The Massacre of Athel
48th Day of Ebibi in the Second Month of Sun's Height
2996 A.G.G. (1637 Years Ago, The Last Years of the Ten and Five Year Wars)
The City of Athel, Edarus
The Continent of Assami
It should be understood that some of the following passages may not be entirely accurate as they weren't transcribed as they were spoken. They've been translated here for ease of reading. Because of this, unfortunately, some things may be lost in the translation from the original Ångëlįc or Dæmönic to common.
Translated passages will be indicated by the use of bold print.
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Dåÿvįåd
Dåÿvįåd swung inward with the mighty blade, directing all of its force toward Låurëntįus’ ribs. It was a singularly powerful technique, albeit a little slower than what Dåÿvįåd would’ve liked. But there was little that could’ve been done to stop it nonetheless. No block with anything short of a tower shield would’ve so much as blunted it given that he was putting his entire body into the force of the swing; the already powerful swing of a Fallen Ǻngël.
The slowness of the technique would prove to be worthy payment for the return it gave in sheer destructive force, which was more than useful in this situation. The Ǻngëlic that Dåÿvįåd was clashing with was already staggering from a block just moments prior that saved his collarbone from a vicious downward strike at the cost of his flail. Since he lacked any form of shield or buckler, this Båståru-Ëkåru, this Ǻngël, had used his weapon’s handle to halt the downward momentum of Dåÿvįåd’s blade.
Its shattered pieces were still falling to the ground when the sweeping side strike hit home.
The fury behind the Ǻngël-killing weapon drove it clean through Låurëntįus’ plate mail, the chainmail and gambeson. It broke through his adversary’s muscle and ribs and traveled downward nearly all the way to the edge of his stomach. A pleasing blow by any stretch of the imagination. Dåÿvįåd watched with extreme pleasure as his opponent’s life-giving blood oozed over the runic shapes carved about the edges of the blackened half-saber’s blade.
“Does it hurt?” Dåÿvįåd asked as he panted heavily, laughing slightly between breaths. No matter how hard he tried…and he did try, he always found it difficult to restrain his dark laughter when the half-saber was in his hands. “I’ll bet it hurts.”
Låurëntįus was obviously unamused. But Dåÿvįåd could imagine by the look on his face that he was also surprised. Dæmönic weapons were always known to have the ability to slay Dįvįnë beings, it was their nature. Just as Ǻngëlic weapons served the opposing function. So he didn’t believe that it was the Ǻngël’s impending death that was so shocking, but the feel of it. The feeling of the blade tugging at his very soul; as if it possessed hungry ethereal hands which were trying to grasp onto it once it tore into his flesh, yet kept slipping.
A most uncomfortable and disconcerting feeling.
Looking down at the half-saber which was slowly killing him, Låurëntįus must’ve realized in this odd moment that it was a familiar weapon to his eyes, as they had widened significantly.
“Is that surprise at my swordsmanship or disappointment in your own flailmanship that I see in your face? Is it really that surprising that I could match you? I’m still as you once knew me to be. I’m as our Mother made me and our Father guided me to be.”
Although it was initially little more than a rhetorical question, as Dåÿvįåd gazed into the solid marbles which were Låurëntįus’ glowing pupils, he began to want the satisfaction of an answer as the Nameless Blade inflated his cruelty. And that answer wasn’t coming fast enough for his liking. So he worked the edge a bit. Digging it into the first layer of Låurëntįus’ stomach. Painful blood gurgled groans ensued.
“Forget it. Who knows?” Dåÿvįåd egged. “Maybe it’s just pain I see in those blood red pupils of yours.” In the midst of his taunting, The Fallen suddenly realized that the Ångël wasn’t staring at him.
“Oh, I see. It’s the saber. You remember it don’t you? Just as it always was…yet also different? You’re right to fear it; to be afraid of death.”
“Those…the faces…”
“Yes. Well, don’t fret if you don’t recall them. They weren’t there during the old war.”
