//------------------------------// // Salvation and Dammnation // Story: Guardian // by Thule117 //------------------------------// It had taken a long time for the crying to stop. The sobs of grief and sorrow echoing unceasingly around the clearing for what seemed an age. The atmosphere of misery offered a stark contrast to the placid, sunlit field full of flowers, in the center of a lush woodland. Indeed, the surroundings had been entirely forgotten amidst the broken hearted cries of the small crowd therein. In truth though, given what those present had just witnessed, the reaction could hardly be called surprising. It was not every day one witnessed the extinction of an entire world, even if only by proxy. Derran, despite having experienced it more intensely than any other present, had stoically done his best to comfort his distraught audience. Whom, at the conclusion of the horrifying tale, had gathered around him, hugging him tightly as they wept bitter tears of sympathetic sadness, anger, and regret. Even so, and despite Derran's best efforts, it was nearly an hour before anypony was able to speak so much as a single word. At last however, the tears dried up, and one by one the ponies released their hold on Derran, trying their best to make themselves presentable. All, save for a single mare. . . Twilight Sparkle, was unable to bring herself to part from Derran. With her head resting against his armored chest, she kept her forehooves locked tightly around his torso. Clinging to him, as a sailor in a hurricane clings to a life vest. Twilight knew there was nothing she could do to change the terrible past she had seen. She could not unwrite the horrifying history that she had witnessed, nor could she resurrect those who had been lost. Yet, at that moment, more than anything, Twilight wished she actually was the divine being Derran believed her to be. Desiring with all her heart the power to simply wave her hoof, and make everything alright. But that. . . was impossible. She was not a goddess, no all-powerful child of a benevolent creator deity, and no magic she possessed could undo what was indelibly etched in the stone of the past. So she held herself to Derran, as if hoping that by some miracle, she might be able to at least extract the pain he no doubt still held within, through her embrace alone. A foolish idea, yet it was all she had. As she tightened her grip, and clenched her tear-stained eyes shut. "I'm sorry. . ." She kept repeating, her voice a nearly inaudible whisper, that was nonetheless filled with pain. "I'm so sorry. . ." Then, as still more fresh tears began to spill from her tightly closed eyes, she felt an armored hand place itself gently atop her head, and heard a soothing voice filled with sympathy and understanding. "You have nothing to be sorry for Twilight. Now please. . . raise your head." Derran declared softly, his use of her name serving to reinforce the conviction and love in his words. Twilight wiped her nose on the back of her hoof, cleaning herself up as best she could. Raising her head to look at the stallion she loved, as she partially loosened her grip on him. Derran gazed down at Twilight with a loving expression, brushing her cheek with his fingertips, to gently direct her gaze until his icy blue eyes, met her sunset purple ones. "You have nothing to be sorry for." He reiterated, a bit more sternly, though his expression was filled with nothing but kindness and sympathy. Unable to look away, Twilight instantly felt warmth and comfort suffuse her being. As she finally released her hold on Derran. As Twilight moved to stand with the rest of her friends and family, Derran rose to look at them all. Many were still struggling to wipe the tears from their eyes as he straightened to his full height. The misty translucent tendrils of the proiectura anima spell, still connected to his head like a strange ethereal crown, as he stood in silence, patiently waiting for their next reaction. Finally, once their grief had subsided fully, those present recalled the innumerable questions they had for Derran. Yet, even after their last tears had fallen, and with only the sound of the gentle breeze moving through the trees, and the songs of birds filling the air, they found themselves still unable to speak. None of them could even imagine where to start, let alone how to begin. The silence dragged on for a full minute. Then, finally, Shining Armor spoke. "How?" He began softly, his voice trembling with anger. "How could your king do something so. . . unspeakable?!" Derran shook his head. "I never learned that for certain, but what evidence I was able to uncover, suggested he wanted an army. Kemed was a small nation, and the king's ambition was as unquenchable as his arrogance. He desired an empire, but the Kemedian military was neither numerous enough, nor powerful enough, to create one. The demons of Hell were an ideal solution as the king saw it. They required no pay, rest, or lodging, would never disobey those they served, and had numbers and might great enough to conquer the entire planet if so desired. . . so the king attempted to treat with them. Offering the souls of a few of his subjects in exchange for the unstoppable army he desired. The fool learned too late, that Hell's price was far greater than the paltry handful of souls he had parted with." Derran explained, his voice filled with bitterness and anger. "But. . . it sounded like your pony-er people didn't even believe demons existed. How would he have known how to contact them?" Shining inquired. Derran shook his head. "It was no doubt very difficult. Rumors existed of certain exceedingly rare grimoires that held spells capable of allowing contracts with demons. However few, if any, had ever so much as heard of them. And fewer still would be mad enough to seek them out." He stated. "Almost no one on our world believed demons and Hell to be anything other than myth, an allegory for the evils of men. . . we were wrong." "So your king knew these creatures were real, knew how dangerous they were, and tried to make a deal with them anyway?!" Cadence asked, her voice filled with an indignant fury at the idea of something so stupid and selfish. Derran nodded. "Men are easily led astray by offers of power. Within us all is the potential for great and terrible evil. . . it is why the Light created the Seraphim. 'Absent the voice of light, man shall heed the call of darkness.'" He quoted from one of the holy books the church he attended had kept. Twilight shook her head as she looked at Derran. "But. . . you're not evil." She declared. "Aren't you living proof that humans have good in them too?" At that question Derran gave a long pause, as he turned to Twilight with a look of sadness. "I am afraid my lady. . . that I am the opposite." Taking a deep breath, Derran let it out slowly as he finished. "I. . . am the greatest proof there is of man's impurity." Twilight almost laughed at that. "What are you talking about? You're the kindest gentlest stallion I've ever met." She declared. Derran shook his head. "Only as long as you and the other Seraphim are here." He lamented, sadness in his eyes. "That's ridiculous! Name one time you only did the right thing because I was there." Twilight demanded, everypony around her nodding their agreement. "When we first met, I would have doubtlessly killed that dragon Stormfang for his disrespect, likely causing a war, if not for your words." Derran explained solemnly. Twilight still shook her head. "He was a jerk, you got angry, it happens." Twilight stated firmly. "I tried to murder The Chaos-. . . that is, Discord in front of lady Fluttershy, only your word stayed my hand." Derran countered, ignoring the faint flare of anger that accompanied mention of the mystical trickster. "You didn't know he had changed! You were just acting to protect us, like you