Omonrel had crafted a peculiar reception chamber for Vorlan’s recent visits. It was a dank cave, wreathed in a horrid humid haze. Vorlan surmised that Omonrel intended his audiences with Vorlan to be humiliating in order to communicate his profound disrespect. Worse yet for Vorlan, he was forced to pace about the sprawling chamber to observe the random and gnarled blue grey rock formations while he waited for an unpunctual Omonrel. This was waiting he could ill afford.
Time was not his ally as Forynda prepared to descend to the mortal realm. His prior encounter with Forynda had transpired so poorly that he feared she might strike a blow to commence a war at any moment. Panic built as he expected the next instant to bring the sensation that the High Angel had come to deliver her terrible vengeance.
Every second felt like an hour as he thought over what he wished to say to Omonrel to make any attempt at closing the divide while also appeasing a wrathful Forynda. As much as he hoped an accord could be reached, he could not ponder any arrangement that would be acceptable to both Omonrel and Forynda. Only flickering faith that a solution would present itself once discussions began kept the Earth Angel hopeful.
At last, he heard a whirring sound and steps behind him. Vorlan turned and saw Omonrel, who carried a worrying air of both mischief and defiance.
“I am glad that you agreed to see me at this late hour.” Vorlan offered an outstretched hand. Omonrel did not even pay it the slightest attention.
“And you still think that anything can be achieved?” Omonrel spat. “Forynda has called you a fool many times in the past and now I find myself in agreement with her.”
“What is foolish is thinking you can stand against her wrath,” the Earth Angel lambasted his former disciple. “With the Golden Aura’s power, she could eradicate you and all of your followers in but a moment.”
“You make this threat now? What has changed?” Omonrel queried, pointing suspiciously at Vorlan. “Has she finally realized that she cannot simply scold us into submission? Or make vague threats?”
Vorlan ached deeply with disdain for Omonrel’s posturing. Its pointlessness made him wonder if he had merely been a poor master to Omonrel many years prior.
“Her patience is expended. When next you see her, she will spare nothing to utterly vanquish you,” Vorlan declared. “Please, Omonrel, be reasonable and seek peace. Some concession, any kind of concession I can take to her. It must be enough to stay her hand.”
That plea caused Omonrel to float back and forth in tense silence. Just as Vorlan began to lose hope, Omonrel joyously sprang back out of his trance.
“Ah, I do have something for her if she is interested,” Omonrel grinned. Vorlan clenched as he could see what Omonrel would say well the Sculptor spoke again. “Nethron.”
Despite anticipating what Omonrel said to at least some extent, Vorlan was still staggered by it. His immediate trepidation centered on what Forynda would do to Nethron if she were offered the chance to exact her vengeance. She had certainly made it plain enough when they last spoke.
“I cannot believe that you would sacrifice an ally as valuable as Nethron,” Vorlan said, his voice wreathed in suspicion.
Omonrel broadened his grin.
“You presume too much if you think that Nethron is a good and faithful ally of mine. He is a constant tinkerer and always plotting. We have found him to be as bothersome as you had, perhaps more so. We should be glad to be rid of him and I am sure that Forynda would be more than happy to hand him the punishment he deserves.”
“You have not captured him. How can I be sure that what you tell me will lead Forynda to him?”
“Because I had Myrvaness approach him in good faith. Her good faith, not mine. He is entirely too trusting,” Omonrel laughed and offered an outstretched hand. “The mortals annoyingly call it Mount Ceuna. I am sure you know the mountain. We crafted it together, if you will recall.”
Vorlan indeed did recall it, that glorious solitary mountain standing before two great lakes in the northern reaches of the lands claimed by King Rohmhelt. Vorlan affectionately called it Omonrel’s “lonely spire.” Few mountains in the world soared higher or were more lovingly crafted, even the majestic and fiery Mount Hetras. As he recalled its beauty, Vorlan’s concerns again centered instead on what Forynda would do to Nethron the instant Vorlan relayed Omonrel’s betrayal of the Aura Keeper.
“Is it your hope that Forynda destroys Nethron?” Vorlan asked guardedly.
“Yes, it is.”
“And you assume that Forynda will trust you after all that you have done?” Vorlan asked. “Do you not see that she will suspect a trap?”
