“We march in one week.”
The council nodded resolutely, having expected the announcement for months now.
Herendei, the last holdout, stepped forward. “My king, are we sure this is the wisest course of action? The empire is mighty, even in its dusk era.”
Alexander nodded. “It must be done. When the world is pressing down upon you, there are only three options: bow before it, push against it, or become something it can no longer contain. The last is what we must do. If we are to be free, we must become something so mighty that no tyrant after will dare threaten our people.”
Herendei hesitated. “And if we fail in our transformation?”
“Then at least we died in the pursuit of higher ideals.”
“That’s a cold comfort for a dead man.”
Alexander paused. “Yes. Yes, it is. But to he who lives on? Who lives standing before those that would dare proclaim themselves better. Who refuses to grovel before them. It is everything.” His pale eyes passed over the rest of the council, and he sank back further into the concept of kinghood, an invisible aura springing forth to reinforce his next words.
“Better to die on one’s feet than to live on one’s knees.”
Herendei still looked doubtful, but he conceded to Alexander’s authority.
“Prepare the armies, harvest the crop, clear the path. We shall suffer under the empire no longer.”
—---------------------------------------
The night was cold, but It had been months since such a thing had bothered him. The pond was the same as always but Alexander could no longer enjoy it as he once had.
It had only been a few months since he assumed the throne, since he had embodied the very concept of kinghood. He regretted the necessity of the act.
“I can feel it, mother,” he whispered. “Hollowing me out. Everyday I lose more of myself smothered by this blanket of responsibility and duty.”
He sighed and sat down, shedding the burden of kinghood in favor of something lighter.
The wind came to his call, whispering stories of faraway places and exotic scents, before quietly joining his contemplation. He felt lighter. He imagined his mothers response.
She would gently stroke his hair, and say. “It's alright my love, it's alright.”
He wished he had somebody to confide in, but his contemplation was not conducive to such relationships.
So all he had was the ancient shadow of his long-dead mother, and the wind.
It would have to be enough.
—-----------------------------------------------
War was not what Alexander had expected.
Blood and piss soaked the dirt, highlighted by the moans of the wounded and dying. The blue sky seemed unbothered by the carnage its children were releasing upon the earth, and the sun sent down its loving rays regardless.
Alexander wondered how they could be so indifferent to the sheer magnitude of the suffering taking place here. He knew that if he had not sought refuge within the concept of kinghood, he would be puking all over the coarse soil.
“My lord” one of his generals leaned up from whispering to the messenger that had recently come in, “The eastern flank is buckling. It needs support.”
Alexander nodded, turning to the messenger. “Lead the way.”
Another of his generals stepped forward. “My lord, surely you can't be thinking of going alone.”
The rest hesitated. They had seen what he was capable of.
The messenger paled under Alexander’s unbreaking gaze, and frantically began remounting his horse.
As they approached the battlefield, Alexander became aware of a horrible stench, like rotting iron. The noises of combat began to rise, the pleas of individuals now distinguishable from the clashing mass.
As the messenger led him along the lines, curving toward the eastern flank, Alexander fought the stubborn embers of his younger self.
It didn't want anything to do with this carnage, but Alexander the king knew better.
It was his responsibility, his duty to protect his men, deliver them from death's cruel grasp.
So he would.
When they drew closer, the messenger became superfluous. Alexander could feel the desperation as his men were pushed back, as they laid down their lives to buy their brother mere seconds.
Alexander the King raged. How dare they harm his men. How dare they!
He stood in his saddle, stretching forth threads of authority to continue guiding his noble steed. For a second he stood tall, balanced on a galloping stead, taking in the battlefield.
Then Alexander the King became Alexander of wind, and he was soaring through the air.
The messenger watched in awe as he soared over his panting stead. The back lines of his battered army began to shout as they noticed him, gaping in shock as he soared over them.
He landed in the middle of the empire's forces, assuming the king for a moment more, watching horror flicker across the enemies faces, watching their knees buckled under his authority.
Then he was the Sword.
And heads began to roll.
He pushed them back with force, reaping swaths of men at a time with scything sword hands. With space cleared around him, he began to consciously draw upon different concepts.
His voice became that of the general, his rallying cries invigorating and spurring forth his exhausted troops.
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His skin became light, blinding all those that dared gaze upon him.
His bones became steel, taking even the mightiest of impacts without even flexing.
His muscles became wind, turning him into a whirlwind of chaos.
Dozens of concepts wove into him, spilling out into his men. They tore the men separating them from their king, and within minutes found themselves behind him.
Together, they pushed forth, the eastern flank crumbling before them.
“Forward men!” Alexander the General roared, “Surround the main army!”
An affirming roar spurned him forward, a massive Sword strike, joined with threads of Fear and War crumpled their lines, sending the survivors fleeing.
Alexander sank deeper into his battle trance, letting out a roar and pushing forward, unheeding of the fleeing men.
Momentum gathered around him, transforming hom for every second he fought, making him into something the world could not contain.
