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Zhareth’s mind snapped back into reality, sensing something wrong on the breeze. It was an odd thing that he noticed the trouble on the breeze, more because the window had been shut before he lost consciousness. A pang of worry at not waking up when someone had entered his quarters nibbled on the corners of his mind like a duchess on a sharp cheese.

However, there was the matter of why he awoke in the first place. It was not the sickness that sent him to the darkness, nor was it any other ailment of his body. There was something else, outside of him, further than where he was. Something was happening outside the house.

The small matter of where the problem was occurring was solved in the half-second it took him to rise, and slide the baldric for his longsword on his back. Securing the blade in its sheath captured two more of his precious seconds, and by then, he was out of the door.

He was not rushing, per say, to the trouble; he was just moving at a speed that bordered on that of light. Most likely, the cause of the upstart was related to him, and Zhareth was not fond of rightfully being blamed for something, even more so if it involved the burying of people. Just the sight of a shovel sent him in a melancholy mood.

He passed the daughter of the household, Kriesta he believed she was named, without much of ado; he barely had time to nod his acknowledgement before a shout of fear buzzed in his ear. Before Kriesta could gasp in surprise, he was out of the kitchen, courtesy of the back door.

Zhareth’s calloused hand met the hilt of the weapon on his back as he sprinted around the house. The weapon was half out of its sheath, readied to be drawn completely, by the time that Zhareth realized he had no need for it.

The scene before his eyes would not be comical to anyone but him, as he knew one tidbit of information that would have changed the horrified looks on every other face. A large, silver-white stallion, a warhorse to be exact, was biting, kicking, and thoroughly attacking a group of men, who were trying to tie a rope on the peculiar saddle on its back. They obviously were attempting to lead the horse back to the town, most likely to be sold, but it was not cooperating.

Zhareth’s lips curved at the corners of his mouth, giving him an odd, half-smile that seemed to mock those around him. He did not intentionally scorn them, but the situation was not funny enough to warrant a laugh.

One of the panicked men finally noticed Zhareth lounging by the side of the house. He seemed vaguely harassed, and by the mismatched cotton attire he wore, he was obviously a countryman who had seen better times. No wonder he was now attempting to rope a deadly warhorse that could easily kill him; he needed the money. His companions sported the same garb and expressions, and before the man could even ask for help, Zhareth found himself crossing the distance between them.

“Thanks,” the man managed between gasps, barely dodging a lethal kick in time, “we just need to get this demon roped!” Of course, a few curse words and gasps invaded in between every other word, but Zhareth understood the man’s plight. He was being assaulted.

All six of the men cursed and retreated a few steps when the large horse whinnied, and launched its front into the air, rearing. Without trepidation, Zhareth walked straight toward the thrashing hooves, raising his hand in the air and snapping.

As if a switch had been turned off, the horse’s hooves thumped to the ground, narrowly missing the front of Zhareth’s body. With a small snort, the horse lowered its head and stared straight into Zhareth’s vibrant eyes.

This horse was an intelligent creature; it held knowledge and a faint hint of wisdom in its sapphire orbs. Zhareth let loose a true smile, leaning forward to rest his head in the beast’s wiry shoulders. The horse snorted derisively, taking a step backward, in which Zhareth stumbled forward. The stallion shook his head, mocking that little movement.

“Nice to see you too Roh,” Zhareth mumbled under his breath, lightly smacking the horse on its head. Roh rolled his blue eyes backwards, stamping his hoof for emphasis.

Realizing that his horse had not had its saddle taken off in over two days, Zhareth’s eyes widened in surprise. Quickly and efficiently he removed his saddlebags, and finally began taking off the horse’s saddle.

“How did you do that?” One of the men asked, eyes wide. His arms were battered, and his left even bore a bloody mark of a horse bite. “Is he yours?” At Zhareth’s small nod, he blanched. “I’m sorry that we tried to take him; it’s just that we needed the money and he’s a fine horse and we thought that…well, I’m sorry that we tried to take him.”

The other men started grumbling under their breath, with most of the agitation about working for no pay, just for a stupid brat to get his stallion back. At that, the horse nickered a bit, nudging Zhareth between his shoulder blades.