always do!" Twilight argued. Trying not to sound uncertain, as she recalled the shift in the color of Derran's eyes, and the faint aura of intimidation he sometimes seemed to have. Derran sighed. "Milady. . . you are neither a fool, nor are you blind. I know you all saw him." He said, a note of accusation in his voice, as his expression darkened. "Saw who? What do you-" Suddenly Twilight stopped dead, as she recalled the last few scenes of Derran's memory, and a dark unnameable worry entered her mind. "Derran. . ." She began, hesitating, as if wondering if she wanted to know the answer to the question she was about to pose. "Who. . . who were you talking to at the end of that fight?" She asked, hesitating for an instant, as she again wondered if she really wanted to hear the explanation. In response, Derran looked into the eyes of all those present, as if judging whether they could handle what he was about to say. "He has been with me ever since the death of my family." Derran began, speaking in a far away tone. "I know not where he originated from, nor why he came to rest within me. I only know that he is everything in myself that I wish was no more." Here Derran clenched his fists, his body trembling in anger as he continued. "He allowed me to survive the horrors of Hell, and fight back against the demons as I never could have on my own. But in exchange. . ." Here Derran seemed to struggle not to explode, his voice shaking slightly, as his eyes became like steel. "He stripped me of my hope, my compassion, my empathy, my very humanity. . . and turned me into a monster little different from those I killed!" Taking a deep breath, Derran managed to calm himself slightly, his body ceasing to shake as his fists unclenched. "Not long after he first spoke to me, I dubbed him 'The Beast' for his aggression and savagery. But over time, the Demons themselves gave him, and by extension me, the name he is known by now. . . a name you already know quite well. . . Doom Slayer." Derran's audience stared at him in disbelief. "Wait. . . what exactly are you trying to say?" Shining Armor asked, feeling a sense of frightened bewilderment. Derran took a deep breath before replying. "Though I may have but a single body, within it lie two souls. One is tarnished, but the other. . . is pitch black." All save Celestia and Luna stared at Derran in shock as he continued. "Every day, I act as the warden to a prisoner whom resides within my own mind. Ever have I sought to distance myself from all he represents, through strict adherence to my duty. To the point that, until recently, I all but erased many of my passions and memories. Yet. . . to my shame, his aid still outweighs the virtues of destroying him, and so he remains. . . as a necessary evil." He explained, his voice slightly strained. For a moment. . . nopony said a word, simply staring at Derran with expressions ranging from stunned, to disbelieving. Before anypony could ask more questions however, Celestia cleared her throat, and spoke. "Perhaps before we get into all that, we should show them the rest of the story?" She suggested. Derran, seeming relieved not to have to discuss the matter further, swiftly turned and nodded his agreement to her. "Indeed my lady, perhaps now is not yet the time for questions. The picture is not yet complete, and I suspect many of their more burning inquiries might yet be put to rest once they see the entirety of my tale." Here, Derran walked back to the foot of the great stone disc at the center of the clearing, before turning back to look at his audience. "The next part of the story takes place about a day after I departed from my home. To a meeting which would change the course of my life once more, and begin the formation of a power, that to this day, the legions of Hell curse and fear. Amid the blood and hate. . . amid the horror and sorrow. I encountered a man who became the purest and mightiest of those whom I would eventually call, brother. As is the case of many heroes, he came from humble beginnings, humble, and, like all of my brothers, drenched in blood. . ." So saying, Derran once more shut his eyes, and the misty cloud above his head shifted and swirled, as the story continued. "HOLD THEM BACK!!" Screamed the captain of the 108th Kemedian Ether Guard, his voice a mix of controlled revulsion and determination, as he fired his sidearm into a crowd of slavering abominations. At his side, Sergeant Michael Santius, shook with barely controlled fear, as he struggled to rally the men to comply. Currently occupying the interior of a once beautiful high walled fountain, the two-dozen or so men with him, gamely attempted to follow orders. Firing their weapons into the enemy, despite being knee deep in liquid that was now as much blood as it was water. Surrounding the fountain were nearly six dozen snarling brown and purple skinned monsters, as well as scores of walking corpses. The monstrous brown humanoids were keeping the men securely pinned, hurling orbs of blazing fire at the soldiers as they crouched against the three foot high stone border of the water feature. The flaming orbs exploding against stone and armor, as the monsters danced over a carpet of half melted human corpses, nimbly dodging most of the humans return fire, even as a number of shambling zombies were blown away. Chittering and screaming, several of the flame throwing monsters were also slain in the hail of blazing energy bolts, and micro-plasma shots. Their bodies falling to the ground either bored through by finger sized glowing holes, or with large chunks of flesh blown off their bodies in puffs of red mist and powdered bone. Yet, between the shaking hands of the soldiers, the constant jinking dodges of the monsters themselves, and the seemingly numberless undead supporting them, the few that were killed could be likened to a single drop of water, in an ocean of oil. Michael Struggled to process what was happening, as another of the men fell screaming into the crimson liquid they crouched in, half his face burned down to blackened bone by unholy fire. It had initially begun as another uneventful day for Michael. Roused at dawn to accompany another pointless and dull zero-risk patrol on the outskirts of the capitol, he had returned to the barracks at around noon. Lamenting his boredom, and wishing for the millionth time he had been born the son of a baker. He had been heading for the officers mess, when all hell broke loose. Knocked unconscious by an agony he couldn't even begin to quantify. He had reawakened to the sounds of a brutal close quarters firefight, as half the garrison now frantically battled for their lives against the other half. Their deceased former comrades, slain by the agonizing wave of energy, now changed into some sort of monstrous undead warrior. The unfortunates very flesh now fused to the weapons and armor they had carried in life. Linking up with Captain Tallarn of the 108th Ether, Michael and nearly nine hundred others, had joined together and fought their way through the burning city streets. Trying to save who they could along the way, their numbers had been rapidly whittled down to the twenty or so men now crowding the interior of the fountain. They had originally been trying to exit the city using the shortest route, via the main highway. But the enemy had been so thick, and the road so clogged with the wreckage of vehicles, that they were forced to take a detour, through a nearby market plaza. They had been nearly eight hundred by that point, not counting civilians, but were ambushed by a group of several dozen massive floating orbs that seemed to be all mouth. They had spit some kind of plasma that could disintegrate a man in only a shot or two. Unable to find sufficient cover in the open space of the plaza, the 108th was forced to scatter or be strafed into oblivion. Though not before the few