Grasping and pulling. Like traveling through a forest of bamboo so thick that he could barely move. Tyr didn't know what bamboo felt like, not really. Only seeing it from a distance, but if it were bamboo... He supposed the sensation would make sense? Maybe?
He didn't see the same thing everyone else did. For him, the sky was blue, but not in the natural way that a sky should be. It was a vivid, warped blue, bright beyond compare, as if in an effort to replace a sun that didn't exist. There were figures in that blue, shadows that observed him. The giants were calling again, the eyes, titans beyond humanity that glared down upon him and judged the independent actions of every cell in his body.
Agni was one of them, but he could not identify the others, only knowing that there was enough evidence to signify these things in the sky as 'gods' or 'celestials'. Tyr didn't bend under their observance, fall to his knees and weep... Every single one of them, even the ones he'd had fairly find relationships with... Disgusted him more than he could ever properly articulate.
But he did see Kael just fine. Moving as if in slow motion, again that sensation that everyone around him was moving through molasses while he was unbound by any such restriction. Welling power filled his ever fiber until he was bursting with it, muscles convulsion in response, a great ecstasy rising up inside of him. In the outside world, people watched as the mound of flesh that was Tyr became whole again, snapping back into place as if he'd never been smashed. Leaving no stain, silver and radiant, eyes aglow with mana.
Armored again, with his horsehair plume billowing in a wind nobody else could feel. Two baleful blue eyes peering through the slits of the helm, well visible even in the light of day.
Kael turned to lash out with his sword, panicking. At any moment, he felt like he was about to be sick. A mistake, as Tyr caught it effortlessly and responded with a thunderous kick to his midsection, sending the other man crashing into the wall thirty meters away. A lazy, but tyrannical force, bereft of any emotion other than a need to ensure Kael knew his rightful place. Below him. And everyone could, even Daito paled, brows split in indecision, looking towards his son.
Goroshi shook his head. There wasn't enough here to truly know, but... It was not natural.
The very air itself seemed to crack and split with the explosive strike, a visible tearing of the wards protecting the arena, mages scrambling to repair it. Screaming desperately for a stop to the match. But Tyr didn't listen, all he could hear was that beating. Stomping feet, howling, the red moon and the white wolf weeping.
Benny was there, right next to him. In any other moment, Tyr would've fallen to his knees, but he could feel like never before. All the gray was gone, everything was in color again. And Benny's hand at his back asserted that this was right. That he was right, and loved, and whole for the first time in... Forever. Silently watching, urging him on, but... To what? Benny wouldn't answer, it was for Tyr to discover of his own accord. And to do that, he'd need to do terrible things, to kill and maim and conquer, but most of all – the primus' must die.
The sound of Daito strumming his strings, and the five artificial suns hidden behind the glass of the uppermost viewing gallery. He could hear, it told him to obey – to let go, but he chose not to. They wanted him to become a slave, a servant, to dedicate him to their mission. But Benny contradicted them, and whatever he was... A ghost, a spirit, and angel... Tyr would obey him, but not the giants, they were disgusting things.
Tyr could hear Asmon screaming his name, even after the others had stopped. Could hear Kael's bones breaking and the threads of mana being lashed into place by force, mages struggling against the reverberations from the spira wreaking havoc on the arena. Exacerbated by the presence of others, but they weren't like him.
They weren't supposed to be here. Images of what was supposed to be... A dead world, scoured of all life. This place was not supposed to exist, the yawning maw was screaming, a trio of figures surrounding it. Not the giants, these things... Evil, good, it was irrelevant. They were real. Tyr stared back and them and they did the same to him, that abyss. No... He was them. This was his purpose, a scourge. But Benny... Again, refuted them. And all at once, there was an army behind Tyr, people he'd never met, resting a hand on the shoulder of the man or woman before them. All connected.
He could hear the arrival of one of those five suns settling their presences on the arena. Tyr faced his 'father' with clenched fists. He need more, this wasn't enough. Yearned for it, but Jartor's aura pressed down on his own with titanic might, suppressing that lust. One by one, four of the five suns pressed down on him and he labored to shake them off. It didn't require much effort, they felt like children's hands. Weak ones, barely a grip on him, this place was made for them – but in all reality Tyr was the unbound stranger. It lifted him up, compelled him, Benny said...
