The Crippled God

bastards hunting me down don’t care about that. A child has died. Mothers bow in wretched grief. Weapons are taken in hand. The world is a dangerous place; they mean to make it less so. They yearn to die ancient and withered in straw beds, at the end of a long life, with skins upon their walls proclaiming their bravery .
    Well then, come to me if you must. To your eyes I am a monstrous tiger. But in my mind, I have a man’s cunning. And yes, I know all about vengeance .
    He could see now where his path was taking him. Trake’s deadly gift was turning in his hands, finding a new, terrible shape. ‘You would set yourselves apart, then? Not animal. Something other. Very well, then there will be war.’
    Brushing at his eyes, he climbed slowly to his feet. Admire the beast. He is brave. Even as he charges your spear. And should you then stand above my corpse, note well your own bravery, but in my lifeless eyes see this truth: what we have shared in this clash of courage, friend, was not a thing of sentience or intelligence. Skill and luck may be triumphant, but these are nature’s gifts .
    Confuse this at your peril .
    ‘Treach, hear me. I will fight this war. I see its … inevitability. I will charge the spear.’ Because I have no choice . He bared his teeth. ‘Just make my death worthwhile.’
    Somewhere ahead, she awaited him. He still did not know what that meant.
    The veil between human and beast was shredded, and he found himself looking out from both sides. Desperation and madness. Oh, Stonny, I cannot keep my promise. I am sorry. If I could but set my eyes upon your face one more time . He sighed. ‘Yes, woman, to answer your cruel question, the bird’s mate dreams of murder.’
    The tears kept returning. Blurring his vision, streaming down his scarred, pitted cheeks. But Mappo forced himself onward, fighting each step he took. Two wills were locked in battle. The need to find his friend. The need to flee his shame. The war was now a thing of pain – there had been a time, so long ago now, when he had not shied from self-regard; when, for all the deceits guiding his life, he had understood the necessity, the sharp clarity of his purpose.
    He stood between the world and Icarium. Why? Because the world was worth saving. Because there was love, and moments of peace. Because compassion existed, like a blossom in a crack of stone, a fulsome truth, a breathtaking miracle . And Icarium was a weapon of destruction, senseless, blind. Mappo had given his life to keeping that weapon in its scabbard, peace-strapped, forgotten.
    In the name of compassion, and love.
    Which he had just walked away from. Turning his back upon children, so as to not see the hurt in their eyes, that hardening flatness as yet another betrayal beset their brief lives. Because, he told himself, their future was uncertain, yet still alive with possibilities. But if Icariumshould awaken, and no one is there to stop him, those possibilities will come to an end. Does this not make sense? Oh yes, indeed it made sense.
    And still, it was wrong. I know it. I feel it. I can’t hide from it. If I harden myself to compassion, then what am I trying to save?
    And so he wept. For himself. In the face of shame, grief burned away. In the face of shame, he began to lose who he was, who he had always believed himself to be. Duty, pride in his vow, his sacrifice – it all crumbled. He tried to imagine finding Icarium, his oldest friend. He tried to envision a return to the old ways, to his words of deception in the name of love, to the gentle games of feint and sleight of hand that they played to keep horrifying truths at bay. Everything as it once was, and at the core of it all Mappo’s willingness to surrender his own life rather than see the Lifestealer’s eyes catch flame.
    He did not know if he could do that any more. A man’s heart must be pure for such a thing, cleansed of all doubts, sufficient to make death itself a worthy sacrifice. But the solid beliefs of years past had now broken down.
    He felt hunched down inside himself, as if folding round an old wound, leaving his bones feeling frail, a cage that could crumple at the first hint of pressure.
    The wasted land passed him by on all sides, barely observed. The day’s heat faltered before the conflagration in his skull.
    Mappo forced himself onward. He had to find Icarium now, more than ever. To beg forgiveness. And to end it .
    My friend. I am not enough any more. I am not the warrior