The injured warrior squeezed his eyes shut, only to open them and look again in increased horror. He slowly reached out a trembling hand and as his fingertip touched the saber’s embossed surface, he immediately and painfully jerked it back.
“Unsettling isn’t it? The way they seem to press against the sword itself as if trying to escape from the inside. Frozen and contorted in all of their agony. Strange how with every new glance it almost seems as if some of the faces change, or the pressing hands seem to vary in position. Anyone there you recognize? I’d be surprised if there weren’t. We’ve been…very busy.”
“This…Dæmöntry! Cursed wea…weapon!” Låurëntįus spat venomously.
“Yes. It’s hard to forget the old hekas of our Father. It’s, after all, the same heka that nearly fell Her kingdom. The same magicks which shall succeed in doing so now what it didn’t before.”
Dåÿvįåd knew his thoughts. He could almost see them through the blade buried in his side. How many of the Ångël’s former brothers and sisters had he cut down with this horrid weapon? How much hate and malice was entangled in its twisted blood soaked forging? There was once a time when they were all family. A time when Dåÿvįåd was greatly loved among his fellow Zåståru-Måpånols.
A long time and apparently a different life ago.
Dåÿvįåd watched as Låurëntįus looked deeply into his face; looked upon his entire aspect; as he gazed at the horns which were prominent on all of Dåÿvįåd’s kind; one complete and imposing. The other a jagged half-growth on the right side of his head which had been left so by a fellow Ångëlic months prior to the siege of the city.
“Jënfįr should’ve…taken your life.” Låurëntįus spat spitefully.
“Sadly, she lacked the necessary skill.”
“Åmbrosįå’s j…judgment was…just.”
“She can’t judge me! She can’t judge any of The Fallen. The judges be We. The hurt. The left behind. The scorned and forgotten. We are the judges of Her. And we find Her and your new God gravely wanting!”
“Whe…when did you…becom…become so hate…ful? You should…be better…than this. You were suppo…supposed to be more.”
It was a surprising question to Dåÿvįåd. Almost as surprising as the look on the Ǻngël’s face. “You’re disappointed in me? That’s it? Save your pity brother. I need it not.”
“Perhaps not…but I feel…it fo…for you…nonetheless. And I wi…will send you…to Her arms for…your ow…own salvation!” Låurëntįus, summoning the last of the strength that he could muster, gave one last powerful swing with what remained of his flail. Dåÿvįåd quickly raised his arm and absorbed the strike with its armour as opposed to his head. It was alight with magickal heat; its green glow splashing hypnotically across both of their dark features.
“Good! I knew you’d be hard pressed to give up the fight. It’s the way She made you, no?” Dåÿvįåd said excitedly. Twisting his arm about, he grabbed the flail’s handle and ripped it from his adversary’s weakened grip. Apart from its owner, its fire died out immediately and Dåÿvįåd gazed momentarily at the damaged item; its handle mangled at the point where he’d struck down upon it. Its pieces lying on the floor in a slowly growing pool of its owner’s blood. “Our Mother is no doubt pleased with your loyalty and willingness to fight to such a bitter end to defend Her, Her lands and Her people. No doubt She’s looking upon you lovingly right now. So sad. To know how fervently she watches yet how little she does to help you. To know that She watches still, witnessing your inglorious end as you’re sent henceforth back to Her, undone.”
Booting Låurëntįus in the chest, Dåÿvįåd kicked him free of the half-saber which released his body reluctantly with a satisfying sucking sound. The blade felt…angry. Dissatisfied. It hadn’t been allowed to have what it wanted and it cried to Dåÿvįåd to kill the weakened Ǻngëlic. It was a hatred that bled from it into his very bones.
It was a constant struggle, handling the weapon which had been entrusted to him by his lover. It had a hunger and a rage all of its own. A madness. It only ever truly yielded to its owner. And even then, only just. Despite how much of an effect its darkness seemed to have on him, it’s hard to believe that it could have always been worse.
