You all-- after I. Recovered. I still don't know why you all thought that I-- [ He cuts himself off. This isn't about that. Bariyan distracts himself by drinking. When he comes back down, he looks away, slumping against the wall with his forehead pressed to concrete. And the rest comes out not in a rush, but in a slow drip. ]
But Martin did die. I killed him. He died by my hand. [ He sounds strangely flat. ] I've done so much wrong by that child, and I thought that was the worst of it, but -- it was over, then. I thought I was done. I thought -- at least -- I thought I had finally sent him home. As I had promised.
[ He is silent for a while.
Over. He had thought it finished. Eight months and then some, and done. He had thought it a passing moment, Darkov blinking in and back out of his life before he could even start to reach for the boy. Eight months. Not even a year. Nearly nothing, and had Bariyan gone on, he knew that he would have forgotten the boy's voice and his face and all his sadness, and he knew that his grief would have eventually faded to a dull ache. As all things did. He would have moved on. There would have been more mistakes, more sorrows, other children, other chances for a redemption that he would never achieve. He knew all that, even then, but he did grieve, and he had left the city, and he had found....
He looks at Koltira, now, eyes dull and spiritless. ]
I brought him back, Koltira. He was dead, and I brought him back.
And I-- [ Once more, Bariyan turns away. His next words come quiet and slow, heavy with guilt. ] --I do not know that I did the right thing.
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But Martin did die. I killed him. He died by my hand. [ He sounds strangely flat. ] I've done so much wrong by that child, and I thought that was the worst of it, but -- it was over, then. I thought I was done. I thought -- at least -- I thought I had finally sent him home. As I had promised.
[ He is silent for a while.
Over. He had thought it finished. Eight months and then some, and done. He had thought it a passing moment, Darkov blinking in and back out of his life before he could even start to reach for the boy. Eight months. Not even a year. Nearly nothing, and had Bariyan gone on, he knew that he would have forgotten the boy's voice and his face and all his sadness, and he knew that his grief would have eventually faded to a dull ache. As all things did. He would have moved on. There would have been more mistakes, more sorrows, other children, other chances for a redemption that he would never achieve. He knew all that, even then, but he did grieve, and he had left the city, and he had found....
He looks at Koltira, now, eyes dull and spiritless. ]
I brought him back, Koltira. He was dead, and I brought him back.
And I-- [ Once more, Bariyan turns away. His next words come quiet and slow, heavy with guilt. ] --I do not know that I did the right thing.