“Not blood magic, so you can put your swords away, gentlemen.” Tyr shook his head calmly. He might've been apologetic for the cliffhanger and anti-climactic separation, but this was just common sense to anyone who'd ever so much as read a book. “Blood magic disgusts me as much as it does you. I can barely wield dark magic, I'm a spellbreaker. That's... Probably related? I don't really get it, but as you might have already guessed, I am a fire mage by vocation. It's not forbidden, not yet at least – until the colleges decide otherwise.”
To accentuate the point, Tyr silently made sparks dance on his fingertips. It could be seen as a shitty excuse, but witches and blood mages were typically ritualists. Bending anima down the prime paths of light and dark was exceedingly difficult, it was an exceptionally rare talent. To do so silently would be to possess a Hastur or Solomon level of ability, something Tyr was sure he'd never have. He might be the proverbial giant amongst men after all his trials, strength wise, but a giant couldn't whittle so fine as a smaller pair of hands. Maybe that was an appropriate metaphor... Maybe..?
In any case, a man like Hastur wouldn't be so famed for his talent if this wasn't the case.
Metamagic anima was impossible to near anyone without a lengthy and complex ritual, again, Tyr could, however, probably do it. Just not to that extent, and not with his current skillset, the mycelians were somewhat proof that he'd potentially get lucky if he tried hard enough. It was a bit confusing though, he'd managed to create a sentient gestalt consciousness with very little effort, but anything smaller than that was so far beyond him as to be completely off the table.
“Well... I suppose I jumped to conclusions, in that case. Apologies, Lady.” Daelin sighed, shaking his head and chuckling. “We're a bit wary from the road, not likely to be a witch in the empire, eh? You lot do such a good job the inquisitors are rarely needed in your nation.”
“Is it still a witch if a man performs that kind of spell?” Tyr's eyebrows knitted together, he genuinely wanted to know. And what was up with the feminine pronouns? Daelin didn't seem like the type to harass him like that for no reason, he just didn't get it.
“I suppose it depends.” He replied with a contemplative face. “See, you have witches, occultists, defilers, necromancers, warlocks... A male witch? I suppose we'd just call him apostate or dark wizard, as a warlock is gender neutral it wouldn't be correct to separate them. The distinction is naturally blurred under the current system of magic, but it used to be a lot more relevant. Now we just call them all apostates and only focus on what they are capable of.”
“Well I'm none of those as far as I know. Perhaps not the most lawful sort but I'm sure I've always kept it in bounds...?” He hadn't, but Tyr presented his mage's mark, letting the armor covering it vanish into thin air. For some reason, as confusing to him as anyone else, it was back and present on his skin. Swirling black ink from wrist to elbow. He'd gone through quite a few changes most recently, but only now began to observe them closer. His skin was smooth, pliable, and hairless, arm thinner than it should be. He looked...
Uh... Wait a damn second...
“Ah, indeed!” Daelin nodded eagerly, clearly relieved, he was quite an enthusiastic man – completely different from how he'd appeared at first glance. Not the behavior one would expect of a knight commander, but it wasn't unwelcome, Tyr liked him. These kinds of men tended to have a more loyal following, a man one could level with, someone who looked out for his boys. “My lady is a marked mage of Haran as expected, and what a pleasure it is to meet our brethren from the college. You Harani have the right way of things, keep them nice and controlled and they won't go about making nightmares a reality. No offense, of course.”
“...” Tyr puckered his lips and stood, his mouth was a little sour at the moment. Perhaps it made sense in hindsight, he felt much lighter, more willowy, and upon removing his armor, it was readily apparent. He was a woman now... “Ah, what the fuck...”
Daelin raised an eyebrow at that, 'removing' his armor was quite literal – he'd stripped bare naked at the top in the middle of their conversation. He was fairly busty, all told, it seemed no matter what gender Tyr had adopted – he remained aesthetically beautiful.
Was it because he'd devoured Jurak, who'd manifested a humanoid form? Or was he that close to his awakening that he could begin shifting his body like some other creatures could? Jartor had said he was well capable of changing his entire appearance, though Tyr had never seen it in action.
Was his...? Yep, still there... Wait... The implications of that were rather frightening.
