“What's all this then?” Tyr asked, more than willing to entertain what appeared be a rare streak of rebellion from Alex, until he'd felt the others. Several very intense spira signatures, just out of sight and surrounding him on both sides. Alex had a look of shame in her eye, but she disguised it reasonably well. Not too well, though, he could smell it on her – it was rank. “I thought we were going to bang?”
The stench of betrayal.
“You could stand to be an ounce more articulate, you know?” Alex's flustered voice filled the unfamiliar chamber. Tyr placed his finger to a wall, running the digit along the smooth surface inconspicuously. He'd never been aware of a labyrinth below the academy... 'Dungeons', yes, and other insulated facilities, but not something on so grand a scale. Every wall was near two meters thick and layered with various wards and protective enchantments. Spreading out in a titanic web below the earth, all of it serving to protect the mana reactor at the bottom most point. He thought. Nobody was supposed to know where it was except for Lernin and a few other trusted staff, but Tyr could feel it raging beneath the earth. Reacting against the spira and producing supplementary power, though most of it was wasted. Truly genius technology, and definitely not human in nature. But that was not the matter at hand.
“Aye, aye, fair lady.” Tyr reached a hand out dramatically and half bent at the knee. All the while spreading his influence throughout the place, trying to zero in on the people watching them. “Doth thoust not wish to accept mine deliverance of gravy of the infant making variety posthaste to your cervical chambers?”
It's a trap... A voice whispered, one of many whispering to him in his head. Every time it sounded like someone else but it would speak to him, that thing, far more literally than before. Less thought and imagery, or an impulse, but it was speaking to him now. Spoken to, but by what? He didn't know what the thing was, besides the obvious guess that it was his truest shard manifesting and trying to push his original mind out of his skull.
Trap... It repeated. Ghostly. The voice of a phantom, something not quite real just yet.
“Grammatically, that doesn't make sense. And it was unnecessarily lewd, I might add. You can just call it sex, the descriptiveness makes it even worse...!” Alex said, her voice cracking into nervous and artificial laughter. She was anxious, Tyr could smell the sweat on her and could see her hand twitching to open into a claw. The shape necessary to grab something out of a dimensional ring, ready for something. Yet she kept walking, slowly, a bit of hesitation in her steps. She didn't want to do this, but that didn't matter either. She'd done it.
Traitor. Betrayer. Liar. Keeper of secrets. The voice was so loud in his skull, but Tyr managed to remain still, not clutching his head just yet. Harm her, SLAY WHAT SLITHERS. KILL IT!
“Tyr?” Alex turned, the sound of his clacking boots had abruptly vanished, and where he'd stood only moment ago there was only empty air. Magic was near impossible here and the hallway ran straight for thirty meters in each direction.... He wasn't that fast, was he?
“Where did you go?” She called out, but he didn't answer. It was silent, sans her voice carrying on down through the dark bricks of the tunnel and echoing off the walls. The lights flickered for a moment shorter than the blink of an eye before stabilizing again. A frigid chill kissing the back of her neck in a place that should have no breeze. “If this is a joke, it's not funny!”
See with your eye. She lingers. It remains. Kill it. His surroundings had gone ghostly and monochrome even more so than before, and while he could still hear Alex just fine, it was an exceptionally large black viper that had taken her place that faced him. Staring at him with hungry eyes. Does not belong in this one. Kill it. Balance her. Kill her. Save her. She cannot be saved. SLAY WHAT SLITHERS! RIP IT OUT AND THROTTLE IT! DISGUSTING THING!
“T-this really isn't funny, where are you?”
Alex shuddered, a wisp of wind passed by her ear again, tossing her hair about slightly. She could hear no footsteps but could sense just barely that something was circling her. Making her feel like she was deep at sea on a sinking raft with a shark in the water. A flash was all she caught of him before he'd vanished again, a tall skinless corpse with black wings framing it, rictus grin reflected back at her beneath two baleful sapphire orbs. Burning... The burnt man watching her, though she could not see it except at the furthest point of her peripheral vision.
“I'm in your walls.” Tyr said in a low tone. Echoing just like hers had, but from everywhere at once and lingering far longer than it should've. “You lied to be. Betrayed me. Fooled me. I see them, they cannot hide from Us.”
“Tyr...” Alex began to weep, his voice held no audible emotion but the imagine flickering through her head did. His fingers were on the back of her scalp and she collapsed in fright at the violent imagery he'd shown her in turn. How he felt now, before, almost always – washed out and empty on the inside. A pot scoured clean of all but the dregs of a last meal left ashen. How anyone could maintain any semblance of sanity in a state like that was difficult to conscience. Tyr had done it for near two decades, but his time had run its course and his truest self was on the cusp of emerging. He no longer wished to play by the games of man, he'd... Made his choice. “I'm scared. We're all scared of you! This isn't a betrayal, I just want to help! I swear, we all do!”
“I believe.” Tyr replied, releasing her head and staring up at the serpent. Barely a glance, but he could tell this one was Orpheus. Alex was Alyx. Orpheus, Alyx, Valkyrja, the three... Tyr had thought these were components of the goddess Ryu. He didn't even know what or who Ryu was, but he knew instinctively that Ryu and Valkyrja were separate entities, and not particularly friendly ones. Part of the balance. How were they connected? He supposed they were shards of Ryu and Valkyrja, just as he and his 'brother' were connected. Whatever his shard was reacted to all of them. The High Ones lived above the concepts of time and reality, they might even be one of many faces, all connected to the same individual. “Do not be afraid... I am your... Do not... Salvation. Do not be afraid, I love you.”