Ever did he struggle and fight against its lust and violence. So antithetical to the nature of an Ǻngël, Fallen or otherwise, yet so intoxicating. It was all he could do not to kill everything that inhabited the living world as he held the saber in his hand. To snuff out all life in all of its forms; the Goddess, Lumå’įl, Så’Ħdënåħ…even his beloved Tįlåtħ. It made him want it. And he hated himself for it even though he knew it wasn’t truly him.
Fighting. Fighting. Always fighting. But he was able to gather the wherewithal to shake it off and he forced himself from the edge.
This time.
Quiet were the voices in his head now and all was silent. Only the sound of Låurëntįus’ labored breathing hung in the air. A sharp contrast to the commotion that was present upon his initial assault. He preferred it this way. He liked silence.
Outside of the plate glass on the far walls in the city below, battle waged. He could hear it sharply if he focused; could make out each individual voice in the throes of violent struggle. Keen hearing was one of the many birthrights of the Ǻngëls after all.
The nighttime sky was lit with the fires that burned all about Athel. It cast queer shadows about the room that amused Dåÿvįåd with the way they played about. They were the shadows of the dead. The bodies that cast them lay slumped this way and that all about the room in pools of their own blood and filth. Some were fellow Ǻngëlics. A good deal of them were human; soldiers from both sides, sages from the abbey mixed with the remains of sorcerers from the oratory. Even the battle-mage who’d led this contingent of Åmbrosįå and Sånįgron’s worldly forces, who’d just lost the western city where Dåÿvįåd now stood, lay among them. Sadly there had also been civilians who found themselves caught up in fighting which was far above their station.
Many of the lost resembled the dying Ǻngël Låurëntįus. They were mostly Malani. Loose fitting cotton sarees were wrapped about their brown coloured skin. Hijabs which had at one time covered the women’s heads now lay scattered all about, exposing their long dark hair and the bindi on their foreheads to the smoke and ash that creped in through the windows, and their sandals showcased their blood splattered toes. The others were mostly dwarves and slatani of every complexion sprinkled here and there with a few fair skinned Balani who were fighting in hopes of being freed from servitude at the end of the conflict.
If what Dåÿvįåd was seeing here was any indication, then there was no doubt that his forces had done their job; doing away with a good number of the citizenry as he and his fellow Fallen crushed the Ǻngëlic opposition.
Markers of the half-saber’s handiwork were everywhere. Wings lying about; their feathers stuck to many surfaces by blood and gore. The previous owners’ bodies lying mutilated with the bones and ligaments of their now missing birthrights protruding, torn and broken, from their backs. Many of them decapitated.
He didn’t want to focus on it. He shifted his eyes towards the nighttime sky where his gaze was met with full view of the Mundus’ dual demolished moons and their remains which were glowing the most magnificent shade of red he’d had both the pleasure, and displeasure of seeing, in a while. A shade that they’d been reflecting for nigh on three nights.
All of His machinations were coming to fruition.
Has that been for you, My Heart? Are those moons for you? the Fallen Ångël found himself wondering. I hope so. I want to see you again.
As Dåÿvįåd postulated all of these things, he suddenly tasted copper in his mouth. He felt a shift in the air; like an invisible weight pressing down on him. The atmosphere had become heavy. He felt like he was being submerged underwater for the briefest of moments, followed by a gust of wind that nudged him from behind and reverberated off of the windows.
Turning about, he saw that Låurëntįus had made himself Dįvįnë; had crossed over. His wings making themselves present; clean and white. Wisps of white ether poured off of them as if they were aflame. They stood in odd contrast to their blood covered owner. Stretched wide, they attempted to pull the energy from the very air in an effort to heal the wounded Ǻngël. And truly, his strength was starting to return to him in spite of his seemingly grievous injuries and he even attempted to stand in spite of the fact that the wound in his side showed only the very slightest outward signs of mending. Dåÿvįåd, regressing from his mental reprieve, looked on in dark amusement.