Omonrel turned his back to Vorlan and withdrew into the shadows. Vorlan wanted to follow, but feared that Omonrel would take offense.
“I appreciate her misgivings, but I am afraid that I can do little else besides make you this one offer as a gesture,” Omonrel said, facing away from Vorlan. “If Forynda turns this away now, she will prove to all of us that she has no desire for reconciliation.”
Few declarations had puzzled Vorlan more in his entire existence. His every inclination was to fully trust Omonrel in order to achieve a lasting accommodation. Omonrel’s voice carried strong sincerity, but Vorlan found himself greatly disturbed that Omonrel made no true concession. By the Sculptor’s own words, this was in his own interests because he saw Nethron as a rival and a problem. Vorlan rejected these fears, however, to maintain the germ of hope.
“I will tell her what you have told me,” Vorlan said, his voice becoming weak. “I cannot make promises as to her response.”
“I am sure you cannot,” Omonrel quipped. “But if she rids us all of Nethron, the world shall be better in any case.”
“We should never abandon hope of reconciliation, my friend. We have all time to repair any ills done now,” Vorlan implored. “Mortals do not have this luxury, but we do. Let us not forsake this fact.”
Omonrel’s face seemed to warm at the Earth Angel’s plea.
“Maybe this can be the start,” Omonrel said, smiling.
“I have faith that it will be,” Vorlan said, doubting his own words the instant he spoke them.
Vorlan returned to Ceuna and immediately conferred with Forynda in her sanctum. Elaous soon joined them, bringing a grim and brooding air with him. He stood at Forynda’s left while Vorlan stood at her right. She remained silent, her eyes closed, and her hands clasping her rapier as Vorlan told her what Omonrel had divulged.
“If you capture Nethron and discipline him, I believe that can be the genesis of reconciliation. He has done much to wrong almost all of creation and deserves a severe punishment,” Vorlan said, attempting to fight back his excitement that a true opportunity seemed to present itself.
Elaous nodded.
“Indeed. Nethron should pay for what he has done. It was impulsive and foolish. Confinement here for several millennia would be just,” Elaous declared.
“No,” Forynda growled.
“No?” Elaous and Vorlan asked in unison.
The High Angel opened her fierce eyes and swiped her rapier wrathfully.
“I will give him nothing. Nothing here. Nothing in the mortal realm. Nothing. He will possess nothing. He will enjoy nothing. He will be nothing,” she boomed.
Elaous appeared stunned, but Vorlan was not. He had anticipated just such an outburst.
“Nethron’s crimes are great. On this we do not argue, but to punish him by forsaking all good that he may one day do after he sees the errors of his ways would be greatly unwise. We have an eternity to correct whatever errors any of us have made. Permanent punishments are out of proportion. I implore you to consider this,” Vorlan begged. “You had once said you would put his fate to the whole of Ceuna.”
“And I have thought better of that,” Forynda replied. “By attempting to undo mortality itself through whatever foul means he has concocted, he is too dangerous to be tolerated any further. Even the time I have spent discussing this with you has been a wasted opportunity.”
“I cannot guarantee the loyalty of all in our own realm if you obliterate Nethron,” Elaous added. “It could spawn difficulties.”
Forynda fumed at the impudence. Vorlan lamented that this was precisely the moment at which the High Angel needed to be told she was bordering on folly, but also the moment she seemed least likely to receive and accept any sensible advice.
“Difficulties, Elaous? Difficulties?” she mocked. “The mortal realm is being torn asunder. Many thousands lay slain due to a war Parlon and Omonrel helped start and millions more will perish before this conflagration subsidies. Nethron’s actions made this all possible. Do not speak to me of ‘difficulties.’”
With a stiffening face, Elaous bristled under attack.
“I do not believe I could speak for my own loyalty if Nethron is destroyed as you suggest. I may find it impossible to serve you,” his words tightened with his steely resolve.
Elaous’s words struck both Vorlan and Forynda utterly silent. Vorlan never considered for a moment that Elaous would say such a thing. For her part, Forynda recovered to dismiss the suggestion with a simple shake of her head.
“We have all been strained, badly strained, by these events. I will forgive that insinuation this time and we will speak of it again when I return,” she said sternly. “I wish that no other accompany me. I will settle this matter with Nethron myself.”
