Eros Mokin Agasan sat quietly in the small row boat for that is all he could do. Arni and the surviving member of the Iron legion were at the oars rowing them away from the now burning city. Eros despised how he couldn't remember the name of either, if he truly cared shouldn't he remember? The only other denizens of the small row boat were the unconscious Lyric and DD along with another lone survivor who stared into his reflection in horror.
Eros held the green blade within its hilt in a too strong grip, which hurt more his withered fingers than the leather. His mind, unlike his body, was clear but not due to calmness but to burn out, like a fire leaving nothing but ash before it dies. His body had yet to catch up, he shivered, whimpered and cried pus, which his mask hid.
The memories of the battle still repeated in his mind with cold clarity. The exploding dragon men, the screams of countless people, a metal dragon and… and… running. Jumping into the water to save his own skin, the real hero was truly Arni. She put her life on the line to save everyone while he ran like a pitiful child. Now Donnie is dead, dead because he failed to save him, no, wouldn't save him. He cared more about keeping the remaining of his healing magic for himself than he did for someone who relied on him.
Living with his rotted visage for the past ten years, he always comforted himself with the thought that he may look evil on the outside, but he was pure and good on the inside. Today he couldn't tell himself this lie for what good man is a coward? What good man leaves his friend to burn and drown? Then after leaving him to die he had the audacity to loot his corps for the green blade? He sickened himself, he didn't even deserve to hold, let alone touch the blade of an honorable man such as Ispin Greenshield.
With still shivering hands, he placed the blade next to the still unconscious Lyric. Now Lyric, if anyone was worthy of a hero's blade it would be her, the kindest and most beautiful person he ever met. After getting the blade out of his hands and the remainder of his most recent sins, he sat quietly for the trip. In the quiet Eros made a promise to himself to never be a coward again and to be a man worthy of lyrics' affection.
Days later
Eros laid curled up under a table sobbing uncontrollably. Despite healing his wounds the phantom pain and trauma of his wounds filled his mind and worse they saw. They saw him, the real him. The rotting lying child, the burden. There was a part of him that was still aware, aware how the group tried to reach out to him and comfort him but he didn't want to be aware, he didn't want to exist.
Shadowing his face, his shameful truth, Eros made his way to the servant quarters of the estate and locked himself in the workshop. Within he tore his mask and clothes off in another fit of panic before falling to the ground and sobbing again. The mask, he needed to fix the mask. Looking around the workshop he found the appropriate tools and some wood and went to work. Eros’s father was a cobbler and taught Eros how to carve wood for soles. This was a lie he told himself. Eros was too young to be allowed in the workshop or around sharp objects in general, elves would still consider him too young. All Eros knew was from watching his father and brothers work.
Eros still did the best he could and set to work, for there wasn't really anything else to do. On the bench he worked was a mirror, cracked, probably set aside in here after recently cracking. Looking into its fractured reflection Eros didn't see his rotten visage, but his mask on. He saw himself in saintly rubes bathed in divine, this divine reflection stared down at Eros despite being eye level with him. This is what people wanted him to be, believed in. How can they do it? If they only knew what lay under the mask, they wouldn't believe, so he lied, to keep the faith in gods that couldn't care less about this world
Eros wished he could believe with them, join the act and be their priest, not be the child charlatan. Maybe it was time to have faith.
So Monkin lifted the finished mask of Eros into the air with reverence. Then Eros put on his face, the will of the gods waiting for no man. Eros gave a passing glance at the reflection of the shattered mirror not seeing his divine reflection but of a rotten child, Monkin. It's one good eye glowing red, tears of puss still streaming down its face pitfully. Eros didn't speak to it, it didn't deserve attention and left the workshop, his one good eye glowing a deep blue.