Tyr was Tyr.
Tyr was not 'Tyr'. Not in that moment, he was gone and in his place had come the bladed one, the Wolf Father, lord of all taboo.
'Tyr' was inside of him. The one who balanced. Too much knowledge for his brain to handle and it roiled molten in his skull. Painful. No anger, just a cold calculating need to shape and trim rotten branches from the tree left unkempt for far too long. To rip and tear at imperfection, to rip the tongues from the mouth of liars, to burn them. He knew in that moment that he could watch this world burn down to ash and he would not feel the slightest bit of concern at it. But the little bit of humanity left within him shuddered at how awful that idea was. Battling for control. Losing himself.
You were already lost.
You are nothing.
Let Us free.
I can save her.
They cannot, but I can.
Call on me. Ignore the others, I am the one you need.
Behind the walls, the actual – literal walls – Iscari and his father could see. Tyr was gone and in his place was a white wolf bathed in azure flame. One eye black and weeping, the other eye pure white and blind. The astral projection of his aspect, how all primus' and saints existed on the plane of spira – and the few heroes who'd managed to reach that point.
On the other side of the hall, it was obvious the others must've seen it themselves. Vidarr and Ragnar, Jartor had refused to attend, as had Alexandros, neither of them had the stomach for it. Necessity or not, three primus' and the unawakened son would be more than enough. But they didn't want to kill Tyr, they wanted to convince him to willfully accept imprisonment. Just for now, if not simply to explain what business he was about, this could play out a dozen of ways.
But Tyr had sensed them and things were falling apart, the mana waste from the reactor was going wild and filling him with more power by the second. Some vampiric reaction very nearly allowing a piece of his arcanum to reflect in the material world. Decidedly not a good thing.
“That's enough, brother.” A voice came from inside the insulated barrier sheathing the tunnels, necessary to protect the world above from mana forced to exist below the depth it was supposed to. Vidarr. An incredibly blunt man with a heart of gold, perhaps the only awakened primus who truly cared about any person as an individual. He hadn't lived long enough to see the grander scale of things, how little one life really mattered. Still fighting to protect the little things.
“I spy with my single eye... A rat.” Tyr whispered – blurring across the space, appearing in his physical form and spearing his hand into the wall with a cacophonous crack, piercing Vidarr's breastplate and bodily pulling him free. Slowly, almost affectionately brushing the startled man's face with his free hand. Tyr hoisted the wide eyed Vidarr aloft and proceeding to repeatedly bury his skull into what remained of the wall he'd just been torn out of.
Impossible... Octavian gawped. The walls of this place were contained blocks of dimensional space that existed to open in bays should the reactor ever fail. Astral shielding, a vacuum space very similar to how dimensional rings operated. Meaning Tyr had torn through the rift between their reality and the astral with no apparent mana or spira emission. That's why they'd done this here, to avoid any damage, or the likelihood of a scene being made. Worst case scenario, they could merely chuck him into the space and hold him there indefinitely, until it turned out Tyr was quite obviously capable of traversing the veil all of a sudden.
Taking Vidarr, a mighty warrior in his own right, and crushing his chest. Of course he wasn't dead or even the least bit hurt, but that was easier said than done. After a moment the man smiled proudly down at Tyr, even whilst grunting in pain he seemed pleased.
“You've awakened and didn't bother to tell us?” Vidarr joked, slamming his head against Tyr's own and sending both men flying off in opposite directions. Tyr slid across the ground still on his feet, limp in the upper body, while Vidarr recovered and pulled the metal shrapnel out of his chest. The wound visibly healing, but not nearly so fast as Tyr's. “I'm offended, little brother. This is a moment for celebration!”
“One eye remains closed.” Tyr replied ambiguously, the muscles in his neck bulging in a manic expression. The impact had completely crushed his face, Alex watching on in horror. This wasn't at all what they'd agreed to, and how could she refuse when faced down by Ragnar and Octavian themselves? “Soon it shall open, when the raven sings for me and the black heart beats. I feel it coming. It hungers but we hold it back. Leave now, and we will forgive you your transgressions.”
“Can't do that.” Vidarr grunted, it was like this. As bizarre as it was, the gradual transformation into a proper primus was typically even more insane. Tyr had retained control for far longer than any of them had assumed, but nobody could keep resisting forever. That's why they did it in the Ark's, mostly, Vidarr himself had been babbling mad for months beforehand. “We're your friends. If not your friends, then your family. We all care about you, and you need to come with us. A shard cannot be allowed to manifest outside of an Ark, and you will understand that what we do is for the best. For you, and for all of us, for everything you care about.”