Did Jurak have... Nope. That was a thread he'd rather leave unexplored, if there was an ancient Orik divinity construct inside of him – he would simply have to wait for her to start jabbering like the rest of them. And based on the tight fitting cut of her pants he highly doubted she'd had a penis. Some people were tuckers, but...
Wait...
Moving on.
Not all of them were bad, the shards inside of him. They took an indistinct form but he could hear their voices like they were his own, like he was hearing his own inner monologue and half thinking / not thinking it at all. It wasn't maddening, it was mad. He was definitely insane. They all represented something, too, something profoundly specific, their own conviction. One was always angry, usually at a very specific thing, and demanded Tyr break it – but the angry one didn't ever try to take control.
The cold one liked to, but it didn't demand like the distillation of wrath, it just droned on like some kind of unthinking machine, full of logic, though by extension it was very useful. It told him things that he shouldn't know, answered questions. Freely used the variability in his senses with finite control. It had missed the paladins until it was a bit late and he was surrounded, granted, but it didn't miss often.
They all wanted to make him better, because he was them, and they were him.
Where to strike to inflict the most damage, how to use his spira to capture mana and force it inside of himself like fuel in a reactor. Essentially, all of them together, they were a very powerful but painful cultivation technique that was most certainly killing him. His life force for power, but they'd told him he'd have enough time to do what he wanted while remaining cognizant.
There were others, too. The most annoying being the slightly effeminate voice of the glutton who would have him stuff his gullet until he was choking on everything from rocks to tree-bark, and normal food besides. That one was hard to control, Tyr had gotten a handle over most, and now they were silenced. At least for the time being.
He remained in deep thought like this for several moments as the paladins milled around uncomfortably at the sight. Tyr using his hands as scales for his new and unfamiliar protuberances. Experiencing the joys and beauties of nature and all things evolution. That's how an elegant man might describe things. Tyr was playing with his boobs. They weren't bad, either, but he'd imagine that a normal spine might get a bit uncomfortable under the weight of anything larger than this C-cup. Women were burdened in some ways, but blessed in so many others.
“Er... My Lady?” Daelin averted his eyes bashfully, quite shy for such an old gentleman. Tyr didn't blame him overmuch, he cut quite the figure as a woman. Vanity had overtaken him and he was looking all around, he didn't know what his own face looked like but based on figure alone... Let's just say he'd give 'his' women a run for their...
No... I look like my mother. But I'm so sexy... Is it wrong to think that I'm...? I want to go to sleep... Oh my gods, I'm sick. What the hell is wrong with me...? But seriously... Holy cow... Okay, back on topic.
The charade needed to end, he had things to do, and Tyr liked his objectives.
“I am literally Tyr Faeron, the 'monster' I assume that you're hunting. I can't really explain my uh... Current biology? Isn't there like...” Tyr waved his hands about as the old paladin stared down at him in clear disbelief, but at least he listened. “There's gender change magic, right? Face shifting and uh... Complex illusions, potions and other alchemy? What if I really was me, which I am, and I just walked off in the other direction without saying so?”
After a long pause, Tyr covered himself again, and the tense atmosphere began to relax.
“For the sake of a good conversation.” The man winked, so absurdly friendly. Vigilant, of course, suspicious, which could only mean they never planned to let Tyr go in the first place. Not without a proper vetting. Better to play the friendly angle, very few witch findings started with door kicking and torches. That old method just didn't work, those who hid from the law developed a talent for said hiding. Daelin seated himself across the small fire on a spartan stool of wrought iron, engraved with the symbols of Vanator's church. It was almost amusing to think even the gods had their own 'merchandise' of a sort. Maybe his underwear was embroidered with the same sickle crowned with candles.
“My eye, you see it?” Daelin asked, and Tyr nodded. “It's a prosthetic, I won't tell you how I lost the original but this is a 'gray' artifact, making me a bit of a one-eye myself. Or rather, a restricted magical item as you mages might call it, many higher paladins and templars study and use the tools of our enemy. It can see the true form of most living things, as well as detect taint and rot. When it comes to finding undead, for example, you'll find few eagles my measure in picking them out. In addition, you'd know that your mark does not allow you to shape shift, and would ignite should you try anything restricted without the proper assistance of your superiors.”
