His brother looked at his hands, now covered by great warm mittens. “Drast?”
“Mm?” Drast grunted, mimicking his brother.
“How are they going to remember us?”
Tyran shrugged his heavy shoulders. “The Stuhia. The Vucari. The world, I suppose.”
“By our apotheosis.”
“Does it always come down to glory?”
Drast snorted. “Yes. If we fail we will not be remembered. It must come to glory.”
Tyran shook his head. “But is what we are doing glorious?”
“We are off to kill a god. How could it not be?”
Tyran stopped and turned. “But if we are wrong. If killing Wolos is somehow an evil act. Or, if we fail and we are remembered because of our tyrant father—”
“Tyran the Tyrant,” Drast interrupted, chittering.
“I am serious. How do we know that we should even be doing what we are planning on doing? How do we know it is right? How do we know we can?”
“Tyran, you are overthinking this. Why do you even care how people will remember you to begin with? It will not matter. We will either succeed, in which case we are allowed to tell whatever tale of our victory we choose, or we fail and are dead and it doesn’t matter. Regardless, people will remember us for the height of our lives, when we faced a god.”
“I want to believe that I did something right for this world before I died.”