Tyr leaned close, he could smell the artificial nature of the body in front of him. Too bad, really. Flesh, surely, but little more than that, no meat worth taking. All of the organs that comprised a man, but there was no spira native to it. Just a shell, a puppet. All those strings. Speaking just between the two of them, Tyr leaned over the podium and whispered so that no ears could hear but their own.
“What year is it?” Tyr asked, having spent decades within himself – but time didn't quite work the same on the spiritual plane. It was all a blur again, and it would appear that naught but a second had passed in that span if he were to recount it all. Otherwise, he'd most definitely have gone insane.
“You navigated it.” Hastur frowned hard before sighing wistfully, and he'd been so close. To navigate the Noctis Labyrinth wasn't impossible, for a mage with a predilection for studies of the mind that is. A psion could do it. Not impossible, but close to it. At but a moment's consideration, that was not possible for Tyr. Navigating the labyrinth of the mind required unbridled control over one's emotions, a talent someone like him could and would never achieve. That was one of two glaring weaknesses. First, poisons and darkness magic at a certain level. Second, his almost completely stunted concept of self, ensuring he'd always be weak to inception or high level mental attacks. Emotional maturity, at the very least, was the window they'd exploited to capture him in the first place, suffering no losses whatsoever courtesy of Daelin. “No... You broke it. I still feel the traces of it inside of you. That was a mistake, we had a deal.”
“She is not me.” Tyr replied. “And I don't believe she had any interest in aiding you, in any case. I'll ask again, what year is it?”
“1257 Dwarvish, 3203 Alfen, 211 Anu... Can't say I've ever paid much attention to the human calendar, but it should be around 897. Why?”
“I was in there for over 60 years...” Tyr glared back at him, chewing his lip. “How is that possible?”
“It's not.” Hastur said, an intense sense of curiosity in his eyes. A rare flicker of greed, it might not be part of the plan – but he wasn't the type to fret over something like that. “Once in the Labyrinth for more than a month, your mind should be beyond recovery. What did you see?”
“The life I've always wanted.” Tyr grunted, turning around to find a familiar face in the crowd. It wasn't hard to find one, Lernin was there and looking wrathful for some reason. He'd made a mistake in devouring Jura before she'd been allowed to explain herself, and didn't quite understand why he now found himself in Kriegstad. “Why am I here? Is this a court of law, a trial to judge me for my crimes?”
“It is, boy.” Someone from behind him replied, Tyr turned to look sidelong at a portly mage. By his regalia, he looked to be a member of the Amistad mages council. In fact, all eight councilors were there with their functionaries sat beside them. Among others he did not know. A few priests, a man with golden eyes that would've been handsome if not for his black spirit and scowl, that one stank like days old rotten fish – he'd never smelled someone so foul as that. Tyr wondered if that was what he looked like, everyone said he scowled a lot. He certainly hoped not. “Now if you're all well and satisfied with the result of this debacle, we are busy men.”
The crowd was starting to whisper loudly now, but a calamitous clapping of Tyr's hands and the gust of wind that followed stopped that in its tracks. The deuritium chains about his wrists shattered before the wide eyed observers, sprinkling down and onto the marble floor of the chamber. Some forum, a court of law, but why was it always marble? Marble on the walls, the floor, hells, even the roof of it was marble constructed in the Varian style.
“And...” It was hard to remember memories that weren't his own, like they were scrawled on parchment, requiring him to read through them to understand it all. They weren't his memories, he only barely understood the words on the page as events described in vivid – and exceptionally boring detail.
“I've been acquitted? Really?” He turned to 'Hastur', speaking very loudly. “So, the deal was that if I help you recover your primacy, but with a less inconvenient aspect, you'll let me go and cease your attempts to destroy Amistad? Oh...” He turned around to the crowd. “Context, context. You see, Bloody Hastur here is actually the shard of Cortus the Black, think of it like some spooky convoluted doppelganger – all primus' have one but this is the only shard I've ever met personally. I think... Anyways, I thought it was all pretty obvious. The gods that write the fates of this world aren't very good at... Erm... Writing, you see?”
No laughter, Tyr had expected at least one chuckle but it appeared that his bizarre actions had shocked the crowd into silence. Otherwise, surely they would've shared a gaff in regards to his overwhelming wit.
Hastur didn't flinch in the slightest, he had never cared who knew what he was. To share a 'secret' was simply the most human way to build trust with his pawns. Everyone under his thumb knew, even the mages council – but it was a shock for the common citizens and minor nobles beneath his interest.