While it was true that Ǻngëls, righteous and Fallen alike, had the ability to naturally heal with what would be considered a supernatural swiftness to mortals that always held the eyes of the non-Dįvonësë in wonder no matter how many times they saw it, wounds inflicted with Ǻngëlic and Dæmönic weapons were another beast entirely.
If grievous enough, an Ǻngël’s wounds would heal almost as slowly as any mortal’s. Maybe even slower. If they healed at all. Even with his wings drawing in all of the energy they could syphon from the world about him, for Låurëntįus to heal such an injury at any pace that was perceptible to the eyes was truly a feat in of itself. It was a sheer force of will. Truly, only the Ǻngël or Drågon of the plane of the Physical could’ve done better.
Mįssħåël would’ve been proud.
At his core, when Dåÿvįåd was in his right mind, he’d always wished that things had happened differently. He never wanted to kill his brothers and sisters. He wished that they could all be a family again. But there was no going back to that time. Under the influence of the half-saber’s unquenchable anger, those wishes were little more than afterthoughts. It made killing in the midst of a good long fight much more of a joy. And it made taking trophies from their corpses so much more…delicious.
“No, not this time I think.” the Fallen Ǻngël spoke. “As unfortunate as it is, I have a rather tight timetable that I have to adhere to.” Dåÿvįåd, feeling particularly sanguine about his weakened adversary, pressed his hand upon the Ǻngël’s breastplate. And as if his touch reached through its metals, Låurëntįus found himself paralyzed; restrained with heka. “I have an important date to keep with Įl’įånå. So I must end this fight.” Stepping back slightly, Dåÿvįåd gripped the saber tightly with both hands; taking a deep breath and positioning himself to cut into his wings.
“No. I want this one.” stated a soft feminine voice from elsewhere in the room. “He’s mine.”
“Of course.” Dåÿvįåd said gleefully in response after turning about to face the voice in a moment of surprise. Moving to the side with a smile wider than any he had produced in quite a while, he made way for the commanding woman.
Placing her hand squarely over Låurëntįus’ face and exposing her wings with an explosion of atmosphere, this mystery Dæmön who’d apparently appeared from nowhere seemed to pull every modicum of latent energy out of the room through her appendages. Existence seemed to dim slightly before Dåÿvįåd’s eyes as the world grew dark. She then expelled that energy through her palm with such power that its physical force very nearly propelled Låurëntįus’ head through the wall behind him.
As the light returned, Dåÿvįåd could feel the half-saber crying for blood.
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Låurëntįus
Had Låurëntįus been mortal, his neck would’ve surely been snapped and his skull would’ve been gruesomely split if not completely shattered by the fem-Dæmön’s actions. As it stood however, the energy of the impact was dispersed throughout the concrete instead and the wall cracked from the ceiling to the floor. It failed to be a killing blow, but it was enough to daze; not that one of the Ǻngëlic family could normally be killed through such crass physical means anyway.
Låurëntįus was so mentally thrown in the minutes following the crack of his skull against the wall that he almost didn’t notice the sharp pain that suddenly shot through his back and up his shoulder as the tendons and muscle that used to hold one of his glorious wings in place were sliced clean through. When the pain of the moment finally came to him for what it was, it nearly crippled him.
In any other circumstance, it would’ve lasted but for a moment. The intensity of his Ǻngëlic essence would’ve spirited the pain away. But as it lingered and eventually faded to a dull thud, a lack of understanding began to build within him. Then came a sudden realization followed by crushing incredulity.
“Trans…ubstantiation?” He whispered to himself in disbelief.
An experience which is wholly unique to the Dįvįnëly born and is difficult to describe.
Låurëntįus’ body armour was becoming heavy. Too heavy to lift. Standing was hard enough before, but now it seemed a very distant idea indeed. All the world was closing in on him. He had an ache in his head that bled badly into his eyes and any act to control his faculties was a great physical strain.
