Azariah sadly shook his head.
“Is that what you believe, Tarlak Eschaton?” he asked. Tarlak waved a dismissive hand, not committing to any deeper meaning than that.
“You can't do this,” Harruq started to say, but Aurelia shushed him. Qurrah saw her whisper something in his ear. His brother clearly did not approve, but he kept his mouth shut, fuming silently.
“You hear Tarlak’s accusations,” Ahaesarus said to Qurrah. “And you stand so accused. Will you respond?”
Qurrah looked to their faces, looked to their hurt, and every hollow argument died in his throat. What could he say to them? I killed your daughter by accident. I scarred your flesh in humor. I killed your friends for power. I doomed this world in a desperate attempt to escape.
“I deserve death,” Qurrah said at last. “Let that be my response.”
“No!” Harruq shouted. His whole body doubled over, the wound in his chest ripping open in spite of all the care. He pounded a fist into the dirt, still struggling to talk.
“I forgave him,” he said between gasps of pain. “That must mean something!”
“Indeed,” Azariah said, speaking for the first time. “What of that, Qurrah?”
Qurrah shrugged..
“It was offered, and I accepted. What other choice did I have?”
Azariah stood to his full height and glanced around the fire, his eyes settling on the two paladins.
“What choice did he have?” he asked them.
“Rejection of grace,” Jerico said. “We do it every day.”
Lathaar glanced up, as if realizing what Azariah was preparing to do. He opened his mouth to argue, realized the hypocrisy of such an action, and then closed it.
“I have just one question,” Azariah said, crossing his arms over his chest. His voice rose in strength. Tarlak froze with dread while Harruq's face sparkled with kindled hope.
“I offer grace to you, mortal. Not the grace of man, but the grace of Ashhur. Will you accept it?”
Qurrah could not believe his ears. He didn't want to believe them. He had killed children, innocents, and mutilated life to meet his desires. Forgiven?
“And if I reject it?” Qurrah asked.
Ahaesarus drew his sword. No words were spoken. All watched. All waited. It seemed ridiculous to Qurrah. A court where the accused chose their guilt, a court where the crime mattered not, and all punishments were death.
“Then I…”
He stopped. He didn't just feel like he was getting away with murder; he was getting away with murder. To look upon the faces of all those he’d hurt and slide away unscathed, unchanged, how dare he? He had always thought himself stronger than that, better than that. Never before had he belittled his sin. How many times had he insisted his brother acknowledge the weight of their deeds? How many times had he laughed in the face of guilt, and smirked at the wails of sorrow?
He fell to his knees. He would not lie.
“I do not think I can,” Qurrah said.
Tarlak breathed out a sigh. The paladins sadly shook their heads. Aurelia closed her eyes and fought away tears.
“No!” Harruq shouted. “No, no, you damn fool. Don't you dare!”
Ahaesarus raised the sword, its edge gleaming in the moonlight. Harruq lunged, not caring for the pain or the blood that ran down his shirt. He clutched his brother in his arms, a fragile sack of bone and wearied flesh. Tears ran down his face.
“I finally have you back,” Harruq said. “You won’t leave me now. Don't you dare, Qurrah! Stay with me, here. Stay and fight, gods be damned; can't you endure even that?”
Qurrah's tears fell, and he felt like he had the previous day, ready and waiting for his brother's executioner song, only to be granted love instead. He wept, he clutched his brother, and he wondered how so many years and deaths had come between them.
“How?” he whispered. “How could you still…?…still…By the gods, Harruq, don’t you know what I’ve done? To you? To everyone?”
Harruq faced Ahaesarus, and he glared at the naked sword he held.
“My crimes are no different than his,” he said. “Whatever punishment Qurrah receives, I demand the same.”
“He’s not the same as you,” Tarlak said. “Stop being an idiot and realize that.”
“You never asked,” Harruq said, turning to him. “You never pried. But I killed the children at Woodhaven. My name-the Forest Butcher-I earned it in blood. I still bear the weight. Yet you have fought with me, nearly died with me. Would you banish me now?”
His voice lowered as Tarlak shook with rage.
“This is not about you,” Tarlak said.
“But it is,” Qurrah said. He faced off with Tarlak, their eyes locked on one another. “He stands at your side. He has murdered children. You call him friend. But he struck me first, nearly killed me for accusations that were baseless and false. And then you came to me, murder in your hearts, and then threw the blame yet again on me and my lover?”
“You killed without remorse!”
“As do you! How many have died by your fire and flame? Would you have shed a tear for my death? Tessanna’s? How do we judge life, Tarlak? Or do we use your scale, where friends are everything, enemies are nothing, and all is forgiven once we adopt the Eschaton name?”
“Enough!” Azariah shouted. He stepped between them, and there was no hiding his displeasure. “You each accuse the other of murder, and yet how would you solve it? By more murder? You accuse them of death, but how do you see the solution? More death?”
“It might atone for what they’ve done,” Tarlak said.
“Death atones for nothing!” Azariah insisted. “Let all men reap what they have sown in eternity, but would you wish any man- any man-that fate because of your own hurt? Your own hatred? Who here has the right to condemn a man to fire for eternity? The only judge of a man’s soul is himself!”
Qurrah pulled Harruq close, his face pained by the blood spilling across his chest from the open wound. He purposefully put his back to Azariah, not wanting to see his glare. His anger faded, and with tired eyes he made his appeal.
“Don’t do this,” he whispered to his brother. “Don’t die for me. You’ve already given me more than I deserve. Let my life end here. Let all their wounds close. The angel is wrong. My death will help. My death will let them heal.”
“Never again,” Harruq said, clutching Qurrah’s hands tightly in his own. His face paled, and he stood with strength that still stunned him. “You’re my brother. I won’t lose you. Not again. Together, Qurrah. Always and forever. Tell them. Live.”
“For you, brother,” Qurrah said, “I will try.”
He looked to the angel priest, whose face had remained steady as stone throughout the ordeal.
“You were given a wonderful gift, Qurrah Tun,” Azariah said. A quick nod from Ahaesarus and he continued. “You did not ask for grace, but it was given anyway, and you accepted it over death. Such is the state of all men, no different from you. And now we play this game, as if the crimes mattered, as if we live by the limits of man instead of the limits of Ashhur. Who will you be, Qurrah? What life shall you have?”
Qurrah felt a mixture of shame, embarrassment, and relief as he spoke his words.
“If Ashhur's grace is as good as my brother's, then I accept it.”
“Then consider yourself forgiven,” Azariah said. Ahaesarus sheathed his sword. It was as if a bolt of lightning struck the campfire. The paladins stood and murmured to each other, seeing a sight they had seen so many times back at the Citadel, while Aurelia went to her husband, pulling him away so she could tend to his wounds. Tarlak, furious beyond control, stormed away. Azariah saw him and hurried after.
“You're fools and weaklings,” Tarlak said as he heard the angel's approach. “He deserves death and you know it.”
