The scene shifted.
Atticus now stood within the labor room. Freya's frail body rested in his arms as he desperately tried to keep her from crying.
He was laughing. His mother and father were laughing. He was happy. Genuinely happy. No overwhelming power was needed. No swords. No will. Just… presence.
The others soon rushed into the room, and before long, laughter and jokes filled the air.
Atticus exhaled a shuddering breath, tears flowing freely. He had really lost this. All of this. There was really no turning back…?
Now, what the hell was he supposed to do? It was over. It was all over.
Atticus turned and left the room.
He walked. Time no longer seemed to matter. Hundreds of kilometers. Thousands. Millions. He had no idea. There was no longer any reason to live. They were dead.
Suddenly, the sound of sobbing drifted through the haze clouding his mind. Then Atticus found himself standing in the middle of a cemetery.
