It was a cold, gray day late in Star's Dusk when they held the funeral. The wind was light, but it tore through one's clothes and settled into their bones just as easily if it had been a full gale. A few tenacious brown leaves clung valiantly to skeletal branches. Fine snowflakes dusted the many headstones that populated Falkreath's cemetery. Except for the emaciated forms of the trees, everything was white and gray.

Not many people came. Partly it was because snow was in the air. More than usual anyway. With a blizzard coming, folks couldn't afford to mourn those gone, not when they needed to protect those still breathing. Partly it was the fading light. The days were so short now, there was never enough time to finish the never ending chores. But mostly, they didn't come because it was a babe being buried, and no one ever expected the littlest ones to survive the worst of the cold during the winter. The world was just too cruel during the cold winter months and lives were lost every year. What was the sense of mourning the inevitable ?

Freba, the baby's mother, mourned anyway. Her face was red and chapped like everyone else's, but from grief and not just the bitter cold. Despite being muffled behind her hands, her wails pierced through Vigik's brain as easily as an ice pick. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He exhaled slowly as he counted to ten. His head was already throbbing from last night's drink; his wife's bawling only made it worse. Instead of a troop of horses parading through his skull, it was now more like miners were driving their axes into it. Picking away at his patience until he saw nothing but red.

He grabbed Freba's wrist, forcing her hands away from her face. He leaned close, as if to give some words of comfort. Instead he hissed, "Dammit, woman, keep it under control."

Freba ceased crying, although she couldn't stop from sniffling. She ducked her head down, wiping her face with her free hand. Tears leaked down her cheeks, but that was fine. They fell silently. Vigik could deal with that.

"Let her mourn," Ysotta scowled. She stood on Freba's other side in her rightful place as sister. While Freba was bent over, curled upon herself, Ysotta stood tall and strong. Vigik hated the nosy sibling, but he had to respect her for not falling apart like Freba. She wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. "She lost her firstborn last night. What woman wouldn't weep at such a loss? Especially after the child had been so healthy and hale?"

Her piercing pale gaze made Vigik glance away. "It was less than a year old. Little ones are buried all the time. We knew the odds when we had one." He coughed. "There'll be more."

"Aye, mayhap. I just pray they'll be luckier than this one." Ysotta smoothed Freba's hair the same way she soothed skittish horses in the stables. "Come on, sis. Let's go to the crypt and you can say your goodbyes to your babe personally. Okay?"

Freba said nothing. She merely nodded in agreement, her watery hiccup punctuating the motion. As the two women walked away, Ysotta shot a dirty glance Vigik's way. She couldn't have known what had happened. Freba never would have dared to tell. Even if she had, there hadn't been a chance for her to confide in her sister. Still, Ysotta suspected something.

Vigik pushed the thought away. Let the nosy spinister ruminate on whatever theories and guesses she had. That's all she had. Instead he focused on the priest of Arkay who was standing a discreet distance away.

"Thank you for showing us the plot where the baby will be buried when the ground thaws," Vigik said gruffly. He gestured to the patch of ground they had gathered around. When it got warmer, he would chisel a little headstone to mark the spot. A waste of time and talent, but he would look poorly if he didn't place something over the grave. "It means a lot to my wife. I'm sure it's hard to tell, but she appreciates everything you've done for us."

"I've seen a great deal of grief in my life," Rulindil said kindly. The Altmer had been the head gravekeeper here Vigik's entire life, and long before that. "I understand she has other, more pressing, issues to resolve right now. My pride is not wounded by her sorrow."

"Hm," Vigik grunted. "She should still remember the living."

"Let her mourn. It is her right and burden as a parent. Yours too when you're ready."

Vigik looked towards the crypt where bodies were held until the weather was warm enough for burial. Freba's wailing had taken up again. At least it was now dulled by the thick stone. He wouldn't miss the baby. Not one bit.

That night Vigik tried to work on a carved figurehead for a cane that had been commissioned weeks ago. The parton had been patient at first when given excuses about how a newborn had made it difficult to work well on a detailed piece, but he had slowly become more and more insistent as time passed. Vigik had tried to explain that inspiration came when it did and that haranguing did no good, but the customer wouldn't listen. He had planned on giving it as a gift to his grandfather, and couldn't afford to wait much longer. If the piece wasn't finished by New Life's Day, then he wouldn't pay the other half of the commission.