I could kill them if I wanted to. Even now. Do I want to? Is it necessary?
Benny shook his head, as did the others. The giants above wanted it, but why would the gods wish the primus' to die? It didn't make sense... But they were not all in agreement, only the vast majority of them insisted he kill Jartor here and now. Like the old lion carried a piece of something that Tyr needed, and he could have it, if only he'd reach out.
“That's enough, my son.” Jartor said, and nobody heard it but Tyr and the other suns. They were walking orbs of golden light, and all Tyr could think about was pinching his finger on the wick and snuffing them out, the nails in his head burning with a vengeance. He was so... Blue. A sapphire prism far more real than the wispy blaze of spira in the others. A dire insistence to kill every human on this planet rolled through his body, and Tyr laughed. “Do not lose yourself to this, I can teach you how to control it.”
“Control.” Tyr mumbled, his voice monotone, still standing there dauntless to their force of will. It was so incredibly weak, again, his lost mind laughing at their attempts to subdue him. “Nothing and nobody will ever control Us. I am the cutter of strings, the end of all things. I... Am my own man, and you... Are children, playing with fire. I see you, Jartor Faeron, I know you. Why are you here?”
“What is this? Why is he so strong!?” Octavian, it had to be him, growling under the resistance. Even his presence in the spira was arrogant and pompous.
“Why are you so weak?” Tyr retorted with that characteristic tilting of his head, reminding them all of a dog staring at a piece of meat, wondering which part to take first.
“He's doing alright, but...” Vidarr, must've been. Compared to Jartor's cool and confident touch, Vidarr was a storm – an appropriate sensation, full of emotion and no small amount of love. If anything, that's why Tyr didn't obey the impulse. “These wards are made to suppress us as well, and we're on the outside. Tyr, I don't care what problems you have with this man, but it is not appropriate to wield your spira against him like this. Why are you trying to kill him?”
“I want to win.” Tyr replied flatly. “That's all.”
“You've already won, son.” Jartor said. “You're in the process of coming into your shard, and you've found your aspect to some degree. Never, under any circumstances, must you let a mortal know of it. Not your true aspect, ours are just...” He couldn't seem to find the right words.
“Generalized.” Octavian continued with a sigh, it was unbelievable how much of a hold this shard had on the world. It was like a leech, it's grip refusing to be pulled away. “He has a right to know, he's so close to rising. I've already told Iscari, I don't see a problem.”
“Are you sure? Ragnar is not here.” Jartor replied.
“No, but Vidarr is. What say you, son of Ragnar?”
“We have to, I see no other choice. Without knowing, he can't control it, this is not supposed to happen outside of a nexus!” Vidarr asserted. Letting his aura recede to become more gentle and less oppressive, in the slight way that it was – at least. It was akin to... His power? The more they smashed against him, the stronger the boy became. Concerning, a feeling not unlike quicksand. “Calm yourself, Tyr. I am not your enemy.”
“Understood.” Tyr replied, feeling none of that characteristic need to rebel anymore, he'd had their interest and that had filled him – but they had looked away. The air seemed to pop and all of the presences were gone, the eyes were off him. He was back in the stadium, surrounded by his wide eyed companions. The sky was clear and natural again, the sun plainly visible and streaking down on his revealed face. Everything was normal again, and gray... He hated that, the gray, he wanted to see the colors again. That watercolor sensation that took him in the moment, the understanding that he was doing something right.
When he stared up at the booth where the intensity yet remained, he saw a wisp of it. But it would not return to full focus. He needed more.
“Winner!” Leda cried jubilantly, though she couldn't hide her conflict. It made sense, she was of Amistad and so were Kael and his team, many of them professors and council functionaries recognizable by the general public. “The Lyran Republic!”
They chanted his name again. Tyr, Tyr, Tyr. He felt it, fed on it, feeling all their love and devotion – but it was barely there at this point. Near completely suppressed, enough to dizzy him and distort his vision. Standing still and listless, Tyr was dragged off the field by Daito, the man waving happily at the cheers and ignoring the critically wounded and crumpled form of Kael left buried in the wall.
