112 EPILOGUE: Somewhere far away

It was a late afternoon in the City of Lunaris, far away from where the young Eleftheria slept fitfully in her room.

Hidden beneath the humongous coral walls and the moon-like beauty of the bustling streets were the tiny slums. There, the walkways were but gaps between uncomely structures, the moonlight struggled to light its ever-dark surface, and the faces under flee-ridden hoods were shrouded with an even darker tinge. There was a perpetual silence amongst the gloomy residents, but those unfortunate souls so unlucky to have business within these slums walked briskly, as though hastening would lessen the intensity of the glares directed towards them.

One such man walked too with a quickness. He believed himself to be a righteous man. That is, if a man who dealt a light hand on illegal gambling was righteous, then he might be the God Solus Himself.

Regardless of his ticklish fingers, he was still a far cry from the residents of the Lunaris slums. There, hoarders, liars, and murderers dwelled in great numbers, like the ticks that feasted on strays, human and animal alike. So, it was outwardly unjust to wish an ill fate on such a man.

He was simply on an errand. An errand not too noble in the form of procuring his stock of liquor, but a legal errand nonetheless. He believed it to himself that sobriety would only bring misfortune, and when he was under the influence, he could almost feel the warm smiles of the Goddess of luck headed towards him. Maybe then, guided by the ever helpful hand alcohol offered him, would he bring back the pension he had once lost. Maybe then he could come back to his simple home, where his surely bone-tired wife awaits, her hunched back not a vision of ugliness but of favor, for she alone had shouldered the debts he had incurred, and continue to still incur.

'Ah, but she'll love me all the same,' the man thought in a mantra, the words sounding not all that convincing now that sobriety was coming to him.

His hands shook hard as he pulled his black hood low, knowing all too well what a conundrum he would be in if the vile rats living in these slums would come to know of his face. Those rats, human in form, were worse than him, as the man often thought. Those pathetic excuses of men would indulge in worse things than alcohol. Oh, no. He was a righteous man, indeed. It was the world around him that was cruel, and he only did justice to himself to be cruel towards it as well.

'But my wife, so beautiful once, was never cruel to me...' his thoughts assaulted him in a fervor.

He groaned pitifully, his steps growing more uneven as his addled mind brought unwanted thoughts of sobriety.

He must drink.

Righting himself up by propping an elbow on the creaking wooden wall beside him, he went onwards. Forgetting all useless thoughts, he began to go over his plan. A plan that never did make sense before as it did now, but a plan was a plan nevertheless. He would talk the poor and wily, old merchant in the depths of the slum to give him his stock, not with force, oh no, but with sweet words. The man's mother had always complimented him of his glib tongue. Perhaps it should do him a favor this time round as well.

Feeling as though his plan was now set solidly in stone, he hummed rambunctiously into the dusk. The sun was still setting, but in the slums, it was already night. It was in these times that the residents came out to play.

But the righteous man fit so well with the lot that they paid him little mind. Not too long, however, after a righteous speech and a few well-meant screams, he was thrown out of the merchant's way, his pockets unlined of what little coins he had, his hand still shaking and his every pore letting out drops of sweat lined with what little alcohol his body still contained.

He was sober, or the most sober he has ever been in years.

While he sported an abrasion on his kneecap and a welt on his left eye, he headed on home. All the while, he repeated his mantra in his mind.

'She'll love me all the same, she'll love me all the same.'

While it might have been true, his belief never did come to test. He had been too eye-catchy, walking around with an obvious limp. While he was dressed poorly, the rats smelled a funky, yet different scent from him.

The man wasn't one of them, after all.

Soon enough, he was surrounded. Very few of the slums would even bother to hold up such a man, but this was a hungry group. They were too old to be called children, yet too young to be adults. No matter, they were just at the ripeness to be accountable for their crimes. They attacked the man not to rid him of possessions, but to get a rush of power from the act.

"Givit to us, then, old man," one of them said, his breath stinking of mildew and something harsher.

The old boy's friends gathered much closer to the man, their collective odor so pungent the man thought his own body smelled of daisies. Their smiles, though, were warm, as though they were looking at something they loved.

'She'll love me all the same,' the man still thought.

And so he said, "She'll love me all the same."

The old boys glared at the incoherent man, and deciding that their patience had been stretched thin enough, they pounced on the man. But before their punches could even hit, the man sprung forth with a manic strength. He ran away, pushing against the frail bodies of the old boys, and broke free.

While the pursuers didn't even shed a sweat, the man struggled with every step. But he was fast enough. His mother always did compliment him about his leg strength.

Yet he was too old, and the old boys just old enough. They were catching up to him while the rats of the slums watched on in mild interest. They were close enough now that their vile breaths heated the back of his neck.

But while the man's legs were strong, his mind was not. He had forgotten where he was. This was the slum, and he didn't know his way around it. The pack of pungent pursuers had led him to a dead end, and that was that.

So, the man rested his back against the cold, damp wall, and faced the old boys with a silent acceptance.

He should look for a drink, but all he saw in his weary mind was a frail figure, hunched back in exhaustion.

He let out a laugh, his mouth opening wide to show the blackness of his teeth. His eyes were bloodshot, the left one barely open from the growing welt and the right one so widely open that it seemed unnatural by itself. He laughed without blinking at all.

The old boys, half frightened and threatened, chose to attack than to flee from the ghastly sight, but before they could, something changed right behind them. While the man's laughter still assaulted them, they turned around to see a darkness. Something so void and empty that even the slums glowed with light. Their voices sucked out of their throats, they couldn't even scream. Nails scraping down polished wood. Sharp wailings in the place of slaughter. An accident. Death.

It assaulted them with a sharp grasp, and soon they were pulled in, so swiftly that their very essences as the old boys they were quickly faded away. And then they were gone. The darkness, too, once so thick and dense like tar, distorted into nothing. In the slums where night dwelled, the brightness of the moonlit night returned. The boys were gone, with not even a single scream to mark their end.

The man whimpered into silence, his laughter cut short. He was alone. And then, he went on his way.