Extra To Protagonist

"Then you sent the wrong ones," Rathan muttered.

The woman god stepped forward now. Her cloak shimmered like it was wet, even though it didn't touch the ground.

"No more excuses," she said. "This world doesn't belong to you."

"I earned it."

"You ruined it."

"I warned them."

"You massacred them."

Rathan looked back at the fire.

Then: "Same difference."

The trees didn't move.

The gods didn't sigh.

But Merlin felt the tension, like even they didn't know how this was going to go.

"Your soul is breaking," the man said. "You can't carry this forever."

"Then take it."

A pause.

The god's brow lifted. "What?"

"Take it," Rathan repeated. "If you're here to judge me, do it. If you're here to kill me, try. But don't act like you care."

Merlin felt the memory spin for a moment. 'He means it. He doesn't want forgiveness. He wants to be erased.'

The third figure finally moved. Half-shrouded. Its face never showed.

But its voice did.

Flat. Cold. Young and old at once.

"You are dying."

Rathan shrugged. "Good."

"But not fast enough."

"Not my fault."

The first god stepped closer.

Then crouched.

Right into Rathan's eyeline.

"Do you want it to end?"

Rathan didn't answer right away. Just watched the flames flicker.

Then: "Yeah. But not for free."

"Then what do you want?"

Rathan looked up.

Not angry.

Not defiant.

Just… honest.

"I want you to remember."

The forest didn't move.

The gods didn't answer.

But the fire did.

It rose, then hissed flat, as if something unseen had exhaled.

And one by one—

The gods sat down.

Like people.

No thrones.

No fanfare.

Just quiet.

And Merlin, buried deep in the memory, felt something shift.

'They're not here to punish him. They're here because they know he's the only one who remembers what they let happen.'

Rathan spoke again.

"I'll tell you. All of it. But when I'm done…"

He trailed off.

The man god nodded.

"You'll sleep."

"No dreams."

"No dreams."

Merlin's chest tightened. He wanted to scream at them. At Rathan. At the whole scene. 'This is it? Years of death and they give him a bedtime story in return?'

But Rathan closed his eyes.

And began to speak.

And the fire crackled.

And the gods listened.

—

The silence after Rathan's last word wasn't peaceful.

It just stretched.

Thin and dry, like overused rope. The kind of silence people mistake for calm, right before everything breaks.

The fire snapped once.

Rathan didn't open his eyes.

He was sitting the same way, shoulders loose, spine curved, head tilted slightly down, like he was already slipping.

One of the gods moved.

The youngest-looking one.

Not fast. Not dramatic.

Just reached forward, robe shifting slightly, hand slipping into the folds.

Merlin didn't realize what was in it until the blade caught the firelight.

'No. No, what are you—'

Too late.

The god didn't hesitate. The blade went in under Rathan's ribs.

No magic. No flourish. Just a short, brutal stab. Precise. Tеxt асquirеd frоm М|V|LЕМР&YR.

Like they'd done this before.

Rathan gasped. Loud. Wet.

The others didn't move.

The one who stabbed him pulled the blade out in a clean line and stood back.

Rathan's hands didn't even twitch at first.

He just sat there.

Breathing.

Blinking.

Trying to register it.

Blood soaked through his coat.

Then—

"…Really?" he said, voice low, hoarse.

The god who stabbed him didn't respond.

Rathan looked up.

"You asked for my story just to gut me like a dog?"

The fire flared again, catching his eyes.

No tears.

Just clarity.

The man god stood now. His mouth pressed into a tight line. The woman stayed seated.

"This isn't personal," the man said.

Rathan laughed.

Then coughed. Blood hit the dirt.

"Sure. Not personal. Just betrayal."

"You're not meant to survive," the woman said. "You were never meant to remember."

Merlin could barely breathe. He could feel the heat flooding into Rathan's limbs. Not fever. Rage.

'I know that look. That twitch in the fingers. He's going to kill them.'

The robe around his waist shifted. His hand slid into the folds.

"You made me suffer for years," Rathan muttered. "Then you come for a bedtime confession and a knife."

He stood.

Slow.

The wound pulsed, dripping fresh red down his front. But his spine was straight.

And the blade he pulled from his coat was jagged. Black. Still warm from his skin.

"I'll bury you in the same fire you made me crawl through," he said.

"You're injured," the man said. "That body's breaking."

"Good."

Rathan moved.

Not fast. Just direct.

He swung low. The youngest god stepped back, too late.

Steel caught the ankle. Blood. Real. God or not, they bled like people.

The god screamed and stumbled back, clutching their leg. Rathan turned toward the next.