In his booth, Jartor wasn't sure if he should be proud... Or concerned. All aspects were something relatable, in the grander scale. A man could strain his muscles, make use of strength. Will and endurance, anger or war, storms – something akin to a need to change and wanderlust, freedom – that need to be an individual. Hope... Hope was intrinsic, it was far more simpler than some might believe, all living things hoped. Even a single celled organism had a hard coded life cycle, that was their 'hope', growth and a need to survive, to keep going.
But Tyr's... It was the antithesis of relatable, it wasn't an access that should exist. Not something humans were born with, or any living creature, though they felt it. A foreign construct to them, regardless.
How could anything alive relate to faith as an intrinsic part of their being? Had he really felt so lost as to develop an aspect like that?
The root of all conscious thought.
I could be wrong. Jartor shook his head clear of thoughts. It was something... And though the word might elicit thoughts of the chaste, devout, and angelic figures... Faith was the unconscious root of want, need, and desire. It was obsessive, it used and took, it didn't give. Faith could spurn men onto great or terrible things, but it was never something they could actively control.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
How dangerous would a being that lorded over the very concept of belief be?
As it stood, all reservations aside, Tyr's aspect had influenced all of the primus' and held them down to a point where they could have been sheared free of their shards. Even killed.
–
“Why are we doing this in a restaurant...” Tyr said. He was surrounded by all the other primus' present, save Iscari who had been 'confined to quarters' by his father. Unfortunate. Iscari had a talent for showing him the colors, but Tyr couldn't feel the lust on him to see them anymore. It was okay just to be. Calm...
Of their entire one-time group of friends, Tyr would have most easily been willing and able to apologize to the man. On his knees, if he had to. That time would come... Perhaps. But not yet.
They were in a rather large eatery, the tables around them were bare, customers refusing to be seated next to the primus'. One would think it'd be the opposite, but not so. The pressure and waves of majesty they gave off was like approaching a great beast of the wilds with empty hands. They loved and feared in equal measure, only from a distance – it was a mark of a strong man to be able to stand in their presence overlong. Three at once was too much for most, Tyr himself could feel it tickling at his flesh. Again, he was reminded how they shouldn't be here, and he couldn't explain how. The voices were arguing about what they should do, a split decision, some schizophrenic break of sorts but the lack of real agreement was a balm all its own.
The entire structure seemed build from dark wood, open and set into a collection of round tables with four seats each. An almost ironic number for their purposes, but it wasn't the reason this place in particular had been picked.
“We've all lived a long time, you know that.” Octavian spoke calmly. “Far beyond the domain of typical humans, but none of us has tired of the delights of a hearty meal. I hear you prefer the flesh of the bovine?”
Flesh of a bovine... Tyr squinted at him. Why not just call a steak a steak?
“I guess...” Tyr sighed, a reticent nod for good measure, he did like steak. Any red meat at all. “But my taste for beef does not supersede my curiosity at why you think bringing me here for a meal was necessary. I'd like to get this over with, you are infringing on the time I get to spend with my wife.”
Vidarr chuckled, slapping him on the shoulder. “Oi, lad. This is important, they'll be plenty of time for the making of babies--”
“That's not what I meant.” Tyr grunted. “She is more than just a receptacle. I respect her.”
“Ah, well...” Vidarr frowned. “That's also not what I meant, little brother.”
“In any case.” Jartor interjected, with an uncharacteristic gentleness. “This place has the best bread and beer in the trial city, or so I've been told.”
“Bread and beer?” Tyr gulped, head whipping around in intense interest, enough to amuse his father, by the look of things. He couldn't think of a better combination of buttery, hot bread, thick fatty steak, and a nice crisp ale. “Oakenshot?”
“Better.” Jartor smirked. “Thundergrass. I hope you're ready to get drunk off your ass, boy. We only get to do this once every decade. For now, I'd advise you to enjoy the blessing of your youth, those little things.”