He said this, but Tyr saw those hammers in his grip. Hammers he'd made by his own hands, kissed by the aura and evolved even further by Vidarr's power. A tinge of pride or perhaps happiness painted color in his gray washed vision. A primus could easy access superior artifacts to those, and yet Vidarr held even the shattered remains of the hammer he'd broken in the astral space, eschewing all else. Twinkling bits of broken steel twirling around in semblance of the shape it had once taken. Tyr felt the faith in that expression and loved the man for it, but it wouldn't stop Them, every belief they held would only make them stronger. Him stronger, whether that be fear, love, revulsion, or otherwise – and the great evils of the world were always remembered far after the heroes. Primus' were forgotten, but everyone knew Solomon's name.
Should not be. Kill it. RIP!
“Don't hurt him!” Alex screamed, holding her hands up and waving frantically. Too weak in the knees for her body to obey her want to throw herself atop him. “You said you wanted to talk, that's all! I didn't agree to this!”
“We do just want to talk, silly girl.” Octavian sighed, stepping free from the wall with Iscari in tow, Ragnar joining them on the other side of the passage. “That's all we want to do, talk.”
“Came to kill it.” Tyr said, his voice as flat as ever. Frigid to the point of foulness, inhuman and droning. “Came to destroy it. You fear it. You should fear it. Even I fear it. Fate is a tricky thing, though, wonder if I can?”
“I...?” Ragnar wasn't nearly as concerned as the others. Tyr was still so weak, the seed within him was growing rapidly but the godsteel in his bones and blood was stopping it from being born on this world before its time. Smart, almost too smart... So many questions, not enough time to answer them – it was simply ingenious, a level of cunning Ragnar had never expected out of a boy so... Blunt. “Who are we speaking to? Tyr?”
“All of us. It, me.” Tyr replied. “Which do you wish to speak with now?”
“Our Tyr.” Ragnar inclined his head. “Your terrestrial nephilim host body.”
“Understood.” Tyr shuddered, his face twisting unnaturally in a blur of motion, before settling to reveal a much paler and more angry version of himself. Same face, but somehow more familiar if for no reason other than its mannerisms. “Where am I? Ragnar? What are you doing here?”
“What's the last thing you remember?” Ragnar asked.
“Nothing.” Tyr replied wistfully, looking around in confusion. “Everything? Constant hallucinations and I can't seem to identify truth and lie.”
“I am not sure whether to be pleased that it's not just the shard that speaks as if it's got an empty skull. The host is equally incapable of articulating things in a way that anybody possessive of ears could possibly understand.” Octavia spat, irritable at how softly this matter had been handled. If Jartor had the backbone he'd once had, this would no longer be his problem. But it was true that they couldn't abandon a chance at an extra primus. Throwing him into an ark and hoping for the best was their only option, and if not, Octavian would kill the boy himself.
“Won't you shut up?” Ragnar cursed, a man who couldn't stand southerners and their constant moaning about every little thing. “Tyr, describe to me what's happening to you as best you can. Daughter, you can leave.”
“I won't.” She frowned, though her lip was quivering. Ragnar didn't know the girl well but he could see that she wouldn't ever agree to leave by anything other than force. Not that he blamed her in the least. Family was worth protecting, these roots that keep them bound to the earth were more important than people understood. Until they were gone, that is, that was the way of man. One could not miss something until it was gone, a lesson learned by all those who'd lived as long as they had.
“Understood.” Ragnar nodded in acceptance. Vidarr and Octavian both glared at him, they did not understand. Tyr would eventually follow her out of this place whether they wanted him to or not. His power as it were was adaptation, to all things, even beyond his aspect, his body always found a way to stay corporeal. “So?”
“I'm going insane.” Tyr frowned. “I made some... Tweaks to my body to try to stop it, as well as to become stronger, I suppose. It worked, but it won't last forever. I am losing my mind.”
“This is normal. What do you see now?” Ragnar asked in interest, waiting for that daft child Octavian to say something, but wisely and for once – he kept his mouth where it should be. In the position of 'shut'.
“I see... I feel.” Tyr struggled to wrap his head around the images. “I feel people all around me, so many of them and they are standing by my side. Speaking my name, but I can't actually see or hear them. I don't know, how do you describe that? I see a man made of feathers crouched in a tree. Clocks in the walls and scratching fingers. Nails tapping on windows. Worms in the soil looking for their next meal while the ground above is turned to glass beneath a great storm of fire. Creatures I do not recognize chanting my name around a fire, atop a mountain in a place I've never seen before. I see chains and wolves, hands and eyes. I see an old man with a long beard standing beside you. A young man with a hammer the weight of the world in Vidarr. A man with a chisel sculpting a mountain face in Octavian. In Iscari I see a woman with a harp and a lantern, and in Alex I see the fated wyrm that should not be in her. Behind that I see a field of flowers, forests... There is so much, it hurts.”
“Interesting.” Ragnar nodded even as Octavian stared on in concern. Vidarr and Iscari looked around as Alex did the same. “Octavian, what did you see in yourself?”
“Lord Bumi on his mountain.” Octavian replied. “How could he see so much? It's no wonder it's breaking him. Is he even the Tyr that was born on this world?”
“Most certainly.” Ragnar nodded. “I saw great Mako, Vidarr saw Tormund. So on and so forth. You should not be able to see our aspects, but I suppose it's not the end of the world. After all, your father has seen nothing identifiable as a god by our current body of knowledge, only a lion to your wolf. You're not going insane, Tyr, you're awakening. It is a slow and terrible process, it will not be pleasant – and you cannot stop it.”