Zhareth stumbled forward another step, turning his head backwards to glare at his horse, who was regarding him with firm eyes. Roh was intelligent, and was a special type of horse, one that could read the intent of its rider, or one who wished to ride them. Only one compatible would be allowed to ride, and anyone that failed that test would be promptly disposed of. Since all six men were only battered, Zhareth knew they were a good sort, and he should probably help them out.

“My horse is such a bully,” he muttered to himself, bending down to rummage through his saddlebags, pulling out a few bags. He weighed a small pouch in his hand, a jingle escaping every time it bounced. He pulled at the drawstrings, checking the contents of the package. He rose with a small sigh, spilling a few bronze coins on to his palm.

“Reward?” He spoke simply, gesturing toward the men, showing the money in his palm. He still couldn’t speak more than a few words, else he labeled as an outsider. That he did not want.

Five men turned to regard him hungrily, eyes shining with greed. The one that had asked him for help, however, shook his head. “We can’t accept money for doing a good deed, especially one that would cost that much. Don’t worry about it.”

Zhareth blinked, utterly surprised. Without thought, he jangled his money pouch again, more coins landing on his palm. “Gift.” He said firmly, sticking his hand out again, a solemn look in his eyes.

The speaker paused, slowly stepping forward. “If it is a gift, I must accept, as to honor you and such. To do less would be a crime against you and my family.” Slowly, with wide eyes, the man accepted the dozen or so coins Zhareth handed him. “Thank you kindly for your generosity, my Lord.”

At the title, Zhareth flinched as if struck.

"Not Lord," he stated firmly, closing his money pouch with a derisive flick of his wrist. The half-truth struck him firmly in the stomach, causing him to lose his wind. He breathed heavily, struggling for air before composing himself as quickly as he could. The men glanced at him, odd expressions on their faces, but none said a word, too delighted with their "gift" to give any reason to take it away.

"Well nonetheless, thank you, kind sir. This blessing of yours will feed my family for well over a month, and with fine food besides!" The leader of the group continued earnestly, brown eyes shining with ecstatic glee. They bowed firmly, despite Zhareth's fierce signal not to, and then quickly scampered off, dashing away as if the hounds of hell themselves were at their heels.

Zhareth froze, the man's last words echoing in his heart, the mind-boggling prospect of starving children blazing in his mind. Surely the taint had not gotten that far; surely there was some way to keep the plague at bay...

Of course there is, the nasty, little voice in his head replied, weaseling its way into his thoughts. You’d just have to will it, and command it to stop spreading, but no, poor Zhareth is too afraid of the consequences, isn’t he? Are you afraid the land will swallow you up, casting you back into the darkness?

An electric current shot its way through his bloodstream, causing Zhareth to shiver automatically. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, but did not rise. A mere mention of the evil he commanded would not cause it to wake, at least not unless it was too strong...but Zhareth could overpower the weakness inside him without thought, just with need.

You think you can stop it? Could you stop breathing? For a few moments, yes, but then your body will cry out for release, and then you shall summon your internal demon.

The voice was growing louder, needling its way into his core. He would not listen to it, nor heed its words. It was just his fears speaking, and he would not listen to them!

Would you take heed if it was to save your life? No, your life isn’t worth much to you, is it? You’d kill yourself, but you don’t have the strength, and none have yet bested you in combat. A hero’s death you want, I’ll wager, but it will not be easy in coming.

But would you will the use of your power to save another? Would you refuse the people’s offers of help? Are you that heartless and cruel? Are you that afraid?

Yes, he was frightened, scared to the bone. In nightmares, his darkest secrets, his deepest wishes, came to light, showing Zhareth the true man he was, and what monster he could become. If only he hadn’t been the son of his father, and if only the true blood did not run through his veins...

Wishes are useless, for they shall do nothing but hide you from the truth. You value the truth, for you are the Truth-seeker, the one who abhors lies so much that his body physically rejects them. You are the true heir, the one whose blood rules the land. You could be the light in the darkness, if the darkness does not consume you first. You flee from your duty, betraying all those before you, and those who are to come. How can you fight what you hate, if the cause of your hate stems from yourself?

Zhareth's mind was whirling, sending off sparks in his vision. Minutes ago the scene in front of him, the men watching him joyfully, had disappeared, leaving him only with darkened shadows of a fading mind. He had not truly noticed until now, for he was focusing on what was, trying to ignore the words that his own mind were creating. His emotions danced around him as his memories taunted him, reminding him of who he was, and what he had done...