“Gods but I love me some thundergrass beer.” Vidarr looked about ready to drool. They called it such for the sound it made when the heavy pods at the end of the stalk rattled and rumbled together when the wind blew through the fields. A special species of wheat that was grown and cultivated by the beastkin of Saorsa, with the express purpose of serving as a wyvern tranquilizer. An incredibly potent, poisonous plant. The stalks could be refined to create an incredibly rich flour for which to make bread, but the pods themselves were enough to kill a man in seconds, should he make the mistake of ingesting one. Primus' however... “They only bring the barrels of this stuff to the anniversary of the ascendancy, the brewers are too proud. We have lifewine refined from the blood of monsters in Oresund, but it's heavy and leaves me with a headache in the morning. No hangover with the thunder. Appropriate, I think.” Vidarr smiled pleasantly, clearly as amused as Jartor was but for a reason Tyr couldn't understand. Because he was the primus of storms...? Yes, to him, it must've sounded very clever.
“...Wyverns.” Tyr's face flattened suddenly. “Should I be drinking this?”
“It's not like you can die.” Octavian shrugged. “I'm interested to see how you handle it.”
“That doesn't mean I'm immune to poison...” In fact, poisons, venom's, and darkness magic seemed to be his only apparent weaknesses. Some could put him out of commission for days. Nala's venom, more than a few drops of it, would leave him writhing in pain. They'd tried it, as a way to deaden his nerves and allow him to sleep soundly for once.
“If you were, then I would not have opted to bring you here.” Jartor added. “In any event, the Saorsan patrons of this place are famed for their meat dishes as well. You'll like it, I'm sure. Our relationship had been troubled, for obvious reasons, but this... You are no longer my true heir, and with that being said, perhaps we can... Bond.”
Jartor frowned, he looked uncomfortable talking in that way. Affection was so alien to him, dominated by his cool masculinity.
Tyr did, all told. Enjoy it, that is.
The beastkin waitresses were cute, like Yana but softer – not quite as elegant, but charming in their own way. Without the wear and tear that tightened a warrior up. The beer was crisp and refreshing, and a slight bitter tang to it that offset the savory taste of the meal.
And the meal... Bread, steak, and potatoes. The steak was unbelievably rich and fatty, the fat melting away like butter in his mouth, enough to make him nearly groan with every piece he ate. And those he dined with seemed to feel the same way, finally relaxing for once. Vidarr was always uncouth and rough, but seeing Octavian throw his manners to the wind was extremely strange.
According to the primus of Varia, they lived very moderate lives. Subsisting on tasteless food for months or years at a time just to continue enjoying the small pleasures. Those who didn't often fell into extreme depression. Too much of a good thing, it stood to reason. Primus' were practically demi-gods, but they were still human. To some degree, at least.
They all ate a monstrous amount, without reservation. Laughing and jawing about this or that – no mention of the topic at hand. Vidarr's head began to slump under the influence of the alcohol, before a red faced and bizarrely jovial Octavian slapped him awake. More drinking, they wouldn't stop... A sudden burst of degeneracy to humanize the greatest beings, those paragons of humanity.
Jartor remained stoic, mostly, but his ears and cheeks were tinged red, clearly feeling the alcohol as they all did. And Tyr... Blind sober. He didn't know why or what it was, but even after a drinking contest that put Vidarr back flat against the ground, the shattered remains of a chair crushed beneath his massive frame... Tyr was as lucid as ever. Sitting at this table of giants and simply observing quietly. It wasn't that he didn't feel it, just that it metabolized too fast. Oakenshot hit, and it stuck with him. It might take a keg to get him drunk, but it didn't fade so fast. This stuff... His mouth would tingle for a bit and it would fade shortly after.
“Gods damn, he can really put 'em down! Maybe this is your aspect! Ha! The primus of alcohol, what a title!” Octavian belched loudly, apologizing to a passing member of the servant staff with a slur. They didn't mind, really, and no Saorsan in their right mind didn't fear the emperor of Varia as their greatest potential threat. But to see them drink nearly five barrels of thundergrass between them was like something out of the legends. A single keg would kill all but a fully grown wyvern, usually they served it in horns and funnels to be poured down the animals throat.
Caught between honest fear of humanities champions and a grim interest to see how far they could keep going... And the hijinks, of course. Hopefully nobody was killed in the ensuing fights they were known for...
