Blooddrinker cuts a glittering arc in what should have been a final blow. Instead, it strikes a wall of rusted metal, the tip of the blade slicing into it as though it were air, throwing up sparks and emitting a metallic shriek like a mechanical banshee.
Before Soul Reaver recovers from the swing, a metal-shot foot slams into the small of Soul Reaver's back, and sends the side of his face smashing into the cold iron. It hits with a wet thud and a sickening flash of white swims across Soul Reaver's vision. A normal man's skull would have split like a watermelon. Fortunately, Soul Reaver is not so easily defeated.
He responds almost instantly, a snarl on his face as Blooddrinker draws another deadly arc behind him. But Peterson is already gone, his voice seemingly emanating from the stale air itself.
"And what good would taking my head do for you? What would that accomplish? Staying here and fighting me isn't helping anyone but yourself. Why are you even IN the Eye of Terror? Are you helping your friends? Would they do the same for you?
The anger in Soul Reaver burns at boiling point as he begins to trace runes into the air, looking to break through Peterson's cowardly protections and finish him off once and for all. His blood-streaked face is contorted into a mask of fury as he spits out arcane words from between gritted teeth.
"I have seen everything that you and your friends have done since I've been gone. All of it. Every moment. And I can tell you without any doubt that your companions have taken more from you than they have ever given you in return. And yet, you continue to sacrifice everything for them! Think! Think about everything that you've lost because of them! How have they ever repaid you? How could they?"
Soul Reaver's hand wavers, and the almost-completed rune shudders into nothingness. The fabric of reality shreds apart around him with an unearthly screech. Time and space cease to have any meaning.
Somewhere from deep within, blackness wells over Soul Reaver’s vision – a suffocating darkness full of abject despair. His only comfort, the only thing keeping the darkness at bay, is a small warm light cradled in his palms.
Countless hands rise ominously from the darkness around him. They are raised in pitiful supplication, begging, reaching desperately. Blindly, they claw at his flesh, drawing blood, only satiated and receding once they have pulled agonizing, ragged strips from his body. Like moths drawn to a flame, the hands reach for the flame he carries. He wishes to protect it, to hold it close, but finds himself paralyzed and impotent to act.
"They can't."
There, in the wan light, he sees familiar faces turned aside, sealing a fate they could have changed, accepting what they could have fought. Their gazes turn inward, and they turn their backs, and they fade into the darkness. The grasping hands close over the flickering mote of light, and its warm brilliance is extinguished forever.
Soul Reaver’s body jolts from multiple impacts as metallic hooks thud into his flesh. Lances of pain drive through him. With the pain, a sense of utter hatred beyond the ken of any mortal men washes through him, filling every corner of his being. Its heat burns away all pain, all regret, all despair… and he welcomes it.
The chains crack, a red light blazing from within, before blasting apart into thousands of superheated fragments. The wounds heal, spitting unnatural flames, and as Soul Reaver’s blood strikes the ground it sizzles and boils.
Soul Reaver’s eyes burn a deep red, and he roars a roar that quakes the Eye of Terror itself.
