Standing in front of the hearth, firelight reflected in his eyes, Kursha watched the flames eat away at the last of the letter and the tyrian seal it came with. He stood quiet, still, and without expression. His mind was as blank as his face. Only the sharp snap and pop of the fire perforated the silence.
Minutes passed. A dusting of cinders covered the firewood. The flames had dimmed down to a quiet glow. A coldness crept in. All of a sudden, Kursha turned. Moving briskly, he strode from the room. Behind him, the door closed with a rumble.
He made his way through the dark empty halls quickly though unhurried. When he reached the stairs, he brought his pace to a jog. His sandalled feet slapped loudly against the stone steps. As he ascended the air grew colder. The brick walls seemed to leech any warmth from their surroundings. By the time he reached the top, his breath left him in puffs of steam. Not stopping, he threw open the door and stepped out onto the bastion. A chill, blustering wind greeted him, howling over the landscape.
Kursha crossed to the edge of the tower. Leaning against one of the merlons, he crossed his arms and rested his chin over them. He stared out at the horizon without focus. The wind roared around him. As he stood there, the cold bit into his bones and left him numb. At last his thoughts began to catch with him.
Where had he gone wrong?
The question had plagued the back of his mind since he had crawled away from Rasali's hive two weeks earlier. Only now, summoned to the front of his thoughts by the crushing doom that loomed over him, did he consider it. The answer was simple. He had screwed up when he used Aandes to get to Rasali. Even if he had not contradicted Regina’s orders directly, he should have known better. Playing with fire only got one burned, and much like the arrest warrant downstairs, his life had burnt up until all that was left was ashes. But what about before that? His life had been a wreck even before he had decided to kidnap Aandes—the queen’s stamp only validated it.
Quiet and contemplative, Kursha watched as the horizon turned cloudy and snow began to fall. The wind had not let up, and a flurry of flakes spiralled around him. A few melted against his skin.
One thing after another, eventually everything went to s**t. From his failure to capture Rasali, to his reunion with Luxara, to his battle with Stryke, to his command of the rebel hunt, at every turn he proved incompetent. Hell, he had even managed to bring ruin on himself during something as stupid and harmless as Bloodfest. Regina had reached out to him and he humiliated himself in front of her. Somehow the harder he tried, the harder he fell.
Dully, Kursha ruminated over his shortcomings. Victory, the Colonel had said, was the only thing that mattered. His legacy—his worth—would be determined by his successes and his failings. Intent held no value if he could not follow through. He believed that with his whole being. Desperate to find recognition, he had fought every step of the way. He wanted to prove himself. He
wanted to demonstrate his worth. As it turned out though, success required a little more than wanting it badly enough. It required skills that he did not have. That or sheer luck, and he had spent all his escaping death.
“I’m at my limit,” he realised, speaking without meaning to. He barely heard. The wind stole his words away.
Kursha straightened. He had begun to shiver, and his fingers felt like ice. He flexed them a few times to work the cold out. He would get frostbite if he stayed out for much longer. Briefly, the idea almost appealed to him. Facing the cold would be easier than facing his future. A sharp gust of wind raked its claws across his back just then, and he thought the better of it. Turning, he went to the door, and started back down the stairs.
It was several minutes before the feeling returned in his legs and arms, and several more for toes and fingers. He hugged his jacket tighter around himself to keep the warmth in. For a moment, his bodily gratification overrode all other senses. As he continued through the empty halls however, the familiar itch of despair pricked at the back of his mind. Inside, he felt trapped, caged by silence and hunted by shadows. He could never hide from his own thoughts here.
His feet carried him back down the halls and past the alcove where his lusus took roost.
“I’m going out,” he said as he went by.
'Going where?' his thoughts echoed. He had no answer. He had made the decision on a whim.
From the alcove a rustling of wings came in response. In his peripheral vision, he glimpsed the Colonel dozing with her head tucked under her wing. She did not so much as look at him as he went past. Kursha expected as much. Their relationship was distant and tenuous at best. He continued down to a second set of stairs.
As he walked, his mind brewed up dark thoughts, thoughts that had long lay sleeping. They came to him in no particular order. Just musings of regret and self-defeat.
The Phoenix initiative was one such musing. He had joined on a whim, out of spite for the Colonel, yet he might have found as much comradery as he ever would there. Even as an outsider, they had welcomed him because they could not afford not to. His compatriots offered him some semblance of respect. And even if he might not have gotten along with all of them, at the very least he had forged some kind of kinship with Byakko. They had worked together. She put her trust in him, and went out of her way to communicate with him. For some reason though, he had thrown away her good faith like it was worthless, and worn the title of a turncoat proudly. For that he would be labelled as a traitor no matter where he went for the rest of his life.