The colour of everything around him seemed to be becoming darker somehow, or sad. Textures seemed to lose some of their realism. Smells became dull. He could no longer hear the sounds of life and death outside. He was regressing. It’s as if someone was placing a filter over his very existence. Everything was the same, and yet it wasn’t. The world was muted. Distorted. It was disorienting and confusing. And yet, on some level, it was strangely interesting. Engrossing.
The effect pulled at him; brought him down. He felt his soul sinking. He very nearly forgot his place in time. Forgot about the war. Forgot about the death in the room with him.
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Then, it all came back. The pain. Overwhelming pain.
Låurëntįus’ first instinct was to reach to grab at his wounds. He clutched at them to no avail. The bleeding couldn’t be stopped fast enough. He wanted to squeeze the hurt out. But it seemed to encompass everything. It was everywhere. All at once. And as the bloody anguish leaked through his fingers, he suddenly realized how profusely it had been flowing; from both his back and the gaping maw of a wound on his side which had now ceased to heal altogether. The injuries had soaked his armour in slippery crimson liquid. And as if it were a long red string tugging at his very essence, he could feel his life being drug out of his suddenly weary limbs and out of his back and side; over the exposed innards and out of his wounds.
His face crunched up as he sensed something he never had before. A queasiness of the stomach. Gnawing thoughts his finite life. Death.
Cold sweat. A lack of concentration. The pressure of a thousand-million problems and failures.
He actually felt. He’d never really felt before.
I’m going to die here. he thought.
Ångëls don’t feel in the way that mortals do. They have little concept of the full range of mortal emotions. They feel only the Goddess’ love and vengeance to most degrees. But that’s not to say that they’re emotionless on their own. They’re not. The rest just comes to them in lesser gradations.
How in the Goddess’ name-?
Looking down, he searched frantically for a moment. Then, through his blurred vision he found it. He saw the bloodied mass of feather-covered bone which was once his wing.
That’s when the strike came. A furious blow that sent teeth, spittle and blood flying. The world was spinning before his eyes and it was in no danger of stopping. His jaw felt as though it had been fractured or broken.
And it likely had been.
“How’d that feel Båståru-Ëkåru?” The soft voice asked of him. “What’s it like to see the world as a mortal? To feel as one? You are becoming mortal, you know.”
As the words sunk into him and merged with what he’d already figured out, he could feel depression pouring over his features like water.
Looking up into the supposed fem-Dæmön’s face who was now kneeling over him, he saw an aspect that was as striking as the voice that it produced.
Where in the…name of Brŭmal did…she come from? The power pouring off of her was overwhelming. Yet he didn’t seem to have noticed her before. But, for that matter- I don’t think…Dåÿvįåd noticed her at first…either.
As she slid back the chainmail hood which she wore, he couldn’t help but notice the short, curly, stark white hair that framed her piercing black eyes. Eyes which were filled with glowing white flakes. He noticed the white tented vapor that rose slowly from her beautifully dark face and the gaps in her battle worn full-plate armour which was covered in splotches of dust and blood. Armour that was protecting what had to be a strong yet slender frame.
He recognized her immediately. This was no random Dæmön. This was another of The Fallen. Someone who was once one of his sisters as Dåÿvįåd was once his brother. The black horns which hugged her head seductively, wrapping themselves around her crown and over the curvature of the back of her head to touch her earlobes, reminded all of how far removed she was from the Ångël she had once been.
Yet she’d become something totally different from the rest of her ilk. Not the same woman as when she fell. She wasn’t even the same woman from when they last clashed. Her hair…her eyes…
“You’ve never had…an alignment…of naturalistic power. Låurëntįus forced out of his pain stricken mouth. “What in the…name…of the Goddess-”
That’s when he noticed her exposed wings. Not the heavily weighted ashen or dark coloured mass of feathers as all other Fallen Dįvönësë...but thick and leathery. Sleek, sweeping and fearsome. A Drågon’s wings.
“Oh no. Oh…Åm…Åmbrosįå no…”
“Didn’t notice the night sky my dear?” she asked. She’d apparently been waiting for him to take note. “Or did you not want to think it was one of us? Blood has covered the moons some three nights now.”
