Jermayan grunted and lay back, apparently agreeing with Kellen's assessment.
'The bandits?' he asked tersely.
'If that's what they were,' Kellen said doubtfully. 'Dead. All of them.'
'Good,' Jermayan said with satisfaction. He pressed his fingers against his side, wincing as he probed the site of his injury, and then sat up. His face was pale, but determined.
He looked around, taking in the circle drawn in the dirt, the remains of the fire. 'It seems I owe you my life,' he said.
'I owe you mine,' Kellen said, feeling his inadequacy engulf him like a wave. 'I'm… sorry, Jermayan. I just… froze.'
And that was when everything fell apart for him.
Kellen dropped to his knees, retching, his stomach heaving, tears streaming down his face as he sobbed between bouts of vomiting. He felt, more than saw, Jermayan getting slowly and carefully to his feet; felt Jermayan kneel beside him, and felt the Elf's hands steadying him as his stomach emptied. He wept for himself, for a loss of something he could not name, for the blood on his hands and his soul. He wept that he had been so weak that Jermayan had been forced to put himself in danger. He wept that he had simply not been good enough.
And he wept with rage, at the men who had forced him to kill.
'All the practice in the world cannot prepare you to see a man die,' Jermayan said simply when Kellen was able at last to listen. 'But you did not let your feelings overmaster you—or we would not be here now.'
'But—' Kellen groaned. He'd failed. He'd gotten Jermayan hurt, nearly killed! 'I—'
'Hush. And listen to one who is briefly your master,' Jermayan said gently. 'You have crossed a great abyss today. You have chosen death. With your two hands, you have delivered it. Are you sorry?'
'Yes. No. Both.' There was nothing left in his stomach, but Kellen remained bent over, gut aching, throat raw, tears still burning down his cheeks.
'Good. It is a wretched thing to take a life, but it was what needed to be done today. These outlaws could have turned aside from us; they could have broken off combat at any time, and we would not have pursued them. They did neither. We cannot know if they deserved the death they won, but if we had not slain them, they would have slain us, and our task requires that we live. Do you hate them? Do you anger, still?'
That Kellen was sure of. 'Yes!' He'd killed today. He would never forget that, never forgive it. Never!
'Do not; we cannot know what drove them. Perhaps their minds were not even their own. Let it go. Forgive them.'
'Houi?' Kellen cried in anguish.
'Now they are not your foes. Think of them as men and Centaurs once more.'
It was the hardest thing he had ever done, until he remembered that moment of paralysis, when he had looked at the face of the first dying man, and had thought, He has a wife, friends, parents —
Then at last he could, and did. The tears came again, and in weeping for them, Kellen forgave them.
'Now forgive yourself,' Jermayan said. 'You could do no other than what you did.'
And Jermayan put a steadying arm around Kellen's shoulders, and waited until he could.
FINALLY, Kellen was done with forgiveness and forgiving; he was empty and exhausted, but he finally felt— clean. As he had not felt since the fight began.
He got to his feet with an effort, then helped Jermayan to stand. They stood for a moment with hands clasped, looking into each other's eyes. Finally, Jermayan nodded, as if satisfied by what he saw in Kellen, and let his hands go.
When Jermayan stood, Valdien hurried to his master's side, nudging at him worriedly. Jermayan put an arm over the destrier's neck, gripping his mount's saddle for support.
'You'll need to clean the swords,' he said matter-of-factly. 'Scrub the blades down with earth. Pack my armor on the mule… I think I will have to ride without it.'