officers they had remaining, arranged to meet at a rally point just outside the city. Captain Tallarn had done his best to keep the fifty soldiers and twenty civilians he had ended up with moving, but every step was dogged by hordes of undead, and even less holy monstrosities. The worst, had been when a group of about seven hulking black scaled monsters, with bone plates for faces, had barreled into them from a nearby alley. Unable to react in time, five men were torn limb from limb in the space of a few seconds, and the civilians scattered in panic. Unable to risk the men he had corralling the civilians, Captain Tallarn made the gut wrenching choice to leave the noncombatants behind, and ordered a fighting retreat to the center of a nearby park. There in the park, filled with burning trees and ash, they made their stand, somehow managing to kill all of the black skinned behemoths. Only to find that during the frantic chaos of the skirmish, they had been surrounded. Nearly a hundred of the brown skinned horrors, backed up by twice that number of shuffling undead, swarmed out of the alleys and streets to envelop their small force. The forty or so remaining members of the 108th had fought valiantly. Taking position at the fountain, they had kept fighting till they had used almost all their remaining ammunition. Kemedian magetech power clips were good for hundreds of shots each before needing to be swapped out, and each soldier carried about ten as standard. It said a lot, that even after expending all that firepower, the end was still fast approaching. As another of Michael's subordinates fell, his body cooked inside his own armor, there was a brief lull in the fighting, as the two sides re-positioned slightly. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, and Michael felt oddly contemplative. As fireballs and bolts of energy flew through the air in opposite directions, he found himself reviewing the events in his life that had led him to this moment. An odd sense of displacement, insulating him from the chaos around him for a time. Even as his body continued to fight, and parrot Captain Tallarn's orders to the men. Born as a son of lesser Kemedian nobility, Michael had originally wanted to be a writer. However, his father, grooming him for his future as head of the family, sent him off to the military. Hoping that spending time as an officer in the army would toughen him up, and boost his standing in the eyes of the political elite. It had been a paid commission. Like all nobles, Michael's training had been mostly superficial, and at the end of it, he was made a sergeant automatically, with the expectation that he would soon be promoted to first lieutenant, and eventually colonel, through no real effort on his part. Michael had hated it. He had hated the idea of having to be what his family commanded, he hated the idea that fighting, or ordering others to fight, was somehow seen as noble and respectable, and most of all, he hated that men would salute him, without him having to have done a single thing to warrant the gesture. Now, as he tried futily to help the men he was supposed to command, Michael could feel tears of frustration running down his face, at how utterly useless he was. He had no insight into their situation, nor hope of getting the men relying on him out of it. He was unable to devise strategies on his own, and if Captain Tallarn had not been there, he would not have even known what orders to give. Even the act of firing his gun was foreign to him, as he had only used the garishly over-ornamented heirloom pistol, a few times on a firing range. In fact, the only weapon he had ever been any good with, was his sword, fencing being something of a hobby of his. Yet, even that could do no good here, where the only hope any of them had, was to keep the enemy at a distance. Now, as good men died around him, Michael found himself completely unable to help. Save by wasting ammunition firing vaguely toward the enemy, in vain hope of actually hitting something, despite his horrific marksmanship. Suddenly, Michael found himself violently pulled from his thoughts, by a helmeted soldier beside him shaking him by the shoulder. "Sir! Orders sir!?" He shouted above the din of battle. For a moment, Michael was unable to reply. "Just follow the Captain's-" The soldier interrupted him before he could complete the thought. "Captain's dead sir! You're in command!" Michael turned to glance at Tallarn, to find to his mute horror, that it was true. A lucky shot by one of the leaping brown skinned monsters, had turned the captain's head into a lumpen mass of charred and molten flesh. His body lying where it fell in the dark red water. Michael struggled to think for a moment, before out of desperation, reciting the lines of the field manual verbatim. "Activate shield gauntlets to establish a mobile-" Again the soldier interrupted. "All shield gauntlets are burned out sir! Have been since the initial attack! Now we need a choice! Between trying to break out or-" Michael never found out what the second option was, as both he, and the soldier speaking to him, were bowled over by the sudden appearance of one of the floating, cyclops flesh spheres. Falling to the ground, Michael struck his head against the lip of the fountain, his vision swam, and the smell of iron assailed him, as the bloody fountain water splashed over his body, staining his armor scarlet. Time seemed to slow once more, as Michael saw the soldier he had been talking to, bitten in half by the floating abomination. Its massive toothy maw closed over the man's head, shoulders, and upper torso, all at once, his muffled screams echoing above the cacophony of battle. Biting through armor, flesh, and bone, with a sickening, crunching slurp, the hovering one eyed beast tilted its body back, swallowing with obvious relish, as blood and viscera dripped from its snapping maw. After that, Michael watched, as the end of the 108th Ether Guard, played out around him. With the enemy now inside their line, bereft of competent leadership, and completely surrounded, cohesion disintegrated. Some men drew their swords and turned to hack at the flesh orb monster, bringing it down in a flurry of steel, only to be struck in the back by a lethal fusillade of fireballs. Others jumped over the lip of the fountain and attempted to break through the enemy, running full steam ahead while firing their weapons on full automatic. But without backup, they were swiftly isolated and torn apart by a veritable avalanche of claws and teeth. A few kept fighting along the edge of the fountain, bracing their weapons on the lip, and desperately trying to maintain the perimeter with precise burst fire. But their numbers were now too few, and they could not plug the gaps. The gibbering fire conjurors and undead ran in for the kill, overwhelming what overwatch fire could be brought to bare with sheer numbers. As the screams of dying men filled his ears, Michael managed to pull himself up using the fountain wall, hooking an arm over it, and propping himself up, to survey the abominable scene. The four or five men who remained in the fountain had drawn their swords, and were each fighting desperate solitary battles against the hoard. One by one however, they succumbed, dragged down and ripped apart, as they screamed curses, or pleas for aid. Till at last. . . only Michael remained. This, Michael knew. . . was the end. Of him, of Kemed, possibly of the entire world. . . as the creatures not devouring his comrades paused, seeming to smile as they sized up the lone remaining survivor. Michael considered rising, but what would have been the point? There was no hope, the city, and for all he knew the entire world, was doomed. Hope had fled, and no reason remained to struggle. As the monsters gathered around him, Michael shook his head, perhaps death. . . was