Misunderstood Hero: My Family Are All Villains

’This is all my fault.’

The thought clung to Malik, heavy and suffocating.

He could not shake it, nor could he outrun it.

It followed him through the streets, past the smoking ruins of the collapsed house, past the scattered soldiers picking themselves up from the cobblestones, past the rebels tending to their wounded.

’This misery is all my fault.’

The funeral procession moved slowly through the morning light.

Suns had risen, ever so indifferent, casting their light upon the cemetery.

Malik stood before four graves.

They were fresh with the dirt still dark.

Desert flowers had been laid at each grave, wilting in the heat.

A small crowd had gathered in front of him, their heads bowed. The priest spoke words that Malik did not hear.

He remained lurking at the edge of the funeral, a stranger among mourners.

One grave was heartbreakingly small.

A child’s grave.

There, a toy rabbit, worn and missing an eye, had been placed at its foot. Someone had tucked it there gently, arranging its little arms as if it were sleeping.

’The bell will toll...’

Indeed, the family had comprised four, not three.

’It always does.’

Four innocents who did not need to die.

Four Souls that fell on his heavy shoulders.

Malik had learned their names that morning, when the bodies had been brought back from the kingdom of Aram.

He had read them off a list, had forced himself to look at the faces, had memorized every detail so he would never forget.

He believed that he had done what was right, what he thought was necessary, what would give the world a chance to be decent.

Four people had died because of it.

’No matter how much I try to stop it.’

He should’ve ignored the soldiers and gone after the fake sultan faster.

’The bell always tolls.’

A broken smile crossed his face.

Despite his lack of memory, he had seen many things.

Too many.

When the stomach ingested poison, it at least had a purge function of sorts to get rid of it, a violent rejection that cleansed the body of what harmed it.

The brain had no such luxury.

There was no vomiting up the things you had seen, having carved themselves into your mind.

Every death, every failure, every moment of weakness—it all stayed and festered.

Malik had no such luxury.

And this was another on that very long list.

’All of it... I was too reckless. I didn’t act like a Sultan should.’

The priest’s voice droned on.

Someone was crying, a woman, her sobs muffled by a handkerchief.

The wind picked up, rustling the flowers, scattering petals across the graves.

’I began to look outward when I didn’t even look inward. What was I thinking?’

He had been so focused on the invaders, factions, Fear Points, the quests, and the endless grind of war that he had forgotten his people. The families hiding in caves as a result of his actions, praying for a future they might not live to see.

’Was I so focused on gaining Fear Points that I had forgotten my goal?’

His goal was simple: protect his people.

Driving out the invaders, ending Corruption, and everything else were a means to that end.

But before he realized it, and so very quickly, the ’means’ had become the ’end.’

The numbers had become the purpose.

He had started treating fear like currency to be hoarded and spent.

’How could I be so stupid?’

A small hand tugged at his sleeve.

’How...’

A little boy stood beside him, seven or eight, with dark hair, darker eyes, and a face that hadn’t yet learned how to hide what it felt.

His cheeks were wet.

"Excuse me, Uncle. Are you okay?"

Malik stared at him.

The boy stared back.

"Ah!"

That was when the boy’s father suddenly appeared, out of breath, his face flushed.

"I’m so sorry, sir—he didn’t mean to—we were just—"

He grabbed the boy’s hand and tried to pull him away.

But the boy didn’t move.

"Baba..."

He looked up at his father with earnest eyes.

"Are we all going to die?"

The father froze, as did Malik.

"The bad men... the i-invaders. Are they going to win?"

The boy sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

"Should we... should we just give up? Maybe they could protect us. Like the Sultan was supposed to."

The father’s face crumpled.

He knelt down, bringing himself to his son’s level, and placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders.

His eyes were wet, and his jaw was tight, but when he spoke, his voice was steady:

"Son, we aim for victory, of course. We always do. But sometimes, victory eludes us. That is life... at least it is ours. Yet even in those times, I see us as victorious."

The boy tilted his head, not understanding.

"I don’t get it."

