Crowe stood naked in the bathroom, trying to get to know the stranger in the mirror. Many of the bruises he'd incurred had begun to fade, the fever gone. If given more time it would soon be as if nothing had happened at all.
Only that's not true. Something did happen.
He only needed to look down at his hand to see what had been taken from him. The hand he'd used for so much. To cut, to carve, to write. Simple but important things. Things he needed to be able to do in order to survive.
Memories and sensations circled around him like a black cloud. There was no pushing them away this time. The feeling of a blade slicing into his flesh, into his nerves, through bone - he could still feel them itching, still feel him twitching, but they were no longer there. The burn of the rope snapping tight around his throat as the platform beneath his feet fell away, constricting his breathing.
It wasn't just the torture. The taunting. There was Petras. Petras who was dead - should be dead - but somehow continued to live on from beyond the grave in the hearts and memories of Crowe’s adversaries. Never once in the eighteen years the practitioner had known him, had his mentor even hinted at being the herald.
Would it stop you from hating him for the way he treated you? If he’d told you would it have made it easier to live with? The dirty looks and scathing comments? His unpredictable temper? The abuse?
Rage rose up in him like bile. He screamed - he could no longer contain it. The mirror shattered, glass spilling onto the floor as if someone had driven a fist into it. But he didn't need a fist to break things. Or all his fingers.
A knock at the door. A familiar whine. “Twin o'rre?”
The sorcerer chuckled, wiping the tears from his eyes. You were alone before but you aren't now. Monad took Petras away and gave me someone better.
Someone who hadn't left him stranded and alone in the middle of the night. Someone who didn't berate him for his infections. Someone who had saved his life time and time again, even nursing him when he was sick. And I'm in here feeling sorry for myself. Monad, forgive me for my insolence.
A more insistent knock, this one hard enough to make the door rattle in its frame. Crowe knew he had but seconds to act before the barbarian ripped the door off its hinges and forced his way inside.
“I'm coming.” He laughed, taking note of the fact that his chest no longer felt tight. “Don't tear the door down.”
The door opened. “Hi,” Crowe said. He tried on a smile. It felt real enough.
Barghast nudged him to the side, unconvinced. He peered first at the broken mirror, then at the jagged shards of glass on the floor. He gave the practitioner a long disapproving look before taking his hands in his paws, looking them over for new injuries.
“I'm fine.” The sorcerer tried to hide the tremor in his voice with a chuckle. “I just had…a moment.” How could he explain to the Okanavian everything that had happened to him at Fort Erikson? I wasn't just tortured. I almost died, saved only by the hands of fate. There was a moment when I thought I would never see you again.
Seemingly, satisfied with his inspection, Barghast wagged his tail. “Good…morning,” he rumbled. Another new phrase Crowe had taught him. Cupping his face, the barbarian leaned forward for a kiss. His other paw cupped the practitioner’s ass. “Mine,” he growled possessively.
Crowe shuddered. “Yours,” he said.
Barghast drew back with a grumble of reluctance that quickly turned into a loving smile. “Breakfast,” he said.
The practitioner let the barbarian lead him back into the bedroom. Breakfast was trout charred over the fire. Crowe was ravenous. Now that the fever was gone, his appetite had returned with a vengeance.
The two travelers wasted little time scarfing down their meal. Afterwards a heavy silence fell between them. Dark thoughts of the inevitable pulled at the practitioner’s thoughts. The world is in ruin. Half the North drowns in blood while the other half burns at the stake or hangs from the noose.
Barghast nosed at him, interrupting his thoughts, sensing his inner turmoil.
Thinking of the necromancers, Crowe said, “I'm done running. I'm done hiding.” He let the anger he'd been keeping at bay seep into his voice. “I'm done running.” He made a diagonal slashing motion with his hand. “We must fight.”
Spurred by the emotion in the practitioner’s voice, the lycan jumped to his feet. “Fight,” he agreed with a nod.
“We must prepare.” Crowe sighed, wondering if he wasn’t about to condemn them both to death by making this decision.
I don't care, a voice separate from himself echoed in his mind. They've chased me for days. They've played with my mind. They want to play games with me? I'll play.
When he stood, Barghast rose with him. “No, no, no.” Crowe scratched at his shoulder. “I have something I need to finish.”
He went down to the porch with the unfinished staff and his carving knife. Would he still be able to carve or was he truly crippled? There's only one way to find out.
He sat in the rocking chair that no one had bothered to bring with them. He lit an aether joint, staring across the field. There was nothing around them for miles. One could almost trick themselves into thinking they were safe. We'll never be safe if we're constantly on the run like this.
He forced himself to look at his damaged hand. The empty spaces where his fingers had been were scanned over. And yet he could still feel them, a phantom tingle that made him want to wiggle them. Gone, he thought. They're gone and you will never get them back. It doesn't change what you and Barghast have to do.