the only true hope that remained? But then. . . then, he heard it. A roar of fury, followed by an explosion, and the screams of dying monsters. Unsure what to think, Michael raised his head, and in that moment, saw something that filled his heart with awe. An angel. . . an angel with wings of smoke and flame, struck down the horrors surrounding him with a sword of holy light, and a hand of destroying fire. The angel was covered in its enemies blood, and wore armor of dark green that was scorched black in places, with a helm that obscured its face completely. Charging forward with all the fury of the heavens, the entity layed about savagely with its sword, reducing monsters to ash in groups of three or four at a time. Raising its left hand, the dark armored angel blew apart more distant horrors with balls of coruscating energy. Obliterating the vile beasts by the score, in fountains of red rain, and pulverized flesh. Never slowing for so much as a moment, the angel dodged blasts of fire and outstretched claws, before delivering brutal counter blows that descended like the wrath of the Seraphim themselves! Never pausing, the angel dodged, rolled, and parried all attempts to kill him, summoning a barely visible shield with his blazing sword to block what monsters and projectiles he could not evade. On the occasions he did get hit, the angel brushed off the wounds as if they were nothing, as if its almighty body was immune to a concept as inconsequential as pain. Michael watched, mesmerized by the sight of this angelic beast's rampage. The battle culminated with him raising his burning sword to the sky. Monsters surrounded him on all sides, crawling over the mounded corpses of their fellows, they latched onto the legs and arms of the angel, in futile hope of staving off their coming end. As with a scream of ultimate fury, the angel brought his sword down on the mob surrounding him, in a flash of blinding golden light. Blinking away afterimages from his vision, Michael gasped. There the angel stood, alone, his weapons at his sides. Of the hoard of monsters that had surrounded him, there was no sign, save piles of smoldering ash. . . Michael could hardly believe it, within minutes, the force that had slain over forty of the best and strongest soldiers of Kemed, lay dead at the hands of this single holy avenger. Then, suddenly, and to Michael's shock, the seemingly invincible angel, fell to one knee. His armor was deeply scored with claw marks, and he leaned heavily on his no longer glowing sword, but nevertheless, the angel lived. As the dust settled, Michael's body working to purge the adrenaline of battle, and his vision clearing as he recovered from striking his head on the fountain, he realized an astonishing truth. What he saw before him, was neither an agent of the Light's holy protection, a destroyer god of old, nor any other form of divine being. What he saw there, heaving with exertion, singed by blasts of mystical fire, and covered in blood and ichore. . . was a man. In one hand, the man held the sword that had, moments ago, been wreathed in golden light, and in the other, he held a Dragonstar Mrk-3 Plasma Cannon. A man portable anti-vehicle weapon popular with Kemed's military. He wore an outdated suit of Mega Armor, one of the most robust and powerful models of armor ever made, and due to their cost, only issued these days to special operations teams heading into hostile territory. He may not have been an angel, but this man was clearly no ordinary individual. And as the man rose from his crouch to approach him, Michael found his sense of awe had not diminished in the slightest. Then, the armored being spoke, in a voice that seemed like the sound of distant thunder. "So. . . you are alive after all." +++++++ Derran stared down at the young man, his unfeeling expression hidden behind his helm. The man looked to be in his twenties, and wore a dirty and bloodstained suit of ceremonial officer's armor, gilded in gold and silver. He was about six feet in height, and had long, flowing, pale blond hair, resembling spun white gold. His face was sharply angled, but soft in a way that made him seem almost effeminate, that, plus his two wide bright green eyes, combined to make him look more beautiful, than traditionally handsome. Derran's gaze narrowed as he saw the familial crest carefully inscribed on the man's gaudy breastplate in gold. "What is a member of the Santius family doing in an officers uniform?" He demanded. Derran's father had long ago insured his son had memorized nearly every facet of Kemedian noble life. This included the names, recent history, and symbology of every noble family of note. The Santius family were mostly merchants, not remotely as old or respected as the Grandel family, though very nearly as wealthy. Even so, among the Kemedian elite, they were considered by most to be minor nobility in every sense of the word, given their lineage only went back a few generations. Derran had once, long ago, been introduced to the current patriarch of the Santius family, and his three year old son, at a party his father had dragged him too. The memory had faded slightly, having occurred a little under two decades ago, but Derran vaguely recalled the son as having been a blond haired child, with eyes of bright green. "You know my family?" Asked the young man in shock, his eyes wide with wonder as he stared at Derran. "Barely, but yes." Derran responded. "Merchants and traders, they never seemed overly concerned with military matters." The young man's face fell at Derran's assertion. "Indeed, it was my father's idea. . ." He responded with a pained smile, the young man had a gentle, almost melodious voice, that seemed better suited to a choir than the military. "I am afraid I make for a poor soldier." Derran shook his head. So that was it. Another scion of a noble house, shoved into the military as an officer in hopes it would increase their recognition. The practice was far from uncommon, and was one of the reasons Derran had originally enlisted under a fake last name. Nobility in the military were always given cushy positions, and were considered soldiers in name only. When Derran had joined, he was determined to get the real experience, 3-5am wake-ups, relentless drills, twenty plus mile runs in full combat gear. It wasn't until after his training, and a year into being assigned to his unit, that they found out who he really was. Even then, he had opted to stick with his unit as just another grunt, and they continued to treat him as just another fellow soldier, which was exactly how he liked it. However, looking down at this young man, barely into his twenty's, Derran could tell his experience had been quite different. He had clearly only been given superficial training, as evidenced by the fact that he wore armor and, with the exception of his sword, carried weapons that were more decorative, than functional. Not to mention the fact that he was making no attempt to rise, or scan the environment for signs of enemy reinforcements. All in all, Derran gave him about an hour before he was killed. Unsure what prompted the gesture, and before he could really think about what he was doing, Derran glanced around, finding a blast rifle on the ground nearby. Mag-locking his sword to his back, he picked up the weapon and examined it. Blast rifles were common infantry weapons the world over, firing pulsed beams of mystical energy that created a small fusion explosion shortly after entering flesh or armor, and blowing the target apart from the inside out. Sometimes called 'Bolters' due to the elongated beam they fired, they were the best friend of infantrymen everywhere. "Here." Derran grunted, checking the weapon's power cell charge, and shoving it into the young man's hands. "That pistol of yours is a modified X-1 popgun, meant for hunting birds, not killing