What was strange about it, was that they took Tyr's words at face value and believed him immediately. This had some rather unfortunate implications about his pending awakening, a nightmarish event that might send the world into ruin – but it was also the greatest weapon of all should it be properly controlled. Possibly enough to throw back the fog, but he'd never bet on Tyr – never in his wildest dreams, and he hadn't. This was all part of a plan with many potential outcomes, all of them good, the boy was too dull to outpace him intellectually.
Hastur would simply begin chasing another thread now that this one had been cut.
He was here to save humanity at all costs, he'd seen this man for the monster he'd become long before the others had. They'd spit on Cortus, naming him liar and heretic, and finally – the boy had killed him. At the ripe age of five he'd defeated a fully materialized Cortus with the aspect of 'loyalty'. Something far inferior to what Tyr had now, that being the power of faith.
Hastur could never hate him, he loved this boy in the way he could even now, as one of his only fellow primus' who could see the truth. But Tyr was in his way, too much pride or other associated sin present within him to get out of it. There was a scuffle in the back of the room, Lernin Casterling was trying to rise but two masked men in cloaks were holding him down in his seat until the man finally capitulated and calmed himself.
'Calmed himself' meaning someone had landed a smooth punch to the man's liver, slumped down and wheezing.
Allowing Hastur to notice just how many men under Tyr's control had managed to sneak into the proceedings.
Had they known?
Ah. Tyr frowned, remembering more. Magnus was dead, Tyr had burnt him alive with the others – even stomped Alex's head flat. This, beyond everything he'd ever done, felt, or seen, was perhaps the most horrifying of realizations. He did not care. Not in the slightest. To draw a comparison, it wasn't even a minor inconvenience, it was like someone who didn't like pickles discovering the complimentary pickle had not come with their sandwich. If anything, it added a layer of convenience to all of it, he could not betray the expectations of someone who was dead.
He was supposed to get that pickle, but he'd never wanted it in the first place. An odd metaphor, but he supposed it worked well enough.
He hadn't expected that, he was so sure he'd be furious if they were hurt, let alone killed.
Even then, there was something else just at the tip of his tongue. Tyr would be wroth if they were to be killed, disgusted at himself, which meant...
Shut up and let me focus.
Now, it was time to begin. Jurak's plan. Tyr was about to take some liberties with his interpretation of it, but what was life without some improvisation? Tyr was good at that. Improvising, he was creative in the moment of things – in very specific contexts at least. He spoke to the crowd again this time, addressing them with a smooth voice.
“You know, that seems odd. A primus is not the law. Maybe a sovereign, but I am no king let alone an emperor As for my crimes...” He swiped the document on Hastur's podium and the man didn't attempt to intervene, looking more amused at the turn of events rather than disappointed. Life was boring, but Tyr rarely was. Studying him was both a joy and a privilege, eventually he'd return to the fold. He had to, Cortus had seen it. With eleven independent shards inside of him, at least, it was impossible for him not to. You either capitulated into a proper sealing or the shard took control, those were the two options a primus was given. Kneel or die, though nobody truly knew which they'd picked – given that they all forgot a moment later.
Some existential dread in that, perhaps, the idea that all primus' were dead men living the lives of someone else.
“It seems to be missing the fact that I've murdered – in cold blood, mind you – seven more individuals...”
I can smell him... Tyr paused, eyes slit as he tried and summarily failed to locate Micah. The man wasn't dead, he was here, but... not...? He felt crisp, cool relief settle over him, lips turning up into a smile surely about to be misunderstood by those watching. There was still some human in him after all, and that was good.
“A paladin of Vestia, a good man with a golden heart who committed no crime. None of them did. Two princesses of Oresund, and the daughter of Count Gideon Goldmane, arbiter of Haran. My own bonded battlemage, Tythas Slakt of Amateus. A peer of mine from the academy. And last but not least, the very promising son of Lernin Casterling, Magnus. How--”
“How dare you say his name!” Lernin shouted, choking on the emotion. Struggling against the arms holding him with all the strength in his scholarly body grown weak after years spent among dusty books and quills. The emotional whiplash was severe, held in place by a force no weaker than steel. “He was your friend! He loved you!”
Finally, one of the men clamped his hand over Lernin's mouth, and that too was akin to steel. Biting at the leather glove covering the flesh was useless, he was more likely to break a tooth than the skin beneath. Glove or not, and there was no magic to that sort of durability, they just... Were.
Something more than human.