Elaous gave no reply but an icy stare and it was one the filled Vorlan with trepidation. Before either could say anything more to Forynda, she departed in a whir of light. Exchanging terse and uncomfortable glances, Vorlan and Elaous both suffered in stunned silence.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
“Do you mean to hold to what you said?” Vorlan asked at last.
Elaous turned his back to Vorlan.
“Let us hope that she sees reason,” Elaous rumbled.
~~~
Nethron floated just above Mount Ceuna’s precipice for some moments as he pondered the spreading use of the Auras all over the world. His followers were multiplying, and their uses of the Auras were spreading beyond simple tricks and displays to more adventurous endeavors. Mortal ingenuity, fueled by their truncated lifespans creating a sense of dire urgency, was truly a marvel to the Aura Liberator. As the afternoon light faded toward dusk, he retired to the chambers he had carved out for himself just below Mount Ceuna’s peak.
In one of the chambers, he made his primary lair as close to his sanctum in Ceuna as he could manage. There he had formed orbs of varying colors representing the Auras he had unleashed, phasing from fiery red to lustrous silver. Making a ring around the chamber, they aided him in his efforts to train his acolytes, providing the hundreds of them that had flocked to train under him with more tangible representations of the Auras. Mortal minds needed such tangible expressions to focus their efforts, at least for the moment.
Sitting in that chamber, he pondered all that he had managed to accomplish thus far. He took delight in the fact that entire cities, most notably Zarmand itself, now pledged themselves to the Aura Liberartor. While not his intent to be worshipped in place of any of the other angels, it was nonetheless gratifying that his offers had been accepted so zealously by so many mortals. With some thousands of mortals now wielding the Auras all over Vorlanys, Nethron felt ecstasy such as he had never known before. When he initially had unleashed the Auras, he realized he felt but a fraction of this. The great use of the auras by the mortals gave them life he had only imagined could be possible. He believed his further guidance could allow the mortal wielders of the auras to achieve truly staggering things, heights Forynda would never have permitted.
Such excitement drove his followers at Mount Ceuna to endure deteriorating and even squalid conditions and dozens more joined them each week in those cramped and twisting caverns. Nearly all of them had a ravenous desire to learn from the being that they worshipped as the greatest of angels. Their motivations, however, were difficult for the Aura Liberator to discern as they ranged from ruthless ambition to simple unvarnished curiosity and even to great altruistic intentions. Of the various minds, those that he felt most at ease with were those who were genuinely inquisitive and not committed to ambitions he could not hope to understand.
His own favorites, as they had been since they first were introduced themselves to him, were Renkyk and Galdrehln. He found the bond between the plump and messy-haired Nimorsian Galdrehln and the skeletal and well-coifed red-skinned Kyosok charming. Both wore silver robes out of deference to Nethron and both had crafted their own glorious staves under the Aura Keeper’s tutelage. They had taken to their studies quickly, learning an admirable amount in just a few months.
Between the two, Renkyk had taken on the role of scribe, furiously writing his findings on a heap of parchment near the entrance to the chamber, while Galdrehln practiced his newfound talents on the opposite side.
Nethron floated at the chamber’s center, his eyes closed as he continued to ponder further perfections to his understanding of the Silver Aura. Whatever his other successes, that matter had eluded him most cruelly. Delving into the reanimation of a smattering of beasts had proven to introduce more questions than answers. He realized he had never truly considered how the spark of life and the fusing of a soul occurred in new life. Perhaps understanding that phenomenon would allow him greater insight into the Silver Aura. Mending the broken bodies of the deceased loomed as another burdensome issue. Mortal beings had an inexorable march toward decay that Nethron still did not fully grasp. His thoughts on that matter exhausted, he sought a diversion.
“You must use a purer water for conjuring ice, Galdrehln,” Nethron said, still leaving his eyes closed. He had felt the sloppy conjuring of an ice statue off to his right. “Do you recall what I told you about the importance of the purity of the reagents?”
Galdrehln sighed and clicked his staff on the ground.
“Yes, yes. I’m just tired and got lazy about it,” he coughed. Nethron had learned to forgive the crude irreverence of many of the mortals. “You know I’ve done better when I’m rested.”
Nethron opened his eyes at the statue, which was a shimmering crystalline Coji, the great birds of the northern Methrangian Empire. To his surprise, it appeared far better than it had felt when it was conjured.
