Alex snarled. Or rather, what had been Alex. Now, she was it, and that was all she'd ever be. That thing that had asked her for the control she'd been happy to provide. Only regretting it now. It wasn't necessarily malicious, but it was incredibly ancient. Wroth like she'd never felt, overwhelming her sense of self and leaving her as a passenger in her own body. Such power. An intoxicating rush of something that felt like mana but was anything but dancing on her fingertips and obeying its will. That thing inside of her.
Like a god incarnate, Alex felt capable of crushing mountains to dust, but Jartor was primus – and even with this strange boon, she still possessed the body of a 'human'. Everything she threw at him was ran from his burning skin like oil. The spira. This must have been what Tyr had been saying back then. That energy that pervaded all living things and sat in tandem to balance the world so that it would not overwhelmed with mana. The anchor that protected them. And it was something out of a fever dream, starting as a blur in the air, a faint white-gold mist just below the surface of what was visible. Erupting into splashes of watercolor that lit the air aflame and danced along the surface of his skin in wild torrents of energy.
Tyr had said this would happen, many times, claiming it was inevitable. Alex respected him more now than ever, and it made her angry. Angry because he was dealt with so wholly and cruelly by the hand of his own father. Rage gave her power, but it would never be enough. Jartor stood before her, his great maul flickering into being in his hand. The true power of a primus, the dominant lifeform on the planet.
“I am sorry. Know that I send you to the black not because I want to, but because I have to. Begone from this world, creature, you are not welcome here.” He growled. His frame hulking, becoming taller and more muscular, wreathed with the spira so thick it had begun warping the land itself. That which had been bare stone cracked and splintered, new life springing forth. Moss and grass and flowering plants of so vivid a hue that it sat outside that which was natural. “Rest well, Alexis Goldmane.”
He swung, and she felt herself tumble. Before the maul had even struck, she was gone from her mortal flesh. Encompassed by the spira and sent spiraling somewhere else. Until, abruptly, she was jerked back into her body. Her soul forcibly grabbed by an unseen hand, in conflict with the other intelligence struggling to flee. It wanted to run, whether it killed its mortal host or not. But that didn't matter, this was but one of many hosts that had borne it since time immemorial.
BOOM.
Light filled the space around them, crackling beams of it twisting the air and shattering the force pushing down on her. Like sunlight through a prism, scalding alien runes into her eyes and separating the two by pure force, smashing her to the ground and sending her tumbling headlong over the ledge until it grabbed at her again and pulled her back. A hand encased in silver plate effortlessly caught the head of the maul. A man. Tall among mortal men, looking like a child before that hulking primus. Built with wide shoulders and a slender waist, the man gripped at the head of the maul until it began to squeal and crack under the force of the tiny hand halting it.
The mountaintop shattered, the unstoppable force and the immovable object. For dozens of meters all around the splintered rock hung in the air, whining with violent frequency before it all came crashing back towards them again to leave the earth unmarred. Like watching time run in reverse.
A god. That was all Alex could see in that silhouette, some kind of divine entity come down to scold a wayward child. Through all of the light, she could not see its face, but she could feel the world itself beating in tune with the arrival of this might being, deep below the mountain and all through the city it could be heard. Jartor was the strongest, physically, of all primus'. There were no other to match him, until now. And it seemed so... Effortless. Like the child sized figure facing the primus was playing with him.
“Tyr...” Jartor breathed incredulously. Before his very eyes was Tyr, clad in the armor of his mother was facing him. Surrounded by multicolored light, eyes burning with azure radiance. As for Tyr, he had rehearsed this on the way here. It had taken days to arrive back to this place, but before the shocked eyes of his father, he felt so different. Again, that rehearsal did little more than leave him truly unprepared for what would happen.
'Father, I'm sorry. I couldn't let it go. I'm a disappointment. Betrayal. Heresy. Sacrilege.' So many things, he didn't blame Jartor. Blood relative or not, he still looked up to the primus, practically worshiping the ground he stood on. Everything he'd ever done was a bid to be noticed by his sire, and he understood the need. But he wouldn't let this world go, he was too selfish for that, there were things to do.
