Floor after floor passed them by in a wild blur, hundreds of greedy hands grasping out at Karfice as he passed, but none with the dexterity to truly claim him. Below him, the sound of shearing stone and metal clanging against metal grew ever louder the further down he went, a marvelous painting of war drawn before him as the lip of the final floor faded into the great maw of darkness above.
Some half mile below the Academy, in an elaborately carved room adorned with gargantuan, towering statues of figures Trenton didn’t recognize, sat a massive cavernous expanse bearing neither entrance nor exit. On a placid day, this room might resemble something of grandeur, stature, of palatial prominence and the promise that you were an individual of unfathomable regard, the soft torch light gently washing across your face and the colossal blocks of stone and chiseled marble comprising the wall and pillars respectively. But this was no placid day. No indeed, the pleasant breeze which had so lulled Karfice to a small nap earlier that day simply was no longer, replaced instead with the cold, dreadful brush of death.
There, floating ominously in the center of the room, was a gargantuan orb of infinite magical potency surrounded in the deepest night, and below it, stuck half a field from the target of their desires, were Trenton and Leo, each separated from each other and swarmed with a small militia of Academy students, some armed, some not, but none capable of even the simplest cast.
They ripped and tore their way forward, taking some care not to completely obliterate their opposition while still keeping themselves relatively safe. But it seemed that no matter what they did, the swarms just wouldn’t stop coming. Even Leo’s body, drenched in brilliant fire, wasn’t enough to deter their insatiable drive, all will stripped from them by the unknown shadow entity.
At intermittent intervals, driven by the periodic tremors from Yissle’s fight, boulders and ashes from above would rain down on the mortal parade, crushing students by the dozen, and shattering the ground into an almost intraversable disaster. Karfice descended into the cavern, swerving madly in between the pillars in a desperate attempt to outrun the cascade of darkness, which pooled into the room as would a tsunami, swallowing swaths of the room whole.
“Eye’s up!” Karfice screamed, alerting Trenton and Leo to the imminent danger.
Trenton’s head snapped up towards Karfice and the darkness, a momentary lapse in his attention passing fully noticed by the students. They pounced atop him in that brief span of time, dragging him low to the ground to avoid him even so much as shifting the earth to save himself, the only remaining piece of Trenton left above the body pile–a single hand.
If there was hope, if there was light in the neverending tide of night, it was him. Maybe it was foolish to put all his eggs in one basket, maybe it was foolish to think that one boy had within himself alone the strength to surpass the purest essence of mystery. But if he was to put his trust and faith into anyone, it was Trenton Boulreguard.
As the black void closed in, quenching the final flicker of his summer, Karfice swung low, tossing Wyll and Mar into the air to grant himself total freedom of movement. In one clean movement, he grasped Trenton’s hand, and with all the might he could muster, he pulled, turning round once to gather enough momentum to hurl Trenton a hundred miles and hour straight into the black orb just as summer vanished–for good.
***
For a moment, he saw nothing, floating in the inbetween between reality and fantasy. He took a deep breath in, mentally and physically steeling himself for what came next.
I am with you. Do not stop, no matter what you see.
Trenton took the first step forward.
Immediately, the scene shifted. He stood as the last man on a ruined battlefield, flesh no longer quite his own, gray and coarse where once it was peach and plump, deep channels of magma running from his core to his every extremity. All around him, corpses lined the field, faces of comrades he was certain he once knew, maybe even loved; it had been so long, he could hardly even remember anymore.
Before him 13 grand beings stood, each overflowing with the very essence of magic. The one garbed in pink, wreathed in psychic energy for even the most protected inner sanctum, stepped forward, placing his hand over Trenton’s face as the others summarily ripped him apart, limb from limb, burning each and every little bit to ash.
At once, his mind shattered, splintering into millions upon millions of little pieces. Pain and love danced together in freshly printed scarlet robes, joy and sorrow dining at a table set for two, history and memory standing atop opposing peaks, glaring at each other with hatred reserved for only one's greatest enemy.