“He was.” Tyr nodded slowly, chewing on reality. “But you're wrong about that, Magnus was a self possessed asshole and playboy who isn't yet mature enough to love anyone. He was, however, a phenomenal friend – and he didn't deserve to die.”
Addressing the crowd again, “Thus, I ask a jury that seems bizarrely absent to such a trial what my right to innocence is? I have killed, with my own hands, well over a thousand men, conspired with monsters... Most of this stuff I'm accused with is correct, but it's missing the bigger picture. I did in fact force feed my men my own blood. As in my blood, I made them drink it. One of them refused and we funneled it down his throat until he choked on it. That 'man' of mine was a boy no older than sixteen years of age.”
This was a lie to seal the picture of a villain he wanted them to see him as. But he had been very stern in convincing Farron into drinking it, and tricked the other children into doing so. Making it sound violent was necessary to nail the lesson home of how vile a thing he'd done. He knew it. It was not consensual for the younglings, like it had been for the adults, but he didn't regret that in the slightest. This was the greatest gift he could give them, and they deserved it, even after he was gone they'd be ascendant – to carry on his work in any way they saw fit.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“Exonerated? I feel a great deal of disgust at that sort of 'justice'. Did you know that I have engaged in no less than seventy five counts of forbidden magic? I'm doing it right now, actually. As we speak, I am literally using forbidden magic.” Tyr shrugged nonchalantly, and that was the truth.
The courtroom burst into a mad frenzy of shouting. Everyone seemed to be baying for his blood again, this was good. Belief was belief, it didn't matter if they loved him or hated him – that was where Alexandros and Tyr alike had been wrong.
Fear and hate were far more powerful motivators than love. Love and celebration faded, but man would fear the villain for all time. The great demon, demiurge, the boogeyman beneath their beds was a fear that stuck through the ages. Solomon was proof of that, everyone knew his name whether he'd been righteous or not, only because he was the villain. How many knew the name of the lost primus'? Father Christmas came once a year, all things were relative. Faith did not require love, and far more would come of the opposite.
He hadn't lied to them about the rest of it in any case, but what he said would've been true to them regardless. Power, overwhelming power was bursting inside Tyr until the act of holding down still the mana in the room became effortless. Literally ripping the fuel from all spellcasters in a hundred meter radius, child's play.
Mages in the court finally realizing their magic wouldn't work, Tyr holding them down like beetles with the barest pressure of his thumb.
Not even the enchantments on their gear was operating correctly, threatening to burst at any moment, nowhere for it all to go. Some of them began stripping themselves as the delicate human runes within their enchanted artifacts began to flare up and burn their skin, trying in vain to continue operation under such an oppressive aura. And in that realization, Tyr became even stronger, his grip even tighter. Coiling and constricting on it like a boa, the more they struggled, the less chance of leaving here alive.
That was good, he hadn't planned to allow them to. Through one contrivance or another, Hastur had given him decades of happiness and peace, and then it had all been ripped away. Most of the memories going with it, he couldn't even remember their faces anymore. Only their names, familiar ones, for they'd all of them been together for as long as Tyr had existed.
For all time.
“Order!” Hastur shouted. Using his own magic, perhaps the only one in the room who could, to silence them when observers refused to listen. Stealing their voices, just a bit of dark magic – rather elementary if not for the raw scale of the enchantment. “So let me get us straight, you want us to charge you?”
“Charge me?” Tyr laughed at that, wheeling around with a flourish to face him dramatically with hands held aloft like the martyred savior. Arrogant haughtiness hanging on every syllable, a hypocrite and demon in human skin. “No, you misunderstand. I want you to realize that I am guilty. I want the whole world to know what a cold bastard I am. A great villain, but what does that matter? Not even your weakling gods could kill me, what chance do you have?”
“I've had quite enough of this!” Raddick watched in amusement as one of Indura's inquisitors stood and drew his blade. Just an honor guard, as if he and the other councilors present needed such a thing – power among the various human nations like this hadn't been gathered so near one another in many years. Eight archmages, a highlord and warrior priest, Aurelius himself – someone far beyond Raddick, and a few more besides.
Amused, though. Because the man managed to make it a total of three angry steps from the wall of the forum before he burst into flames, a long tongue of it taking his voice from him, shooting from his eyes and mouth. Through it all, Tyr hadn't moved an inch. All he did was look at him. The 'evil eye', another rumor about the man, apparently this one was actually true. Maybe they all were. And with that, everyone – even those who could yet speak – were truly made silent.
Awed by the display, if not even a bit cowed by it.