Låurëntįus’ blood decorated the knuckleduster which she’d just used to jaw him. Even more of it dripped from a silvery short sword which lay on the ground next to her, having been dropped from her hand immediately after being used to cripple him; the edge of it impossibly sharp.
The unholy were unable to tolerate grasping a weapon of Ǻngëlic crafting but for only the briefest of moments. She’d used it only for the sake of proving a point; she did it because she was strong enough to do it.
It wasn’t Dåÿvįåd who had taken his wing…it was her.
Dåÿvįåd stomped Låurëntįus’ remaining feather-covered appendage so hard that it caused the Ǻngël’s eyes to water.
“I’d answer her if I were you. She hates being ignored almost as much as I do.” Dåÿvįåd stated with what seemed to be much increased excitement.
Låurëntįus’ answer to the question was defiant silence.
This female Fallen Ǻngël turned her gaze to the wielder of the half-saber. “Dåÿvįåd?”
He looked into her eyes, failing to immediately answer. And Låurëntįus could tell, just as he, that Dåÿvįåd was gobsmacked by the power that poured out of her in vaporous majesty and the white of her hair that resembled newly fallen snow. It wasn’t hard to understand why. Her’s was a spirit that was at once familiar and yet different. Her’s were eyes whose colour no longer reflected the pure onyx of the woman Dåÿvįåd fell in love with a millennia ago, or the woman who was once one of Låurëntįus’ closest confidants, but a creature far more powerful. Far more fear inducing.
“Of course.” he answered eventually; seeming to instinctively know exactly what she desired. The half-saber itself, of course, would have agreed. It would want death. “The blade hasn’t had its fill.” He held the bloodied weapon between them; offering it to her. “And besides, who am I to deny you the kill?”
Slowly, she wrapped her armoured fingers about the blade’s staff-like grip. And it’s effect was evident as a sickening smile crossed her lips and her grip tightened.
Dåÿvįåd planted his foot even more firmly on the jittery wing and watched as Tįlåtħ suddenly and swiftly swiped gracefully at its base. Coating the wall in a spray of blood and filling the air with Låurëntįus’ cries of pain.
Strangely enough, Låurëntįus could actually feel the red of his once hard pupils melt away leaving behind nothing but the more natural dark brown of the irises that once surrounded them. The eyes of a normal Malani. His multi-layered halo dissolved away. The flames dissipated from his hair and its black colour could once again be seen. And so it came to be that his transformation was complete. He’d never be the same. Immortality had been ripped from him. Violently stolen. And as Tįlåtħ looked upon him in the midst of all his pain and agony; the very essence of beauty and malice, he found himself all but giving up. His body had slumped painfully in defeat; dying. After all, how can a mortally wounded mortal fight against two Fallen Ǻngëls of legend? Two of the very beings that conspired at Lumå’įl’s side against Åmbrosįå Herself.
Stabbing the ever sharp point of the rune adorned half-saber into the ground with a force that split the concrete and held the weapon in an upright position, Tįlåtħ removed her gauntlets and kneeled before the once- Dįvįnë being again. This time collapsing her impressive wingspan that she could use the sharp claws at their apex as a second set of appendages; placing them on the floor to either side of herself for stability. From here she held his eyes in her glare for a long moment before saying-
“You were my brother once.” in a surprisingly woeful tone. It was as though she never wanted things to go this far.
Confliction.
Was it the…saber all this time? he wondered in these final moments to himself. More curious about how he’d grown so far apart from his family as opposed to fearing his death or giving into the pain.
Or maybe he was just going into shock.
“As you were once…my sister.” Låurëntįus replied sadly.
Ripping the fully encircling gorget from about his neck with her powerful, yet delicate looking bare hands, Tįlåtħ placed her lips to his ear and whispered her blessing to him. “Find peace in the embrace of your Goddess…while you can.”