I did not exist in these days, but I’ve sifted these shards before. Do not forget who you are, Trenton. Do not forget what you’re fighting for. Keep. Going.
Trenton took another step forward, and the scene changed again.
5 men dressed in regal robes, each bleeding heavily, some missing limbs, and all with fury in their eyes, surrounded Trenton on every side, his flesh now familiar, if slightly different. They bore into Trenton, digging steel and bone into the deepest parts of his being, ripping out his stomach and liver and tossing them aside, ripping his intestines into thousands of little ribbon strands, carving great gouges into his skull, shoulders, chest, neck, stomach, thighs, and and ankles. The agony was unbearable, every fiber of Trenton’s being yearning to scream, to beg, to plead, to lay down and weep.
We didn’t give up back then, why should we now?
Trenton took another step forward, now with another at his side. The man stood tall and proud, chest puffed, not the slightest hint of hesitation anywhere within him. Across his blurry white body, black channels dug deep, standing stark against his otherwise unidentifiable form. The voice beneath the waves, and the one always echoing in the depths of Trenton’s soul, spoke aloud to him now, side by side this time,
“I did not survive the battle that day, but neither did they.”
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The scene shifted.
His form was different than before, a womans, although still his own. He stood atop tallest tower at the peak of the city’s promincse, clinging to the spire with a single hand so as to allow himself to lean out over the city. Far below, the denizens of the Citadel were nothing more than specks to him, but despite this, he could feel their gaze upon himself. Tears streaming down his face, the sound of heavy footsteps slowly approaching, he began to sing his doleful aria, a plea projected out to the entire city of the injustice the chosen had wrought, weaves of magic sowed into her every word.
“Hear me, oh hear me!
My people, my people!
Your gods sit on thrones made of bones!
These chosen bear vice!
They slaughter us mice!
They care not! They care not!
Our pleas they would not appease!
So carry my sorrow!
So carry my life!
Let all fowl rise!
By gods, raise your strife!
I be-”
His head bounced along the dome of the spire, splattering his blood across the building. He wondered, in that final moment as his voice rang out, as all eyes turned to him with rapt attention, would it even matter? Would his death mean anything at all? Why did he even bother? After centuries of this torment, why now would anything change? It all seemed so pointless…and yet, he held on.
On this day, at 4:30 PM on Friday, the 13th of August, 852 AG, he perished like many others who spoke out against the Citadel. But he would not let his message die with him. His voice would haunt these streets forever more, and one day, even were it not by his hand, the Citadel would fall.
Trenton took another step forward, the woman, clad in peasant robes, thick gray lines arching across her skin, now walking right alongside with him. Even just talking, her voice held that entracing sing song quality which made her so famous in life, her song one Trenton had heard both within his soul and without many times,
“The Citadel took everything from me, family, friends, life, money, fame. Everything I worked so hard to achieve, they rended away as if it was their birthright. I suppose it was only natural I rebelled. I’m not quite the type to sit down and do nothing when injustice is at hand.”
“You sang a beautiful melody, Aria. Know that you were never forgotten. The people remembered your sacrifice,” the first man spoke.
Aria smiled, “Thank you. That means the world to me, truly.”
The scene shifted.
Once again, Trenton could feel his flesh recast, similar, but not exactly identical. He kneeled in a fathomless crater of his own creation, gray clouds dripping the first droplets of a coming storm over the torn castle. He watched his own blood fall from his weary body and slip in between cracks in the earth below him, disappearing into the heart of his domain. Only tatters of his white guardian cloak remained, half of the bold printed number 2, that was supposed to stay on his back, laying on the ground just to his side. Around him, stray pillars and walls crumbled, no longer able to support themselves after his assault.
Was this it? Was this the end for him? Aya trusted him to see this mission through. Aya trusted that he could keep the kids safe. Even at this moment, Walibeld, Era, and Wyndvir were fighting for their life, and he couldn’t even summon the strength to lift himself from the ground.