Tyr, that unassuming boy nobody had taken seriously, had become a true tyrant of the arcane – silently incinerating a man so easily.
“Who knew that a paladin of the flame would be so... Flammable.” Tyr observed flatly, picking his fingernails and staring at the still smoldering corpse of the man. “Or perhaps it is appropriate, since they love the flame so much. Isn't that an honorable way to burn the dead, then, have I not given him a great gift? Here...” Tyr approached the dead man and lifted him by his scorched hauberk effortlessly with one hand. “Let me finish the job.” The first flame was unremarkable – a normal blaze, but the second burned radiant and azure – sloughing skin and flesh until all that was left was a set of perfectly bleached bones falling through the gaps of the armor.
Tyr dropped the cherry red steel and flicked a bit of ash from his shoulder before continuing on.
Very satisfied with his performance.
“My problem isn't necessarily that I've been exonerated. That's not it. I'd like to style myself as a champion of justice, but only my justice. I don't care about yours in the slightest – it is weak and flawed. Wrong. My problem is that I do not understand by what authority you think to judge me. Can anyone answer that question?”
Raddick was more than happy to oblige what he might consider an old friend of sorts, brothers forged in battle – that was the way of the Flame Eternal. To shed blood together was sacred, and they had done so and in great quantities from each of them. “Well, Primus Tyr, as you'll notice – you are tried by quite a few grand figures. See there the hero Aurelius, yes? Is he not enough?”
“He is small. Irrelevant.” Tyr replied. “Who else would judge me?”
“Hastur, who you say is actually Cortus – once primus?” Raddick couldn't help but to smile, Tyr was projecting an aura of emotion at the moment. Killing intent, keeping most frozen in place. He could feel it on near everyone on that bench, but not at him. Nor at Hastur himself either, bizarrely enough. Most of the others looked as if they might piss themselves, as a matter of fact, quite a few already had.
At this, Raddick felt a shred of regret, the others cowed by that electrifying horror while he was forced to go without challenge. There could be nothing more honorable than testing the spiritual might of a primus, but he was only a man. One humble to the fact that he had no right to request such an honor.
“Once. And yet here. I. Am.” Tyr stated matter-of-factly, spreading his arms wide again. “And I see cardinals and bishops belonging to churches I have no interest in. Except for Lord Bumi, Lady Freyja, and of course the Firelord. My respects to those of Tormund and Vortigern as well, a damn shame Aotrom and Vestia didn't attend, the latter of which I hear is quite the charming woman. In any case, please offer my sincerest regards to our fathers in mountain and sky, but you are still not enough. Tell them that if they'd wish to judge me, they can come here themselves. Especially Aphrosia, I'd bet my whole wealth on that one having tits I'd like to bounce on like a leaf addled baboon.”
Marric, the 'Earth Speaker' and arch bishop of Bumi chuckled wryly at the provocation, appreciative of the gesture nonetheless. Bumi was the lord of iron, the highest king and ruler of all things. His priests were no priests at all, like Astarte they were warriors – but unlike all others they did not pray. Bumi was the god of the earth and rock, but also the god of self sufficiency, strength, and unbending will.
Humility, too, to remain humble was to be revered. Everything was weak, small, and soft compared to the mountain, to gaze upon a thing that could touch the sky was to know how insignificant one truly was. He didn't call weaklings and easily provoked men into his service. Bumi gave very little, whether that be power or words. He had no paladins, no templars, no knights or priests in the strictest sense.
Only men and women who'd earned their right to speak his name through honest effort, standing strong like the mountain against the winds, rain, and sea. Thus his lordship and church was vast, one of the largest, but his direct followers few. Weak men could not hope to earn his gaze, lest they truly wish to become strong and suffer under the process of earning their might. “Thank you, young primus, the lord of mountains accepts your tribute of words and appreciates your respect.”
“What's your name, old man?” Tyr asked, raising an eyebrow. This man of Bumi was quite able even in his advancing years, a calm yet hard look to his face. Very much carved of the stone they worshiped. Sage green eyes and wide shoulders, strong arms and a well kept black beard. A back as straight as any rod, hands no stranger to working with implements of artifice or war alike. Calloused and heavy, masculine and well prepared for violence when the situation called for it. Sporting a two handed maul propped up against his chair, in a place where no weapon was permitted. The epitome of what a Harani man was supposed to look like, and twice as hard.
“Marric Ferro.” The 'old man' inclined his head respectfully. “Some call me the high speaker, but I prefer for those who speak to me to use my name. I am the humble representative of Lord Bumi on this continent. One of many under his domain.”
