Beta-read by Infinity21
Toren Daen
The dark blood sloshed underneath me as I fell to my knees, feeling something in my chest crack. Seris’ hands loosened on me as I knelt weakly, my focus entirely on Greahd’s horribly empty eyes. The monotone buzzing of her heartfire–once so full of life–scraped against the inside of my skull, digging out any sort of emotion and leaving a mirrored void in its place.
Agrona sniffed, leaving the body on the altar. “Seris,” he said, something contemplative in his tone, “When you go to war against the Dicathians in a couple of months, you will take Toren Daen along with you,” he said, stepping down from the altar. “It would be interesting to see the effects he has on the participants of this war.”
The High Sovereign observed me, looking at my broken form. Part of me wondered if he wanted me to speak. To beg. To do something. But all I could do was stare numbly at Greahd’s body, devoid of any mind.
Seris knelt beside me, her hands trembling as her head dipped low. The Scythe kept one pristine hand to her breast, the other curling into a fist as it sank into the deep blood that soaked her flowing battledress. Her silver hair covered her eyes. “Understood, High Sovereign,” she said quietly, barely a tremor in her voice.
Agrona walked toward us, his feet sloshing through the half a foot or so of black blood that coated every surface. When his boots rose, nothing coated them.
He stood between us for a bare moment. A deep, deep part of me wanted to hurt him. The part that still felt a modicum of bravery. A bit of wild vengeance. I wanted to rip Inversion from my waist and sink the white horn into the High Sovereign’s chest; watch the light in his eyes go out as I tore every bit of that discordant heartfire from his body. I wanted it to be slow and painful. I wanted to leave only a husk behind.
As only a husk remained of Greahd.
But Agrona was right. I was weak; nothing to an asura. All that I’d gained in the past few months? All the power I kept so close to my sense of self? I was but a candle flame sputtering in the night. Everything about me was inconsequential in the face of a true deity. Even Aurora cowered and crawled away in the face of such utter power. My mother left me as she sensed this shadow, because she knew any light she could give would only be smothered.
When I’d slain Mardeth, I’d thought I knew the face of true darkness.
I did not.
“Keep working as you are, Seris,” Agrona said, his charismatic voice echoing out into the deafening silence. “It would be unfortunate if you were to disappoint me, too.”
The High Sovereign walked toward the doors of the temple. I stayed on my knees long after the sound of his chaotic lifeforce left my range. Even as the afternoon sun overhead darkened, granting the innards of the temple a modicum of shadow. I was consumed by the static buzzing of Greahd’s heartfire; the lack of anything resembling a soul echoing from her intent.
Seris was the first to dare move. The Scythe unbent stiffly, taking several deep breaths as she forcefully centered herself.
Then she strode forward, the swish-swish-swish of her dress echoing as if through water. Varadoth’s black blood seeped up into her pristine clothing. Where before her dress evoked the darkness of the night sky, now Seris bore the stillness of the grave.
Seris approached the altar, hovering up to the not-corpse of Greahd. She furrowed her brow in an expression of remorse, and a dark mana blade elongated from her hands. It flashed a dozen times, the chains binding the middle-aged woman falling away with a splash. Then Seris closed the woman’s eyes gently.
I felt as if a spell had been broken as Greahd’s eyes were hidden from my sight. I heaved for breath, my body trembling as everything seemed to come back into focus. My mana channels burned from the searing touch of my Phoenix Will, my core aching in tune with my heartbeat. It felt hard to move at all, Aurora’s Will weakly crooning and lamenting its horrid loss.
And Aurora… I could not sense her. My mind felt ravaged; violated in a way I had never experienced before. The deepest, most protected part of myself had been forcefully wrenched open, the intruder caring not for what damage he left in his wake.
And my bond was gone. I could not feel her. Could not find her, no matter how I searched. She couldn’t be dead; I’d know if that had happened from the depths of my soul. But… she’d left me. Only fire remained in my mind.
Scythe Seris floated over, Greahd’s body held gently in her hands. I mutely looked up at the woman. How could she even stand? Where did she find the strength?
Seris held out the body. I blinked, then offered my arms up mutely. The Scythe held my gaze for a long moment as she set the limp form into my hands.
Greahd felt so heavy.