“These are gods?” Tyr asked.
“Gods...” Ragnar pondered. “Not quite. We are not sworn more intimately to one god over the others, we do not speak to the divines with any frequency nor do we receive visions as the priests do. Some primus' in the past posited that we were gods, or at least the truest and most native avatars of them. Maybe we are pieces of them, it is widely accepted that this is a strong possibility since gods themselves cannot claim ownership of our souls. Like the spira kin, we are the highest rated beings in a spiritual sense permitted to exist on this world. It is worth repeating that it is quite normal to have disconcerting visions before the change. Yours just happen to be more intense than others, that's all. We most certainly do not wish to stop it, this is good...”
“Well...” The eldest primus continued. “Good is subjective, I supposed. You'll learn, very soon, what it means to be one of us. Good for others, at least, as we defend this world from threats – it is complex beyond morality.”
He said this, and it relaxed Octavian, but this was a lie. To say Tyr was simply 'awakening' was simply not true. Ragnar didn't know what the boy was, whether that be a true primus or not, but he was most assuredly a higher form of nim. Something similar, at least. People thought a 'primus' was the epitome of perfection of all mankind, but all they were was a collection of heritages that culminated in the production of a higher man. A neatly controlled, manufactured bloodline that ran through the ages.
The gods saw to that, presumably, but they spoke like riddlers and Ragnar had seen many in his time, all saying different things. Some lied to them outright, and by 'some' he'd mean by far the majority of celestial entities. They had their ambitions and would always follow them, forever, regardless of what foul fate it brought on their followers. Very few ran against that convention, the gods were not their friends.
His 'proof', call it that, was in the fact that some families – like the Goldmane's and the Slakt's came from defunct lines that had failed to produce a male primus when their scions had left the world. Ragnar had thought once that the Faeron's were next on this list after Tyr had suddenly lost his apparent aspect, but Jartor had produced no less than two sons with incredibly thick bloodlines. There were other families, too. When Ragnar was a child there had been twenty one primus', now there were nine if he counted his grandson, and Jartor's youngest.
“More than what you see, what are your goals? Ambitions? What do you want to do?”
“I want to die.” Tyr replied seriously.
“...”
“You want to die?” Ragnar raised an eyebrow. “What if, hypothetically speaking, you could not die. What would you wish for?”
“I want to kill Hastur.” Tyr said. “And after that I want to sleep without terror. I want to feel the air in my lungs again, I want to taste and love and live. A mortal life, and die old and gray watching a garden full of laughing children. My entire world has been shrunk to a pin point, but I believe that if I fulfill this oath of mine I will be able to see the sun one last time before leaving this world. With both eyes.”
Ragnar nodded in appreciation of that wisdom. It was true that primus' could not die, not ever. Once they were gone from the world, they'd be given no rest. Not just primus', but all nephilim were collected and reborn somewhere else – they were of a finite number in the cosmos and only those devolved kin of theirs would be offered the peace of true death. An afterlife, while higher nim would receive their reward for awakening, that involving being practically enslaved by whatever god was responsible for their eternal march.
He knew that, had learned it, but did not share it with the others. Their vigilance was eternal whether on this world or another. So he had refused the call until it stopped coming. Even then, Ragnar remained cursed, and it would return as it always did.
Even when it made him want to order his second son to lop his head off and silence the voices, he'd resisted. He wished he could give this peace to Tyr, to all of his brothers, the world hadn't needed them for some time – yet they remained. And they weren't supposed to be here. Long after the builders had left, their kind remained and were punished for it, in a manner of speaking. As of now, they were of a dying breed – and when they left the world would end. Quite literally, in fact.
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
“And you are... You are one with this presence inside of you?”
“I cannot say.” Tyr replied with a shrug. “I am simply one of twelve.”
Ragnar frowned. He didn't know everything, and there was much he could not say in front of the others. But if this 'twelve' that Tyr was referring to was in reference to the High Ones, his 'situation' could go in either direction. The Reader had said all the gods were dead, the old gods. All that was left were their many children and pieces of them. He'd also said that man was better off with that being the case.
That the true old gods were evil incarnate, bound to no need for worship – simply existing to create and destroy. A neutral force of balance that would scour billions of worlds with no mind of their own, the mythos introduced to him by one great mage in particular. Knowledge mortals weren't supposed to possess that would irrevocably drive them mad.
Most of this information had come from the mouth of Altrimar when Ragnar had expelled him from the mortal plane, so taking that with a grain of salt was likely very wise.
“Twelve...?” Octavian stepped forward with a look of consternation, but before he could take a second step he was removed from their presence with a snapping of Tyr's fingers.
“We do not like him.” Tyr scowled at where the primus had so recently stood. “So much talking. Yap, yap, yap. All of this intrigue, these tricks and traps. Either fight Us or leave us alone, there is no third option.”
“Where did you put him...?” Vidarr looked around, unable to feel Octavian anymore. Young Iscari remained, but Octavian had seemingly been taken by the worlds will. “Did you kill him?”
“Can't.” Tyr replied. “And I have no idea what happened to him, only that he is far enough away where I can no longer hear him speaking. My head hurts, please leave. Your plan has failed and I already know what I must do, there is nothing any of you can do to stop me or convince me otherwise.”