I didn't know that... Tyr smiled softly, he was fairly strong, he was aware. Strong enough to kill most every man standing near him in a heartbeat if he wanted to. But there was still so much he didn't know. Magic was tricky and it didn't follow conventional rules or arithmetic the way men wanted it to. It laughed in the face of physics, thermodynamics, all of that. Played by it's own set of rules, while simultaneously keeping to the conventional in other ways, raw and utter chaos, made of madness from a realm defined by conscious lunacy.
“I see.” Tyr nodded in appreciation, another lesson in humility. He'd already been a rather arrogant fellow, but the voices inside of him really and truly believed they were godlike beings. Maybe they were. Tyr had finally begun to understand just how ridiculous the word 'god' was. As if mankind could ever properly describe what those things were. “So, what if I was Tyr Faeron? Just hypothetically. We mages are an eccentric lot and let's say I've developed a sudden penchant for the mischievous.”
“I'll humor you, then. If that were the case, we would ask you gently, and equitably, to come with us as is deserving of your position. Peacefully. No need for bloodshed, but the prince must face the inquisition. We are not the only church looking for him.” Daelin replied calmly. Tyr would have expected smoke and chains, maybe some molten deuritium poured down his throat, he'd committed a great many crimes and hadn't hide them. “He, or you in this hypothetical, is wanted for egregious abuse of his privilege. But he isn't a criminal until proven guilty by the courts. Some would see it that way, but I am not these people. And my god has not demanded an execution, just an accounting, and if nothing else – an explanation.”
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“You speak to Vanator?”
Daelin shook his head. “We do not speak to the gods, but they touch us at times, in my dreams I see the face of your wayward prince and I am left to interpret it how I see fit. I see his suffering, his effort, and his crimes – this is as clear a vision as one could expect. The gods work in mysterious ways, but nothing implies I need to fight him, nor do I want to, he is a lost lamb but it is never too late for redemption.”
Redemption...
“So you want to throw me in jail?” Tyr tilted his head at the man, and that's when things began to change. Daelin must've been good at his job. A wildly intelligent man and hunter of the highest caliber to know the finer aspects of his quarries behavior. That, and the fact that Tyr slowly began to shift into his... True form? Was he a male to begin with? Gods didn't have genders in the typical sense. Aspects were imposed on them by human beings, that's what shaped them, but they were all genderless. Tyr was a god, all men were and primus' doubly so, it would make sense.
Something about their belief and conscious consideration of a god literally wrought them into what they were. Tyr knew this, he'd been told it many times. To be careful about letting people see and know him, his aspect gave him that same sort of disadvantage. There'd been changes, too, but the others were opposing them at every opportunity. Pinching at his emotions and keeping his eyes pointed toward whatever bizarre goals they wanted him to achieve. Tyr was a tool, a sharp one, and his destiny was not his own no matter how hard he resisted it. “I have broken many laws. To be honest, it was a wonder nobody came for me sooner – I'd begun to think the world had lost its head. I know that being a primus gives me a level of authority above the law, but certainly not all laws are beneath me, and it's your world to govern as you see fit. This is good.”
“It's... Good...?” Daelin observed Tyr carefully. He was a veteran who'd been fighting, training, and going about the business of Vanator since he was eight years old. His senses were sharp and his intuition sharper, in his mid fifties now. His subordinates rearmed themselves rapidly, their hearts beating so loudly as to be audible to Daelin the 'god touched'. “You... Are not what I'd expected. First to be honest when I could not see who you were, and now to be so relaxed despite being surrounded by eighty four men.”
Tyr shrugged, there wasn't much else to do but accept it. They weren't wrong. They were wrong, but not in the way they thought they... Weren't? To summarize, relative goodness was in the heart, they honestly believed they were chasing an evil man, he didn't feel evil, he felt necessary. Their hearts were in the right place, in any case.
“84 men, each of them with an individual choice. But the law is sacred.” Tyr replied after a momentary period of contemplation. “To punish the wicked and protect the balance against the vulgarity of the unclean that seek to shape it to their own whims is of the highest order. I have grown to respect you paladins after a time, and while you're not all so pure, I think you are doing what is right here. I'd have done to same, if I wasn't me, I am very heroic as I'm sure you can tell – truly the greatest of us all.”
