Session 15 Aftermath

“Let me go,” you demand, trying to free yourself from your Father’s embrace. You push on his chest, his armor creaks, but his arms remain unmoved. “I said, let me go.”

“Not yet,” he says, his words as unyielding as his arms. They hold you tight and firm, stopping just before crushing you. You struggle and push, but are never able to free yourself from his grip. Your breath slows, and your muscles ache as the adrenaline drains from your blood. Your senses become more in tune. You begin to feel the cold steel on your hands, see the orange smudges on your Father’s armor, and smell the blood all around you. It’s all-encompassing and overwhelming. You smell it with every breath, flooding your nose so thoroughly you can taste it like a spice that won’t dissolve. Your stomach flips, and you try even more desperately to get away from your Father. No doubt the smell is from him, given all the goblins he’s slain today. The orange smudges on his armor attract your gaze, and you feel an instinctual urge to get away from them.

“Let me go,” you plead again. He remains silent, and as you push against him, the smudges smear. “Come on, you're covered in blood.” He still doesn't move, and as you push, you notice the orange smudges aren’t just smearing, they're growing. You think back and realize your Father never got blood on his chest. His arms may’ve been coated, sure, but never his chest. You look down, and in the dim torchlight, you see your gloves tinted an all-too-familiar color. For the first time, you realize how wet your gloves feel, realizing what’s made them wet, you tear them off as if they’re orange hot metal, but that only makes it worse. The smell of blood that had been overpowering before becomes unbearable. You gag, but your stomach has nothing left to give. Your throat burns from acid as you grip onto your Father with trembling hands. He doesn't say a word, only maintaining his grip. Your knees give, but you don't fall; instead, he gently lowers you until you're both kneeling in an embrace. You try looking back at the Boss, but he grabs your head and forces it into his bosom.

“Don’t look,” he whispers, stroking your head. Your body fully drains the last of your adrenaline, and your mind replays what happened again like a rerun clip show. You hear your own shouts, but through them comes another voice. It screams out in pain before dissolving to a whisper. You feel the sopping wet sensation mixed with the resistance of the blade in your hands.

“I…” You began, the realization crushing you beyond the ability to speak.

“Did nothing wrong,” your Father finishes, hugging you a bit tighter. “If anyone’s to blame, it’s me.”

“But he… The prisoners… They were.”

“I know,” your Father says, losing his grip for the first time, but not letting you go. “Goblins in Zehir aren’t like regular goblins. Sure, they raid and pillage and mostly serve as low-level enemies, but they have a horrific side to them,” he explains, keeping his voice low as he continues stroking your head. “They’re like a fungus, they grow from dead organic matter. So when they capture prisoners, they’ll chop them into pieces and use them as fertilizer.”

“So those piles…” You begin, thinking back to the six piles you’d seen in the Boss’s room.

“Already taken care of,” your Father assures. “Burnt to ash and scattered. Nothing remains.” He says it so calmly, so controlled, as if a plan had just come to fruition.

“You knew!” You accuse, muscles tightening.

“I suspected,” your Father says, deflecing. “I knew we were probably too late, but there was always a chance, I mean, we’ve seen more than a few miracles since we got here, so—”

“Oh, don't give me that,” you say, pushing free of his embrace, throwing his arms down. “You knew damn well what I’d find in there, and you had me come in anyway. What, did you expect me to see that and then fly into a rage and shoot the Boss?” You try looking into your Father’s eyes, but his helmet hides them. Instead, you see his lips tuck into the corner of his cheek, his signature thinking face. “You did! Don’t try to deny it!”

“Yes,” your Father finally says, his lips untucking and falling limp into the center of his face. “I deceived you in the hope that you’d fly into a rage and shoot the Boss in the back while I tusseled with him.”

“You… You!”

*Clang!*

Metal rings as you punch your Father square in his chest, you feel the metal reverberate through your arm along with the pain. You pull your hand away, trembling from the pain.