“Tyr, this is concerning behavior.” Iscari appealed to him. “We're friends, right?”
“Brothers, perhaps.” Tyr crossed his arms, managing to look down his nose at a being so much taller than him as Ragnar. “Brothers, and they are sons. That is the problem, they do not know their place and would refuse to accept it should we show them.”
“Then stop this, brother. High King Ragnar Stalvarg would not be going to such lengths, even crossing the known world simply to banter with you. Please come with us.” Iscari smiled, approaching Tyr, but before he was much more than an arms length away, Tyr's foot struck out with thunderous force – stopping just shy of his face.
“It can't kill you.” Tyr said. “But It can hurt you. Maim you. Do not touch me. You were always my best friend, the partner of my heart in a way the others could never be. That made them angry, they didn't like it.” He threatened, but the inflection was full of sorrow and it spread to the expression on the face. “I know what I must do. I am sworn to... Where am I?”
“Unfortunate.” Ragnar sighed in resignation. No more answers today, but enough to work with for now. Knowledge that biological minds weren't permitted to keep would eventually leave them, men who'd write books and know nothing of the contents... It was the same thing here, moments of lucidity that would gradually vanish as the shards collected it all up and wrestling over the scraps.
“Ragnar?” Tyr asked, the anger wiped from his face in the midst of the schizophrenic break that was so common to their younger kin. Multiple personalities in one shell, some were host to many shards before the strongest devoured the others and won out. But '12' – the sacred seats – was more than Ragnar had ever heard of in one individual. Tyr was not many people at once, these pieces were and always would be a part of him, shards were named quite literally. Regardless, even the Ragnar, it would never not be confusing. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“It's father.” Ragnar winked. “What do you remember?”
“That doesn't answer my question...” Tyr sighed. “I remember... I was speaking with Alex's younger brother and then... Alex is here? What is going on? Iscari! It's so good to see you.” He hugged the dumbfounded Varian prince, the latter returning the embrace awkwardly with a concerned glance towards the eldest among them.
“Just a bit of a family reunion.” Ragnar smiled, slapping Tyr on the shoulder and joining the hug. Vidarr following closely behind to squeeze them all affectionately in his massive arms. “How do you feel? I heard you've been... Feeling a bit ill of late, yes?”
“Have I?” Tyr frowned. “I suppose I haven't been sleeping much. But I haven't had a full night's rest in many moons. It's normal for us, right?”
“Of course it is.” Ragnar chuckled fatherly. “Go enjoy yourself at the festival.”
And he did, march off without hesitation. He offered Alex his hand with a skeptical look as she remained on her knees about the floor, but she shook her head. Passing as some kind of silent communication between the two not to push further. Looking back only once before he ventured out, wondering what the hell had just happen. His brain was foggy again, but the steady weight of the implants kept him stable for the time being. Good thing, too. The last thing Tyr wanted was for the others, especially Iscari, to find out that he was losing his mind.
“Am I allowed to ask what's going on?” Alex asked as soon as Tyr was out of earshot. Ragnar had an odd look and was staring up at the sealing with a frown. Not ceiling, sealing. He withdrew a fist sized crystal artifact of some kind, snapped his fingers, and before her eyes the pinkish stone turned black and misty. Nodding in satisfaction and turning his luminescent eyes, flickering with crimson toward her.
Odd... Ragnar pondered. Jartor said that he'd removed that thing.
In either case, did or did not, it was fortunate he'd come here. A nature spirit making a vessel of a relatively normal human, even a half awakened nephilim, was quite strange. Concerning, even. No less concerning than the fact she'd begun the process so early in her life, and had somehow managed to avoid detection. Confirming that something was afoot, but women were always the more stable option in the event it happened, which it likely wouldn't for the same reason.
Women were vessels of giving, and men were the opposite. It was in the soul.
“Ah, well...” Ragnar sighed exaggeratedly. “Boys will be boys.”
He threw his arms out playfully as if that explained the situation. It did not.
“That is not an answer.” Alex rose to her feet, glaring up at Ragnar with a bravado that impressed him a great deal. “With all due respect, father, primus, and High King, I would have a real and serious response from you.”
Ragnar was so shocked he might've laughed. He'd taken the foreign shard from her, and purged her memories of the event, and she'd... Resisted? No, resistance implies the fact that had the control changed – she might've been influenced by it. She was immune to his attempt to expunge the memories entirely.
How interesting... Ragnar thought with an appraising glance towards her twin cores. Almost like a primus....
“Is he going to be alright?” She continued. “How do we fix this?”
“We don't.” Ragnar said, hand outstretched and smiling amicably. “This is nature taking its course. The nature of a primus. Did you know that the call of the primus is voluntary? I don't know what happened to my son before this, but he is in the process of awakening and that is why he is acting differently. We all go through this, and to answer the obvious question – yes, it is the Tyr you know, one way or another. Now if it's quite alright with you, I'll need to speak to the others.”
'Go through this'.
In a way, but not like that, if the dao pulling his spirit apart and keeping him from awakening were expelled or advanced... Ragnar didn't know what would happen. A twinkle at his eye and a great deal of wondering what gave those watching Tyr absolute confidence that he had it under control, in any case.