I will admit, watching him was a treat. He did more than merely weave abstraction and ideas, like Aristotle would have done. He became them, and it made all the difference.
I watched as he crashed into the empire’s back lines, followed by his men.
I watched as they reaped lives in the thousands.
And I witnessed, when as was said and done.
The birth of Alexander the Conqueror.
—---------------------------------------------------
The Empire’s forces folded like wet paper before Alexander.
He pushed them back so fast it seemed like they were inviting him into their territory.
In his wake, free peoples rejoiced, finally free from Octavian’s mad ambition.
At long last.
When they finally stood before the mighty walls of Wuking, it felt like a dream to many, an impossibility made manifest.
Through the night they planned and upon sunrise, Alexander stood before the empire’s capital, ready to bring it to its knees.
But fate had other plans.
—--------------------------------------------
Alexander raised a hand, and his army tensed up, hands hovering over the release mechanism for their siege engines.
Just as he was about to bring his hand down, condemning the city, a voice stopped him.
“Just leave.”
It rippled across the land, warping the world with his power. Some of his men began to turn around, the sheer authority in the voice leaving them defenseless.
Frowning, Alexander asserted his authority in contestion surprised at how difficult it was to dispel the other’s causal command. Even among his own men, those he had long since established authority over, he barely managed it.
He sharpened his eyes, taking a falcon's sight in an attempt to find the source of the voice. It was surprisingly easy, the man in question simply standing atop the battlements. He had a plain appearance, with brown hair and an unremarkable face.
Except for his brilliant azure eyes.
There was a slender sword at his side, one that looked too delicate for battle. Alexander frowned, a tinge of unease telling him to take another look at the sword.
He did so, looking deeper than the physical.
He almost died in that moment, glimpsing a corner of absolute death before he managed to close his eyes. He immediately fell to his knees, ignoring the outcry among his men as he became the earth, stable and eternal.
Slowly, he felt stability return to him, the damaged threads of his existence weaving back together. He let out a shuddering breath, waving off the officers crowded around him and refocusing.
Who was that?
The man met his gaze calmly.
And in his eyes, Alexander found death.
It was quiet, and it was absolute.
Alexander’s gaze widened as, for the first time in his life,he came across something beyond him. His approach to a problem had always been to understand it, and then to embody it.
But here was a concept antithetical to his very existence. Inviting even a shred of it within himself was death.
He found himself at an impasse.
He could not turn back, not when their liberation was at hand.
But he could not advance forward, that man promising death to all who tried.
He let his lips become wind, carrying his voice across the battlefield. “Why are you stopping us? The empire must fall.”
The man scowled. “The empire has reaped what it has sown. You have savaged them enough. The balance is restored. Leave.”
“I cannot jus-”
“Silence. Leave.”
Alexander took a breath, considering his options.
There was one left.
Advance.
He remembered a time, before he had understood the world, before he had become a part of it. When, teetering on unsteady legs, he had stood in defiance of the heavens themselves. When he had refused truth with naught but pure will.
As he recalled the blade, he knew it was the only way. Such a thing could not be wielded, only destroyed.
There would be a price to pay for disobeying the world, but he would deal with that when it came.
He raised his hand, its glacial pace giving his men time to recover themselves and prepare.
For the first time in ages, he cast aside all influences, shed the skin of the king, the breath of the wild. And he was once more Alexander, and only Alexander.
The world pushed down on him, declaring that no mortal may wield Alexander’s power.
And he pushed back.
His lips parted, sound emerging from deep within-
“No.” His arm fell, and the Ballista released, shadowed by a flood of roaring men, Alexander at its head.
He smiled, flexing his will to dispel the showers of arrows from the defenders. It felt so good to finally be in his own skin after so long in anothers.
When they were halfway there, the azure eyed man finally let out a sigh and stepped forward. Alexander roared in challenge and surged forth, demanding the world give way before his passage.
The ground cracked, and Alexander the Conqueror hurled himself at the man that dared stand in his way. The man’s hand lazily drifted to the hilt of his blade but that didn't deter Alexander.
He was confident in surviving the blade long enough to put down the upstart.
Then the blade was unsheathed, and the sky turned black.
Alexander paled, finally feeling the might of the unsheathed blade. It was beyond mortal comprehension, a weapon of the gods.
And God Slayer was its name.
Alexander snarled and threw himself at the man, knowing his only chance was slaying the man before he could use that blade.
If only-
And then he was gone.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
His death was instantaneous, his authority unable to delay God-Slayer for even a instant.
Sighing, Darius an Erduk turned his attention to the Conqueror’s army. He sheathed God-Slayer once more and bent his knees slightly, His authority and will focused to the utmost, coating the sheathed blade in a layer of deeper power.
Any less and the blade would destroy him.
He took a deep breath.
And drew.
The Conqueror’s army ground to a halt. Then, one by one, they began to drop bonelessly to the floor, the connection between their bodies and souls severed.
Darius resheated his blade with a deep breath, and, ignoring the horrified whispers of the men on the wall, turned to leave.
The balance was preserved.
He hoped it would be enough.