“Paragons aren’t made to fight?” he asked, curious how Lendsy would argue against such an obvious truth.

“We are made to be perfect, Meffrit! With the prayers granted us, and the sacrifices made to empower us, we show that the limits of mortality may be transcended. Does our title not say it all? We are the ultimate form humanity may achieve. We are the pinnacle. The hope. The goal.”

Whatever honesty Lendsy was trying to convey was ruined by the increasingly grandstanding nature of his pronouncement. He was aware he had listening ears.

“So you’re the pinnacle,” Arn dared argue. “That don’t mean you’ll help those beneath you, no different than a crown on a man’s head means he’ll help those who prop up his throne.”

The paragon put his hands on Arn’s shoulders, and he lowered his voice. No, perhaps he read the situation wrong. This part, this truly was heartfelt from the paragon. That only made it that much more horrible.

“If we are to be what humanity strives to attain, then we must cherish those who would walk in our footsteps. We must lead, heads high and hearts full, so others follow. So I care for those in my shadow. I love them, and protect them. What we bring to this world is good, and necessary. I would have you believe that of me, and of us, rather than see us merely as killers.”

“You truly believe that?” Arn asked softly. “That paragons bring nothing but good to this world?”

“With all my soul.”

Memories of a burning city came unbidden to Arn. He smiled to banish them.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” he promised.

It wasn’t the first time Arn regretted agreeing to come save Thorda’s ass, nor would it be the last. He wiped vomit from his lips as he leaned over the railing, cursing any and every god who might listen.

“Whoever you are, the coin isn’t enough, and the job ain’t good enough, either,” he muttered. He’d never met Thorda, only heard of him in rumors as the mysterious plotter and benefactor of some of the severest uprisings the empire ever had to subdue. It had taken two years of fighting, and an offer to sail to Thanet to join a new resistance, before Arn even learned Thorda’s true name.

“Has the seasickness come again?” asked Jarvis. The acolyte joined him at the railing, and he rested his arms upon the aged wood. His white robe fluttered in the salty breeze.

“That implies it ever leaves.”

“True. Might I pray for your illness? The God-Incarnate urges all to come to him for succor, for struggles both great and small.”

Of the world’s many, many cruelties, having the bald acolyte pray for him was down near the very bottom Arn wished to endure, right among crotch blisters and being eaten alive by rats.