He'd felt a shred of empathy for Jartor's heavy burden. Once.
All he felt now...
Disgust.
Disgust that their kind had fallen so low. Truths he had never been aware of seemed so real and yet fled the confines of his mind as soon as he considered them. That those who did not possess the arcanum rex would be allowed to rule. This was not the way. Jartor possessed no such thing, standing out against the order on this warped world that had forgotten the way of things. Warped things with no right to hold this power because it violated every rule they'd been born to follow. A world with no proper considering of the proverbial cosmic food chain.
KILL!
Tyr knew this, before knowing became vague, and that vague became a whisper in the back of his mind. Not all knowledge was allowed on all worlds. He pulled the head of the maul toward himself, crouching slightly before bringing his leg up in a wide swipe that caught the surprised primus by the neck, smashing his head aside with a loud crack. Tyr felt such power welling up within him. Something incredible and beyond divine. And he knew instinctively that this was only the tip of the iceberg waiting for him as long as he obeyed.
If he knelt, he could have everything, standing among these so-called titan's and marking himself the highest among them. He could make them kneel.
I could break him. Take it for myself... So many choices, the grass blowing in the breeze of his descend framed by dense fractals. Just looking at them, he knew he was seeing truth, the very definition of reality. Every direction they moved was burned into his mind before the wind had turned. Some kind of prescience showing him what would happen. What could happen. All of the possibilities painted in vivid color. I deserve it. I need it. I should take it. Even I know the world would be better for it, I would be stronger than he ever could be.
He looked at his father. Less than a second had passed with all of this information worming its way into his brain from all directions. A pirouette to bring the other leg up and catch the lurching primus in the face. Even before it had happened, he'd seen it. Control. Order. All of it was on a leash and his was the only had that held it. On this world, there was only one god. And his name was Tyr.
Jartor was dashed from his feet, dragged bodily by the sheer force of the lackadaisical kick before smashing into a nearby mountain with such velocity as to cleave through the peak of it. Skipping off like a rock, buried in a crater miles away. Alex froze, wide eyed, her blood felt like ice water in her veins. The intelligence that had sunk its root into her mind had fled down into her deepest parts. Such incredible fear rolling through that ancient existence, and it was easy to consider why.
“Tyr...?” She asked, having heard Jartor's shocked declaration. He turned slowly, staring down at her, unflinching, still wreathed in light. A halo of blistering radiance that by all estimates should have blinded any eye that gazed upon it, but it filled her. Healing the wounds of her tumble and giving off impossibly gentle warmth.
“You alright?” He'd seen his father preparing to end her life. A cruel act that he'd never think Jartor capable of. All he could think about right now was this power. The power of the celestial coursing through his veins. Time remaining: 14:39. The tinny voice rang through his mind once more. But there'd be no time for a reunion. Sigi and Astrid, Okami and Tiber came running up the mountain. The memorials were visible from the skyway below and even if they hadn't seen it – they'd have heard it. Everyone in the city and all the lands should've heard it, the tolling of a bell at the midday striking, rolling through the air. Crystalline and pure, drawing all eyes to this place whether people knew was lay there or not, a magnetic pull they couldn't resist.
They could feel the raw energy pouring out of Tyr, electric and tingling on their skin. Something beyond a primus, commanding them to kneel, and only two of their number managed to resist. Astrid and Sigi hit the dirt, shaking violently under the strain. Eyes bloodshot, primal fear clenching at their gut. Okami stood firm in the face of this power by force of will. Partners did not grovel. As for Tiber, he had no problem kneeling to his nephew if he'd been asked, but he did not recognize the man before him. For all his might, this was something else, something that should not be here. His own spira flickering like a candle before a hurricane, but his faith was such that it didn't drag him down like the others.