I was a mage. The world bent at my call, mana flowing through my veins at a single flicker of intention. I’d achieved feats beyond any normal person in my old world. Yet this small woman’s body was so, so heavy.
Shouldn’t I be able to lift a hundred bodies like these? I thought, feeling tears blur the edges of my vision again. She shouldn’t be so heavy. I’m strong. I should be able to carry her with ease.
Yet the body remained heavier than anything I’d ever held.
Seris’ hand caressed my shoulder in a strange, comforting gesture as I leaned my head forward, pressing my forehead against Greahd’s. She was still so warm. The blood that pumped from her heart carried everything needed to keep her living. She still breathed in and out. But she would never wake.
I’d wrung myself ragged as I’d thrashed against the Scythe’s iron grip earlier. My mouth opened, but no screams came out. My tears fell silently, peppering the closed eyelids of the warm body in my hands. I rocked her back and forth, wishing I could just melt away. At my side, Seris held my shoulder, but I could not feel her comfort.
I didn’t know how long I spent cradling that body like a child being lulled to sleep. When I no longer had any tears left to give, I looked up at the opening Varadoth’s spell had made in the cathedral roof.
Dusk coated the sky beyond with an ironic tinge of purple and orange. Magentas and pinks and fuschias and ochres splashed across the sky in a display that would have been beautiful any other day.
“What was the point of it all?” the words eventually wrenched from my throat. “I don’t… I don’t know how I’ll…” I shut my eyes, my breath shuddering. “She did nothing to deserve this. She… she was so good. Better than anything this wretched, horrible world deserved. Her kindness was repaid with this. With such brute cruelty. Countless others have defied Agrona. So much more. So why?!” I demanded, my voice sounding raw.
My mind felt so blank. Ravaged and empty, devoid of the warmth I’d always relied on from my bond. The only thing I could smell was iron, the coppery taste of blood coating my mouth.
Seris squeezed my shoulder one last time before walking past me. She strode for the sole remaining person alive in this room, a purpose I couldn’t understand driving every step. She looked down at the limp form of Varadoth. “Agrona Vritra wanted to send two messages,” she said quietly, “So he brought two bodies. And to get away with murder, one only needs the authority to call it execution.”
The words the Scythe uttered pierced my heart like a blade. Greahd died because of me. Because of my actions. The High Sovereign wanted to send a message to me. Make some sort of statement. And so he wiped her mind, using her cries for justice as an excuse.
I’d thought myself some sort of hero. A symbol for Fiachra. I’d even allowed myself the pitiful illusion that my actions made things better.
The remembered chant of my Soulplume self mocked me with bitter irony, a bitter callback to my duel with Mardeth.
“We sing to the sky because their gods will not let them.”
But the solid, infinite weight in my arms told me the truth. This was what happened when I tried to make a change. This was the end result of my defiance; of my desire for peace and understanding.
The realization left a void in my chest nearly as wide as the one in Greahd’s mind.
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Seris summoned a blade of pure black mana. She looked down at the High Vicar’s prone position. “For what it is worth, Varadoth,” she muttered, “You were true to your ideals, even to the end. I hope I will be the same.”
She swiped her sword across his neck.
The Scythe knelt, grasping the decapitated head by the small rungs of its horns. Varadoth’s mouth hung open grotesquely, and far too little blood streamed from his withered throat. Seris held the skull in her hand as she strode back toward me, mana blade still in hand.
I looked up at her, a yawning part of me hoping that she’d swing that edge across my neck. Be done with it all. I was a danger to all things good in this world. First Darrin Ordin, and now Greahd of Fiachra. Every selfless person I touched burned away.
Seris looked at the body in my hands, then back to me. Silent meaning threaded through her gaze as she asked an unspoken question.
My eyes darted to the dark mana blade humming in Seris’ grip. Varadoth’s end was painless. Surely, Greahd deserved something just as swift? A quick swipe, and then nothing? It would be a mercy. She was in an infinite coma; destined to never wake again.
But the life of the woman in my arms did not belong to me. I did not have any right to determine how she died, especially after what I had already put her through.
I shook my head loosely. The mana blade in Seris’ grip evaporated, falling upward into specks of black light that broke apart. She paused for a moment, then flourished her hand.