Standing from her wing-propped position, she wrapped her fingers about the handle of the upright half-saber and all sadness drained immediately from her bright eyes as she yanked it from the floor. As she focused her gifts, the fist-sized crystal, red as blood and jagged and unshapen as if pulled directly from the earth and affixed as is as the blade’s pommel, somehow began to luminesce harsh white light, and some form of moisture seemed to form from within it. The air became humid and Låurëntįus could almost taste the rain in the air.
A storm was brewing.
“How…did you do it?” He asked. “She was…one of the best…of them. One of…the strongest.”
The realization of who she’d taken and how she’d come by her new gifts was a sad one. The familiarity of the stolen spirit within Tįlåtħ was the last Ångëlįc thing Låurëntįus felt before becoming completely mortal.
“I’m afraid you’ll not live to know.” she said through her adzæ-like teeth.
“…My dearest Fålåcįë…” he lamented in a whisper as sudden tears started to slide down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry…”
“I said, find peace brother.” Tįlåtħ reaffirmed; interrupting Låurëntįus’ final words.
A single quick stab sent the half-saber ripping through his gut, out of his back and into the baseboards.
For a moment, Låurëntįus saw the faces on the blade actively moving. Time seemed to stand still as he watched some of them disappearing beneath its surface as they were shoved out of the way by others that appeared from below. Cries for help coming from their silent lips. Their hands reaching for him out of desperation.
Blinding bolts of lightning split the air with heat and force from the Dæmönic saber’s crystal pommel, striking at Låurëntįus multiple times with all expected violence. Windows cracked and exploded and the deafening noise of thunder reverberated off of the walls like the very fury of Lumå’įl Himself.
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Dåÿvįåd
As the earsplitting sound of Låurëntįus’ demise drained from the room and the quaking passed, Dåÿvįåd gazed at the remains of his brother’s mutilated corpse; lightning flowers making of his body a macabre artwork.
Another dead Ǻngël in a building full of dead Ǻngëlics.
As he died, the saber seemed to almost cry. Whether it was from the satisfaction of taking the Ǻngël’s life or something else entirely Dåÿvįåd didn’t know.
Kneeling solemnly, Tįlåtħ retrieved a shard of the dead being’s wing bones from the ground and lifted it from the bloody mess it lay in; gazing upon it in quiet contemplation.
Dåÿvįåd meanwhile was overcome with emotion. He was, for lack of a better phrase, beside himself with joy and awe at the sight of her. It had been months since he’d seen Tįlåtħ last. Months since they separated to go after their individual quarries. Months since he’d last felt the ethereal power of her gifts made manifest.
He gazed upon her as her Drågonesque wings evanesced to nothingness; pulling some of the air out of the room with them as they vanished. Sending loose papers and small debris flying about her. He watched as she pulled her weapon free of its victim and inspected it before opening her hand and willing it back to the ether with the same disturbance of atmosphere as her wings; to wait in the void until she called it forth to her side again.
Black colour melted back into her hair returning it to its raven state. Her teeth receded. Her eyes shifted from their solid state to the calm, yet vaporous silhouette of an iris. She was so different now. He could feel it in the energies that still blead off of her unseen.
She was so much more than she was before. She was beauty. She was death. Even in her disheveled state. And he welcomed her eagerly into his arms by opening them toward her.
“I was just thinking of you.” Dåÿvįåd admitted. “Come dearest.” he beckoned in the aggressive Dæmönic tongue. A language which had become more natural to them over time than their native Ångëlįc had once been.
Losing the air of sadness that had surrounded her at the sound of his voice, Tįlåtħ obeyed quickly and pressed herself into him; her face in his shoulder as she stood half a head shorter than he. Reaching up blindly, she lovingly traced his one good horn which hugged the top of his head like a crown.
I’ve missed you so much.
Dåÿvįåd almost didn’t expect to see her at the end of this struggle. She’d been gone far longer than expected and he’d started to fear that he wouldn’t see her ever again.
Praise you Lumå’įl! Praise you Så’Ħdënåħ! Thank you for bringing her back to me!