“You won’t get anywhere like that,” he says, raising an arm. In a calm motion, he lifts his helmet, revealing his eyes. “If you're going to hit me, then do it where it’ll hurt.” His cold, unyielding eyes are locked on you. You raise a hand. Pull it back behind your head, then hesitate. Unsure if it should be open or closed, you fiddle with your fingers. All the while, your eyes never leave his, never flinching. He’s so sure he’s in the right, he’s almost smug about it. For a moment, you wonder if he believes you’ll hit him at all, like he’s challenging you, daring you to show how violent and bloodthirsty you really are. He finally moves, turning his head and presenting a cheek.

*Smack*

The sound echoes throughout the cave. You feel the heat on your hand like electricity surging through your body. You look back to your Father, but he doesn't look back. His eyes are closed as he presents his other cheek to you.

*Smack*

*Smack*

*Smack*

You strike again and again, feeling your breath more ragged with each blow. He never flinches, which only serves to fan the flames of your anger. You call something out before each smack. “For not telling me what’s going on.” “For giving me a keychain tracker.” “For gaslighting me into going along with your schemes.” Every grip you can think of, since you got to this world, and before you came flooding out. You begin digging up older and older memories, grievances that you'd forgotten about for years, but none of them feel right. None of them quells your anger.

You pause. Your hands grow hot from the slaps, and your shoulders begin feeling sore. You can't even imagine what his face feels like, but you can't stop yourself. It’s as if there’s one final grievance, and you can't stop until you've said it. You grit your teeth and ball your fist. If you're going to say it, then he’s going to pay for it.

“For making me a killer like you!” Your scream echoes throughout the cave, but the blow never comes. Saying it feels like a concession of defeat, an admission of guilt, and a sentence of punishment all at once.

“You were always a killer like me.” His voice shocks you, not just the world, but that he spoke at all. His cheeks were red, and a thin trickle of blood escaped the corner of his mouth.

“What did you say?”

“You were ALWAYS a killer like me.” His eyes are cold and unyielding, almost blending into the stone that surrounds you.

“No! No, I’m nothing like you,” you argue, shaking your head. “I never wanted to kill, I don't revel in it. I—”

“And I do?” he asks, finally wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth. “Do I take pleasure in ending life? Do I sleep soundly with my actions? Do I—?”

“Stop! Stop gaslighting me!” You demand, nostrils flaring. “You never hesitated, not once, since we got here.”

“How can I?” he demands, finally raising his own voice. “How can I when your life is at stake?”

“You could at least show a little remorse; it’s as if killing is nothing to you. Just another boring day at the hospital, right?”

“It is until the enemy outflanks your position and attacks the field hospital!” His shout seems to shake the whole cave. With nostrils flaring, his armored hands tap together as his clenched fist vibrates. The silence penetrates you, stabbing into you deeper than the goblin knife last night. He takes a deep breath before continuing. “It’s an inevitability you always train for, but never wish to see. And when they do… You have to choose between protecting your patients or your morals… That may have been a hard choice… but protecting you isn’t.” The silence hangs like an anchor on your neck, dragging you down.

“I didn't know…” You eventually say, unsure of what else to say.

“Because I never told you, because you didn't need to know,” he says, voice raspy, like he’s on the verge of tears. “It took me years to make peace with what I did. I… If I didn't have my faith to lean on… I’d have fallen a long time ago. I could only move on by thinking I helped create a better world for my children. HA! What a load of crap that is now that we're here.” The silence hangs over you again, thicker than the mountain you knelt in. “So you see, son,” he says, finally breaking the silence, “you were always a killer like me, because we’re both reluctant killers.” The word lodges in you. Sticking to you like the gloves stuck to your hands. You rub your fingers together, spreading the sticky feeling all the more.

“I don’t want to be…” You finally say, head falling low.

“Then be a remorseful killer,” your Father says, finally standing. “I’ve never once felt remorse for my actions. Put me in the same situation, and I’d kill every one of them again." He extends a hand down to you. Holding it out like a lifeline. “Just be warned, if you do have remorse, it’ll never get easier.” You look up at your Father, his wide shoulder you’d once thought could hold up the world, slouching in the dark cave. You take his hand, letting him pull you up from the puddle you're kneeling in.

“Does that mean you took the easy way out?” You ask, taking his hand and rising to your feet.

“Maybe you’ll understand when you have kids of your own,” he says, grinning as your footsteps echo off the cavern walls.