Primus' didn't go insane in terms of a chemical imbalance or defect in the brain, they communed with a foreign presence and became its avatar, but just one. There could only ever be one other, two souls of a sort, in one body. What they called a shard, one rich in a specific, singular dao. If Ragnar was right, and in that respect he was quite sure he was.
After that, the shard would reach the sparking point before it could become a true celestial, a god, and it would be expelled. But they were always one, despite often separating and living wholly independent lives. Some shards existed as the ruling primus, while the former human inside of them did as they'd pleased – but the only primus to actively engage in switching was Jartor. Cortus' shard, for example, had been chained to a wall and sealed for some decades before escaping – the man now known as Hastur.
A confusing sort of relationship, they were one and yet different. Freely able to transit between bodies, sharing memories continents apart from one another, even senses. It could be maddening, but it was worth a bit of inconvenience or dizzy spells in the early days of the process to avoid an eternal consciousness. Existence was frightening, remembering everything always and forever would be even more so.
“You'll protect him?” She asked anxiously. “Please keep him safe. I don't want to lose him.”
Ragnar nodded, and this time – there was no falsehood in the agreement to do so. That didn't mean that he wouldn't allow Tyr to die if it were necessary, that was a sort of protection in itself. That kind of aspect was not supposed to exist. After some convincing, Alex left, explained away as 'normal'. Given the task to support him and ensure he was in good spirits before it happened. It was not pleasant, even the easiest process was pain beyond pain, for all of them.
Tyr's would likely kill him, turning him into an elemental by the looks of it. He'd made the mistake of coming into contact with an origin element and was trending down the path of turning into another Altrimar. Just... Worse. Apotheosis existed in the elemental, though the examples were few, a celestial entity of sacred flame could have some interesting effects. Maybe even developing every living human on the planet into a full blown nephilim.
Might be fun for a while. Ragnar laughed. Either that, which was unlikely given the difficulty, or being dominated by the shard itself. Tyr lacked the mental discipline of the others, the decades of training they'd underwent, and his body being as weak as it was... Calling what would come of this thing a 'monster' would be very appropriate. Aberrant primus' had existed, after all, it wasn't unheard of.
Iscari had tried to leave as well, and Ragnar felt ill for having him stay. But it was necessary. In the event that Tyr went down the path he was bound for, Iscari was the only one who could stop him. The hero in this era. History was full of those, the chosen ones, hope and faith when twisted to their respective emotional stigma were complete and utter opposites.
“We're okay, right?” Iscari asked. “Tyr is all good, just awakening?”
“We're all fucked.” Vidarr said but he laughed all the same, slapping his rigid stomach, mirthful in both voice and exclamation. “I can't believe how strong he's gotten, and so fast! I know he started out pretty frail, but I am very impressed at the progress.”
“My son is a little harsh with his words.” Ragnar pulled a stool from a dimensional space and seated himself on it. Stooped and pensive, chin resting in his hand. “But he's not wrong. Tyr had grown too far in spira for any of us to eliminate him. His will is shaping the world around him passively, and if he is pushed too far the 'it' he was speaking of will come out. Which is necessary, perhaps, but not good. We cannot stop it, only contain it when it happens. Or hope that it's not nearly as bad as I think it is, but engaging him now would be folly. I have a lot to do in preparation, who knows? It might even turn out alright. There isn't enough data available to me to draw any real conclusions, but his awakening... Don't worry about it, I've got it under control.”
“...I don't understand.” Iscari said. “What do you mean he's too strong for you to eliminate him? Not that I want you to...”
“This is a bit of an odd question, but perhaps not. Have you ever read of Helen?” Old Ragnar, even when seated, seemed to be staring down at Iscari. A monolith of human history that had seen ages go by, there was no lying to him.
“I have.” Iscari nodded.
“Good, makes it easy.” Ragnar smiled, impressed that Octavian would've allowed such a thing. But then again, he probably hadn't, allowing the prince to access a black book at so young an age was not like him. “And what did you learn?”
“Well...” Iscari scratched the back of his head. Frankly, Helen had been a genius – but a mad one. Halfway through her grimoire she'd abruptly changed face. Her 'Tree' as she'd called it, was the study of various progression and awakening paths in living things. She'd been the one to properly categorize heroes, saints, and other classifications of awakened creatures. The theory that unlike mana, spira wasn't power – it was effectively the right one had to exist at all. Enough of it, and a person could not be removed from the world, effectively making them immortal, but it didn't make them invincible. Their bodies could be destroyed, for example, and they'd live on as spectral entities or be devoured by nature spirits to become part of the mass collective. “She said that humans absorb latent energy through activity and become stronger. She called them 'levels'. I'm not sure I really understood it...”
“Most wouldn't. Imagine the strength of an aspect relative to the human standard for magic, but use it to compare humans and extrapolate. Every level, things increase exponentially. Everything increases. A normal human is level one. A trained soldier is level two or three. Mages lay outside of this system most times but for most you could say they are a level five, knights be meet this same standard. An unawakened nephilim can be anywhere from five to ten. Awakened nephilim in particular would perhaps exist in the gap between 10-12 that is their ceiling.”
Ragnar continue with a flourish of his hands.