“So you'll come with us?” Daelin asked, even more shocked. He'd heard many things. That Tyr was a profligate, a degenerate black mage, a demon in human skin, remorseless, a butcher. Not all of them were bad, actually, he'd also observed rather than heard that Tyr was kind to commoners. Forgiving, even, just and kind hearted. Lost, but not beyond forgiveness. It was an odd sort of monster that would laugh when a member of the wait staff in a restaurant poured scalding coffee on him. Or it. It was still hard to tell. Jartor was likely one of the few who knew what Tyr was actually like, and had ignored their petitions outright. To see, that is, to answer these questions the papacy had – that was his true goal. A primus could do whatever they wanted to, they were as demi-gods, but even the highest among them needed to explain themselves from time to time. “Without a fight?”
“I don't want to fight you.” Tyr replied tiredly. “I really don't. I don't need to kill anymore. I'm already done, you see? There is only one thing left to do, and it'll happen whether I act personally or not. But I won't come with you. The law is sacred but I have no compulsion to obey it in any case, I am the law. Above yours, you can try all you'd like but you'll never bend me.”
Daelin smiled grimly, pulling a flask from his belt and taking a swig, offering it to Tyr.
Tyr raised an eyebrow at that, drinking on the job wasn't what he'd expected but it wasn't alcohol. How incredibly boring these paladins were, who carried a flask full of that?
The scent said... It was holy water. Without delay, he took the flask graciously and drained it to the last drop. He wasn't sure what holy water was supposed to do. Always having figured it was a myth, he found that it satiated a thirst he hadn't thought he'd had. It wasn't poisoned, but he felt a fierce and drowsy contentment blossom in his chest, akin to any sleeping medicine he'd ever tried in the past. The feeling didn't last long, but it was nice. Another test, he figured. For surely a demonic entity, of which he doubted there was any such thing, would burn under the influence of their magic fluid.
Or a vampire.
Tyr only went to church for Farron, or on the odd occasion he needed something from them.
“Why?” Daelin asked softly.
A simple question, but the answer was anything but.
“You think, at the very least and all slander aside, that I'm a killer – right?” Tyr asked, eyes closed and at peace, and the old paladin clearly agreed. Matter-of-fact. Daelin didn't think it, he knew it. And Tyr was. It didn't matter what he said, ultimately, all of these men were going to make the greatest mistakes of their short lives, and they were going to lose it. But Tyr would reply as honestly as he could. In a way. He had thirteen truths inside of him now, and they were all unique. Was telling one of the thirteen a lie? Couldn't be, they were all true, truth was a transient concept to begin with.
They lived a lie, every waking moment of reality was born of the greatest lie ever told.
“Let me ask you first, if you'll entertain me.” Tyr lounged back, elbows resting on the ground and staring up at the sky. It was a nice day, all told. Cloudy, but the way the sun came over the mountains gave those clouds a heavenly feel. Like a sea of silver, lighting up the snow and warming the still air in the wintry forest. Spring would come soon, and with it the blossoms, Tyr's only want in that moment was to see it – to be done with all of this. He'd given everything, found himself, come to understand love and contentment, and now was his time to rest. “Why do you think I am the way that I am?”
“That could never excuse an action.” Daelin chided calmly, and very seriously. “To be is to be, to do is to do. There is a difference. All men have base urges, and we resist these every day in the pursuit of purity. The chaste man that was born in such a way is rare. We endeavor to be better, to know right from wrong and fight against the evils inside all of us, even me.”
“That doesn't answer the question, father Daelin.” Tyr replied softly, equally serious. He wanted to know. Wanted to know many things, but he needed to know why his own parents had never come to stop him. How many people had he killed? Even when it was clear that his original plan was a bust he'd kept doing it, if only because it meant less men on the field in the future. But maybe that wasn't the right question in the first place. Tyr had done much evil, all for the greater good in his mind, but not one person in power had objected to it until now.
“I think you are the way you are for many reasons. Your childhood, the militant upbringing of a Harani royal, your experiences in life. Seeing death so many times must change a man, all that pain.” Daelin answered sagely, his breath misting in the frosty air and unlike his men showing no intent for the preparation of violence. “Must make him bitter, feeling lost, but even should you be jailed – there is peace in pursuit of the goals the gods lay for us. Even dead, eh? There's always an afterlife, the ultimate judge of all, and we're all equal before the Black.”
