“What the fuck is that!?” Vidarr cried, pointing, startling near everyone in the room with his outburst. They had seen the sky grow dark and dim, the blue of it turning to gray and casting a din over the arena. But they saw nothing else, other than Tyr's miraculous recovery against Lucian. Stopping Lucian's blade with a hand, just for a moment, until the two men had separated. Jartor had clutched the armrests of his throne with enough force to crush the marble to powder, again, clearly engaged once more after showing a great deal of disappointment previously. Leaning forward at rapt attention, fully engaged... “Wait, is that a--”
“Vidarr.” Octavian warned, and the younger primus nodded in understanding. Mortals near and within earshot, not that any of them were even listening to him. They were too caught up in what happened next.
Tyr's weapon had vanished, replaced by chains of spectral light that coiled around his forearms and up to his elbow.
Chains. Pinning themselves in rivets buried into his flesh, making for a baleful creaking noise that shook the windows to the viewing gallery. Fire wreathed him from head to toe, and the crowd within the arena grew silent at the haunting chill coming from that blaze. Gray fire tinged with the odd fleck of blacks and whites, lifeless and frightening.
'Evil' might be how some would describe it. The domain of mortality, forcing all living things to confront the insignificance of biological life.
At the end of each chain was a large curved blade, looking like daggers that had been crafted for the hands of a giant. One burned white and vivid, like hard light, and the other was the color of midnight – broken only by the twilight glint of stars dotting its surface. Every time they moved, there was a noise akin to a hammer beating an anvil in a dank cavern, something foul and damned.
Astrid stood, slowly approaching the glass of the viewing gallery and resting her hand upon it. Why? Nobody could know, they remained enraptured by whatever it was that was occurring. But unlike the other 'mortals', she could see that woman – she knew who she was. It was on the tip of her tongue.
Powerful mages and adventurers could give off auras that made others feel a particular way, but Tyr wasn't giving off an aura in the traditional sense. He was the aura. If they had any experience with it, as the primus' did, they would have recognized it for the domain that it was. And no ordinary one at that, this was the touch of a gods descent onto the mortal realm to create an avatar. Something that hadn't happened since before even old Ragnar's time.
“We should stop this.” Alexandros said, unheard by all but his kin. “A primus has never been made an avatar.”
“And he won't be.” Octavian replied sternly, though he looked as troubled as the rest. “I'll admit it is concerning in its similarity, but the confluence is far too weak to be an avatar summoning. This is different, it has to be.”
“Does that mean that it could happen one day, brother?” Jartor had no answer to that question, something that didn't happen often. Whatever that thing was, he felt an inherent want to descend himself, to stomp it until it left this realm. Not quite so foul as the dormant thing within Alexis, but it grated on his own aspect, making him uncomfortable. A stark testament to the mortality of all living beings, even primus', painted in living color.
“Only time will tell.” Octavian said with a shrug. Even he didn't know, but there had never been a primus come avatar. They were akin to paladins of all the gods, those aligned with law and order. As for the celestial in the white dress that none but they and a few others could see, he didn't know who she was either. He was not aware of any goddess fitting that horrifying description.
Something no living person should be able to commune with, whatever the case may be.
–
There was no heft to the weapons brought forth by his chant, but Tyr could feel a sort of gravity to them, the sound of wet chains clanking dully in a cavern came with every movement of them. He released the blades from his grip, grabbed at those chains and whipped them around himself, stepping back into the fire dance. Every rotation enough to clap at the air and carve up the stone beneath his feet, a power welling up within him that made victory certain. Nothing living could possibly stand before him.
Lucian laughed as he leaped out of melee range and began to face the oncoming storm head on. The two chains connecting them whistled as they moved, cracking at the air with booms enough to rattle his bones. And the force the blades generated when they landed upon his guard...? Primus. Finally, something that made the slog of a trip to this backwater worth taking.
Power. This was power, and it wasn't the sort of thing given unto paladins. This wasn't a 3rd party exultation of a god, it was an honest communion. A frail one, but nobody who had not become a saint, even a primus, should be able to do this...
Tyr's arms moved with practiced grace, bringing his lashes around in twirling hail of glittering blades that rent the air. Lucian couldn't help but enjoy himself, adopting the mountain style he had once used. Before he'd figured out that a style of fighting was a waste, made for significantly weaker being than him and no longer of use beyond a certain point. But for this...
“Counter!” Lucian was giddy from the sudden action. Instead of being broken as he would've been before, Tyr cut straight through the technique with the black blade – letting the white opposite sail directly into Lucian's guard with enough force to move him. If only a centimeter. “Ha! Show me more!”
Their dance increased in pace again, treading all over the field in twin blurs. Tyr felt a clarity in him that was rare to find. The soft and gentle hands of another were guiding his own in a pattern of movements he was not familiar with. Two beings in the same body working together to achieve a goal.
He should have loved it, truly reveled in that relationship – but he didn't. That woman hanging from his back, like Orpheus, was the shard of a goddess. Like any divine being, there was a cost associated with something like this. Once again, he was offered a bargain. This piece of Valkyrja, the aspect of death – Hel – offered him power being imagining. To realize him as a divine avatar, promising the bestowal of a true and complete aspect. Something he didn't have, or so she claimed.
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Tyr didn't believe her – he had already awoken to something and had never been much for trusting gods. Even one like this who'd been watching him throughout most of his life, placidly waiting to be called upon.
Not through voice, but by feeling and imagery. The first time Tyr had met Orpheus, she had lied to him. Blatantly so. Attempting to convince him to devour one of her shards. He didn't know why, and the second time he'd come into contact with her she was like a whole different person. Perhaps all of these shards were their own people, products of their environment, developing independently from one another...