monsters. In a real fight you would frankly be better served by throwing it at your enemy." Derran stated contemptuously, before tapping the weapon he had just given the young officer. "This however, might keep you alive long enough to reach outside the city. Stick to cover, do not be a hero, and do not allow yourself to be caught out in the open." Nodding, the man finally got to his feet, but instead of walking or running away, he stood staring at Derran. Ignoring the young man's gaze, Derran searched through the bodies surrounding him, looking for any ammunition, grenades, or medical supplies the man's unit might have on them. In the pouch of one of the soldiers, Derran was pleasantly surprised when he found three bio-plasma injectors. Placing two of the faintly glowing, blue, pen sized objects in one of his belt pouches, Derran removed his gauntlet and jabbed the third into his right arm. He felt a faint prick, and then a surge of revitalizing warmth spread through him, as the cuts, scrapes, and bruises he had sustained in the battle, began instantly healing. Then, replacing his gauntlet, Derran turned to leave, heading back toward the city. "Please! Wait!" Called out the young man, his voice faintly desperate. Derran ignored him as he kept walking. "Please! Let me come with you!" At that, Derran paused. "And why should I do such a thing?" He asked, his tone one of warning. If this sorry excuse for a toy soldier thought Derran would play bodyguard, then he was sorely mistaken. However, to Derran's faint surprise, the young man's response was something else entirely. "I know that tone. . ." He began, his voice tinged with self loathing. "I hear it in the voice of every officer I meet who actually earned their position, and every soldier who ever thought I was out of earshot, and they are right to have it." Here Derran turned around, more curious than anything. +Let's just get the hell out of here, we don't have time for bullshit monologues.+ Snarled the Beast, contempt dripping from every word. "Is there a time limit on dying in battle? Surely there is no harm in hearing his words?" Derran mentally responded. The Beast gave no reply, though Derran could tell he was still unhappy, as the young man explained. "I am no soldier, I have always abhorred violence and bloodshed." He stated. "I always thought of myself as a victim of the world, and my place in it. I lamented the fact that I was not free to choose my destiny, and simply did the bare minimum to meet the obligations I was saddled with. I did not think it mattered that I was learning nothing, and I convinced myself that no one would be hurt by my simply going through the motions." The young man stared at his surroundings, his face filled with pain as his eyes fell upon the bodies of the soldiers piled in and around the fountain. "I was wrong, and these men paid the price for my ignorance and selfishness." "So you wish what? Redemption?" Derran asked contemptuously, wondering if perhaps the Beast had been right after all. "I can offer no such thing." The young man shook his head. "I do not ask you to offer redemption." Derran glared at the man, trying to read his intent. "Then what?" Derran demanded. The young man looked Derran in the eye. "Strength, and a path forward. If I can learn to fight as you, if I can die knowing that I made my survival mean something, then that is enough. At least then, when I see these men again in the embrace of the Light, I might be allowed to tell them their deaths were not meaningless." Derran did not move, staring at the youth with eyes like steel beneath his visor. Then, finally, and for what reason he could not have said, he spoke. "If you follow my path, then know this. I fight not to save this world, nor it's people, I do not seek glory nor accolades, and I have no intention of playing hero. I fight only that I might end as many of these monsters as possible. To bring to them and their leaders, the ruin they have brought to me. Our world is done, the Light has failed us, and it is now clear that the Seraphim, if ever they existed at all, were false in their promise of protection." Here, Derran leveled his sword at the young man. "I do not dare to hope, for hope is a lie! I walk forward only that I may end my enemies until I myself cease to be! I tread the path of doom! Where the end of one battle, is merely the beginning of the next!" Keeping his sword perfectly steady, Derran took a breath before he continued. "Knowing all that, do you still wish to follow me? Can you fight without hope, using hatred alone as the force that guides your steps?" For a moment, the young man was silent, his gaze locked with Derran's, then he replied. His voice level, and with absolute conviction. "If you will teach me to find the path, then I shall walk it with you until the end." He stated solemnly. Lowering his sword, Derran nodded. "Then remove that armor you wear, and take a suit from one of the men who died here. Have you any personal effects? Any objects associated with family, friends, or your past?" The young man nodded. "A signet ring, and a locket with my mother's picture." He replied. Derran nodded. "Good, destroy them, along with that armor and pistol you carry, I will watch you do so." For a second the young man balked, but then, nodded. A short while later, the young man stood before Derran in the armor of a standard Kemedian infantryman. Before them both, was the small pile of the young man's personal effects. Derran handed him the plasma cannon. "Let your past die with this world, that you might think only of the battles you will fight. . . In sacrificing your hope, be free of the fears that limit you. . . Let your wrath grow, that it might strengthen your body. Feel no fear, know no pain. . . And live only to see your enemy dead before you. . ." Derran intoned, his voice as cold as a winter night. The young man nodded as he took the weapon, backing away until he and Derran were safely out of the blast radius. Aiming the weapon at what was left of his old life, he hesitated for only an instant, before pulling the trigger. The weapon roared, and for a moment, Derran and the young man were blinded by the detonation of the plasma ball. Then it was done. . . only a crater, remaining to tell the tale. Derran nodded solemnly, and turned to address the young man directly. "Now. . . tell me your name." The young man nodded, handing back the plasma cannon before retrieving the blast rifle Derran had given him. "My name is Michael Melekon Santius. Now and forever, your humble servant. . ." At that moment, almost as if in sympathy to Michael's introduction, a thunderous 'CRACK', like a mountain being split in two was heard. Beneath Derran and Michael's feet, the earth shook as though the entire planet had been struck by the fist of a god. Michael stumbled and fell to one knee, and Derran just barely kept his feet. Buildings collapsed around them, and nearby, massive fissures tore open the ground, growing large enough to swallow entire city blocks into the depths of the planet. The air filled with the scent of sulfur and ozone in concentrations great enough to make it a struggle to breathe. A howling wind swept through the city, with a sound like reality itself was in agony, blasting the pair with bits of hurled debris at speeds great enough to chip the paint on their armor, just before an almighty roaring, eclipsed all other sound. Then, just as suddenly as it had began, the phenomena ceased, and overhead, the roiling black clouds that had covered the sky since the beginning of this unending nightmare, finally parted. Only to reveal something far more disturbing. . . The sky as they knew it, was no more. Now, a seemingly endless red tinged void that stretched out of sight for eternity, hung over their heads. There was no sun or other celestial body to be seen, only an unhallowed red radiance