He pulled his necklace from around his neck. He forced himself to take a deep breath, filter it out. He hit his joint. He repeated this action until it no longer felt his heart would burst out of his chest; until he could turn his thoughts to the heavens. He closed his eyes, recalling what it was like to feel Monad's like flooding him. He pushed himself towards him even as everything else inside him wanted to draw away from the thought of confrontation.
“Monad,” he whispered. The wind stirred around him in response, brushing his hair back from his face. Beyond that the world was so quiet he could have been the last man on it. “Guide me. Guide by broken hand. Help me do what needs to be done.”
Monad’s fire unfurled in him, a small flame like a reassuring touch that said, I am with you…and I will never leave.
A familiar force pulled his eyes up to the sky where Metropolis peeked at him through the clouds while Monad’s flame guided his fingers to the wood.
Not a moment later it seemed, someone else was shaking him. He lowered his head to find Barghast towering over him. The sky behind him had darkened considerably. They had a few hours before night was here.
Crowe stood, wincing. His back popped audibly. He looked down at the finished product he still held in his hand. What he held was not five feet in length but a much more reasonable three feet. In his trance he’d rounded it out so that it was perfectly cylindrical. Not a staff, but a wand. He grinned to himself. Monad, guide my hand indeed.
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In hand to hand combat, it created the problem of distance. He would have to close in on his adversary to strike. For something like that he would have to find another avenue. A pistol. I need a pistol. But this will do for now. He pushed his mana into it. The runes lit up with an enthusiastic thrum that made his grin widen. He never felt more naked than when he didn’t have a staff - a way to channel his mana. It was the difference between control and chaos.
He lifted his eyes to see he wasn’t the only one who had been busy; a testament to how much time had passed while he’d been under. Barghast had made several spears, carving them from tree branches. He held an ax. His rifle was strapped to his shoulder. His eyes burned bright like the sun on a hot Summer day. His tail flicked back and forth in anticipation. He’s just as tired of running as I am.
His thoughts briefly turned to the necromancers. He felt not fear but anger. For now it was a low flame, but it was enough to make the end of his wand shoot sparks of blue light from its tip.
He went to the lycan, rubbing his arm. Barghast put an arm around his shoulder and pulled him against his hip while Crowe continued to scratch. It had become his favorite way to pass the time. Especially when it garnered such a reaction. After a few minutes, the practitioner stopped. He said the Okanavian’s name sharply, looking him straight in the eye. Barghast straightened, his ears flicking in the sorcerer’s direction. “Twin o’rre?”
“There’s something else I have to do.” This time he did feel a pulse of fear and he let it creep into his voice, making the barbarian’s tail halt midsway. “It will be dangerous.” He laughed shakily, lighting an aether joint with a match. He continued, his voice husky from the smoke. “I will be vulnerable. But then what we’re doing is most likely suicidal. The lady in my dreams says we’re not strong enough to defeat them. Maybe we’re not. But I’m tired of everyone telling me what I am and am not strong enough to do. So we’re going to kill them. Or we’re going to try. So I’m going to reach out to them and I’m going to tell them exactly where to find us. In order to do that I will have to astral project.” He rolled his arms out from his chest, miming his soul leaving his body.
Barghast surprised him by nodding in understanding. “Orr'e bugnah,” he said.
Crowe grinned. “So then you know what I’m talking about it. Do you practice something similar in your culture?” He waved a hand in dismissal. “It’s not important right now. If you know what it is then you know I will be extremely vulnerable. I need you to watch over me.”
Barghast nodded again with a growl. His hackles rose slightly before settling. “I stay. I keep you safe.” He patted his lap eagerly with a wag of his tail.
Letting the lycan pull him into his lap as if he were little more than a child, the herald laughed in spite of the butterflies of anxiety fluttering in his belly. “You’re incorrigible, you know that? Absolutely rotten to your furry soul.”
Setting a digit under his chin, Barghast lifted his chin. He kissed Crowe hard, parting his lips with his tongue, placing a paw on the back of his head, pulling - or pushing - him deeper into it. Crowe wrapped his arms around his broad neck, wanting to fall into the Okanavian’s embrace. But he knew if he did he would never do what needed to be done. It took everything he had to pull away. He pressed his forehead to the barbarian’s. “Wait for me, won’t you?” he whispered.
“I stay,” Barghast whined. He kissed him again. “I keep you safe.”
Turning to face the field of overgrown weeds that stuck out of the half-melted snow, Crowe let his head fall back against the Okanavian’s chest. He peeked inside his satchel. There were only three joints left. Damn. Who knows when I’ll be able to get more? Monad, guide me…
He unrolled one. He ran his tongue along the paper, licking up the ground aether. He coughed, his eyes watering. The taste of the aether stung his tongue, making the muscle tingle. Already he could feel tendrils of warmth spreading through him. The air shimmered around him, taking on a surreal quality. Relaxing him. Distracting him from the fear that he was making a huge mistake. That he was making a decision that would get them both killed. Fear and inaction are the true enemies, he thought, bolstering his courage. Through Monad I can do anything.
Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes. He focused on the sound of the heart, on the feeling of the heart kicking powerfully against his back. He breathed in the scent of the lycan’s musk, a smell that had begun to imprint itself in his mind and on his flesh. He focused on the gentle gusts of wind caressing his face like a lover’s hand. Then he pushed it all away. He recalled what it was like to fly. He recalled what it was like to live life as a wisp of smoke.
Rather than fear it and draw away, he pushed himself towards it. He embraced it. With the help of the aether shooting sparks through his body, he could already feel himself growing lighter. Becoming untethered from his body. I’m doing it! Petras didn’t teach me…I can do things on my own…
He wished the old man were still alive long enough to see him now. I don’t need you. I never did. Everything I need…everything I want…is right here with me…
Like a severed cord, his soul detached from his body. In an instant he was rocketing towards the sky, spiraling towards the clouds, leaving everything he loved somewhere below him. Before he could shoot through the membrane of clouds above his head into the Void, he thought of the necromancers.
Like a bullet pulled by a magnet, he shot East, towards the red divide in the sky not more than thirty miles away. He flew past naked trees and empty fields and homes that had been abandoned in the face of the war. Flashes of thunder lit the underbelly of the roiling red clouds, reminding him of his glimpses of Inferno. That's what Hamon and his infernal servants want, he thought. To bring Inferno onto this planet. To keep us stuck in this eternal loop.
As if encouraged by the thought, his flight sped up so that the whole world was little more than streaks of color. He reached the divide, soaring under reddened skies. Skies that bled red as if someone had cut them wide open with a blade. Disemboweled the heavens themselves. He almost understood the Theocracy’s fear of mana-use and the havoc it brought were it not for the hypocrisy. From so high above he could see the devastation the necromancers had wreaked: homes flooded by the endless torrential downpour; families taking shelter where they could - huddled together in churches, in caves. Some prayed to Hamon; many prayed to Elysia. In the end, who they prayed to didn’t matter. It seemed the bloodstorm was beyond either dieties’ consideration.
Not beyond mine…Barghast and I will end this storm one way or another. This Iteration be damned, we will part the heads of those who summoned this storm into being.
At last his flight slowed to the ruin of an old mill where the necromancers had stopped to rest from their journey. He plummeted from the heavens before falling through the ceiling. As the ground rose up to meet him, he imagines spreading his arms and flapping them like wings, slowing his descension. Eyes closed, he formed his astral body out of thought. The trick came natural to him - latent, as if it had always been there, only now recently brought to the surface. The feeling of power, of mastery, was intoxicating. I must watch it. Many a practitioner have condemned themselves to Inferno under the weight of such arrogance.
He studied them. The unnatural pallor of their skin; the black veins that coursed through it. Just how old were they? They too had encountered Petras…or so they claimed. At the thought of his mentor, an all too familiar worm wiggled inside his belly. Hurt. Disappointment. Rage.
He pushed it all away. Save the rage for when you need it most.
He stepped out of the shadows. He cleared his throat. “Looking for me?”
The two necromancers turned their heads, their pales eyes aglow. Not pale like celestial fire, but pale like death.
The female rose to her feet, her breasts puffing out in excitement. She grinned, showing him her filed teeth. “Come to play, have you? Did Charoum finally light a fire under your pearly white arse?”
Crowe returned her grin acerbically. His eyes burned with Monad’s fire. “He did, indeed. He held up his ruined hand. “He paid for his sins and so you shall reap the bitter fruit of yours.”
“Threats, is it?”
“I don't make threats, I make promises. Think of this as a provocation…or an invitation. Whichever you perfer.” He bared his teeth in ill-contained fury. “You want play games, bitch, come find me!” He flicked his eyes in the direction of the older necromancer who had not said a word. “The both of you. You can find me in a house thirty miles from here.”
“Ooooooh!” The female shook with excitement. “I'm wet, already!”
“Let’s see how wet you get when I rip off your face with my bare teeth!” he said.
In his mind, he imagined pulling on a cord. Instantly he shot out of the windmill like a comet arching back to his body. He landed back in his body with a thump that had him gasping for breath. Rage filled his mouth with the taste of smoke.
“Crowe?”
He turned his head just in time to get a slobbery kiss from his lycan lover. “They're coming. They’all be here soon.” He clambered to his feet, his newly carved wand in hand. He pushed his determination, his rage into it.
Already, thirty miles East, he could see the bright clap of thunder. They'll be here soon.