Bob looked up, into the rain, into the night clouds, into those grey dreams of a night sky, those pale, ethereal forms from another world. He looked up and sighed out. He smiled and then he frowned, because he'd done it. He'd done everything he ever wanted. All those impossible hopes.

"Look at me now," he whispered up to the heavens.

He was strong. He was terrifyingly strong. Only a few days ago and those three men had held his life in their hands. They had toyed with him. Squeezing him for coins. Letting him go only because they knew they could catch him again at their pleasure. Now each of them lay in his final sleep, vanquished and broken. Each of them fallen to a single, devastating blow. They had had no chance before the mud magician. They were the scum of the earth and he was the lightning, the divine thunderbolt.

Bob gulped as he stopped and reflected for the first time. He was the strongest. The pinnacle. The mountain others aimed after. Him Bob Brown. He shook his head. Him, Bob Brown, the man whose primary school nickname had been Bob Poo, after an unfortunate instance in the school pool. He had reached level 10.

"You're all free now."

Because he'd done it. He had freed everyone from the world quest. Not someone else. Not some invisible better. That "other" who is always one step ahead, living in a better house, with more friends and more hair, whose smile just looks brighter in the pictures than your own. No, there was no one else. Bob was the other man. Bob was the trailblazer, the champion, the hero.

No, no, there must be some kind of mistake. The world was playing a trick on him. The curtain would fall down and the system would be laughing at him. But he stared at his hands, at the white dagger there, at the red tip. He looked back at the corpse of a man. The bloody, ruined corpse. That tangled flesh that had once been a doctor, that had helped people and dreamed and had probably loved someone and had probably been loved by someone. There was no mistake. Bob had done that.

It's an awful heavy thing to walk in front, to stand at the very edge. That's where the wind and cold and the waves batter into you. There's no hiding behind somebody else. There's no-one else's footsteps to walk in. You have to tread your own way, wading through doubt and suffering and fear. Bob had wished for strength. He'd risked his life again and again for strength and now he had it and now he had it... He was afraid of himself.

Wasn't there someone else, someone wiser and smarter, someone with a better heart, that deserved this strength more than him? There had to be someone else. Bob wasn't all that great. He made stupid decisions. He had stupid thoughts. He laughed too much for someone with such terrible power. Why was he chosen? But no, he wasn't chosen. He had chosen. He had done this. Luck had played a role. He didn't deny that. But if he hadn't started on the path, he never could have reached this place. Why had he done it again? What was worth all this?

And then George came bounding over, tongue lolling out, tail wagging. A golden fur-ball who slammed shamelessly into Bob, knocking him clean off his feet. There's something about a dog. Just something about the innocent cheerfulness. The happy, look-at-me bark. The tail beating against the ground. Bob couldn't explain it. And yet he felt like a weight had been taken off his shoulders. Maybe the answer was worth less than the intention. Maybe being a good man consisted in nothing more than trying to be a good man.

The dog barked twice and eyed his master, all the while drooling causally on Bob's cloak. Bob nodded his head. He spoke pretty good dog by now, if he said so himself. George was looking for praise and boy had he earned it. Bob hugged the dog to him.

"Good boy, good boy." He patted the dog's head.

George laughed and barked and reveled in his praise.

"George, I had my eye on you out there. You were a right leader. A dog among beetles. A knight of the brown table."

Bob gave a mock bow. "My gallant knight, Sir George, your valor on the field of battle this day was a sight to marvel upon. Your courage and daring, your strategic brilliance, your fiery blade-work, are the rival of any knight of my company. I, your lord, Viscount Brown of the Mud, commend you for your heroic deeds. May your fur ever shine golden. Well done, Sir Knight."

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The dog preened, sitting up tall and striking a knightly expression.

Bob's grin turned wobbly. "I'm proud of you George. I'm glad you're safe and you're here and... You did good George."

Somehow Bob was tearing up. What was wrong with him? He wiped his eyes, trying to hide the tears, but only ended up wiping mud into them. George barked and wagged his tail and snuggled up in Bob's arms. He was the same innocent dog, with the same stupid grin, and terrible sense of timing.