“Do you think I am guilty, Marric Ferro?” Tyr asked.
Marric nodded sincerely. “I do, my prince. You have done many foul things but I agree with your assessment that we are not an appropriate party by which to measure your deeds. That is for the primus' to decide, not us. We are not the gods, we just represent them, and we are – if anything at all – a very imperfect reflection of their will.”
“I like this man.” Tyr pointed passionately at the high speaker, crying out with a chuckle. “I too am imperfect, I have done many things that I would have done differently given my current mind, but I am not repentant – I simply would've done them harder. Sooner. I have been humbled and beaten time and time again by better men than I, and yet still I do not learn. Still I am a wrathful and selfish man with little consideration for others. I will not kill you, even should you raise that god kissed maul at me, I give you my oath – but a part of me hopes you try your luck.”
Marric smiled again, his eyes were sincere – but with a face like that it was hard not to make every expression sardonic and grim. “Many thanks, my prince. It is not the will of Lord Bumi to have me fight you this day, or any other. My temple is always open if you would like equitable exercise among the sages, though – we would greatly appreciate the challenge.”
Tyr nodded back to him respectfully, addressing Raddick once more. “In summary, I see are a bunch of very mortal humans who think they can judge me. Weak men, mostly, with few exceptions. Do I have the right of it?”
Raddick smirked, leaning forward in his chair and with great interest at where this would go. Perhaps he would get his chance after all. “It is our way, among the Path of Flame – a path that you walk same as I do, to meet such claims with--”
“We are the ruling council of the Mage State of Amistad!” That 'someone' from before roared in protest, that portly mage. A human beet with a newly shade of red painting his flabby face. “I refuse to be spoken like this. Who are you but a pompous, arrogant little boy? I did not travel all this way just to be insulted by a cur of ill repute!”
“Aye.” Tyr bowed in mock respect. “You came all this way not to be insulted. That is correct. I like Amistad quite a bit and wouldn't wish to do that. You didn't come here for that, you came here to die, and I am more than happy to grand your request. You fat man in robes far to small, I can taste your sin and yearn for the chance to absolve you of them.”
Tyr extended a hand, mockingly, he was bare of any arm and his flesh began to audibly smolder and crackle as it burned.
“Ha!” The man seemed to find this funny, as did the others, breaking from the pressure of his intent with all the confidence of weak wristed mages. These were no common archmages, if an archmage could ever be called 'common' at all. Amistad was ruled by the able, and tended to by the weak, the council had always been comprised of the greatest archmages of their era. “Do you know who I am, lad? Let's, for a moment, pretend that you do not know of Leritas Porous. We are eight of the strongest mages on the continent, and you come here – alone – to threaten us? Do you really think you possess that kind of power to defeat not only us, but all of our guards as well? Your upbringing has made you arrogant, just looking at you makes me sick, your father would be ashamed if he could see you now. No wonder he exiled you, a wise move to remove the mutt from the household.”
“I...” Tyr paused, but he did not choke on his words – considering them carefully for the further benefits they might bring. That game again, he'd always been good at that. “I came to Amistad to protect you, and I would have. With my life if needs be, because it served my ends. But you betrayed me, remain unrepentant, and you will suffer for it. I'm not a forgiving man, Mr. Lettuce.”
Lettuce waved his hand with a snort, deigning not to continue the dialogue. He clearly wasn't interested in any more conversation, and his peers felt much the same. Men Tyr had never met nor consorted with, archmages tended to be a more 'underground' sort of demographic. Always studying, their mad lust for knowledge and power that had carried them to so high a rank controlling their interests. It was a wonder Hastur had managed to gather them all in one place.
A wonder, but a convenience all the same. The fact that this one was rather round around the hips compared to his scrawny colleagues said little more than that he was all bark and no bite. Lettuce was a healer, not a battlemage.
“I think our corpulent colleague here was about to ask 'you and what army', my prince.” Raddick smirked, genuinely amused at how such a dull waste of his time had become so exciting. He had little love for these sniveling, tome reading layabouts. So much injustice could be corrected in the world if only they'd leave their high towers. But they never would. Tyr had challenged them all, and there was great significance in inviting struggle, wishing to test and temper oneself. Die, and meet their Lord, live and be better for it, elevated in the eyes of the Most High. “I am, however, inclined to wonder myself. Do you really think you could fight us all, and win?”
“Me, fight you?” Tyr mused, tilting his head and crossing his arms, one tap of a foot to the marble that resonated throughout the chamber. “That would be unnecessary, Radish. Rise.”