They'd not be given time for a reunion, though. The maul buried in the dirt atop the mountain sailed through the air to meet Jartor's waiting hand. His face was bloody, but not so wounded as one might expect. As before, Tyr caught the overhead strike effortlessly. The ground around him warped and bent, bowing into a spiderweb of pulverized stone. Jartor had struck with as much force as he was capable of. Enough to pulverize the mountain and kill everyone on it, something necessary. But the moment the hand had met it, the force was absorbed and dispersed until it only resembled a fraction of its power.
And then, where there were two, there were six. A more refined looking man in pristine scarlet robes, a neatly manicured line of facial hair framing his mouth and jaw. Black of hair and silver at the eye. He came, stepping through the air with a hard expression. Octavian of Varia, none could miss him. After him came Ragnar. Fierce and and bearded, chestnut brown with streaks of gray. A fine braid falling to his his waist to be joined by his sandy haired son Vidarr. Appearing in a similar way to Octavia, through a gate. Except where a normal gate was black and purple, these seemed shaped from vivid pearls. Glistening with golden light.
All three were ready for battle. Spear, greataxe and hammer in their hands. Prepared for a slaying, though left confused at the event they'd been called toward. Only when a class-6 nature spirit or higher threat manifested on the material plane should they have felt the tightening of their bonds. A mental 'panic button' of sorts developed back in those days when Solomon had shocked the world.
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Tyr glance sidelong in disinterest, taking no precaution. He could feel their power, and they were no match for this gift. There was no need to fight them all, but it felt good to know that he could. If he'd managed to wound Jartor... Quarantined. This must be what that word had meant. That there was a greater power out there in the cosmos and there must be some kind of limit on what could exist on this world. Tyr only wish he knew how to subvert it, exploit it and keep this strength forever. He could do anything, be anything...
Ragnar let loose with a booming laugh, joined by his son, swaggering forward with a lopsided smile to clap Tyr on the shoulder. Vidarr was not bearded like his father, he had long sandy colored hair worn wild around an honest, strong face. A powerful, chiseled jaw, kind eyes and classically handsome features. He was huge, too, only a bit shorter than Jartor and taller than all the rest. But Tyr had learned something in his brief encounter, the bodies of primus' were just a vessel for their 'selves'. They might even be able to control their appearance... Changing them, perhaps their true forms would look like complete strangers... “Listen, little brother. You should never call for us unless it's absolutely necessary.”
“And this isn't?” Ragnar provided some conjecture. He had a hard face, a wolfish sort of mischief in his eyes. Of all the primus', he was the least understood in terms of bearing. Unpredictable and ancient beyond ken. “Son or father, or brothers – we should never fight among ourselves. It is against the way of things. He seeks his fathers wisdom, you can all leave as far as I'm concerned. This is a family matter.”
“You ordered me killed.” Tyr raised an eyebrow, still placid. Plenty of time left, but the more time passed the more confused he felt. Losing things he'd never known he'd had. Memories and experiences gone every second.
“Ordered you killed? What is this? Your father asked my permission to kill you, what was I to do? Deny him? He'd have done it anyway. I offer council, not command. What a wicked web we'd weave if we went around forcing our authority on one another and throwing childish fits if one were to disobey.” Vidarr nodded in agreement to his fathers words. What must be done, will be done. There was no stopping it. That Tyr had accessed such incredible power was a question, but those two in particular didn't care. A beast would survive on their own ability, or not at all. Anything less was denying nature, and even a primus was incapable of standing against the will of the world. “As you can see, you were offered a temporary divine arcanum of some sort. In truth, I'd love to study it, but there's not enough time. All's well that ends well, a sign from the gods – and so it's over. Don't dishonor yourself by moping about. What will be, will be.”
“For the record, though.” Ragnar added with a wink. “I am pleased that you yet remain among us. Or... However you remain.” He wasn't totally sure what Tyr was, if he could be counted among the 'us'... Questions for another time, and all would be answered soon.