Two items appeared from a dimension ring. A large, dark blanket, and a single vial of clear liquid on a long chain.
Seris knelt in front of me, wrapping the glass vial’s chain around Greahd’s pale throat. She cinched the clasp closed.
“The extract inside of that vial has no scent, no taste, and is nearly untraceable. It is formed from the distilled toxin of the moonshade blossom. It is painless and quick. Were a… conscious person to ingest it, they would quickly feel a bout of exhaustion, their limbs beginning to slow. Within ten minutes, their bodily functions would cease.”
Seris took my hand, her delicate fingers interlocking with my own as she looked into my eyes. “When the choice is ready to be made,” her smooth, cool voice echoed, “Know this is an option for her.”
—
I stood numbly near the large metal doors of the Central Cathedral. The only light was from the setting sun, but inside the yawning temple, even the source of a star could be smothered.
In my arms was Greahd’s body, the dark blanket covering her from any potential eyes. She was heavy as ever, her weight on my conscience–my soul–beyond anything else.
Seris held Varadoth’s shrunken skull in one hand, her face smoothing out to an emotionless mask. She raised another hand, pressing it against the blood-iron doors.
And then she pushed. Just as the first time she’d done so, the doors swung open on their sturdy hinges, revealing the world outside in an array of light. The small lake of black blood that coated every surface inside the temple flowed out as it was given new avenues. It streamed down the steps like a waterfall, spreading outward like wretched roots.
There was a massive crowd outside. Of course, there was. After all, the mana fluctuations of Varadoth’s dreadful attacks must have been sensable from every corner of the city. Yet none wanted to intervene in a potential battle between a Scythe and the High Vicar. The levels of power that were being thrown around were enough to sweep any man away in the tide.
A ripple went through the crowd as Seris revealed herself. Just as many uncertain eyes bored into me, but I couldn’t bring myself to care.
Varadoth’s black blood flowed down the steps like an unfurling carpet, paving the way for her descent. The Scythe stepped down, her face an impassive mask as she strode forward.
The crowd buckled as the black blood flowed out, Seris trailing in its wake like a reaper. Most knelt. Some simply fainted at the aura the Scythe was letting out. And no few prayed to the Vritra, seeking direction in the uncertain times ahead. With the execution of the head of the church at the hands of a Scythe–one of Agrona’s chosen–the legitimacy of the Doctrination was shaken to its foundations.
As Seris and I walked through the streets of Cardigan, all we were met with were stares of uncertainty and fear. Were I able to feel, those looks may have frightened me. Before this, I’d wanted to be a harbinger of understanding. A force for change. How could I be that if all I garnered was terror?
The message Seris portrayed was as clear as Varadoth’s blood was black. She had entered the domain of the High Vicar with me in tow. And several hours later, we left together.
With Varadoth’s head.
It took far too long to reach the teleportation gates. The attendant there, the same captain who had welcomed Seris several hours prior, paled visibly as he saw our approach.
I smelt the distinct scent of urine as a small wet spot traveled from his crotch. “Scythe… Scythe Seris,” he said, seemingly unable to even think coherently. “Where– what,” he said, his pinprick pupils darting to the ghastly gray head in the Scythe’s hand. The neck dripped black liquid intermittently.
“Key the gate to Fiachra, Captain,” Seris commanded smoothly, unphased by the man’s shaking knees.
He stumbled back, doing something to the gate from a post I couldn’t see. “The gate is keyed, Scythe Seris,” he mumbled back, seeming unable to take the steps back toward the Scythe’s barely contained aura.
She stepped into the portal without preamble. I did the same a moment later.
The familiar stretches of Fiachra opened before my eyes. I inhaled the scent of sweat and work, the endless grit of the people working to clear canals and pull their loved ones from the depths reaching my nose.
Seris strode forward still, unspeaking. My limbs moved on their own as they followed behind her. The men and women we crossed paths with reacted differently from those in Cardigan.
At first, there was fear. Deep terror from the twisting aura of the Scythe and the ghastly, sunken skull in her hands.
But that quickly shifted to something that burned. A fiery, victorious surge in the collective intent rocketed up as a familiar chant began.
