bottle of red, bottle of white

[Jefferson Soul]

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No, Jefferson did not believe in a higher deity — especially not "mother nature" or any other earth deities Razekiel believed in — but the cyclops realized he breathed relief at such words regardless. Was it that he had done "well"? Was it the fact that others, palpable or otherwise, were meeting the same conclusions he was about Phoenix Valley and his reign over it? Jefferson knew age and exhaustion, though not that of a truly old leader; he was still young compared to others, and he could manage continuing his leadership.

It was recent events that had whittled at his spirit, however, and drove him against such a concept. Jefferson had rid of Lucifer; he had avenged Valley women he had ravaged, but the cyclops knew he was still no hero. He should never be seen as such. Geneva was gone, possibly dead, and his son felt both guilt and some warped form of hatred towards his father as well. Alaine had been right: He was falling apart at the seams, and he was not sure how much longer he would remain intact. Was there are point of no return even for Jefferson, who had been past that point even before his memory had been wiped?

He was tired: That was the only way to describe it. Tired of responsibility, tired of leadership and others relying on him. Jefferson was a loner at heart — he had always been meant to be, and perhaps his stay in Phoenix Valley was only a temporary sojourn. He could return to earlier days, left by his lonesome, left where he could not hurt nor harm anyone as Maluki had, where there would be no risk of it. He was doomed to loneliness, to isolation. That was his punishment... that was the penance for his crimes.

Perhaps Razekiel was right... or perhaps Jefferson had no choice at all. Fate toyed with the scarred man like putty in its fingers; he was only along for the ride, until the day fate decided he finally fit for a sinner's death and escape.

Jefferson looked down at the little chickadee, his gaze and heart alike hollowed yet pained. Decisions at his door, the man reached careful fingers for it, and the bird did not flee; instead, it hopped atop his hand. Jefferson raised it to his gaze, watched it a moment, and sighed. Perhaps... perhaps it was time after all.

"All right," the scarred man said slowly, raising his hand to watch the chickadee pick up and take off, disappearing into the distant sky. A moment's pause, then a sigh. He straightened his back and nodded to himself. "...Then tell me more of what you plan to do."