Next was Alexandros. A blond man with waist length hair free of a braid and a permanent grimace on his lips, a small scar splitting the upper at the rightmost corner. As if one side were frozen while the other twitched in either annoyance of agitation. It was hard to tell what he was thinking with that bizarre way he spoke out of the corner of his mouth. Primus' tended to be handsome, even beautiful, but Alexandros was more 'normal' looking. Not ugly in the slightest, but he didn't possess the inhuman perfection of Octavian or the wild charm of the northern primus'. It was in that imperfection about the lips, the scar stretching down to his chin that made him more relatable from a humans point of view. Hawk-like were how his features could be described, or aquiline, violent and sharp eyed. But unlike the others, he had arrived silently, his weapon yet to be drawn. Betraying no intent. Everything about him was still and calm.
“I am very busy these days.” Alexandros spoke with a controlled tone. Colder than the others, none of the arrogance of Octavian or the blunt rumbling of Jartor. “Kindly elaborate on why I was called here.”
“It would seem that our brother has bitten off more than he can chew.” Octavian replied. “A good question, though. Young Tyr has yet to awaken, yet...? An explanation from him is in order, I think.” He commanded, six spells ready and waiting for command. Until his son joined him. Iscari stepped through the gate confidently, boldly interspersing himself between his father and Tyr with his arms spread wide. Tyr remained in observance but said nothing. He had plenty of time left, but none to entertain their questions. Those he would never have an answer to even if he was given a century to piece together his rapidly decomposing recollection of the time he'd spent... Somewhere else...
“Tyr? Father? What is happening?” Iscari shouted. “I won't let you harm him!”
“He couldn't harm me if he tried.” Tyr didn't say this out of arrogance or challenge, but out of concern of Iscari. Then again, Iscari was pretty strong himself. Destined to become the strongest primus if the others were right about his potential. “Back away, Iscari.”
Seven primus'. Seven was a number. Nine primus' including the newborn existed in the world currently, and seven stood there alongside one another for the first time in living history. Tyr had briefly forgotten that he had a little brother and supposed he must have counted. Their combined aura was enough to push Tiber and Okami forcefully into the dirt. It wasn't a conscious thing, it just happened. This, and other reasons beside – were why the primus' stayed separate and in their own territories. The simple act of standing together like this could be a calamity in and of itself. Seven chosen sons of the gods arrayed together, spira so thick that it unconsciously repaired the sheered mountain and make all that was wronged right again. In all directions, for miles around, the sky cleared and the earth rejoiced in their presence. But this calm would not last forever.
Farmers would rejoice as their crops grew twice as tall. Experiencing a months early harvest and enough for a second planting, perhaps even third! Mages though... Mages would shake and shudder. Vomiting bile and blood as some great pain assailed them. Any mites from the 'changing' still present in the surrounding atmosphere were vaporized for hundreds of miles all around. Cleansing the core of Haran of their presence and setting many of the worlds hidden powers on edge. Not a single person in tune with the world could miss the significance, feeling it in their bones. They knew not what was happening, only that it was – a feeling that a great storm was on the horizon. Alex and the others remained similarly affected, though Ragnar had the good sense to protect them from the worst of it.
Something terrible was about to happen. Or was already happening. Druids and witches cried tears of blood and the inhuman races felt an instinctual anxiety that could not be explained. Portents of doom that set their hackles on edge. Babies were born with different colored eyes, wolves howled and the creatures of the sea dove as deep at their appendages could carry them into the darker places.
“Relinquish the body of my son!” Jartor growled, still suspended in the air and ignoring all the others. Pushing down with all his might, Tyr hadn't budged an inch. An impossible thing. Held aloft, balanced in midair on the haft of his hammer by a child near half his size. The force of it all radiating outwards despite the complete lack of movement, resulting a perpetual shattering of the mountain that Tyr always reversed. Grabbing a hold of every stone, every pebble, every individual blade of grass and correcting the damage as it was done. Stopping the resultant shock from rolling through the land in the process.
