For certain is death for the born
And certain is birth for the dead;
Therefore over the inevitable
Thou shouldst not grieve. - Bhagavad Gita
Thinking about it afterwards, the visceral edge of the memories dulled by time, he would wonder why it did not strike him as tragically funny then, the resolution of an argument as old as his acquaintance with the either of them.
He wondered how he had not seen it then, the final indignity that followed Ishn'fad to the grave.
Arykin had been right.
That thought would gnaw at him from time to time, ever afterward; a dull ache behind his temple or that maddening moment where one waits for a sneeze that never comes, or a scab that never heals.
Had he listened, had he believed, it could have been prevented. He had turned down Arykin's repeated requests that he simply steal them and be done with it.
But then he would think about it, and he would laugh low and long, and shake his head in macabre amusement. And the guilt would lift.
It was Arykin after all.
* * *
The pyre burned low, acrid smoke wafting into the sky; bone spurs jutted from the carpet of liquefied flesh, a bloody carpet in a twisted skeletal cathedral.
Ishn'fad was dead. Again.
Or more precisely, his body was. To what rest his soul had gone he made no guess – whether he was granted his seat at Gessar's table for his blazing fall or if all that he was likewise tainted by the abomination that had so twisted his flesh.
Rook shivered, remembering the shade that dogged their steps across those hell blasted plains and the moment under Her eyes in which he took that thing into his flesh, his being.
If Ishn'fad was transformed thus, for such a small thing … the thought trailed off into into darknesses yet unseen.
He closed his eyes, felt the heat of the flame, the smell of burning flesh, and breathed. He calmed the darkness bubbling beneath his memory.
He remembered golden eyes.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
The abomination had touched them all, in one way or another - for some it took, to others it gave, but none, he knew, walked the lands unchanged.
He carried the company with him, as he carried Her with him. They had crafted him, made him from the fickle thief of fate into something other. Tangibly he wore them as badges of honor – Trey's protection, Dharakeen's strength, Arykin's chaos – a blade and two rings.
And now, Ishn'fad.
Of those who had seen the end of the world, of those who had nearly caused it, only two remained: The Daemon and The Disciple.
As the pyre died down he stooped above the remains, and pulled some of the ash into a pouch, placing it about his neck.
From Yondi they all came, and in the end, Klesst willing, they would all return.
But that was for another time.