Vigik prefered working with stone over wood, but it was difficult to properly carve the hard material during the winter. The chill seeped into his fingers, leaving them swollen and stiff. As he got older, it had gotten worse and worse. The throb in his joints half drove him mad, at least until he drank. The liquid warmth of ale helped chase away all traces of the cold.

The problem was that drinking drove away other thoughts too. Pretty much any coherent thought until morning, leaving no memories other than gray fog behind. Last night had been such a night. He had come back from the tavern, chilled to the bone despite the short walk. The warm cheer he had imbibed was already starting to fade. Clearly he needed to rekindle that fire in his belly with more fuel!

He had clattered in the cabinets looking for a bottle of something to drink when the baby woke. The damn colicky thing immediately began crying. Vigik couldn't remember the last time he had a decent night's sleep. Definitely not since that brat had been born months earlier. His head throbbed all the time from its constant howling, demanding to be fed or held or burped or some other unfathomable need. Of course all these desires were expressed one way and one way only-crying, crying, crying.

"Shut up, just for once in your miserable, wretched life. Shut up!" Vigik had screamed.

Freba had bolted awake from where she had fallen asleep in her chair. She had murmured his name in the way those suddenly woken do as he had stalked past her to the crib. He had reached down and grabbed the baby. Picked it up and shook it, trying to get it to stop its infernal racket.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up."

"Vigik, you're hurting him!" Freba had wailed. She had jumped up and had tried to restrain him. The baby had cried even louder. Vigik had shook Freba off his arm, now seeing red. As she fell away, the back of his hand caught her face, slapping her hard enough to knock her to the ground. Her scream of pain drove through his head more than the piercing sobs of the baby.

They were both against him. Neither of them cared about his needs, just their own. Selfish, ungrateful brat and bitch. Vigik lashed out and kicked Freba in the side hard enough that he almost lost his grip on the baby. For a moment it had tottered in his grasp before settling into the crook of his arm. Instead of being thankful, it had only cried harder.

"You shut up too! I can't think with all this damn noise!" A red mist had settled over his vision. When Vigik was like this, all thought was impossible. Freba had wisely clammed up, but the baby wouldn't stop. Vigik harshly placed it back in the crib, hard enough to make it bounce on the thin mattress. If it would be quiet for one night, for one minute, he could relax and everything would be fine. "I'm so sick of your whining, you brat!"

He picked up the baby's pillow and pushed it over the infant's face. It wiggled underneath, its cries thankfully muffled. Vigik pressed harder to cover it more, and after a few minutes it stopped.

Vigik sighed with relief. He stumbled back to the cabinet to finally find his drink and was downing it while Freba checked the crib. He winced when she started yelling.

"You monster! What have you done?" she cried. She pointed inside the crib. "What did you do to the baby?"

"Nothing," he said defensively. "I put the pup in its place. It doesn't need to bawl all the time."

"You killed him, Vigik," Freba said. She shook violently as she reached into the crib. She took a deep breath and calmed her hands as she picked up the delicate bundle. She examined the baby closely, who was still and quiet in a way it never was when she held it. "He's dead. You killed him. How could you?"

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she pressed her head against the baby's. They fell on the baby and trekked down its own cheeks as if she wept for both of them.

Vigik jumped up and took the baby away from Freba. He didn't bother to check it, it was obvious she was right. He put it back into its crib and covered it with its blanket. "It died in its sleep."

"Vigik," Freba gasped, "what are you saying?"

Thoughts ran through Vigik's head. How people would whisper about him. How no one would hire him as a carver again. How they would call him baby killer. He couldn't allow that. "Babies die all the time during the winter. Sometimes they go to bed and don't wake up. It happens. That's what happened here."

"Vigik, we can't do that," Freba protested.

He grabbed her by the upper arm and pulled her close. She flinched from the heat of his breath, possibly also from the stench of booze. "We can and we are. Do you think they won't take me to prison for this? Do you think you could survive on your own? Would anyone want to associate with a woman whose husband is a child killer?" He shook her for emphasis. "You are to tell no one. Especially that sister of yours. You don't breath a word of this to anyone. Not if you know what is good for you."

Freba glanced at the crib, the unspoken threat between them. She lowered her gaze and shrank within herself. "Yes, Vigik."