“And even after…” a voice called from behind him, its prose interrupted with lapses of breathless gasps, “...all that, here you lay, helpless–dying. Admit it, Tailades, we’ve won. The guardians will fall, those eyes will be claimed, and Hrothalagus will rule. Even as we speak, Salen and the others are closing in on the childrens’ position. They won’t last another moment.”
He wanted nothing more than to simply give up, let the endless tides sweep him away into whatever hellish afterlife awaited him. No longer would he have to cling to this miserable life, no longer would he feel this never ending pain, no longer would he lose everything he held dear…but this wasn’t how his story would end. If they wanted his life, they’d have to rip it out of his cold dead hands. Tailades rose to his feet.
“As long as reason lives upon this earth, Hrothologus will never rule. Men do not live in unbreakable chains. One day, he will be toppled, no matter how long it takes. And right here, right now, while I still draw breath, I’ll gladly bear the first flag to this revolution.”
-Zenith Cast: Supreme Cleft-
As the earth itself split in twain, Trenton took another step forward, a new man astride at his side, shorter than the other one, flesh adorned with swirling brown and green, leaf-like strands. He laughed, placing both hands behind his neck and leaning back as he walked, posture relaxed, cordial. His voice, too, was familiar, a higher pitched tone which, in times past, lay under the first man’s voice, a sort of harmony to his melody,
“Yeah, guess I died too, didn’t I? Gave ‘em one hell of a show, though. Aya always did tell me that a guardian dies fighting,” he shrugged, “so I did–ripped apart every last man left in Hrothologus’s army with my bare hands, but I had to end up closing the earth on me and Salen to kill him, killing us both. So in a way, I guess I’m my own greatest enemy,” he laughed again.
“You fought admirably, Tailades. You should be proud,” the first man spoke.
“More than proud,” Aria spoke. “They still speak legends of you from that single cast.”
“Truly? Yeah, I guess it was quite something, wasn’t it?”
The scene shifted again.
He stood now, once again in the flesh from the first memory, but this time was a little different. This scene was one he knew perfectly, one he didn’t need even a moment to identify. This was Aria, not before, not after, but during its collapse. All around him, fires raged, consuming opulent wooden buildings whole in the great inferno. It was a parting gift from the Bloody right hand as he fled, a means to save himself, all the while damning everyone else.
Below him, Leo’s wounded body lay half buried in stone from the collapsed Boulregaurd mansion, his life still his own, if only barely. Trenton reached out a single hand towards the boy’s helpless form some 10 feet below, hand covered in crimson blood not his own. He couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t think. His mind felt so muddled. He didn’t know what was happening, where he was, why he was fighting–why he was killing. But it felt right, oh so right, for reasons he couldn't ascertain.
But just as he was about to touch Leo, crush his skull into the blessed earth, a hand grasped his wrist, his grip iron tight. The first man, bold and proud, wrapped himself around Trenton, pulling his thick, lumbering arm back with enough force to slow, but not stop its descent. Then another hand grabbed Trenton’s, the beautiful woman’s, who followed in the footsteps of the first. Then, the shorter aloof man.
One by one, dozens upon dozens of ghostly arms reached out from within Trenton’s body, grabbing his arm and pulling with all their combined might to keep him from making a mistake he would regret. And little by little, his arm receded, his own strength faltering to that of 90 others. Together, a coalition unlike any other, they could–alone–move mountains. It was remarkable, truly. And with the vigor of every man, woman, and child at his side,
Trenton took the final step forward, the entity's cries of frustration fading to nothing.
Now, no one stood physically by his side, but he could still feel their presence, they were still with him. They floated–he floated–in a gleaming white void, the form of a single curled, white as fresh snowfall, fetus, the sound of its weeping filling the nothingness with warmth, sorrow, tears. Trenton reached out, gently grazing his fingers gently across the surface of the child, and, as if responding to him, it unwound, looking him dead in the eyes and ceasing its tears. It was…happy. It's been waiting for him, waiting for oh so horribly long. And now he was here, here at last.