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He awoke, yet again, in a puddle of his own blood, a familiar pain still lingering on his abdomen.
How many times had he gone through this already?
"Perhaps, in another world..." A wild, feral and unwanted thought crossed his mind. It made his chest ache, to his shame. He shouldn't feel like that. He shouldn't.
Tears welled up in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall.
"I should feel proud, not...like this." He whispered softly, hoping his own heart would hear and heed those words. Words as hollow as he himself felt.
"This is proof I am His favorite. He doesn't need any others. He doesn't. He doesn't!!!!" He laid down, in fetal position, clutching his knees, digging his teeth into his own skin.
He would not allow himself to cry.
Not over this.
Not now, not ever.
He felt stupid for daring to hope maybe it wouldn't happen this time. Why would he
even want that? If he's supposed to be the last soul alive, what sense would there be to bring new life into the world? He was being ridiculous, he knew it.
He stifled a sob.
If he was made from Bhaal's own gore, it should be obvious that only death would come from his own loins. His own blood, murdered by his own body. Every time. Without fail.
A cruel joke.
No.
Just another way to give Father more offerings.
Yes, surely.
That was...better.
"In another world, maybe I could have met you..." He tried to push away these thoughts, afraid someone, He, might hear. "Maybe I could have loved you, even..."
No one would mourn these weak spawn.
Not the mortal who sired them, not his Father.
In that, he and his children had something in common.