"That's all it ever was to you? A game?" He twisted his wrists trying to squeeze out of the lightweight chain that bound them. The sweat made his skin shine out in the firelight through the rips in his clothes. His face was smudged from being shoved to the ground so many times. At least the cut on his forehead had stopped dripping in his eyes.
"Didn't you care about her at all? Didn't you care about the country you supposedly represent?" Talking made his mouth hurt. He hardly had the energy to speak at all. He was a long way past caring what he looked like with blood-stained drool leaking out of the sides of his mouth. The world had gone on spinning, but it had left him floating in the dark.
"Yes. And no." McSpadden didn't look much better. There was a very small satisfaction in that: that they had been so closely matched. But McSpadden had the only gun. He really seemed more bored than triumphant. This was a man who thrived on action and drama. Now that the end seemed clear, he was ready to finish and move on.
Cardiff blinked to clear away the fuzziness creeping into his vision. He wanted these last minutes to be clearly imprinted on his soul, so that if there turned out to be a life after death after all, he could take this moment with him...and what? Make the bastard pay from beyond the grave?
He couldn't think of a way that would ever make up for the damage this man had caused, all so that he could be the self-declared shadow king. What would he do next? If you live to conquer, and you've conquered everything, what was left to give meaning to your life? Maybe that's why McSpadden kept pacing and not shooting. Maybe waiting for Cardiff to pull another rabbit out of the hat. A daring escape, a new line of attack. But Cardiff had his feet knocked out from under him in the face of the truth about this man. This monster. This old friend.
All the damage McSpadden had caused, the lives he had literally shredded--it was all and only so he could call himself the winner. And all this time, Cardiff had thought he was fighting for Truth, for Justice, so that mother's could put their children to bed without wondering if they would wake up the next morning.
He and Cardiff had worked together for years, eaten countless bad meals on the run, dragged each other to hospitals and safe houses. How many times did each trust his life to the other, and all in the service to the Queen, the land, the people? But it was all an illusion. Any good McSpadden did had been for his own benefit. Every mission had been shaped for the accumulation of secrets and contacts that would make him king.
The firelight was dying. Wraiths of smoke twisted and danced in the still air. The shadows deepened beyond the fire and seemed to take on lives of their own. Cardiff could have wept at the meaninglessness of it all. He squeezed his eyes shut until the prickling of tears faded. The shadows were deeper when he opened his eyes again. He wondered again why McSpadden didn't just shoot him now. but he knew that soon, no gun would be necessary. Cardiff gave a final tug at the chain with the last of his strength.
The wall he was leaning against fell away. He was falling, too.
The darkness erupted into a flashing cacophony.
"Funny," he thought, "I always thought it would be peaceful. After."
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You're right. This story fragment is the equivalent of a long sentence fragment. I wrote the initial draft on a camping trip a few years ago. I don't know who "her" is that McSpadden doesn't care about, I don't know what country or what world this is. I'm pretty sure that the game he's playing is "I win, so everyone else has to lose." Never could figure out where to go from here, and didn't try...it was all too dark. All I know is that Cardiff doesn't die. Complete justice will not be served--McSpadden will never comprehend that there is any error in his ways, will not feel that his treasons and betrayals are actually wrong. All that matters is what he wants. Anybody gets in his way, well they will be removed. Too bad.
But he will be stopped. Eventually. And Cardiff will be the one who does it.
He will try to stop McSpadden because of the damage he causes to people and to the realm. He will try not to fight McSpadden just because of his own anger and humiliation.
I almost wasn't going to post this. I want to actually write new stuff. And this is pretty dark and violent for me. And somehow it feels wrong to write about fictional cruelty when there is so much real cruelty around causing real people pain and grief and anguish. But what is so much fiction about? Dark stuff. Cruel stuff. And one hopes, some kind of triumph of good. Sometimes it seems, though, in real life, some evils just sort of wind down--perpetrators die, angry militants grow into conservatives who value peace because it keeps their bank accounts safer. Populaces don't attempt the suicide of rebellion, they just keep working, (those who survive the random executions, that is), and eventually, a new ruler replaces the old ruler. And maybe things get better, maybe worse. But no grand triumphs for the Right or Good. All people can do sometimes is simply survive, whether they have the heart for it or not.
I think I need a break from the news.
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