Chapter 81
Shaqar's footsteps, once rhythmic along the cobblestone path, suddenly halted.
A touch landed on his shoulder without warning, cold, heavy, and carrying something beyond mere concern.
Apathy's left hand lingered there only for a moment, yet it was enough to make Shaqar's breath catch in his throat.
All the words he had just scattered about "light activities" and "the wishlist of two old men before going on a mission" stopped as if time itself had pressed the pause button.
He blinked once, a reflex born from a small shock that he could not conceal.
In a fraction of a second, silence descended like a fog, enveloping the street, the abandoned dining table, even the air that had just carried Shaqar's faint laughter.
Apathy took a few steps forward before stopping and turning.
His face was bathed in the dim light dripping from the lanterns along the street, casting long shadows over features already claimed by age.
Now they stood facing each other, two figures who had weathered the same storm yet carried different scars.
Apathy's gaze was no longer just a comrade's glance; it pierced deeper, beyond the mask of fatigue and Shaqar's earlier idle chatter.
No words were spoken, yet in that silence, Apathy seemed to say that he understood.
He knew that all those recent laughs were merely Shaqar's way of warding off the ghosts still lingering inside him.
Shaqar swallowed slowly, striving to control himself.
Apathy's gaze left him feeling exposed, as if every effort to appear strong had crumbled in an instant.
Within his teammate's eyes, he saw something he had long avoided.
Pity.
And for Shaqar, that was more painful than anger or insult.
He tried to straighten his posture, attempting to reclaim the authority that had wavered, but his chest felt heavy.
In his heart, he cursed himself for letting Apathy see the fragile side he had kept so tightly sealed.
Yet beneath that stiffness, there was a quiet voice, almost like a hidden whisper from his own heart.
Perhaps, only on nights like this, did he need someone to remind him to stop pretending everything was alright.
"Is there something you want to say, Apathy?"
"Yes, more precisely, there is something I should have said long ago.
About how sad it is for a sixty-year-old man to keep hiding behind the words 'responsibility' and 'sacrifice,' when in truth, he is merely running from the wounds he created himself.
Do you know the saddest part of all this, Shaqar?
It's not losing your family.
It's not Miara's refusal to call you father.
But the fact that you never truly tried to restore anything.
You had time, years, even decades, yet you chose silence.
As if silence could prove love."
Wussssh!
"I have seen many old veterans in Xirkushkartum die with honor, but very few die with the courage to apologize.
And you, Shaqar, your fear is not of enemies, but of your own child's gaze.
That is far more disgraceful than all betrayals ever witnessed on the battlefield."
Apathy exhaled, a short but deep breath carrying the remnants of fatigue and disappointment that could not be fully concealed.
In the dampening air, his exhale sounded like a murmur of reproach.
He stared at Shaqar for a long moment, with eyes no longer soft as before.
Something bitter flowed across his face, a mixture of concern and irritation weathered by experience.
Within Apathy's gaze, an unspoken judgment was clear.
How could a man who once stood at the frontlines against sacred beings now be unable to meet his daughter's eyes?
The light flickering across Apathy's face sharpened the look, as if each blink carried a subtle condemnation born from love long neglected.
Shaqar did not respond.
Words felt like burdens, something that would shatter if he tried to release them.
He simply stood, letting the unspoken words pierce him like a cold blade slowly spreading through his chest.
Apathy watched him, lips moving slightly, as someone no longer able to suppress moral outrage.
His tone was flat, but his firmness struck like a hammer repeatedly hitting the stone of awareness.
He lamented how time seemed to change nothing in Shaqar, how guilt that should have sparked courage had instead become a place to hide.
In every exhaled word, Apathy affirmed that regret without courage is merely cowardice wrapped in excuses.
Shaqar felt something in his throat.
A mix of shame and unspeakable tightness.
He wanted to fight back, to explain that his life was not as black-and-white as Apathy believed.
That there were days when choices were no longer about right or wrong, but about who would be hurt less.
Yet even to explain this, his tongue felt heavy.
He only bowed his head slightly, gazing at the ground now damp with dew, and there he saw the faint reflection of his own face, older than it should be.
The shadow revealed a failed father, a husband always late, and a man too patient, waiting for an opportunity to redeem something that had vanished.
"...."
But instead of softening, Shaqar felt something else grow in his chest—a warmth, hard and pulsing wildly like embers fanned by wind.
He clenched his right hand so tightly that the joints whitened, restraining the explosion coalescing in his chest.
No tears came.
Nor the quiet acceptance of regret.
Only old anger arose, fury at himself, at Apathy who dared speak the truth with judgment, and at a world that forced him to carry the burden of the past without a chance at atonement.
A subtle vibration traveled from fingertip to arm, and though his body seemed solid, his shoulders quivered slightly, like an ancient mountain enduring a quake deep within the earth.
Shaqar's gaze at Apathy was no longer empty surrender.
Behind eyes aged sixty, a small long-buried flame flickered—an ember that once dared to challenge Angels and Sacred Beings without fear.
But this time, the fire burned inward, consuming every memory and guilt that ensnared him.
Shaqar restrained himself from speaking, knowing that a single word could shatter the last remnants of control he still held.
And in the silence, Apathy could see it.
The old man before him was at war, not with others, but with himself.
The air around them tensed, acknowledging the struggle unfolding beneath skin and bone.
Shaqar's breathing grew heavier, slightly trembling but forcibly restrained, like a wounded creature refusing to collapse.
His eyes remained fixed on Apathy—a look not of hatred, but a blend of pain and determination slowly reshaping him.
He gazed as if to say he could still stand, that though his past sins remained, he would not allow himself to be crushed by the same guilt again.
'That hand will strike soon, perhaps toward my face or my stomach.
But it's alright.
I will not retreat, not now.'
"Do you think a punch can deny the truth, Shaqar?
You may strike my face, but it will not change who you are.
You remain the sixty-year-old man trembling before the simplest act—apologizing to your own child.
How many accolades have you earned in Xirkushkartum?
Fifteen? Twenty? Or more?
None of that will ever replace the courage you never had.
You can lead as a captain, guide dozens of Satanic soldiers through perilous fields, but you cannot lead yourself across the distance between your home and your wife's grave."
Tsuuuuf!
To be continued…