The man raised his hand, magic pulsed, but too slow.

The blade caught him in the side.

He fell.

Merlin could barely follow it. His thoughts raced.

'They weren't ready. They thought he'd die quietly. They forgot what they made.'

The woman stood now. Her palm glowed silver. She whispered something sharp.

Rathan didn't care.

He moved through the spell like it was mist.

Her shield cracked when his blade hit it. She screamed. Not long. Just one sharp noise before his knife found her throat.

Then—

Silence.

Three bodies. Not gods anymore.

Just flesh.

Blood soaked into the dirt, steaming faintly.

Rathan stood in the middle of it. Panting. Shaking.

He dropped the blade.

Then his knees hit the ground.

Not from weakness.

From weight.

'He didn't want to win. He just didn't want to die like that.'

Merlin stood inside it all.

Inside him.

'They lied to him. And this time, he didn't beg for answers. He made them bleed for it.'

A breeze passed through the forest. The first in years.

And for the first time, Rathan cried.

Not loud. Not violent.

Just one sound. A broken exhale that scraped its way out like something buried too long.

Because he'd killed them.

And it still didn't fix anything.

—

It didn't happen like a flash.

There was no light, no grand revelation. Just stillness. Thick and ugly.

And then the memories came.

Not like visions.

Like heat.

Rushing from the base of Merlin's spine to the back of his eyes. Not scenes. Not words.

Feelings.

He saw Rathan's first breath. Alone in a cradle no one claimed.

A hand brushing his head once before leaving forever. He didn't remember the face.

A hundred mornings hungry. Not starving. Just empty. A dull ache behind the ribs like his body was punishing him for surviving.

A hundred bruises that didn't come from enemies.

A hundred apologies that never came.

Rathan, six, screaming into a pillow so the adults didn't hear.

Rathan, nine, watching another child picked for training while he stayed behind, too scrawny, too strange.

Rathan, twelve, thrown into the first arena. Not to fight. To clean up what was left.

Blood under his nails that night. Still warm.

Merlin's breath hitched.

'Is this what it felt like the whole time?'

The years stacked too fast. Sixteen, seventeen, twenty. Each one like another bone snapping out of place. People praised him for surviving. No one asked what he was surviving from.

He didn't remember the names of the instructors. Just their boots.

And now—

Now the forest was full of bodies.

And more footsteps were coming.

Not heavy. Not urgent.

Just steady. Like patrol. Like inevitability.

Rathan turned his head, still kneeling, still bleeding.

Merlin felt the ache. Sharp in the side, dull in the shoulder. Not the kind you panic over.

The kind you get used to.

Six figures stepped out of the trees.

Cloaks. Real ones. White and clean.

And no weapons in hand.

That was the first bad sign.

The tallest stopped a few feet away. Arms crossed.

"You killed them."

Rathan looked up. His mouth was dry.

"They stabbed me first."

"They were gods."

"They were cowards."

The one on the left, short, dark hair, pale, tilted their head. "You broke the Pact."

"No," Rathan said. "They did. I just stopped pretending."

Another god crouched near the youngest body. Touched the edge of the ruined robe. Their lip curled.

"He was just a boy."

"He was a liar."

Rathan stood. The pain made his ribs sing.

"You want to make this a moral thing?" he said. "Go ahead. But don't pretend he was innocent."

"You took three divine lives."

"I've buried more," Rathan snapped. "Don't act surprised."

The leader exhaled. Then turned his head slightly.

"Sentence?"

One of them stepped forward.

Not even looking at Rathan.

"Memory."

Merlin felt it before he understood it.

"No," Rathan said, low.

"Memory," the god repeated. "All of them. Forever."

"No—"

The sky pulsed.

The trees flickered.

The forest didn't burn—it reversed.

And then—

Pain.

Not physical.

Worse.

Everything Rathan had ever felt—

The faces of the ones he'd tried to protect.

The silence when they died.

The laughter of enemies over his screams.

The silence after his own voice gave out.

The sting of hope. The collapse when it turned false.

He didn't fall.

He broke.

Not into pieces.

Into fragments.

Memory sliced into memory, stacked on top of each other, layered until breath meant recalling agony. Until blinking meant another flash of a face that begged to be saved.

And he couldn't.

And he didn't.

Merlin collapsed in the memory space.

Hands shaking.

Heart racing like it was running away without him.

'This isn't just watching,' he thought. 'I'm inside this. Every scar. Every scream. Every failure. It's real.'

And worst of all—

He couldn't scream either.

Because Rathan didn't.

He just breathed through it.

For centuries.