In any case... Perhaps there was one thing she hadn't lied about. His fractured arcanum, broken beyond repair and the shards of that spread throughout the world. The sensation he got from this 'Hel' was identical. She was offering him the chance to recover one of these shards, gaining great power in return, but in exchange...
Hel was much more honest with her bargain.
In exchange, he would become a servant to her, doing her bidding. Becoming the one and only primus of death, the bane of the undead. Immortal until such a day came when he did not want to be. No call, no weakness felt by the other primus'. Duty unending, forever, whether on this world or another this part of himself would be wrapped up in those chains.
Untold and unbridled power was right at the tip of his nose, and he spat on it. Rejected it with all of his heart.
Not for any complex reason, or any pure motivation. Purely out of pride, he spurned her. But he did not push Hel away. He took from her what she offered in the present whilst denying the future, shrugging her hands off and devouring the energy all around him. Lucian looked on in disappointment as this new ability the boy seemed to have awakened flickered and died.
But beneath what appeared to be a boy at the end of his rope was a yawning maw of negative emotion that shattered the bonds between him and this unknown celestial. Eating away at her form until nothing was left but a single feather that fell softly toward the ground, before turning to fine ash.
He was impressed. Lucian was well aware that Tyr was a shaper, one who could peel away the construct of a spell and even break it, but men were simple creatures and their ambitions were even simpler.
It took a certain kind to stare that kind of promise in the face and deny it so readily that it ceased to exist. Destroying the offered bond of a god...? It took another kind entirely to turn their back on it, taking what energy they could through pure force of will. That's what Tyr had done. Devoured a celestial spirit in a manner of speaking, refusing to bend to her will. And she... 'She', that goddess... Lost in that confrontation. Lucian was a gnat before that kind of willpower, something inhuman, he'd eventually caved to Aotrom – but Tyr... He seemed to hate the gods so much that no promise they could offer him would truly sway him from his path. He'd choose, for himself, or not at all – like Lucian once upon a time – the boy would rather die than bend the knee to those creatures in the sky.
Tyr felt his heart thump hard in his chest, awakened again, rattling away as if in an attempt to escape its cage. The blood cooled in his veins. There was always a cost to everything, a bargain whether someone liked it or not. This kind of power was not natural, and though he could not die – his physical body could. He took from Hel, and Hel took from him – raging against his feeding frenzy and looking outwards to all those lights in the arena. He needed more if he wanted to hold onto this strength, and she... Valkyrja, Hel, was calling for help. Trying to escape, he wouldn't let her.
Lucian sighed in sudden disappointment. Everything ends – especially the rare joys in life a 300 year old man was capable of feeling, watching on as Octavian screamed into his earpiece. It didn't take a genius to figure out what was happening. Tyr was rapidly being transformed into a higher undead. To all observers, the two men below were staring at one another and ceasing their battle just at it had appeared to hit a tipping point.
“I really am sorry, kid.” Lucian said sadly. The wards were designed to protect living things, it would offer no such protection to one that had no life.
No life. Unliving, undead. Tyr had not once been protected by the shield.
...What? The mana in the air stilled and calmed, in such a wild place full of emotion it should be akin to a storm. Too many mages in one place, and now it was floating around tranquilly in motes twinkling light. Tyr could feel that power ravaging him, that curse – but it had never stood much of a chance. His fire could break spells, and after awakening the first step of the origin flame – it was easier than ever before. His gray skin grew healthy again, a soft light burning in the pits of his eyes. Lucian stared into those eyes and felt ten thousand staring back at him in turn. So many eyes, a legion of them.
'I am not alone.'
Beneath the ground, beyond the sky, in the crowd...
'We are legion.'
In the spira, a titan of violent flame stared down at him. An azure wolf of such immense majesty that Lucian felt lucky just to have seen it, the raw shape of a shattered arcanum being forcibly forged into new form by the fire. Covering every inch of the young mans body until he appeared a raging sun, hot enough to melt the stone beneath him.
It was as if something was inside of the young man that refused to accept anything that might potentially weaken him. Chewing it up, hammering it down until it could only serve to benefit the host body. Leaving the Saint confused, it wasn't often that a 300 year old man could face a thing and have no idea what was happening. But it wasn't evil, as Octavian might've claimed, it just was. Something else, a new path not so unlike the one Lucian had been down himself. A path that primus' did not follow for very obvious reasons.
A soul was not meant to be shaped that way, like clay. A bargain offered and a decision made to rip, tear, and steal. No bending, only steel, and the constant yearning for refinement into a better form.
“Hmm.” Lucian wasn't quite sure what to do at the moment. He'd wished to continue the fight for a little while longer, but despite Tyr appearing in the midst of forcibly reaching up towards some new power... The boy was unconscious on his feet. “Damn.”
Lucian waved up at the announcer, that small halfling woman with the pretty eyes. “I forfeit the match!”
Leda stared down at the glowing saint, at a loss for words. Only after being nudged in the side by her assistant commentator did she realize what was happening.
“He's so dreamy.” She said groggily, jumping up in fright as she heard her own voice echo back to her through the arena. The crowd laughed, the tense atmosphere cut like butter. “I mean, ah! Winner! Team Stella whatever from the Lyran Republic! Wait, seriously? What the hell!? That was anti-climactic!”
Lucian smiled up at her, bowing toward the crowd. He didn't have the shame in him to play at being injured, but the almost imperceptible crack on the arcanum most called armor was more than enough to consider the experience a success. His full lips were upturned in whimsy even as Octavian appeared and berated him for ignoring his primus. Lucian would ignore him again, for the second time in his long life.
A primus could not kill a saint, it was against their laws. But Tyr had gone to a place... Maybe, perhaps in the future he would become a saint slayer. Lucian needed one, and if not, it was a novel enough of an idea.