Page 59 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

“Yes.” She clapped, laughing, and then plied him with a joke. “Oh! What’s funnier than a one-legged veteran running away from a rabid badger?”

“Ravana, no—”

“A rabid, one-legged veteran chasing an entire room of limbless vets! Oh, Morfran, I’d forgotten about that. I do love reminiscing about the good old days with you.”

“Those days weren’t good. They were a nightmare. And you weren’t just evil. You were detestable.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I suppose next you’re going to blame me for this divorce.”

“Yes! Absolutely.”

She leapt to her feet. “Like you’re so much better than me. You really believe that you’ve meandered my kingdom like some scuzzy traveler—I hate that beard, by the way—without my notice? I’ve known every place you’ve visited this past year. You really believe that you’ve managed to win battles and conquer cities as this ‘General Bernard’ ”—she said this with mocking finger quotes—“with your wits alone? No! I let you win! I’ve known each city you were going to hit before you hit it. I only let you win so you could get this midlife crisis out of your system. I was going to take them all back when your tantrum was finished.”

Furious heat whittled down his chest. “You really let me win? Then why did that sea monster nearly eat me? What about General Killian’s army? I was shot in the shoulder—”

“Shoulder shots are never fatal,” she scoffed.

“But it could have pierced me a little farther to the left and then I would be dead. How can you say you planned that?”

“General Killian was sent only to kill rebels, not you. As was the sea monster. It was under strict rules to eat and devour everything and everyone else, but not you.”

“You seriously believe you could tell a flying squid what to do?”

“It was my pet. I raised it and fed it and taught it the Twelve-Step Course in Giant Squid Training. So yes, I seriously believe I could tell it not to eat one measly human, thank you very much.”

“Why?” he demanded, not daring to step anywhere near her. “Why send your minions out to retrieve me? Have you some new torture techniques you want to try on me?”

She looked stunned. She blinked her thick lashes—it appeared she’d applied a fresh coat of eye makeup as well—and said, “Why would I want to torture you? I want you back, Morfran.”

All went quiet as they both gaped at each other. He incredulously, she wistfully. There was no deception he could pick up as he scrutinized her expression for a long while.

Then he asked, “Why?”

“Why?” She seemed bewildered that he’d ask that. “Because I need you back. I miss you. I miss your ruthless villainy and cruel laughter. I miss watching you make the servants wet themselves by telling them they’ve failed at a job. I miss making love with you in the graveyard. I even miss bowling with your decapitated skull collection—remember how we used to do that every Tuesday night with friends?”

He rubbed his eyes. There were some good times he’d had with her. He had to admit that to himself. And yet he’d left for the thousand other bad times, all of those times pressing aggressively in on him as if he were in a room getting stacked shut with a thousand bricks and threatening to close him inside with no air, no food, no water.

Maybe she did miss him, as much as someone like Ravana could miss a person. But the fact that she hadn’t announced his desertion to the entire kingdom during the past year told him one thing—she needed him. Not as a husband, but as a war strategist.

She needed him back in the war room and on the front lines, commanding their soldiers and injecting terror into the hearts of men. Without him, she was just a nasty woman hiding in an impregnable castle telling equally nasty—but exceptionally dim-witted—generals where to go and what to do. Eventually, however, the mob would come for her. And no one wanted to see what she was capable of when she was forced into a corner.

Lowering his hands, he asked, “What if I’m not the same person I was a year ago?”

She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “What kind of person are we talking about?”

He shrugged. He himself didn’t know who he was anymore. Brim told him he thought he was cooler than sliced bread (which Morfran didn’t consider much of a compliment, as that bar was rather low). Gueldefore believed him to be a devil in hose who liked to spit on his honor and hoard all the attention. Bronwen obviously trusted him more than he deserved, as did Tortoise and the three Fleet Foot children.

As for what he thought of himself? He was a bundle of doubts and regrets and guilts and shames and hopes. Some days he wanted to live alone with only Beni and the kids as company. Other days he wanted to continue traveling with the rebellion and finally see the many lands his men had conquered. And sometimes all he wanted to do was leap onto the nearest sword and put himself out of his miserable shame. And so on and so forth.

One thing was for sure. None of those futures he’d envisioned included him going back to Ravana.

She’d stiffened, her expression going cold at his growing silence. “Oh, please don’t tell me that you’re on a road to repentance.”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “There are days I still want to behead people and push others in the mud. But I no longer care to wage war against people and conquer land.” He paused. “I want to meet people and see the land instead.”

“You know, Morfran, some people have affairs when they reach their midlife crisis. I’d prefer that opposed to you becoming good.” She said it like it was an infectious disease, propping her hands on her hips. “This is those stupid peasants’ doing. You think you’ve made friends? Friends don’t tell lies, Morfran. They tell each other the truth. Especially the truth about you being their evil Dark Lord, responsible for many of their loved ones’ deaths and demises.”

“I’ll ease them into that one,” he responded, but it sounded dull and toneless.