“Your son?” Tyr arched a brow, almost bubbling with laughter at the ridiculous change of tune. But he released the head of the maul, allowing his father to fall toward him before grabbing the mans neck and burying him in the stone. A lesson to both he and the others that he was done playing the whipped dog. “What in the hells are you talking about? I'm me. What else could I be?”
“...Tyr? Truly?” Jartor groaned, barely capable of speech. It was such a transcendent power that he could scarcely believe it. Something that did not, and should not exist. Something that made the 'divine might' of the saints seem like a 'divine joke' in comparison. “How is this possible? Have you...?”
“He hasn't.” Octavian answered for them. “And if this is a sign, I hope he doesn't ever. Unlike Ragnar, I do not believe this is the work of any sort of god or celestial entity. What has occurred here, exactly?” Jartor relaxed, telling them everything. Time was of the essence. The world could not handle their combined presence for an indeterminate period of time. Alone, they were a piece. But together – the world would grow beyond that which it was meant to. A blessing so holy it could be seen as a curse, pure chaos radiating out in all directions. Any more than three of their awakened number remaining in the same place overlong without proper precautions would have unfortunate effects on the continent, perhaps even the planet itself.
Alexandros left without a word. Whatever was happening, it was clear that the call had been a mistake. There were no gods descended from the sky as he'd expected, just a boy with great and temporary power. Something he didn't care about. Iscari was next, sent home by his father. His presence here was not necessary despite his insistence otherwise. Vidarr was third, departing via a gate with a cheerful wave to the others. Oresund kept to the old ways, seeing the others like kin and family beyond the blood. They no longer had a need to ensure one of their number was lost.
Leaving only Tyr, Jartor, Octavian, and Ragnar. The world settled and the spira calmed. Astrid and the others rose, free from the force pressing them to the earth on shaky legs. She stepped forward to lift Alex to her feet. The woman was cold and half bereft of life, having expended such a great deal of mana it was a wonder how she remained conscious.
“You know what must be done.” Octavian looked at Jartor and Ragnar in turn. “There can only be one.” There was a promise in his words. He didn't care who died, but it'd have to be either child, and the choice was obvious. Primus' were by nature devout, if not truly to the gods then to the 'way'. They revered this divine order beyond that of normal men. It was their entire purpose reason for living, to enforce order and deter chaos. “The rules are clear.”
“Fuck the rules.” Ragnar laughed, waving his hand back and forth. “Do you see any gods? Oh smite me, o might smiters!” He cried to the sky. “Mighty smiters! You limp dicked fucks!” No smiting came, though. It never had. Octavian balked at the older man's disrespect, unsure of how to respond to that kind of behavior. Haran respected their elders, but Varia was more progressive. All, in their own way, were indoctrinated by their respective societies, that part of them that yet remained human. “See?” Ragnar asked. “They do not care. Nor will they answer. The gods are cold and uninterested in our daily dalliance, though if it bothers you so – I will apologize for my irreverence. We weren't called, it's his power. A temporary thing, but he is your son – Jartor. It's still your decision. And I say we let it be. This is a portent from the great spirits, of golden age or a plague – I do not know. But we need numbers, never before has our order grown, two from one.”
What was to say this wasn't the way they wanted it to be? There was rumors, old myths to justify the 'rule of one', but since it had never happened – nobody could actually know. Maybe it'd spice things up a bit.
“Hmm... I agree. Leave us. It is my duty. Leave now and do not return, whatever I decide.” He had too much to think about, and not nearly enough time to do it.
“No.” Tyr stated calmly. “Nobody is going anywhere. Not until I hear what I want to hear. Temporary power or not, I've got plenty of time.” Freezing the spira around him was elementary. Ragnar chuckled again when he felt himself unable to access the bifrost. The force pressing down on him was incredible, something so... Amusing. It was amusing, truly, how this boy had managed to bend reality to his will. Rewriting the rules... Giving him momentous inspiration for the great project.