He had slept well the rest of the night.

"Freba, you need to eat more. You're wasting away." Ysotta pushed the barely-touched bowl of stew towards her sister. She squeezed Freba's hand before placing the spoon back in her hand. "Please."

It broke her heart as she watched Freba take a few listless bites. It had been almost three months since her baby had died, but Freba still mourned as if it was only a few days. Ysotta knew she would never understand the pain her sister was suffering, but she had hoped it would get easier with time. So far no luck.

Freba, despite being two years older, had always been the more fragile of the two. Shy and skittish as a maid, she had finally blossomed as a mother. The baby had brought a joy to her life nothing else had. She had quietly tended to the baby, never complaining about its colic or sleepless nights.

Ysotta wasn't sure if it was because Freba was a good mother or if she was a born martyr. Vigik was not a kind man, and although Freba had never said anything about abuse, Ysotta had not missed the signs. Long sleeves in warm weather, high-necked shirts, hair worn loose to hide her face. It made her sick to think anyone would hit her gentle sister, much less her husband.

More than that, it filled her with a bitter rage. She felt helpless when she saw how emaciated Freba had become in the last few months. She always looked down, and she flinched at the slightest loud noise. She barely talked to Ysotta any more, when once they had shared everything. They had been as close as sisters could be, best friends who whispered hopes and dreams to each other under the covers at night in the bed they shared as children. Now Ysotta was lucky to get a glimpse of Freba. It had taken days of persuading to even get Freba to meet her at the tavern for dinner.

"Freba, you can't go on like this. Vigik is bad for you. You need to leave him," Ysotta said. Freba froze, much like a deer before a sabre cat. Ysotta knew her next sentence might drive Freba away, but she had to try. She had come too far to stop now. "I know he killed the baby. I don't know how or why, but I know he did it. And he'll do the same to you if you stay with him."

At least her sister had the good grace to not deny it. She hunched over her stew, practically burying her face in the bowl. "You can't say anything to anyone," she whispered, barely audible over the barrier of her arms. "He'll think I said something. He'll get so mad."

Ysotta took Freba's hands, mentally flinching at how cold and brittle they felt. Like the body of a dead sparrow she had once found. "I want you to meet someone. He'll help. I promise." She gestured, and a man who had been sitting on the other side of the tavern stood up and joined them.

He was a middle-aged Redguard and wore the traditional clothes of his people. He was handsome, but there was no kindness in his eyes. Not full of petty cruelty like Vigik, but simply uncaring about the rest of the world. Mocking even. "My name is Nazir," he said as an introduction. "I heard you've been having some… domestic issues lately."

"How can he help?" Freba demanded, refusing to look at the stranger.

Before Ysotta could respond, Nazir answered, "Depends on the kind of help you want. My friends could make your husband just disappear one day. Poof. Gone like magic. Or if you want something more visceral, make more of a statement, that can be arranged too. Of course, details cost extra."

"Oh my gods, Ysotta, is he...?" Freba covered her mouth with her hand.

"Just tell him about Vigik," Ysotta insisted. She knew if she told Freba who Nazir represented then she would make a scene. Or worse. Probably go running to Vigik and warn him. She had to ease her sister into the idea. "I'll give you some privacy. Just tell him about your relationship and any… difficulties you might have had. Anything you couldn't talk to anyone else about. Okay? For me, please."

"It'll be like talking to a wall," Nazir promised. He held his hand up as if to say Companion's honor. "Nothing you tell me will go past these lips. Think of it as a confession."

"Are you a priest?" Freba asked warily, looking for an amulet to indicate his faith.

"Of a sorts," Nazir chuckled. "But don't worry. We don't convert."

After Freba nodded, Ysotta excused herself. She breathed a huge sigh of relief as she watched Freba whisper to the Redguard. The two of them leaned close like conspirators as Freba finally spoke to someone about her miserable marriage. Maybe sharing her secrets would make the truth easier for Freba.

Ysotta had performed the Black Sacrament, a blasphemous ritual to summon a member of the Dark Brotherhood. Nazir was here so he could discuss arrangements to kill Vigik. It had taken weeks of repeating the ritual, a grotesque effigy of murder using a skeleton and stabbing it over and over while chanting, "Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear." It had left her feeling sullied, but she refused to allow anyone to hurt her sister as Vigik had. Or to hurt her poor, sweet nephew. Any price would be worth paying.