Tyr snorted, that much was true enough. True for men. But he was not a man. He wasn't human anymore, he was sure of that, and hadn't ever been – whatever his mother was, was inside of him something fierce. Something else now, the half breed mutt that he was, and he didn't mind anymore. “I'm not a killer because I'm bitter, or because I had a poor childhood. Not a killer because I'm insane, that's not my excuse. I'll be honest when I say that I like it. I like the taste of it. I like feeling necks snap between my hands, I like putting down men who have made decisions to become someone unfit to live. And I'd do it again. I feel no remorse at all for these things, and I never did. And soon, as is likely, I'll kill you too. Because I like the way that neck of yours looks.”
Crossbow bolts tipped in deuritium peppered Tyr from head to toe before the words finished leaving his mouth, these men had quick fingers and impressive aim. Not one of them struck dirt or flew wide. Throughout it all, Daelin still hadn't moved. Well aware that Tyr could not be killed in this manner.
“You paladins...” Tyr didn't bother digging them out, he pulled himself up as Daelin raised his hand to bid his men stand down. Crouching down at eye level with the older man, Tyr spoke again. “You do what you do because you have faith that what you are doing it in service to a greater power. That you're following some kind of... Divine, cosmic will. That it is right, because something higher told you it was. And you are given great powers for it. Right?”
“That is the gist of it.” Daelin nodded curtly. “But our gifts are the sign that we remain righteous, power is on our path – but never our goal. What is given can always be taken away, that is what separates us from the mad mage.”
“Indeed. What is given can always be taken away. I walk the same path that you do, but for a different god. You and I are both paladins. You, of Vanator, and myself of Valkyrja – or so I think. Whether I want to or not, I am found dancing on the strings of these shards who constantly bark at me to find that final solution.” Tyr said.
“Solution for what?” Daelin asked.
“I want to die.” Tyr replied. “They want to die, rather. What I want is irrelevant, but a nice farm on the periphery with a yard full of laughing sons and daughters would be nice. She'll never give me that, though, my lady is a fickle and cruel mistress. I'd very much like to invite you to try, you know? To finally put them to rest, but you can't and you never could. Not even your god could give me what I want. If you try, I will kill you all. You and all of these young boys who's hands lack the blood that'll cover the arms of men like us for eternity. They tell us we are right, and we might damn one another, but there is no universal truth in this world we call home. What if we're both wrong? What if everything is? What if none of this is real?”
“Mmm.” Daelin squinted in suspicion, the boy was... Philosophical, and getting at the truth with far more rapidity than he'd have expected. “The path of a primus is a heavy burden, one that you well understand even if you don't quite know it. You know, regardless of the predetermined outcome, this can only end one way. Whether you managed to wipe us out or not, more will come. Violence only begets violence. Please stand down.”
Tyr nodded with a soft, vaguely sad smile. To Daelin's eyes, the young man didn't seem to have an ounce of fight left inside. Nothing about his mannerisms or the turn of his brow indicated a want for one, despite his previous words. But the world was complex and so were people, and sometimes, as Tyr had said – the gods rarely cared for what a man wanted.
Their respective weapons were out and flashing in an instant, beyond the perception of the men with their crossbows pointed at the ground. Tyr and their commander blurring together in a storm of energy and glistening steel. A ghastly knight of raging fire facing the cool light of a divine harbinger made flesh.
Only in those moments, riding the edge, did Tyr feel alive. Hammering the edge of his sword against Daelin's arm, completely overpowering the other man and tossing him bodily from his feet. It was over in an instant, just as he'd expected, five seconds at most and every man was burnt alive, Daelin the only survivor.
He felt no interest in mockery, though, nodding respectfully down at the man. “A good fight.”
“Indeed it would've been.” Daelin backed up a dense wad of blood, the power this boy was capable of wielding was far beyond his expectations. And yet for whatever reason, Tyr had never displayed might like this before, the sort of thing one truly expected from a primus. “But it's time for you to sleep now.”
“...I could use a nap, old timer, but I hardly think--”
“Noctis.” Like a puppet with its strings cut, Tyr collapsed to the ground, and Daelin found himself staring at the thousand completely unharmed men he'd arrived with. Dead wyrmlings and goblins all around, they'd put up a grand struggle to save the boy from the only spell anyone knew that might silence keep him down. “What a shame.”
There was no waking up from the labyrinth, and now all they'd have to put on the stands was a mannequin approximate of what had once been a living, breathing man.