that seemed to illuminate from all directions at once. Amid this infinite charnal abyss, floated countless islands of scorched, bone colored rock, and raw, flesh-like earth. Some were as small as cars, while others in the distance, looked to be the size of entire continents. As Michael picked himself up to stare in horror at the sky. Derran spoke in a tone that sounded almost eager. "Our doom is impatient. . . let us not keep it waiting." The ponies watched as the scene faded into mist, each thinking the same thing. The voice was Derran's, but the words he spoke, and the actions he performed, were those of a completely different stallion. One that sent faint chills through their hearts. Abandon hope? Embrace hatred? Live only for violence? These were not the words of the Derran Grandel they knew. The stallion whose existence was defined by chivalry, duty, kindness, and love. "I suppose this is why he hates the Doom Slayer so much." Rarity ventured with a nervous laugh, that fell dead as Derran spoke in a slow, weary tone, his eyes open once more. "No, lady Rarity. I am afraid those words were mine. Though I do not doubt the Doom Slayer's influence played some role in the creation of the philosophy I held back then. It was I who gave this creed definite shape, and proceeded to preach it to all whom would listen." He explained, his eyes and voice filled with shame as he continued. "Originally, I never intended to share my path with anyone. However, my meeting with Michael changed everything." Here Derran gave a sad looking smile. "Who could have ever predicted, that the young man I rescued that day by chance and whim, would divert my path so immeasurably." He said with a faint, humorless, chuckle. "What do you mean?" Asked Shining, and Derran shook his head. "Had it not been for Michael Santius, I would never have lived to see the heaven that is Equestria. It was he, whom first suggested gathering others to our cause. It was he, whom helped me persuade the remnants of the Kemedian army to fall in line behind me. And it was he, who suggested setting out to see if the survivors of other lands, might be willing to aid our cause." Derran's expression grew pained as he continued. "He became my strong right hand. Whom, as we traveled and fought, I trained to be a true soldier. It was a trial by fire, one that, at the time, I was certain he would fail. But to my surprise, he weathered it as though made of steel." Here Derran's expression darkened. "Despite everything, I believe Michael never fully embraced the ideals I set out for him. As I look back on it now, I believe he never truly gave up hope, in the Light, or humanity. He was ever the voice of reason, tempering the Beast's aggression with wise council and a calm that was nothing short of saintly. . . Yet even he, a man for whom only the word 'Angelic' ever seemed appropriate, could not contain the monster I would eventually become." Cadence gave Derran a sympathetic look. "It sounds like you truly loved him." She remarked softly. Derran nodded, taking a deep breath, as he felt a sharp pain in his chest. "He was the greatest man I ever knew, an example of all of the best qualities in humanity. . . the greatest injustice fate ever bestowed, was that he should have needed to stand with me." Derran declared, his voice filled with sadness and a faint note of bitterness. "Why would that be?" Asked Twilight. "It sounds like he was exactly the friend you needed?" Derran shook his head. "He was, but the task fate appointed him, forced him to concede principles no man should ever have to." Turning, Derran gave Twilight an expression of true sorrow. "He was a man of virtue, forced to obey the will of a being whom had cast such things aside." Twilight opened her mouth to reply but Derran cut her off with an upraised hand. "I know no words of mine will convince you. So. . . I shall have to show you." Here Derran once more settled back into his position at the foot of the circular megalith, that Twilight was almost starting to think of as a grave marker, and closed his eyes. Yet even as he did so, Derran gave Twilight a last parting look, one displaying a flicker of an emotion Twilight had never believed him capable of feeling. Derran Grandel, a stallion whom had faced demons, undead, and dragons without flinching. . . was afraid. "Please! Without those supplies and soldiers we won't last a day!" Robin Farthel begged, his eyes frantic, as grim faced soldiers began tearing open crates of munitions and medical supplies. "And how long would you have survived with them?" Demanded the cold voice of the soldiers leader. He was an imposing figure, dressed from head to toe in magetech armor. At his side was holstered a slightly battered pistol, while across his back was strapped a magnificent sword of black steel, along with an old bolter rifle. Robin stared in disbelief at the figure before him, scarcely able to comprehend so unfeeling a question. When the man had initially arrived at the head of a massive army of soldiers and militia, Robin had been overjoyed to see him. It was scant four hours ago that the small outpost he and the other refugees were sheltering in, was under siege by a seemingly endless horde of 'demons', as the people had come to know the monsters. Granted, in the three weeks since the appearance of the creatures, attacks had happened regularly. But they had managed to keep them at bay, just barely, thanks to the few hundred members of the Kemedian 503rd Litheren Guard, that had originally manned the base. This time however, the demonic attacks had been particularly fierce, and the defenders had been hard pressed to hold the line. Then, just as the battle was taking a turn for the worst, they had arrived in their thousands. Grim faced and utterly unafraid, they had driven the demons away in short order. Never had Robin, nor any of the others, soldier or civilian, ever seen such ferocity as these warriors displayed. Killing with brutal and savage efficiency, using guns, blades, spells, and anything else that could possibly be used as a weapon. Many wore armor, but many more simply wore tattered clothes to go with impromptu clubs, spears, and even bows and arrows. They had entered into the fray without hesitation, and fought as though fear had no hold over them. And there, at their head, had been a pair who inspired true awe. One had been a young man wearing the armor of a standard infantrymen. Whom, while he seemed to have some difficulty with the rifle he used, was a maestro with the glittering long sword he wielded. His skill with a blade had been a thing to behold, as he gracefully parried claws and inhuman fists, almost dancing through the battlefield as he opened throats and bellies with perfectly executed thrusts and slashes. However, it was the other who drew the eye most. He was like a juggernaut, blasting away almost indiscriminately with his rifle, while sweeping his sword around him in brutal arcs that cut through multiple demons at once. His sword glowing like the heavens themselves were contained within the blade. Every monster that terrible sword struck, even if just a scratch, was turned instantly to ash, as the sword shon ever brighter. Then, when the warrior seemed on the verge of being overwhelmed, there was a flash of brilliant light, and every demon within hundreds of feet of him was instantly turned to grey powder. The warrior never rested, throwing himself into the thick of the fighting whenever his fellow soldiers appeared to falter. Had he still been a man of the faith, Robin might have said he was watching some great heavenly avenger come to earth. Then, after nearly twenty minutes of brutal fighting, the demons did something Robin had never once seen. Every battle he had seen fought against the monsters before now, had been to the last. Even when it was clear they were losing, the monsters fought