“Twelve or so is the minimum for an unawakened primus, that is to say a higher nephilim, someone with power beyond humankind's typical ability to access it – someone like you. An awakened primus is between level twenty and thirty. And then you have the gods... It varies too much to say. Fifty, maybe, at a minimum – rapidly accelerating towards a far higher number, but this is all theory. It's not like I've fought a god before, not literally. I might be wrong, but I have fought nature spirits and those are a close comparison. I could never put numbers to the thing but let's say fifty is the absolute minimum for a true celestial being. Between ten and fifty are nature and divine spirits. I am perhaps a twenty five. I'd put you at a twelve to fifteen, which coincides with the level of a hero – roughly.” Ragnar said before Iscari interrupted him.
“Wouldn't that make me stronger than an archmage? I doubt that.”
“The levels that pin our existence to the world care nothing for your offensive capabilities, the spira is the fabric of reality and thus it is far larger than petty sword fights or magical duels. It's all in significance. Exponential, remember? If I am a level twenty five, that does not make me a half-god, a god could flick their finger and remove me at any time if they possessed the ability to reach down, that's how mighty they are. You know, there were primus' once upon a time who weren't much stronger than you, we used to grow stronger as the eras passed – but that time is over. For so long, we've been growing weaker. Until your generation. I say this because although an archmage can achieve miraculous things, they could never kill you. That's what matters, really, the ability to destroy or create. Solomon could create living, thinking beings, but he couldn't kill a primus through normal magic. He needed a ritual, a way to reach beyond his strength and even then, I posit that he still didn't manage to kill them – only disabling them or some other equivalent. In any case, you didn't come to listen to an old man's foolish attempt at positing his theory on existence. To summarize, I'd put Tyr at a nineteen. A nineteen doesn't mean he'd beat you in a fight, but he could kill you if you were to allow him the chance. Even though you are much stronger, that's again not how it works. He is very close to awakening, but something is different within him. He is not him, he is many. And that is very bad.”
“Bad how?” Iscari asked. “Can we fix it?”
“In a primus, people like us have two faces – so to speak. Themselves, their human self I mean, and the shard they host. Your father has told you this, correct?” Ragnar looked toward him.
“Of course.” Iscari lied. It hadn't been Octavian who had told him, but he knew perhaps more than any other primus save Ragnar about what he was. What they were. Monsters. Manufactured machines of mass destruction turned unauthorized guardians of a dying world. A primus was essentially a biological human with the bloodline necessary to give them the inhuman ability to accept a larger than normal piece of pure celestial energy. This 'shard' became a thinking thing through this relationship. Once combined, thus awakened, two became one and the child bearing the seed died in a very permanent and irreversible way. Their memories faded and it would feel like they'd been watching a reel or recap of a life that wasn't their own. Turned toward a purpose dictated by the shard that took them as a vessel, and then they would separate again as 'new' people, to be reborn in the Ark.
The shard wasn't in control, to do so was to die, but it was always there and ever present. If one wasn't compatible with theirs, as Cortus hadn't been, it could result in some rather foul complications. Driving them insane.
“Tyr has many shards.” Ragnar said. “More than two. Based on his words and the unfortunate significance of the number aside, twelve of them. And in his vessel, they have been battling for dominance for so long that he is in control. His soul manages them and he is not a slave to them as we are. A foul word, surely, but it's true. He is devouring them and once he claims victory, which I believe he eventually will, I simply do not know what will happen. I have never seen nor heard of a primus that had managed to do such a thing, but when he killed Cortus, he took his first, in exchange for his own – but a shard cannot be removed in that way. Not ours, at least, or so I believe. Eventually, it reconstitutes itself. And over time, he's taken many shards from many different people. As you know, not only primus' have shards, ours are just the most whole from the first sealing.”
“How is that possible?” Iscari didn't quite understand what Ragnar was saying, but he had a grasp of things. “Is that the power of love?”
“No.” Ragnar replied, still perched in his stood and frowning. Talking to the floor by the looks of him, working it all over in his head. They'd all discussed it, as they did with all the others, trying their best to figure it out – some sort of game before. Now it was absolutely necessary to know, but asking Tyr directly may set the warring personalities within him off and interrupt his process of struggling against them. “I am beyond certain that it is the power of faith. The most fel 'gift' that the gods ever bestowed upon mankind.”
“Faith...?” Vidarr was confused. From his perspective, what was faith before a storm? Could faith turn aside a hurricane or tsunami? Of course it couldn't, people prayed but nothing much came out of it. And even the strongest paladin was weak in his eyes, anyone below the saint level couldn't touch him. Despite the name, 'saint', he'd never met a single one that was truly of the faithful. “Why would faith be dangerous?”
“Faith is belief.” Ragnar explained. “Faith is what makes a man rise in the morning and go about his work even when he does not want to. Faith that should he do so, his family will eat. Faith to light a fire to warm his hands when the snows fall too heavy. Faith that the gods will save him. To be a primus is to accept an aspect of humanity onto oneself. To kill a primus is to bear an aspect or a conviction that is stronger than what they hold. I am, and I've told few this, war. Can you kill war? Maybe, but I doubt it, war is more than swords and axes. War is powerful but it is vague and the universe could technically exist without it. War can cease to exist and humanity would be fine, better off – in fact. Of course aspects are not so literal as to be condensed into a three letter word, this is a dilution of the truth, but it's true enough. Iscari, you are the primus of hope. Can you kill hope? Perhaps, but it's not so clear that humankind would be fine without it. Take their hope, their freedom, their war, their vitality, their strength, their need for change? Perhaps they would manage to go on as lesser things, wretches but still among the living. But faith? Belief? You cannot kill belief. Even in their darkest days, man will believe something. Whether it be in the gods, one another, the fact that food grows in the ground if you put seed and water on it. Faith is all encompassing and required in all sentient things. Not just men, faith is necessary for all things to exist, to follow instinct and baser needs from the ant to the mighty jotun.”
