fight. His former companions and his truest friends did not. As the golden aura wavered, they struck as one.

He was dying.

Laying there, in a pool of his own blood, tainted black with the vile corruption he had sold his soul to, surrounded by the only family he had known since his nation fell, watching as their tears fell over his mangled remains, the last prince of the lost empire finally understood it.

He had gone too far.

Despite his efforts, despite the blood he had spilt and the mountain of transgressions he had committed, in search of a world free from time, corruption, and the wheel, all his efforts were for nought.

And in the end, the world fell.