Heroes can fall in more ways than one.
Demigod Xaray is sent on a quest to kill after he massacred a whole town. Weakened by the strain, he falls prey to a haughty vampire and is cared for by a fellow prisoner, the nagi Vasa. Torn between his orders...
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The day was too beautiful for the execution that was about to happen. The sun shone down onto the crowd gathered before the gallows, forming the only mark in an otherwise spotless blue sky. Its rays were warm on Xaray's pitch black wings, which jostled with every slow step he took. Heavily armed guards surrounded him, holding his chains with a deathlike grip to prevent his escape.
A deathlike grip. The thought made the young man snort, the burst of air causing a lock of black hair to be pushed aside before falling back in front of his face. He was the son of Death himself, and these mortals were about to kill him. After all he had done for them, after all the villages he had saved, the fear of the unknown had finally gotten to the humans. They loudly booed at him now, yelling at him to be prepared to die. And he was prepared.
Gloved hands pushed him up the stairs of the wooden structure. The chains barely gave him enough slack to ascend without falling. In an attempt to help retain balance, his wings flared, straining painfully against their binds. Xaray gritted his teeth to prevent making a sound. These enchanted shackles were nothing compared to some of the things he had faced. He would not grant these mortals the satisfaction.
He paused at the top of the stairs, his dark eyes settling on the horde of people. From the most well-dressed and jeweled nobles to lowly peasants barely able to hold on to the rags that they called clothing, the entire square was filled with hundreds of people, all sharing one common goal: to see him dead. Their cheers and shouts drowned out any other noise there might have been.
A rough shove from behind made Xaray stumble. The crowd roared when he almost fell, then grumbled unhappily when he found his footing again. His hands balled into fists, his fingernails digging into his palm until they drew blood. Magic sparked to life, making his skin tingle. Although weakened by the chains, the godlike power in his blood was not defeated. Before any of the mortals could notice the sparks, he swiftly willed the energy away.
They positioned him on the trapdoor in the middle of the platform, placing the noose around his neck. He watched the guards work from the corner of his eyes, noting how the sun reflected clearly on their plate armor. They must have wiped away the rust and polished their gear just for this one special occasion. More than one historian or painter was in the crowd to record his death, and the guards wanted to look good.
Xaray snorted when they drew back without unchaining him. A false sense of security on their part. He unclenched his hands and looked at the sea of people in front of him once more. Their sun-tanned faces were alight with excitement for the spectacle that was about to commence, their souls glowing brightly in the confines of their bodies, pulsing with each beat of their heart.
Icy cold rage filled his veins at the sight of their eagerness. Had he not protected them? He had been forced to give up his life for them from the moment he was born with those cursed black wings. Had he not served them like the good little son of a First Generation god he was? Were they not happy with all the sacrifices he had made so they could live a peaceful life?
