While Arthur had been locked in his desperate battle with a single Nightreaver, Aziel had dispatched his two opponents with casual efficiency. By the time Arthur's primal scream had faded into the night air, Aziel was already crouched over the carcasses of his fallen adversaries, the blade of his spear in hand as he methodically carved chunks of meat from their bodies.
Blood-dark ichor stained his fingers and forearms, yet he worked with the practiced precision of someone accustomed to field dressing much stranger game. He hummed softly to himself, apparently untroubled by the grisly task or the minor scratches that marked his otherwise unblemished skin—the only evidence that he had been in combat at all.
Arthur remained seated atop the mutilated corpse of his Nightreaver, staring blankly upward at the star-strewn sky. His chest still heaved with exertion, blood trickling from the numerous wounds that decorated his body like macabre ornaments. The deepest slash across his thigh had begun to throb with a dull, persistent ache that promised greater pain to come.
As he gazed into the void above, the whispers started again—soft at first, then growing more insistent.
Let us help you. Let us in. Let us save you.
The dead roses surrounding him swayed gently despite the absence of wind, their withered petals turning toward him like faces seeking the sun. Their honeyed voices wove through his consciousness, promises of relief and power intertwining into a seductive melody.
Arthur knew what they offered—corruption disguised as salvation. Yet he found himself almost tempted to listen, if only to escape the hollow emptiness that had settled into his chest after the rage had burned itself out. But he couldn't even if he wanted to, because despite there words even the roses didn't want him.
Instead, he lowered his gaze to the ruined creature beneath him. The Nightreaver's compound eyes were now clouded and lifeless, but Arthur could still see in them the reflection of desperate terror it had shown in its final moments—the primal, universal will to survive that transcended species and realms.
He searched within himself for some flicker of remorse, some shadow of guilt for the brutality he had unleashed. He waited for the horror he should feel at what he had become in those frenzied moments of violence.
Nothing came.
If anything, a grim satisfaction settled over him like a comfortable cloak. 'Why should I feel sad anyway?' he thought bitterly. 'Nobody but me shed a tear when my parents died... when Luke died. Nobody spared me or them any guilt, so why should I?'
The thought lingered, cold and comforting in its callousness. It was easier this way—to embrace the numbness, to let go of the moral constraints that had no place in a realm where only strength determined survival.
"Hey!" Aziel's voice shattered his introspection, echoing across to Arthur. "You done over there or what? I got some meat over here, so come put it in your realm pouch or whatever!"
Arthur looked down one last time at the Nightreaver's corpse before taking a deep breath and pushing himself to his feet. A sharp pain shot through his injured leg, forcing him to bite back a wince.
"Coming," he called back, his voice hollow and distant to his own ears.
He began making his way toward Aziel, each step a careful negotiation with pain as he trudged through the roses. They whispered enticingly as he passed, but their voices seemed fainter now, easier to ignore.
Aziel sat astride the mutilated corpse of one of his vanquished Nightreavers, grinning like a child with a new toy. His lightning spear was held tightly in his hands as he was using it to separate meat from bone. Below him on the ground lay a small pile of dark flesh, poorly cut and still glistening with the creatures' strange fluids.
"Took you long enough," Aziel quipped, his eyes flicking briefly to Arthur's numerous wounds before returning to his task. If he was concerned about his companion's injuries or unsettled by the savagery he had witnessed, he showed no sign of it.
Arthur approached slowly, eyeing the meat with mild disgust.
Aziel shrugged, adding another chunk to the pile. "Nightreaver tastes like shit, but it's high in protein. Keeps you going...I think" He nodded toward the pile. "Better get that stored."
With a resigned sigh, Arthur knelt beside the pile and began transferring the meat pieces one by one into his realm storage. Each chunk disappeared in a soft shimmer of darkness, drawn into the pocket dimension that served as his personal inventory.
Aziel stood once Arthur had finished, stretching his arms above his head and yawning dramatically. "Hey, let me have some water," he stated rather than asked, holding his hand out expectantly.
Arthur summoned one of their water jars and handed it to Aziel, who immediately tilted his head back and took several long, greedy gulps. Water escaped the corners of his mouth, running in rivulets down his neck and chest.
"Aren't we supposed to be rationing our water?" Arthur asked, raising an eyebrow at Aziel's careless consumption.
Aziel lowered the jar, sighed, and frowned at Arthur as though he were a particularly tiresome child. "You worry a lot... it's annoying."
Arthur felt a flash of irritation but suppressed it. He took the jar back from Aziel and allowed himself only a small, careful sip before returning it to his storage.
"Whatever. Let's get going," he said, eager to put distance between themselves and the carnage they had left behind.
Aziel shrugged and grinned, seemingly immune to Arthur's dour mood. "Lead the way, Mr. Gloomy."
They resumed their journey through the field of dead roses, each step carrying them closer to the edge of this field and whatever fresh horrors awaited them beyond. The night remained oppressively dark around them, but Arthur found he no longer feared the darkness as he once had.
After all, he was beginning to understand that the true monsters weren't the shadows themselves—but what lurked within them. Including, perhaps, the darkness growing inside his own heart.