“Naturally. The blood of House Faeron is far thicker than you weakling... hic! Southerners. My son... A legend, ha!” Jartor and Octavian looked like they might butt heads over this challenge before erupting into laughter, embracing one another and returning to their feast. Several hundred kilos of meat, bread, and potatoes. Most likely why they'd chosen this place over all others, because they'd been prepared for it. Paid quite handsomely, too.
All the while, Vidarr remained slumped, murmuring on the ground. Lost in some dream, by the sound of it, he had quite a way with words, considering how elegantly he waxed on about 'Helga's supple breasts'. An unexpected talent for poetry, mostly concerning the chest of a woman, though.
“Oi... I know what we need!” Octavian declared, practically screaming.
“...Tits?” Tyr raised an eyebrow, still the only sober one at the same. It was depressing... He had never once 'hung out' with his father like this, and it was clawing at him. Some vague nuance to the feeling of a normal life, how things could've been if the world was any different.
“No, boy!” Octavian laughed, still very loud. Patrons looked over nervously. Their size alone was enough to identify these men as primus', built differently than other human beings despite their similarities in appearance. “Contest of strength!”
“I threw you clean into a mountain last time. Brings back memories.” Jartor chuckled, turning to wink at Tyr. He'd never seen his father like this, surrendering to his inhibitions, even if just a bit. Laughing. Always so grim and glib, now he was laughing freely and smiling far too much. “What do you think, my son? Are you enjoying yourself, is the food good?”
“It is.” Tyr nodded. He had to admit, these beastkin had perfected all that was culinary into an art form that would make even Killian blush. But he'd had better, not so long ago. Stella remained the greatest chef on the face of the planet. “It's the second best meal I've ever had.”
“...Second?” Jartor was skeptical, but ultimately opted to let the matter rest. “It's too bad Alexandros refused to join us. He's here, too. Always so serious, even on such an auspicious occasion.”
“He doesn't drink.” Octavian belched, drawing a sharp disconnect with his neat, vain, and pompous personality. All that finery... 'The Emperor'. “Something about not wanted to inhibit his freedom, but he's always rambling on about that crock of shit. Seems like it'd do the complete opposite, to me.”
“Maybe he means that the influence of drink is a shackle, so he doesn't partake. Surrendering to your inhibitions is not freedom.” Tyr mused, leaning back into his chair and breathing deeply of the stale air in the place. People looked, and he'd glare back at them to ensure they didn't stare for too long. “From everything that I've heard, his aspect seems to really... Well, it must suck – y'know? In having to maintain his freedom and those around him at all times, feeling pain when he doesn't... I'd hate to have that kind of power.”
“Aye.” Jartor nodded sadly. “It is a shackle, but all of us have one. A weakness. Mine, unsurprisingly, is weakness – and weakness is in everything we do. It is impossible to avoid it, and I have to continue following that path of mine. You will feel it, in time, it is a great burden... hic!”
“Mine is failure.” Octavian added with a raised finger. “And we as living things are bound to fail many times in our lives. Maybe not failure, exactly, but sloth and lethargy. Avoiding problems instead of confronting them head on, or ignoring them. You would not believe the discomfort I felt when we thought you were a bastard, and my inability to kill you right then and there. Sorry, kid, but it's the truth.”
“You couldn't have done it, even if you'd tried.” Tyr shrugged. All he wanted to do was get out of here. He was warm, tired, and wanted to feel a pair of arms around him. Naturally, that meant Jura. He liked having his hair played with, or his back scratched. She hadn't been very happy with him after having his hair cut, though, so perhaps they'd get into another argument. For all her blunt affection, she could be very possessive when it came to Tyr, a bit controlling, but not to a level he found to be toxic. He liked that about her, the way she forced him to realize that she cared.
“Let's go.” Jartor said. “...hic! I've had enough food for a month, I'm fit to burst. Let's walk the town like the good old days. Just... Grab Vidarr, will you?”
“Me...?” Tyr looked down at the titanic frame of his 'brother' nervously. Somehow, he'd have to manage – Jartor and Octavian were already gone. Sauntering off into the streets in the complete opposite of how one would expect a primus to behave. At least the Saorsan's found it amusing, that display of 'humanity' from the primus'. Almost endearing – though few of them were likely to care very much for Octavian considering the relationship they had with their northern neighbors.