Venture to Uncertainty (#1)

39 | The Epitome of Uncertainty

There is so much death here.

A champion, a queen, Novari Silta.

She's left there on her own, dying as she inches forward slowly to a freedom that will never come. She doesn't try to make it to the window, she crawls her way back to the ballroom, where she can die with her lover. She's dying in an expanse of her own blood, dying as she crawls for her life. She's been pierced through her lifeline in some twisted act of morality.

Was it heroism, this act? Or was it betrayal? It all depends which side you look from.

But let's call it heroism. It makes it all the more comfortable, doesn't it?

*

There once was a tyrant King. His name was Joseph Kain.

What to call this, then? Heroism or selfishness, vengeance or a service?

It would've been called heroism if a brave orphan had set on a quest to help his people. But it's vengeance if his daughter did it. Things change depending on how you look at them.

So the King lies dead there, body lying only feet from his daughter. His hair, so perfectly obsidian, is coloured red now. His golden throne observes silently behind him, his mighty crown spilled from atop his head, resting on the ground an arms length away.

So is it heroism or vengeance, this act?

Let's call it vengeance. For the sake of a good story, of course.

*

Farley is dead, too. Call him a selfish manipulator who had no place dealing with these brilliant people, but he's the real reason any of this happened at all. He's where it all began. It always begins with a nobody, a peripheral character.

And the ironic thing? Farley spent his whole life in pursuit of power and luxury, and now he dies in the most fantastic place in the ocean.

So is this success or failure? Has he found what he wanted to find so badly?

Let's call it success. It makes a better story.

*

Denver Tolva once killed his sister so he could join an esteemed crew. He was never a good person, but some people saw him that way. Some people found him kind and quiet. Some people thought of him as a friend. A man once considered him his best friend on a ship full of killers.

So if good people saw Denver as a good person, does that make him a good person? Does it erase his violent acts? Does it erase his evil?

Of course not. You can cover up evil. You can't erase it.

*

Vallin Bardarian was a sick, twisted man.

But he also gave many sailors a family. He gave them a purpose. He rallied people into unbreakable bonds.

So is this good riddance, his death? The woman he loved wouldn't call it that. She would call it cold-blooded murder.

And isn't it funny? How someone so powerful, so incredible, is now just tissue on the ground? He is now nothing more than skin and bones that lacks a heart.

But the problem with living legends? The problem with people that inspired so many others and held such a heavy presence in so many lives?

They'll always haunt you.

*

And the one who's still standing. Is he a hero? An inspiration? Or is he just another person, fighting tooth and nail to get what they want?

He walks down the hallways of a castle now, racing the rising sun and yet taking his sweet time. The hallways whisper to him of death, sigh with the immense weight of the night.

He leaves the dead where they lie. He gets into his boat and he picks up the oars. He completes these tasks as though they are simply mundane things that he does every day.

He makes his way across the water, not bothering to meet the gazes of the villagers peering out from their frosty glass windows. He feels their hopes and dreams and passions. He feels their potential. He knows they don't stand a chance.

The gates are still propped open when Archer slides under them. He rows further and further, his arms not bold enough to scream in pain, his legs too terrified to shake. His mind far too numb to think or feel.

And eventually, when he is far enough away, he turns and sets his oars down. He watches the sun peak over the horizon silently. He gazes out at the surrounding ocean, thinking of the devil's ship, waiting for a Captain and a first mate that will never come. They will mourn. And is their mourning any less valid if it is for the evil?

Archer isn't sure anymore. He doesn't bother to think. He just watches. And he listens.

He listens to the faraway click of the gate unlatching automatically.

He listens to the stillness. To the beauty of nothing.

He listens to it end.

There are lights, there are screams, there are explosions. There are flames licking the sky. There are famous spires crashing into the twirling water below.

Archer watches the Kingsland go up in flames. He watches it burn.

And he doesn't feel any of it.