Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death

***

{Inside The Projection}

Malik stood on the edge of a spire, a crooked little thing that looked like it might collapse if he leaned too hard, and from up here, he could see everything.

Everything below... and it wasn't pretty.

The city mourned.

Oasis was black.

Every rooftop was bare, every window open. No color. No sound. Not even those annoying market chants that always found their way through, no matter how far away he was. None of that.

Just black.

Tragedy had spilled out into the streets, and each person wore the same dark cloth, making rivers of ink.

Many of them helped carry the coffins.

Wooden. Wrapped in their yellow banners. The banner of Nasir.

It was a striking contrast, an incredible one, but one that made no difference.

That color felt like a joke today. A poor fucking joke.

Nearly the entirety of their leadership was dismantled in one tragic day... By one man. One Stranger. Gold... Yellow. Faded glory. A cursed victory. A cursed guest.

Those who didn't carry coffins walked beside them, keeping step.

Right hands pressed to their heads—hard, firm, disciplined. And every so often, smack—they'd hit themselves. No rhythm or coordination, just sudden bursts of grief. Smack. Smack. Smack.

It echoed.

All the way up here, it echoed.

The city was crying with a broken voice, and every echo was just one more why being thrown into the wind.

And leading them?

Surprisingly, it wasn't Duban.

It was her.

Safira.

Malik didn't show any reaction when he saw her.

He just stood there, both hands behind his back, watching.

She was at the front. Walking slow. Black veil over her face, though wind kept blowing strands of her hair into view. The same ginger streak hiding an unfamiliar, exhausted gait.

Grief didn't look pretty on anyone, and that held true even for her.

Still, she didn't cry.

Not here. Not now. Not before them. Her people.

She just walked with her head bowed, her hands holding something close to her chest.

Malik squinted.

A ring? A sash? No—his cloak.

Or at least what remained of it after he had killed him.

The others he had an easier time killing, the Holy Relics proving a Godsend, but Nasir? Even with that advantage, killing him proved to be somewhat rough, requiring him to go all out.

It wasn't only due to his talent but also due to his Corruption.

Unlike the others, he hadn't been in direct contact with IT.

After all, he died before IT descended.

Only bits of his escaping soul were touched.

Naturally, that meant nothing in the end, as IT could take over from the smallest of sparks.

A cancer that could not be cured, only worsened as time went by, and that it did...

In any case, Malik going all out meant that, of course, barely anything of Duban's unfortunate father would remain after their fight.

And so, Safira had it clenched like it was the last thing in the world keeping her together.

Seeing that, Malik still didn't move. No. He didn't leave. He really wanted to, but didn't.

Something was keeping him here... something that he was forgetting...

To know what that was, he continued to watch as the city dragged its feet through grief.

It was hard. Incredibly so.

This... all of it hit differently.

Watching strangers mourn those they loved, adored, and revered. Hearing the wails of women twist down alleyways. Seeing a little kid punch his own head because he saw his dad do it and didn't know why, but knew he should.

It was different.

There was one old man who kept shouting Nasir's name like a prayer. Not in an angry way, nor a reverent one. He didn't know what else to do or say anymore, so he just kept going, as it was the only way to keep from crumbling.

"O Nasir! O Nasir!"

Smack.

"O Nasir!"

Smack.

And nobody told him to stop because, well, they all felt it too.

They didn't cry just for the man who tried to hold it together with burned hands and a cracked heart, they didn't cry for their uncle Jafar, or Jamal, or Farid, or Adil, or Saif, or Bahir, or Karim, or Zaid, or their loved ones lost in the battle, or the dozens of bodies being carried through the streets...

They cried for the world that could've been.

They cried for themselves.

...What does one even do when their world loses the one thing that kept standing up?

The one man who supported them with all that he could.

What was their future now?

With him gone, their eyes grew blind.

They had become lost in a world that turned darker and murkier.

To them, this mass funeral wouldn't bring closure. Not even close.

But it was... something. Perhaps a step. Sure, the direction was unknown, as was the distance, but for them, right now, anything was better than standing still, than living in a lake of their blood.

Malik scratched his cheek with his right hand.

He saw this scene as something amazing.

Not only for all the feelings it gave, and the people within it, but also for its size.

Again, the whole city was mourning, he doubted even a single citizen had not joined them.

Malik believed that if his day finally arrived, and if he ever got a funeral, it'd be empty.

Him and, like, two jackals who showed up by mistake.

So... he found it nearly impressive seeing so many people mourning one man.

People he'd never even met, all dressed in black, crying their commander's name.

Waves of grief pulled and swayed with every step, every chant, every smack of a hand against a head. They carried grief like it was just another part of their body. Something permanent. A sixth finger or a third lung.

Malik knew that feeling well.

He'd argue that there was no one more familiar with it under the Shams above.

A big part of him hurt all the time, but he still kept moving because that was the only thing he could do.

His eyes drifted lazily across the crowd again...

"Ah."

And then stopped.

A mother.

Two kids.

He knew them.

He knew them.

It finally hit him.

This was what had been poking at the back of his skull this whole time.

It wasn't guilt.

It wasn't even grief.

It was the stupid, simple fact that he still felt like he owed them something.

Perhaps a future... Or a chance for a future. Any future.

He now knew what to do.

...

Malik moved through tents, reaching a place deep in what he once called his base.

He didn't run or sneak; he just walked like he'd done it a hundred times before.

Because, well, he had.

Nasir had shown him a little obvious secret in this place before his first blink.

Back before tragedy took its time, when IT had yet to descend.

A week ago. A God's time ago. Same thing.

And now here he was.

Deep inside the base—the war tent.

The one they decked out in all manner of decorations.

The one they used to intimidate, and what power it had, huh?

Malik entered, walked past the war table, and reached the back corner.

There, under a leaning metal lantern with a bent handle, was a chest covered by a cloth.

Instead of bothering to look for a key, his fist just pierced through it, crumbling it open.

Pulling the cover away, he didn't even need to dig around.

He knew what he had come for.

It was there, waiting for him.

A cloth-wrapped bundle sealed with Nasir Al-Sultan's crest. Tucked within were twenty-four gold coins. Coin that was indebted to him all that time ago. Gold that had placed a price on his unimaginable suffering. A damn cheap price.

Malik looked at it for a while, then strapped it to his belt.

He didn't say anything after that; he just nodded once, thanking the owner.

Covering the chest with the cloth, he walked out into the light.

It was time to kill the only feeling that remained.