as if death was merely a temporary inconvenience. This time however, in the face of this roaring legion's fury, the Demons did something Robin had all but convinced himself they were incapable of. . . they ran. However. . .It was not long after, that Robin saw the first sign that these warriors might not be the saviors he thought. Rather than approach the outpost to greet those they had saved, the army had chased after their retreating foes. Savagely hunting them down with the single minded viciousness of a rabid dog sighting a rabbit. Many on the outpost walls had cheered the gesture, glad to see their hated foes so thoroughly destroyed. Robin however, had found the display disconcerting, not because he felt any sympathy for the demons, but because of the almost psychotic expressions many of their pursuers seemed to wear. A look of unbridled rage, that spoke of minds on the edge of reason, and that at any moment might plummet into madness. Only once the last visible foe had been dispatched, did the army turn its attention to the outpost. Without so much as a greeting, the warrior in the dark green armor with the glowing sword, demanded to speak to every person in the outpost. The fortress, if so small an installation could even be dignified with such a title, was a relic left over from a war generations past. A large circular arrangement of crumbling concrete walls ten feet high, and eight feet thick, with two heavy gated entrances. It had originally been intended to garrison a few hundred soldiers at most. Currently though, nearly a thousand people, including about three hundred members of the Litheren guard, were taking shelter there. Patiently the warriors and their leader had waited, as the refugees and soldiers decided what they should do. Eventually allowing just the leader, and the swordsman Robin had seen fighting beside him, to enter. Once inside, the warrior identified himself as Derran Grandel, and his subordinate as Michael Santius, and then explained to them why they had come. To Robin's unspoken shock, he had flat out told them that the world, was doomed. No rescue was coming, and any hope of restoring D'nur was a foolish delusion. Only two courses of action remained, die on their knees, or die on their feet. He claimed that he and his men, were the last great crusade of humanity. Doomed to die, they had dedicated themselves to finding and destroying the lords of Hell. He then asked which fate the people of the outpost preferred, to die cowering in a hole achieving nothing, or to die on their feet insuring that at least some form of justice might be served. Robin could not deny the power of the warrior's words. It had not taken long for him to win over the support of most of the soldiers, and a good chunk of the refugees. However, it was then that Robin himself had voiced a concern. "Excuse me lord Grandel, but. . . what of the women, the children, and the old or wounded? What do you propose for those who cannot fight?" The response was as swift as it was chilling. "I have already told you, you fight or you die, there is no in between. Anyone willing to fight is welcome, any who refuse, regardless of the reason, will be left behind." Robin and several others had stared in horror at the warrior. "You can't be serious?!" Robin had remarked. "You can't honestly expect children to fight those monsters?!" Derran had glared at him from behind his helmet, and Robin felt his every hair stand on end as he became fixed by a gaze that was somehow even more frightening than the demons themselves. "And what is your proposal?" Derran demanded hatefully. "Have them huddle here waiting for the demons to overwhelm your defenses? Let them die screaming as the monsters devour them alive?" Derran's voice was like ice, and it sent a shudder of fear through Robin's body. Yet, despite his fear, Robin refused to back down. "Help us then! With your soldiers we can hold this spot maybe-" Robin was cut off when Derran had marched up to him, grabbed him by the collar, and forced him to look him dead in the eye. It might have been his terror making him see things, but as he looked through the tinted visor, Robin could have sworn that, for just an instant, Derran's eyes were blood red. "You don't get it do you?!" Derran snarled, his voice filled with a barely restrained fury, with the tone sounding strangely warped from what it had been a second ago, becoming deeper, with a faint rasp that even the distortion of the helmet could not have accounted for. He had also inexplicably dropped his formal, faintly aristocratic pattern of speech."The only way we've kept alive this long is by staying mobile! You wait here and you will be overwhelmed, and sooner rather than later!" Jerking Robin forward, Derran pointed out at the nigh endless wasteland beyond the outpost gate. The dead husk that had once been the planet D'nur, and the endless blood red void it floated in. "You think this is the first outpost we've seen?!" He hissed, his voice dripping venom. " We've seen nearly a half dozen of them, most far more fortified than this! Each and every one, was a slaughterhouse! Men, women, children, everyone dead! Torn to pieces and eaten like a goddamn Sunday dinner!" Releasing his grip on Robin's collar, Derran continued to fix him with a look of pure hate through his visor. "Get this through your thick skull, we, are the closest thing to salvation there is! Every one of us is a dead man walking, all we get is to choose how we die! You want to die cowering in a hole waiting for a miracle that ain't ever gonna come?! Fine!" Here Derran's voice dropped to a low growl. "But don't you dare try to drag the rest of us down with you!" After that, Derran and his soldiers had proceeded to strip the outpost. Robin, wanting no part of things, had gone to try to reassure his wife and son, Mia and John. John was asleep, but Mia was awake. She had cried when Robin had explained what was happening. Robin had done his best to comfort her, as soldiers and even former refugees, helped to scour the base clean of any resource worth having. Only a few dozen families and a handful of soldiers refused to join, and it seemed almost like those who were leaving, resented them for their choice. Finally however, there were just a few crates of weapons and supplies left. Robin had assumed Derran and the soldiers would at least leave those remaining, enough for a few days. . . he was wrong. "What are you doing?!" Robin had demanded, when he saw the soldiers begin to break open the last of the crates. Derran had not even bothered to look at him. Continuing to supervise the work with his back to Robin. "I have no intention of wasting good supplies on those who will soon be dead. Those who do not fight have no right to take from those who do. Indeed, the last of the soldiers here finally saw reason a short time ago, and agreed to join us. So even were I to leave these for you, you would be unable to survive long enough to make use of them." Robin couldn't believe it, the soldiers were really all leaving? "Please! Without those supplies and soldiers we won't last a day!" Robin pleaded, hoping against hope that Derran would see reason. It was a hope in vain. "And how long would you have survived with them?" He demanded, still keeping his back to Robin as he observed the last of the crates being emptied. Robin was not a violent man, indeed he had at one time studied to be a preacher, before deciding being a shopkeeper would better allow him to pay for his family's future. However, despite this, he did have one weapon, an old service revolver, that had originally belonged to his grandfather. He had grabbed it when he, Mia and John, had been forced to evacuate, and kept it tucked in his belt. He never dreamed he'd ever have to use it, and certainly not against another human. Even so, desperately afraid of what might befall his family should the supplies be taken, he now leveled the revolver at Derran's back, his body shaking with a combination of anger, fear, and desperation. "Put. Those. Back." +++++++ Derran listened to the 'click' of a revolver's hammer being cocked back, and the words of the man behind him, with a strange detachment. If he was honest, he had expected it would come to this. This man was a fool, who still believed, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, that there was hope. It wasn't his fault, not really, Derran too had once believed in the fairy tale that was hope. It was the condition of the human animal to cling to it against all else, to delude themselves into thinking that, if only they could hold on a little longer, everything would miraculously be alright. However, unlike the man behind him, Derran knew better. In situations like this, hope was worse than a delusion, it was a disease, a cancer, a rot, that sapped one's ability to do anything other than wish for the impossible. The voice of the Beast was in his mind, even as Derran began to move. +You know what you have to do.