“Fatigued or not, quite impressive,” Nethron smiled. He waved his hand to repair some imperfections on the talons. “One day you will do this with stone and even put Omonrel to shame. He is too complacent in his sculptures. We all told him his work was beautiful and never had the gall to say otherwise.”
Galdrehln giddily skipped toward Renkyk and poked his foot with his staff. Renkyk stayed focused on his writing.
“Did you hear that? Better than Omonrel?” Galdrehln swelled.
“Yes, I heard,” Renkyk replied lethargically, fighting back a yawn. “Can you read what I have for today? I want to make sure I got it all down.”
“Oh not now,” Galdrehln groaned. “Why do you do this anyway? It’s…”
“If we don’t write it down we could forget what we’ve done and we’ll have nothing to share,” Renkyk hissed. “It would be like an explorer not making a map of what he’s found.”
“Wise words,” Nethron chuckled as he shut his eyes again.
His amusement collapsed at an instant when he felt a ripping sensation through the fabric of the Auras. A burning golden and white light blurred across his vision. It drew very close. The mountain rumbled from its base, causing small pieces of rock to fall from the cave’s ceiling. He knew at an instant what came for him, but his two closest acolytes gasped in shock. To them, of course, this would have been entirely new.
“What’s that?!” Galdrehln yelped.
Screams and crashes echoed up the caves’ tunnels, louder and closer every moment. He could sense the presences of his followers becoming fewer. Rather than despairing over their demises, he found contentment that he felt a simple sense of regret at his loss of such devoted adherents. That he had the opportunity to mourn the loss of those treasures he had gained seemed a worthy thing. It was a concept he had never imagined before descending into what the mortals called “Vorlanys.”
“Heaven falls upon us,” Nethron murmured. “She is here.”
“Forynda?!” Renkyk gasped. “No, it… Can you fight her?”
The rumbles grew louder and closer. The screams grew closer, too, but ever fewer. He sensed such terrible ends for many of his followers that he dared not even contemplate them.
“Fight?” the Aura Liberator chuckled with resignation. “All that would do is give you a good laugh. No, bow to her. Beg for mercy and swear your allegiance.”
“But… the Silver Aura would…” Galdrehln spluttered.
“Be of little use to you if there is nothing left to revive,” Nethron interrupted, turning his warm gaze to his frightened acolytes. Unrelenting fear gripped them so tightly they ran cold and pallid. Nethron pitied their terror. He knew his fate would be dire and would last far longer than theirs and yet he felt little. He wished he would feel something rather than acceptance. “Your only chance is to bend to her and even then she might not spare you. She has a firm sense of these things.”
With little time left, he cast a protective light blue translucent sphere that surrounded the two as he felt all of the other presences in the mountain die out. True to form, the High Angel was most thorough in what she did. None had been spared. The Aura Liberator could not feel a pulse anywhere outside his chamber. Devoid of anything other than his own demise to ponder, his gaze fell upon the entrance. It was very dark at first. Then light shined around its rim, a golden glow with pulsating white edges. A terrible and deafening whirring sound heralded the High Angel’s approach.
A burst of light then shone blindingly in the chamber, accompanied by powerful sonic blast. Though he could not see her immediately, Nethron felt Forynda’s mighty presence. When the glare subsided, there she was, standing with her crystalline rapier drawn in one hand and a platinum shield in the other. Her eyes, though a warm golden color, were as cold as the deepest abyssal depths. Forynda’s glare immediately turned to Nethron’s followers, still encased in their translucent bluish sphere.
“Please, we bow to your mercy, great Forynda! Please spare us! We will serve you!” Renkyk screamed while on his knees. Galdrehln whimpered and cried. Nethron recalled the mournful sight of the sick and dying in Zarmand and how desperately they wished to continue on. Their abject terror and desperation were palpable. He wanted to shout out to Forynda to ask that she spare their lives, but he knew that any decision she had made would be irrevocable at this point.
Forynda grimaced and swiped her hand toward their protective shield, instantly dissipating it with a rumbling pulse. They scampered toward the cave wall as she pointed her rapier at them.
“No, you shall live,” she muttered, lowering the rapier. “Tell all what you have seen here. Tell all that not even the protection of false and traitorous angels can save them. Judgement is upon them all!”