The father revealed a sad smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

"We are victorious because we choose to resist despite the odds. That is our promise to the Sultan, one that we will never stop believing."

He pulled the boy into a hug and held him close.

"I hope that one day, you will come to understand that as well, my dear son."

The boy buried his face in his father’s shoulder and cried.

"I-I’ll try, Baba."

Malik kept watching them.

He watched the father hold his son, watched the son cling to his father, watched them both shake with sobs that they tried to hide from each other.

The Sultan wasn’t sure why.

He wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

But those words settled into his chest, sending ripples through the numbness.

Although they weren’t addressed to him, Malik likely felt them the most.

He really needed to hear such words to continue as he did.

Malik had already expected that death would follow him in his path.

The bell would always toll.

He had known that from the moment he raised his hand and swore to protect his people.

But now he had also reconfirmed what he fought for.

The mantle he wore.

It was only a surprise that it had come from a random father in the middle of a funeral.

Malik let out a long sigh, carrying the weight of everything he could not say, and turned away from the graves.

He walked towards the cemetery’s exit, finding an old oak at the edge of the grounds. The shade beneath it was deep and cool, inviting him in.

Malik sat down with his back against the trunk.

After many moments of stillness, he looked up at the sky.

The Suns had climbed higher now, their light filtering through the leaves. Birds sang somewhere in the distance.

Devil’s Maw went on.

Time was cruel.

He began to wonder what he would do from now on.

The rebels had their outpost. The fake sultan was dead. The soldiers he had saved were scattered across the kingdom, some injured, some fleeing, some perhaps reconsidering their choices.

His work here was done.

But how would he even get home?

He had no Rukh for teleportation, was unable to use Soul Glyphs, and had no way to contact the Guard of the Fifth.

In other words, he was stranded, alone, in a kingdom that did not know him.

Malik sighed again.

Only to pause.

Before him was...

"Dunya?"

Of course, it was she who found him.

She stood at the edge of the shade, wearing the same maid dress, her hands clasped in front of her.

Her smile was soft, and her purple eyes were as bright as ever.

It seemed no matter where he went in this world, sweet Dunya would always find him.

Without ceremony, she walked close and sat next to him. Her shoulder brushed his, and then she gently leaned, her weight settling against him.

Her warmth spread through his robes, chasing away the cold that had settled into his bones, for when she leaned, she was all but embracing him.

Malik had always been a more touchy person.

Words could be false...

But not touch—never that.

At least not to him.

So Dunya, being unable to speak, naturally filled all his wants for touch. Her mere presence was a loop of small mercies.

Yes, she could not fix the world, nor could she bring back the four innocents buried beneath the earth, but she could sit with him while it cracked, and that was enough.

No longer were they a Sultan and his loyal maid.

It was a big brother and his little sister.

"Hee..."

Dunya was comforting him, knowing that he ached with this loss.

She didn’t know his role in the tragedy that had unfolded, nor did she care to know; all she wanted was to be there for him.

Her hands found his arm and squeezed.

They anchored him to the present.

As did her words.

[It might seem like it, and in most ways, it might be true. But don’t forget, even then, you are not alone.]

Malik read the words.

Then he read them again.

His chest loosened, just a little.

So he let his head tilt back against her, a surrender.

"...I know."

He squeezed her delicate hands back.

"Thank you."

Dunya’s smile became even brighter.

Malik found his eyes fluttering shut.

He was too tired.

His body ached, and his mind spun.

It felt he had been wrung dry and left to hang.

And her presence made him feel safe.

It awakened his sleep, calling it forth from the depths where he had been suppressing it.

"Hee... ♪ hee, hee~... ♪"

It certainly did not help that she began to hum. Her soft voice—such as it was—did not lend itself to song.

"Hee... ♪ hee!"

But she tried. Or at least, she tried to try. Malik didn’t seem put off by it, however, as if he had heard her hum many times before.

"Hee... hee~... heeeeee... ♪"

What came next was too sweet for a world as cruel as this.

"Heeeeee—ee~... ♪"

A little sister singing her big brother to sleep.