+ Derran gave a mental nod, he did indeed. . . To those around him, it was likely over in a split second, but to Derran, it was as if all the world had slowed to a crawl. The drawing of the pistol, the turn to face his attacker, the knocking aside of the weapon pointed at the small of his back with his arm. . . the single shot, that seemed to echo like a thunderclap in a canyon. As the man fell back, a small red hole in the center of his forehead, Derran was able to make out his expression. A combination of surprise, and what appeared to be something akin to sorrow, etched on his face. No fear though, Derran noted, but that was to be expected, this man had not been a coward. Cowards didn't put their lives on the line for anything, not even their convictions. As the world returned to it's proper chronological speed, Derran returned his pistol to it's holster. The man's wife came out of a nearby tent, and screamed, as she threw herself on the body of her husband. She was quite lovely, with almond shaped eyes of chocolate brown, and long raven colored hair. Then, there was the son, who joined his mother a moment later, screaming for his father to wake up, even as blood pooled beneath what was left of the back of the dead man's skull. The boy had brown hair like his father, but had his mother's eyes. Derran however, noted no further detail than this. Simply turning back to his soldiers as if he had done nothing more than swat an errant fly. "Get these distributed among our new members, insure no one has any more than they need, not even the officers. If they complain, remind them that in this army, they have no rank. All they have is the men next to them, and the weapons in their hands." He declared calmly. "It is imperative we get moving before another hoard finds-" "MONSTER!!" Screamed the wife, and Derran didn't need to turn, to know she had recovered her husband's weapon, and was now pointing it at him. Derran considered simply drawing his pistol again, but something inside him made him speak instead. "As futile as the gesture was. Your husband gave his life hoping to save you." Here Derran turned to face the woman, whose expression was twisted in grief and anger. "A poor gesture of gratitude indeed, to throw your life away so carelessly." He declared, his voice completely calm, and his expression devoid of emotion under his helmet. The woman however, just kept the gun trained on Derran, her body shaking with rage. "You were the one who said none of this matters anymore! So who's going to care if I kill you right here and now?!!" Derran's hand shifted ever so slightly toward his pistol. +All the dumb bitch had to do was walk away. We don't give second chances. . .+ The beast snarled, as Derran prepared to put the woman down. "Forgive me lord Derran, I heard a shot. Dear heaven?! What happened?!" Both Derran and the woman paused, as Michael Santius approached. His face wearing an expression of shock, while his eyes were filled with an expression of carefully restrained sorrow and horror. "Her husband attempted to stop us getting the last of the supplies, he threatened to kill me if I did not comply, so I defended myself." Derran declared, his voice still completely calm. The woman however was less restrained. "Your beast of a leader gunned my husband down in cold blood!! Just because he refused to let him take the one hope we had left!!" She screamed, her eyes filled with tears. Michael nodded, as he carefully maneuvered himself between his lord and the distraught woman. Turning to Derran, he made a face as if struck by an idea. "My lord?" Michael began, his tone calm, and respectful. "I just had a thought, if I may?" Derran paused for a moment before giving a curt nod. "Very well. Speak." He declared. Michael nodded politely as he continued. "Well my lord, it occurs to me that, even if they don't participate in the fighting, surely there is no harm in protecting these people? Provided of course that they keep up and don't get in our way?" Derran stood still for a moment as he considered the question. Looking down he saw the son of the man he had killed, as he cried over his father's body. He turned away, his cold expression unchanging beneath his helmet. "Very well, if they can keep pace, and stay clear when the fighting starts, they shall have our protection. Oh, and while I am thinking of it, make it clear to the men that if any of them lay so much as a finger on a woman without her express permission, they shall be executed on the spot. Any man who thinks with the head in his trousers instead of the one on his shoulders is a liability, and I will brook no weak points in our army." Michael nodded, as he deftly managed to take the revolver from the woman while she was distracted by the conversation. "I will see to it at once my lord." He agreed, turning to console the woman as best he could, as Derran, walked away. . . As Derran returned once more to the waking world, he took a deep breath before opening his eyes. Even prepared as he was for them, he visibly flinched at the looks he received. Looks of horror, incomprehension, and disbelief. Rainbow was the first to speak, shooting into the air with a look of indignant fury on her face. "No!" She declared fiercely. "No way Derran would do something like that! You must have cast the stupid spell wrong!!" She shouted, glaring at Celestia and Luna. "Rainbow. . ." Derran whispered, even as he saw the tears of denial building in the eyes of Rainbow and the others. All of whom, save Celestia, Luna, and Starlight, nodded in frantic agreement, none wanting to believe what they had just seen. "Derran he. . . HE WOULDN'T DO THAT!! DO YOU HEAR ME?! HE WOULDN'T-" "RAINBOW!!" Derran shouted, cutting off her frantic tirade before it could go any further. "Please. . . enough." He whispered. Rainbow wafted back down to earth, looking at Derran with a sort of frightened desperation. "It's not true. . ." She whispered, frustration and anger evident in every word, as her loyalty to her friend, strained against the horror of what she had just seen. Derran took another deep breath as he spoke. "But it is true Rainbow. . ." He stated slowly, in a voice that sounded tired beyond words, and shaking his head as he felt a sensation like his heart was being ripped out. "regardless of how much either of us wishes it otherwise. No matter how you may choose to look at it, I murdered that man, simply because he was trying to protect his family. . . and I and my brothers left many more to die. Whenever a civilian fell behind. . . whenever a sick child could go no farther. . . whenever an elder could no longer put one foot in front of the other. . . we left them. Only those who fought were given any assistance. No others. We. . . I. . . left my people to die."