Normally Ysotta would be the one discussing this matter with Nazir. But she couldn't risk Freba going into an even deeper depression if her husband was found killed or suddenly disappeared. She was so damaged now, Ysotta feared that she would do something drastically fatal to herself. And she couldn't bear that.

So she had arranged for Freba to meet Nazir, tell her story, and decide from there on how to deal with Vigik. Maybe she would be willing, maybe she would refuse. Maybe she would finally realize there were other options like divorce or just leaving. Ysotta would go with her in a second. There was nothing to hold either of them here. They could travel to Solitude or even Windhelm. Any place was better than where Vigik was.

After about an hour of whispering, Nazir and Freba stood up. She hugged him, waved to Ysotta, and left the tavern. Ysotta made her way back to Nazir. "How did it go?" she asked nervously.

"She got a lot off her chest," Nazir said. "She said she needed some time to think about what I had offered. She will meet us tomorrow to make a final decision."

"Is that okay with you?"

He shrugged, completely relaxed with the idea of discussing the price of murder. "It makes no difference to me. As long as you pay for my time, I don't care what you want done. A day or two matters little to me."

"Thank you," Ysotta said. "Thank you for all your help!"

"As long as you feel that way when this is all done," Nazir sighed. "I hate when a patron changes her mind and gets mad at me for doing my job."

This time the funeral was in the spring. Early enough that there were still light flurries fluttering to the ground, but also warm enough to make the earth soft enough to dig the grave. A small crowd had gathered around the gravesite, both to offer their condolences and to whisper among themselves what a shame it was for Freba to die so young and so soon after losing her child. How would poor Vigik manage after the double tragedy?

"At least they're being buried together," they murmured. It was worthy of a song of any bard, especially since her blue-skinned body had been found atop the plot they had purchased for the child. Obviously, in her extended grief, the mother had gone out to the cemetery and frozen to death atop the final resting place of her child.

Only Ysotta believed otherwise. Freba had still being mourning, but she had seemed better after meeting Nazir. Not happy, but at least hopeful for a new life without Vigik. He must have suspected something, or his temper had snapped again. Whatever the reason, Freba was gone.

She had kept her accusations to herself. It wouldn't bring her sister back, and there was no proof for the guards. Besides, she had already sold her soul to have him dealt with.

Ysotta was the last person at the grave. Vigik had left hours ago to join some of his friends for drinks to drown his sorrows. Typical male Nord behavior, nothing to make anyone suspicious of his grief. Not that Ysotta could criticize in that aspect. She had been stony-faced during the entire wake and funeral. It was only now that everyone was gone that she could weep over the loss of her sister and best friend.

"I'm so, so sorry," she said, her voice cracking on the last word. "I should have done something more. I should have made him leave. Or made you leave. Or something. Instead, I just stood aside, knowing that he treated you poorly. Killed your babe. Killed you. I'm so very sorry."

She quickly brushed her face dry and wiped her nose clean when she noticed motion out of the corner of her eye. It had been slight, and she probably wouldn't have noticed it any other time, but right now her senses were heightened, on the lookout for any other mourners.

Her visitors were two Imperials-a dark-haired woman and a redheaded man. The woman's features were obscured by a shawl, presumably to keep the snow off her face. The man, meanwhile, was barefaced both of cloth and facial hair. But he had the biggest grin Ysotta had ever seen. She couldn't help but suspect he was a bit Void-touched.

"We're sorry for your loss," the woman murmured. She nodded to indicate the grave. "I wish we had prevented this."

"There was nothing you could have done," Ysotta replied, puzzled by the woman's choice of words. "I'm sorry, but have we met? I don't remember you."

"Maybe, who knows?" the woman shrugged.

"Did you know Freba?" It was unlikely since Freba had not liked strangers and had never left Falkreath.

"No."

"Then why are you here?" Ysotta yelled. She just wanted to be left alone with her grief for a while, and these two strangers were bothering her.

"We're here because of you," the woman said. She pulled out a nightshade flower and threw it on the grave. Nightshade, the flower used in the summoning ritual. It only grew where the dead lay.

Ysotta gasped, realizing who this pair represented. Then she gritted her teeth. "You're too late."

