Stone of Tears

He pictured Kahlan’s face in his mind. He would have conquered the world to see her smile at him. To bask in the warmth of her love. Richard studied her face in his mind. He pictured her green eyes, her long hair. Her beautiful hair.

At that thought, he remembered the lock of her hair she had put in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at it in the moonlight. It was a circle she had pulled together and tied in the middle with the ribbon from her wedding dress, so that it reminded him of a figure eight turned sideways, as he held it in his fingers. Turned sideways like that, it was also the symbol for infinity.

Richard rolled the lock of hair between his finger and thumb, watching it as it spun. Kahlan had given it to him to remember her by. Something to remember her by. Because he would never see her again. Racking grief choked his breathing.

He gripped the Agiel as hard as he could, until his fist shook with the effort. The pain from the Agiel, and his heartache, twisted together into burning agony. He let it distort his perception until he could stand it no longer, and then he let it go on longer yet, let it go on until he collapsed to the base of the dirt mound, barely conscious.

He gasped for air. The pain had swept all the thoughts from his mind. If only for a few minutes, his mind had been free of the anguish. He lay on the ground a long time, recovering.

When he was finally able to sit up once more, he found the lock of hair still in his hand. He stared at it in the moonlight, remembering what Sister Verna had said to him, that he had told the Bantak a lie. A filthy lie. Those had been Kahlan’s words. She had said that his love for her was a “filthy lie.” Those words hurt more than the Agiel.

“It’s not a lie,” he whispered. “I would do anything for you, Kahlan.”

But it wasn’t good enough. Putting on the collar wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t good enough. Son of a monster. He knew what she wanted. What she really wanted. She wanted to be free of him.

She wanted him to put on the collar so he would be taken away. So she would be free. “I would do anything for you, Kahlan,” he cried. He stood up and looked out over the empty grassland. The dark horizon wavered in a watery blur. Anything. Even this. I set you free, my love.” Richard threw the lock of Kahlan’s hair as far as he could out into the night.

He sank to his knees and fell face-first to the ground, sobbing. He cried until he could cry no more. He continued to lie on the cold ground, groaning in agony until he realized he was gripping the Agiel again. He let it go and at last sat up, flopping back in exhaustion against the dirt mound. It was over, finished. He felt empty. Dead. After a time he rose to his feet. He stood a moment, and then slowly drew the Sword of Truth.

Its ring was a soft song in the cold air. The anger came out with the steel, and he let it fill the void in him, rage freely through him. He welcomed the anger into himself, letting it fill him until he was submerged in its wrath. His chest heaved with lethal need.

His eyes glided to where the Sister lay sleeping. He could see the dark hump of her body as he approached silently. He was a woods guide; he knew how to stalk silently. He was good at it.

His eyes carefully watched the ground as he moved fluidly, watched the sleeping form of Sister Verna as he closed the distance. He didn’t hurry. There was no need to hurry. He had as much time as he needed. He tried to slow his breathing to keep from making noise. He was nearly panting with all-consuming fury.

The thought of wearing a collar again fed the raging fire within him, fueled the inferno.

Rage from the sword’s magic seared through him like molten metal. Richard recognized the feeling all too well, and gave himself over to it. He was beyond reason, beyond being stopped. Nothing short of blood would now satisfy the bringer of death.

His knuckles were white on the hilt. His muscles knotted with restrained need aching to be set free. But they wouldn’t be restrained for long. The magic of the Sword of Truth screamed to do his bidding.

Richard stood, a silent shadow, over Sister Verna, looking down at her. The fury pounded in his head. He drew the sword along the inside of his forearm, wiping both sides in the blood, giving the steel a taste of it. The dark stain ran down the fuller, dripping from the tip. It ran wet and warm down his arm. His chest heaved as he gripped the hilt in both hands again.

He felt the weight of the collar around his neck; the blade rose, glinting in the moonlight.

He watched the sleeping Sister at his feet. She was drawn up almost into a ball. She was cold, and she shivered as she slept.

He stood with the blade raised, watching her as he gritted his teeth and shook with raging need. Kahlan didn’t want him. Son of a monster.

No. Just monster. He saw himself standing over the sleeping woman, his sword in the air, ready to kill.

He was the monster.