“Fiachra! Fiachra! Fiachra,” they called. The thunderous chants coursed through the air, the street rumbling beneath me even as people made way. I caught sporadic cries of, “Spellsong!” and “Scythe Seris!” throughout the cheers of victory.
Each man and woman had reached the conclusion Seris desired of them, of course. The Doctrination had done nothing but grind this city under its boot, and now the Scythe of Sehz-Clar returned with the head of the High Vicar clasped in her hand. Fiachra had been hurt by Mardeth, and even in the wake of his death, there were wounds that would linger for decades.
But with this? With this, Fiachra was avenged.
Except it wasn’t. This entire image Seris projected was a bitter, bitter lie. I had no doubt Agrona left Varadoth’s body behind precisely so his Scythe could play this idea to the people. And the truth was, I wasn’t certain Seris and I working together could have truly slain Varadoth.
I looked down at the form wrapped in my arms. No, I knew the truth. Varadoth’s power eclipsed even Seris Vritra’s. I had no doubt in my mind we would have been overwhelmed and broken at his feet.
A hollow, hollow victory. A victory nearly as hollow as Greahd’s soul.
Cylrit flew from the Fiachra Ascender’s Association, hovering in front of his Scythe. His eyes softened imperceptibly as they took her state in. “Scythe Seris,” he said, floating down and bowing respectfully. “I take it you were successful with your…”
The ever-stalwart Retainer trailed off as his scarlet eyes met my own. Something in my gaze–or the lack of anything there at all–deeply unnerved him. He shifted slightly, his brow furrowing. He looked at the mute body in my arms, wrapped in a dark blanket like a funeral shroud. “What has happened?” he asked instead.
“We shall speak more inside, away from prying ears,” Seris said seriously. She turned to me slightly, her hard eyes softening slightly as they looked at me. It was not pity that coursed through her. It was sympathy; understanding. “You are more than welcome to join us, Toren. Considering… circumstances, I cannot afford to let you roam on your own for too much longer.”
I shook my head. “No, I… I need to speak with them all. About this.” I said weakly, denying the Scythe.
Cylrit’s brow furrowed even more, but not from disgust or mockery. From a genuine fear.
“Very well,” Seris breathed, a hand ghosting comfortingly across my slumped shoulder. “When you are ready, we will need to speak.”
I nodded, turning away. “Thank you,” I said quietly, then began my funeral march.
—
East Fiachra was the least touched by the Plaguefire Incursion. Whereas all other boroughs of the city were swept away by the rampaging spells of the vicars, had cratered and overflowing canals, and had been burned away by Scythe Seris’ purging flame in the aftermath, East Fiachra emerged as a beacon of sturdy support for the rest of the beleaguered districts.
Familiar faces smiled as they spotted me, their eyes shining with welcome greetings. Yet as they took in my bearing, their smiles melted away. I ignored them as I trudged toward a familiar location. One of the first locations I’d ever frequented when I’d come to this world.
One of my targets found me first. Naereni skated in from the side, barely managing to stop herself before she toppled into a nearby canal. Those were filled with water now, essential arteries restored their blood.
The Young Rat smiled slightly as she gathered her balance. “Woah,” she said, backing away from the edge. “After my core advanced, I wasn’t quite sure about how I’d be able to moderate all my magic, but I’m getting the hang of it.”
Naereni turned slightly, her eyes darting everywhere. “I slipped out of the Ascender’s Association earlier today. I expected them to try and follow me. Especially Miss Horns, considering the neat necklace she gave me. But when I heard that you came back with her and she was holding a head, I had to get a scoop straight from the source.”
She turned to me fully, her mouth open wide to continue speaking. Yet as her eyes traced from the body-shaped wrapping in my arms and back up to my eyes, her mouth shut with a resounding clack.
“Toren,” she said, her voice wavering, “Who are you holding? Who is it?”
“Gather everyone you can,” I whispered numbly. “Everyone that has ever been a part of this district’s heart. And bring Wade, too.”
I looked past Naereni to the clearing behind her. This was where Greahd held her largest cookouts. A bustling place of life and laughter, a temporary escape from the harsh reality the needy faced. She was no longer here to give me an escape. No more were the days of life and laughter. Greahd's final moments in the clearing would be that of mourning and death.