"Too late for justice maybe," the man laughed, startling Ysotta. His high-pitched voice felt out of place in the somber cemetery. "But it's never too late for vengeance. And vengeance is what we offer." His smile turned predatory. "Are you still interested in vengeance?"

"Yes," Ysotta said without hesitating, "but there's something different I want you to do now. A bonus. Nazir mentioned you people often took a bonus contract for an additional fee. I'll pay whatever you want."

"We're listening," the woman said.

Vigik woke to a horrible headache, an unfortunately normal occurrence. This was worse than usual. Usually, his head pounded like a blacksmith at his anvil. Today it felt like a rotten melon balanced on a windowsill, waiting to split open.

His hands throbbed too. Also not unusual. The cold had been seeping into his bones more lately. Freba might not have been good for much, but at least she had known how to rub the ointment into his wrists to help keep the pain at bay. Now no matter how much he rubbed, there was always a low grade of pain lying beneath the surface of his hands.

What was unusual was that he woke from a slumped position in one of his high-backed chairs. Even during his worst blackouts, he usually made it to his bed. On the rare occasion that he didn't, he would awaken sprawled across the dining table. Vigik cast his memory to the night before. He remembered going out to drink and leaving to walk home. But nothing after that. When he tried to rub his forehead, he found that he couldn't move his arms. Cracking his eyes open further, he saw that they were tied to the table in front of him. That was definitely wrong.

"Looks like our host is finally awake," a man's voice cackled. Vigik looked up to see two figures looming in the dark. One of them lit a candle, revealing that they wore grotesque masks. The masks' features were twisted, exaggerated expressions. And they both wore jester outfits.

"I know who you are," Vigik gasped. "Comedy and Tragedy. Assassins for the Dark Brotherhood." Sweat started to pour down his face. The duo was famous. There were stories of how they would massacre an entire legion of Stormcloak soldiers, leaving one broken witness to share the tale. They were legends. They were monsters. They were in his house.

"It's so good to be recognized. Saves us the trouble of explaining ourselves," Tragedy purred. Vigik thought it was a woman, but it was difficult to tell. She leaned back in a chair that matched the one he was in, running a hand over the woodwork. "Good work this. Must have taken you a long time."

"It did!" he said. Maybe they were here to coerce him to make something for them. Whatever they wanted, he would do. He had no intention of getting on the Brotherhood's bad side. "I put a lot of love and care into all my pieces. If there's anything you need, just name it."

"Ho, ho, ho. He thinks to buy our affection," Comedy giggled. He danced around behind Tragedy, a red blur of restless activity. "But our price has already been paid."

"What?" Vigik cried. He strained against his bonds. "You're here to kill me? I haven't done anything wrong!"

"I'm sure you believe that," Tragedy said. She lounged on her chair, draping her legs over the armrest, making Vigik flinch at the disregard for his work. "You definitely don't live like a man who feels guilty. No loss of appetite. No loss of sleep. Definitely no loss of love of booze. But you don't live like a man who mourns the loss of his wife and child either."

"It's not my fault they died!" Vigik yelled. The baby had refused to shut up. Freba had wept just as much, if not as loudly. And then he had heard about her talking to strange men behind his back. He had been so ashamed when his friends had laughed at him. And when he had confronted her about it, she had denied it. Lied to him further. The red haze had descended, and the next thing he knew he was dragging her body out to the cemetery. "It's not my fault!"

"Believe it or not, we're not here to judge," Tragedy reassured him.

"We're here as the executioners!" Comedy exclaimed. He hefted a huge daedric axe and cackled madly. Vigik screamed as the blade fell, only for it to embed itself on the table before him. Comedy laughed harder as he danced away.

"Don't worry, we're not here to kill you," Tragedy said, laughter in her voice.

"But, you, I, but," Vigik stammered. He wished he could move his hands so he could wipe the tears off his face. His heart thudded in his chest.

"As Comedy said, the price has been paid. Both in gold and blood," Tragedy said. She gestured casually. "We've decided the death of your wife, Sithis rest her soul, satisfies our Mother's kiss."

"Then why are you here?"

"Vengeance." Tragedy sat up and reached for Vigik. He tried to flinch away, but the bonds holding him in place were too secure. She gently took one of his hands into both of hers, running her gloved fingers over each finger as if memorizing the detail and shape of them. "You take great care of your hands. Most people have dry, chapped hands from working the fields in the cold. But not you."