He had already seen it. The party at Awassi’s hive had been a constant uphill battle, and Regina no doubt regarded him with suspicion from the start. His brief flicker of fame had put his failures in the spotlight. He was a walking disaster, an outcast.
It was nothing new, he realised. He had always been alone. The few friendships he claimed were little more than an illusion, all one-sided endeavours. As much as he endeared himself to Alifax, the redblood never seemed to notice, and Sarcel, as much as he admired her, regarded him with contempt. Even Lorata only admired a cheap mask he wore. What other friendships he might have once had were now nothing more than shattered fragments of history: Stryke, whom he had pushed away; Vremea, whom he had failed to understand; Luxara, who had failed to understand him.
In retrospect maybe he had asked too much of Luxara. Only one troll had ever seen through to Kursha’s true self, and he saw further than Kursha ever wanted anyone to see. Perhaps further than even Kursha had. From the night at the theatre onward, Ganyma’s words had a way of burning themselves into his thinkpan. And if Kursha ever forgot them he had the scars on his chest to serve as a reminder.
Bitterness stung the greenblood's pusher. He was entering dangerous territory. If he took this self-reflection much further, he would cross the point of no return. He knew what waited in the darkest recesses of his brain. He had come this far though. His self-loathing had never been more transparent. Self-destruction had always come easy to him. Why not see it all the way through?
He reached deep, to where he could inflict the most damage: Ganyma and Rasali. Two of his deadliest opponents, not for how near they brought him to ruin, but for how easily they read him. Kursha had lived in denial for so long, but now he faced it without accepting excuse: he was a coward. The only reason either of them had left him alive was out of pity. His existence was utterly worthless.
At the last step, Kursha paused. Something in his chest shrivelled up to be replaced by a void. Tucking his chin, he pressed his forehead into the heel of his hand. His nails dug into his scalp as he squeezed his eyes shut. A laugh bubbled up from his throat. When had everything turned so
rotten? Tears pricked at his eyes. To his core he felt like a corpse, fetid and half-decayed. It was like he had woken up from a sleep only to find his life was already rotted through. There was nothing there worth saving.
Kursha took in a sharp breath, then pulled his hand away and opened his eyes. His emotions quelled, crushed and compacted by a familiar sense of disassociation. He took the last step almost gingerly and crossed the grand entry hall to the double doors.
As he approached, he almost missed his rifle, leaning next to them. It was the rifle Rasali had
not broken, the one he had carried in his youth. His gaze lingered on it. Back then it had meant so much to him. It had not been just a tool; it was at the root of his very identity. In retrospect the idea seemed ridiculous. Kursha grasped the gun by the barrel. Sentimentality rushed back at him. Ridiculous maybe, but true.
Not really thinking, he reached into his pocket to check that he had ammunition. As his fingers felt around for cartridges however, they found something else. Along with two rounds, he pulled out a ratty, familiar piece of fabric: a Polka dot ribbon. Kursha stared at it. There was a brief reprieve in his thoughts. A memory he had hidden sprang into his mind. He had always meant to give it back. Even now it was not too late. After all, what she had given him...
A vision of the arrest warrant in the fireplace interrupted the thought.
Kursha curled his hand into a fist. He stuffed the ribbon and the rounds back into his pocket.
“You’re kidding yourself,” he muttered. He had his chance. He could eat the consequences.
Rifle in hand and mind made up, he pushed open the heavy double doors several inches. Wedging the muzzle of the rifle in between them, he pulled them shut again. The rest of the gun, including the grip and stock, jutted out just above waist level. Kursha grabbed ahold of the barrel and braced himself. Then he pushed with all his might.
There was a brief creaking of wood, followed by a splintering. A second later, the metal screamed in complaint and the barrel snapped in half. Both Kursha and the crippled weapon fell to the floor.
Picking up the rifle, Kursha studied it. He expected to feel something at the sight of it split in two, but nothing came. Instead he could only think how appropriate it was. With one shot he had started everything, and with one more he could end it. He loaded a cartridge into the chamber and turned off the safety.
His finger on the trigger, he brought the end of the barrel under his chin. After a moment however, he changed his mind and pressed it to the side of his temple. He closed his eyes tight. No screwing up. No leaving it to chance. It would be painless. If he had any last doubts, he shut them out. He was dead anyway. It might as well be on his terms.
He pulled the trigger.
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