“I'm not sure I'm convinced, but you're sure?” Vidarr crossed his arms, rubbing his index finger and thumb together, playfully producing a miniaturized orb of electricity. “He is the primus of faith? That's pretty neat, good for him, I still doubt it's as bad as you say.”
“That is the closest I can come to understand what that was.” Ragnar replied. “Our aspects are often things we want the most, or more appropriately need at a juncture of struggle in our lives. That does not mean that I wanted war, it's not always so literal, but I did not want for love and yet I connected with fire – the element of passion. So on, and so forth. Jartor wanted strength and power, a toss up between fire and earth – and the earth chose him. Vidarr and Alexandros both wanted freedom, you were both born under regimented households, wild youths and it is reflected in the wind and his ability to split himself and be many places at once.”
“Iscari must've wanted hope for the future, perhaps that his mother would return, but without hate or accusation, connecting with the element of light. Hope is wanting, and it is a powerful aspect, but faith is knowing. Believing that a thing will happen, not simply wishing that it does. Tyr must've wanted faith, belief. Faith sounds like something pious, something pure and clean. How often do the churches sing of faith in their sermons? But faith is not of the light. Faith is of nothing and everything, because without it – the system the gods have given us would not work. Faith has no elemental affinity, so I don't know how it'll manifest, but laying outside this system has given him the ability to collect shards like nothing I've ever seen. I cannot say more than that, but I do hope”
Considering the fact that this was Tyr's power, Ragnar felt a dire need to study it in action – understanding Alexandros' actions as soon as he'd come to a proper half-conclusion. If Tyr believed hard enough, and weighed his spira against an object... Would it just disappear? What happened to the energy?
Ragnar winked, a bit out of place given the doom laden voice. “That answers your question.”
“Perhaps it does.” Iscari said, contemplatively. Under no circumstances would he turn against Tyr, he just wanted to understand him better. “But what does this mean? What can he do with faith?”
“If I wanted to, truly wanted to, I could make a man rage in fervor and slaughter his own family.” Ragnar sighed sadly. “To be a primus is to be a slave to your power, and similarly responsible for it. Octavian and Jartor have simple aspects, they made men stronger or more resilient. Vidarr, contrary to his blunt use of his abilities, could be a source of unbridled inspiration to the artist, or breed confidence in the mind of a warrior, freeing them of fear. These feelings and things we govern are not so literal, like I said. I could make a mountain rage and burst into a volcano, my aspect works on many things. You could either give, or take hope. Make an entire army surrender with a snap of your fingers. We are what we are and the opposite, sometimes these things overlap. Because the human mind is simple in its complexity, thus I could do the same – remove anger from a man. But the aspect of faith itself? Tyr could enslave the minds of anyone he encounters. Change them. And if he truly believed he could...”
Ragnar paused, wondering how he should say the thing. Whether he should at all... Alexandros was contextually, and compared to the rest of the primus', the polar opposite of Tyr. And yet they weren't so different after all. Faith was a chain, and a liberator. A primus could trade their pain and discomfort to turn the scales, but they was no true opposite of faith. Disbelief, perhaps, but an integer of 0 didn't exist in the cosmos. There was no 'nothing', not anywhere in nature – not even in the void of space.
Unlike all other aspects. Strength, weakness. War, peace. And so on. Primus' gained power from their aspects, they could wax and wane like the moons above, and they could share that power with others. The opposite of faith was... Mistruth? To disbelieve, again? In the greater scheme of things, there was no antonym for faith, not really. And thus, his aspect was potentially limitless.
Imagine a world where so many people thought it was flat. If given the reins that only gods should hold, it was possible for a shaper like Tyr to do so. Possessive of abilities and a versatility that primus' shouldn't have.
Tyr couldn't 'believe' the world out of existence, it was at a level that a corporeal thing couldn't influence. But there were loopholes. Perhaps he'd believe it flat and it'd become so, and in the process it would eventually die. Or if someone told him something, and he doubted it, a person across the globe could blip out of existence. Things could be stolen. Already, he believed he could do something far beyond what he should've been capable of, and he had. That was why Jartor was still manipulating his path to this day, slowing the process and trying to make his son into a more complete individual. Trying to hammer out that naivety... But he'd gone too far, in Tyr's formative years, and the boy had really and truly adapted to a life of unbridled violence and an almost insane confidence. Not in his self, but in the way that he knew how things should be... Perhaps?
“If he truly believed it, after his awakening, he could believe something out of existence.” Ragnar concluded, deciding to lay it all out on the table. “Rewrite the rules, and I have no idea how far reaching that power could be. I highly doubt there is a stronger aspect than that in all of existence, but controlling it would also be the most difficult out of all of us. Which is both good, and bad, obviously.”