She removed a glove and laid her hand beside his. Vigik could see that it was indeed a woman's hand and it had the callouses of a blacksmith. "See? Even I have rough hands and I don't live the typically harsh life of a Nord. Your hands are smooth, and not from lack of work. I've seen you carving, bringing the images out from the wood. You treat your hands as well as any of your other tools."

"You understand," Vigik whispered. Most people didn't realize how much effort he put into his work. How much of himself. How he had to take care of his hands because he sacrificed them to painstakingly pull the beautiful from the wood. "I told you I put a lot of love and care into my work."

"I know," Tragedy said. She patted his hand, her rough skin against his, before putting her glove back on. "That's why this is going to hurt so much."

As fast as lightning, Comedy picked up the axe and dropped it again. This time instead of harmlessly landing on the table, it cut off his left hand's pinky finger. Vigik screamed from both surprise and pain. His detached finger jittered on the table, seemingly unaware it was no longer part of him.

Fear coursed through Vigik, but he tried to control it. His hand hurt and it would be harder to carve without a finger, but it was just his pinky and it was on his off-hand. They had already promised they wouldn't kill him. So, they must be trying to scare him.

"I'll give you whatever you want!" Vigik promised. "Please."

Tragedy picked up his finger and examined it like a piece of fruit before dropping it back on the table. "I want you to understand what it feels like to feel powerless." She gestured to Comedy. "Again."

As precise a surgeon with a scalpel, Comedy chopped again this time taking off Vigik's ring finger. Blood was pooling heavily around his hand, making his palm sticky from the tacky material.

"Oh Mara, please stop. I need my fingers," Vigik wept.

"It's hurts, doesn't it?" Tragedy said sympathetically. "To have no power and watch what you love stripped away from you. Imagine how Freba must have felt when you did that to her. How you took away her pride, her joys, her child."

"Ysotta put you up to this, didn't she?" Vigik growled. He clenched both his hands, the mangled one screaming in pain. "She's going to regret this when I get loose."

Comedy laughed. "Confident, aren't you? Looking forward to strangling her too?" Before Vigik could reply, the assassin severed his middle finger with barely a glance.

Rage, fear, and pain struggled for Vigik's attention. He settled for rage. It was a comfortable and safe feeling unlike the other two. "It's not my fault. They're the ones out to get me. To ruin me. To distract me. Meddlesome brats!"

"I've killed a lot of people in my day," Comedy said, "but at least I claim them. Take responsibility for your actions!"

"How do you feel?" Tragedy interjected. "Powerless?"

Vigik looked at his hands. The left one was crippled, practically useless. He would never truly grip anything with it again. But he would survive. "I'm fine," he spat.

The jester nodded as if she expected nothing less. "A true Nord," she said, making him swell with pride. "But to what extent do you want to live? To what extent do you decide you would rather die? Are you willing to put your life in the hands of another?"

"I don't need to," Vigik said. "I can still carve. It might not be as good as it was, and it might take longer. But as long as I have my hands, I'll be fine."

"Exactly."

Comedy started singing as he spun his axe in a wild dervish, "This little piggy went to market, This little piggy stayed home, This little piggy had roast beef, This little piggy had none, And this little piggy went wee wee wee all the way home!" He raised the axe high over his head before dropping it down. It cut off both of Vigik's hands at the wrist.

He jerked back, now free of his bonds with nothing to hold him in place. He stared in horror at the flowing stumps. Leather bonds on his wrists had slowed the bleeding so they weren't gushing as they normally would.

"You can live if you choose," Tragedy said softly. Despite his screams, Vigik could hear her clearly as if he was standing next to himself dispassionately watching as an outsider. "All you have to do is go and get help. It won't be easy. And it'll never get easy. You'll have to depend on someone to take care of you for the rest of your life. Someone to feed you, bathe you, even change you when you soil yourself. You'll have to hope someone will have more patience and love for you and your endless needs than you had for your wife and child." She shrugged. "I've seen greater miracles."

The two assassins turned to leave. Comedy propped the bloody axe on his shoulder. "Or you can take your fate into your own hands." He giggled. "As it were. You can decide to die by doing nothing. Your choice."

Then they were gone, absorbed by the shadows, leaving Vigik with the greatest decision of his life.