“That one,” Nethron said, pointing at Renkyk, “he is quite skilled with the pen. He will do you great service in telling this tale.”
His jab had plainly annoyed Forynda as the High Angel’s gaze fell back upon him.
“To your very last you fail to understand what you have done,” Forynda growled. “Will you beg as they have?”
“Beg… No, I am afraid that does not suit me. I will not fight you, either.”
The High Angel glided closer to Nethron, her fiery gaze intensifying.
“How did you learn I resided here in any case?” Nethron queried. He was genuinely surprised that she had discovered his remote location with such rapidity. “I thought I had done well obscuring my presence.”
“You should have known better than to trust betrayers,” Forynda seethed.
“Ah,” Nethron said with amusement. “Myrvaness and, more to the point, Omonrel… I am almost disappointed. It was eminently predictable. You are right about some of them. I will grant you that much.”
Forynda’s hand clenched her rapier more tightly and her glowing aura spread further from her body. The Aura Liberator braced for the High Angel to exact her terrible vengeance upon him.
“Have you anything else to say? Can you possibly utter anything to explain your vile betrayal?”
“I only betrayed an absurd edict that the mortals shall live and die helplessly. If that is my crime then I welcome any punishment that you can give me,” Nethron pronounced in defiance.
In a swift motion, Forynda pointed her rapier at Nethron’s face.
“You shall have it,” she growled.
An overwhelming wave of burning light shot from Forynda’s rapier. It tore into Nethron’s mortal form, blasting away his robes and flesh. Very soon he felt naught but the fluid existence of his angelic form. The sensations of the chamber were gone. He could not feel its cold dampness, nor could he enjoy the glow from the orbs lining the chamber’s edge. While he had experienced the mortal condition only briefly, he at once lamented that he was deprived of it. All that he could absorb and observe in his angelic form seemed muted and distant. It felt as though he was grazing past the world’s contours, but not touching them.
When the blinding light of Forynda’s blast cleared, he saw Galdrehln and Renkyk on the opposite wall gasping in horror at the power demonstrated by the High Angel. Forynda still glared at him, her lust for vengeance clearly not yet satisfied.
“Among all of us, I trust you know that you cannot blast away this manifestation. You can torture me in this form as much as you please, but I shall endure,” he said in his now wispy and ethereal angelic voice.
Forynda lowered her rapier, yet seemed pleased. She was not surrendering. Far from it. Nethron knew something he had not anticipated awaited him.
“Your sentence relies on your eternal endurance,” Forynda said with serene satisfaction.
“Is it that dire? No matter what you have planned for me, my mark will be on this world forever,” he laughed defiantly.
Before he uttered it, he knew that few things would irritate Forynda more than reminding her of the irrevocability of what he had done. Indeed, her fury surged.
“You will suffer the pains of oblivion!” the High Angel bellowed, her voice filling every cavern in the entire mountain.
“And you will suffer far worse than that,” Nethron retorted bitterly.
Raising her rapier toward Nethron, Forynda’s golden glow swelled. Tendrils of the aura wrapped around Nethron, causing his very soul to burn, twist, and collapse. All he could see was an iridescent golden light.
Then he saw blackness. Forynda’s heavy presence was no more, nor did he feel the presences of Galdrehln or Renkyk. There was no warmth, neither was there cold.
Where is this? What is here?
He floated, probing the extents of this realm, attempting to discern its limits. After drifting interminably, he ceased. It was all utterly empty. He could not even see his own angelic form. Without limit, he extended his spirit, sprawling it in every direction without encountering a single obstacle. There was nothing to block him. There was nothing to restrain him. There was nothing at all.
Time drifted without reference. He pondered tasks he might undertake, some enterprise to at least occupy his existence, but he reminded himself that there was nothing with which he could interact. He could do nothing of any kind. Tedium set in before long, torturous tedium at that, without hope of relief and only deeper malaise before him.
I applaud you, Forynda. This is the worst thing you possibly could have done to me.
In a certain sense, he found the situation impossibly humorous. He tried laughter, but he could not even hear his own cackles. Nothing existed that could carry them. This futility was in itself almost an odd pleasure to the Aura Liberator. All he could enjoy was contemplating his utter isolation and impotence.
The pains of oblivion indeed.