Garder mon Ame

Chapter Sixteen: A Vigil for Nonexistence

Can I see another's woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another's grief,
And not seek for kind relief?

~William Blake

Emery let out a tortured scream, like the gates of Hell being opened, and he fell to his knees where Didier's halo lay, wielder gone, brilliance lost. How many lives had it taken? Cyra wondered. How many places had it been? What of the things it had seen? Emery was still sobbing, so Cyra picked the halo up and cradled it in his hands like a newborn child.

"No no no no no," Emery chanted. Cried. Screamed. Cyra picked up Lacy's halo as well. The things the dead leave behind, so small, so odd, such the epitome of perfection.

Emery had already slain the Turned. It was a tiny thing, much like a ferret almost, and Emery sliced at it with a fury Cyra had never before seen in the Warrior's dark eyes. The Turned disappeared. The body of Danae Lux remained.

It was with trepidation and unease that Cyra stood in the same room he had when he was alive. He had played there. He had laughed there. But now those memories were coated with bloodstains, and he did his best to block out the unpleasantness. Whatever discomfort he felt, he knew it could not compete with Emery's mental torment. A good, though tired man, finally snapped. How sad it was to see such a fortuitous character crumble before his eyes.

"Emery," Cyra said softly. He touched the Warrior's shoulder but was roughly shoved away like an annoying insect. Maybe even worse. Emery was clutching his stomach, sobbing silently now and shaking his head in disbelief. His eyes were closed, unable to process the deadly scene. Had his hair turned grayer? Did wrinkles sprout like weeds on his once-handsome face? Had there ever been such a lament as the sobs of someone for a close friend? For a brother? Cyra wiped his own tears away. It was time to be strong. If he crumbled, then the demons would have definitely won. At least, for that point in time, they were just close.

"Emery, you're still here," Cyra said. "I'm still here. The Reapers are gone."

Emery shook violently. "If I ever find out who did this, I will tear him limb from limb. I will do more than just kill him; I will make him endure a torture worse than the hottest fires of Hell. Silly demons with pitchforks and claws will not even compare to what I can do. He will pay. They will all pay. I will kill them all. Every last Reaper. I will kill every last one. Kill. All of them. Make them hurt as I have suffered."

"Emery?"

"Hell will not be prepared for the fury I am about to unleash. Maybe my rage is beyond the acceptable. I don't know. But, damn it, I will murder every Reaper I see. Cut off their limbs. Blow holes through their brains. Drown them with a misery worse than Hell."

"Emery?"

"I vow this: I will kill them all. Kill them all. Kill them all."

Cyra put a hand on Emery again, and was surprised when the Warrior did not slap it away. Instead, Emery turned dark eyes up to meet gray, and he said, "I have to try harder, Padge. I haven't been doing enough, it seems, to keep those I love safe. Train more. Work more. Make the demons regret they ever crossed my path."

"Emery, we all need to try harder," Cyra said. He handed the halos to Emery, and the Warrior received them with shaking hands. "For Lacy. For Didier. They can't . . . this can't have all been for naught."

"It won't be." Emery stood up. He did not bother to wipe the tears from his eyes, but he put on a mask of frightening bravery and held himself tall. Cyra cowered a bit under the dead stare he was given. "The angels will want to hold a vigil. I will entertain that. But there is work to be done, Padge. We mustn't let the hounds of Hell infect our ranks and steal our souls. We cannot let them win. For Didier."