"George let me go. The woman. I've got to untie the poor girl."

Bob really needed to work on his priority management. He untangled himself from George's grip, only to gulp nervously at the sight arrayed in front of him. A company of beetles was drawn up there. They all stood at attention, in ruler-straight ranks, line after line, formed up neatly behind one of their captains. They were all looking at Bob.

They were looking at him with respect, with pride and hope. Like he was their leader and ally and not their worst enemy. It stung him to the quick. Bob wasn't as heartless as he liked to pretend himself to be and gratitude cuts deep.

He frowned. What could he say to these animals? They waited on his word. And he'd done them so much wrong. He'd been so mean and prejudiced. And see how they had repaid his cruelty. They'd protected George. They'd beaten back the monsters. And even now they didn't blame him. Though they should, they should. Bob straightened up and walked over to Arthur. He put his head against Arthur's body and closed his eyes. He sighed out.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything. I couldn't protect him. It's my fault," Bob addressed the captain of the beetles. He walked slowly up to the animal. He bowed his head. He stretched out his hands and held out the fragment of white horn. It was the least he could do. A knight should be buried with his blade.

Bob's heart shuddered when he saw all the beetles bow back. Dumb monsters, had he really thought that. Had he really treated them like tools, like mindless automatons put there to fuel his growth. Bob bowed lower. He wouldn't lift his head. He held it bowed there, before these "monsters," he held it there, trying to communicate to them what he couldn't express to himself, wanting them to know his terrible remorse, his heartfelt regret. He was crying again and the tears dripped down onto the mud.

The captain stepped up. He took the horn fragment from Bob's hand into his mandibles and stepped back. Bob didn't move. He didn't know what he expected. But he certainly didn't expect this. Because the captain stepped forward and handed the horn back to Bob.

"No, I couldn't. It's not right. I don't..." Bob tried to refuse, but the beetle pushed it into his hand.

"Why?" Bob mouthed to the ground, his hand clutching the white dagger. They were giving it to him. They were giving him this final memento of their fallen master. Bob nodded. Yes, this was better. He had won the duel. He had earned the weapon of the fallen. He would remember Arthur.

"Thank you."

The captain nodded, backed up a few steps and then swiveled towards Arthur's corpse. At the signal, a contingent of beetles broke away from the company and took up stations around their lord. An honor guard for King Arthur. When Bob saw what they were doing, he too made to step up and aid them. He would help carry the great beetle, but the captain stopped him with an outstretched horn and shook his head. They would carry their own dead. Bob understood. It was as it should be.

Every beetle with any strength left to him started up a dirge. It was a slow, thumping beat of their horns, a heavy, melancholy music of mourning. The sounds echoed over the field of victory. Victory and death. George added his voice to the music, howling and whining. Bob couldn't find the words, so he just lowered his head and pressed one fist over his heart. The body of their lord rose gradually up and the beetles arranged themselves in a train behind it, as the honor guard started its glacial march forward. The long road back to a ruined homeland.

It was the saddest thing Bob had ever seen. He didn't quite know where the feelings came from, but they kept coming, overflowing and spilling out. He brushed away tear after tear. He hadn't noticed, but somewhere they'd been building up all this time, frustration, fear and sadness.

He was a soft-hearted fool. This was no way for the strong to behave, he chided himself, yet he didn't want to change. If this was weakness, it was a weakness he hoped he wouldn't lose. He didn't want be that cold hero who slaughtered an army and then slept like a saint. Better to stand here and cry like a child.

Bob decided. He reached out with the mud. He brought all three of the men together, burying them in the wet dirt, side by side under a dogwood tree. The tree would flower in spring and the petals would fall down on their grave. He found a rough stone and set it up over their bodies.

He'd didn't carve names. What's in a name? And they did bad things, these three, but they were still humans; they'd probably done good things too. Maybe accidentally and unintentionally. In the end, it didn't matter. Bob was doing it for himself. He stood over the grave, held up his hand and closed his eyes. He had killed these men and he didn't regret it, but he'd didn't hate them and somehow he had wanted to express that. The sad music of the beetles seemed to tremble in the air.