She looked up into his brown eyes and he melted into her gaze almost immediately. Their embrace almost involuntarily melted into a kiss so slow and tinder that you’d have thought that they didn’t realize that they were standing in the center of mass murder; their split tongues teasing each other delightfully.
Yes. It’s true. Even beings of the Dæmönic Plains can love. After all, were they not Ǻngëls? Or mortals; in the case of the Dæmöns? Are they not still? Just fallen from grace?
After a moment, once their emotions simmered and their lips parted, she caringly gave to him the bone fragment she picked up. “For you. For your repentance.” In response, he took it, noticing for but a moment the beautifully ornate ring that she wore upon her bonding finger, and kissed her on one of her horns.
“Thank you.” he swallowed sadly as he gazed at the splinter. “I’ll…I’ll take care of the others. You don’t have to worry with all of that.” As he cleared his throat, she nodded in agreement; not wanting to press her lover.
“So, it’s finally done? Ëszërį’s been taken care of?”
“Of course.” Tįlåtħ answered. “Would you expect any less?”
She looked worse for wear than what he’d expected. Powerful, but exhausted and it solicited his concern regardless of her toughness and her new found form. “Difficult fight?”
She nodded. “Even more so than we anticipated. But, not to worry. I’m fine and all is well.”
It was his turn to nod. “Good. Did the spell weave hold?”
“Yes. It kept well until we…until I took what he no longer deserved to have.”
“Excellent. It won’t be long before we have Įl’įånå as well. She will be mine and together we’ll end this war.”
She looked into his eyes with the same concern he’d shown for her. “We may have to wait until our Lord sends one or two of the others. Christopher and Itwan maybe? After all, from what I understand they’ve already concluded their rather messy business with Rëfunkį and Båstrou and their newfound gifts would be quite a help in our current situation. Įl’įånå isn’t one we should underestimate. It was…difficult for me to fight Ëszërį, even with all of my skill and power. Can you imagine that?”
“I think so.” Dåÿvįåd answered truthfully as he watched her intently as she absent-mindedly fondled an ornate ring on her marriage finger in thought.
“Holding Ëszërį long enough to contain her in her true form with the blood binding, even in her weakened state after our struggle, wasn’t easy.” she said at length; absentmindedly fiddling with the ring on her finger. “Even taking advantage of the gifts our Father bestowed to me, I lost the majority of the contingent that was with me in the assault. Truly, she proved worthy of being one of the Great Drågons.”
He felt a shiver of fear run down his spine on his paramour’s behalf. “Did any survive?”
“It would have gone smoother if it hadn’t have been for the Hesijuans she had in tow. But it still worked out. Besides, the Dæmöns with me were little more than diversionary. That was always the plan going in. Their deaths were unfortunate, but of little consequence when looking at the broader picture of the war, darling. Our task is much more pressing and far more important than any one of us alone. We have to see things through. Then their deaths won’t be in vain.”
“Those damned swalii and their-” Dåÿvįåd searched for the right word momentarily before resting on “-gadgets. Those Amalgamates of theirs make them…difficult to kill. And their technology is stemming the tide of our forces on too many fronts. Not to mention the assistance their receiving with the assistance of these Goddess-damned malani.”
She nodded her agreement.
“You should’ve taken your half-saber.” Dåÿvįåd stated.
“And risk killing her by accident before the ritual? No. It was too great of a risk. You’ve felt its pull Dåÿvįåd; you’ve heard its voices in your head. It’s a rare thing for the sword to not pull one down into madness that it hasn’t bonded with. For you to have controlled it as opposed to being controlled by it as long as you have is…beyond impressive. Even for me it’s still a struggle sometimes.”
“I don’t know Tįlåtħ. It’s been too fine of a line lately. It’s getting harder.”
“Still. Impressive.”
She squeezed him. Even through their armour, even though he couldn’t really feel her, it was nice to be held by her. “You may be right.” he admitted. “It may be prudent to wait, if only for a moment. We’ve waited this long, after all. But, we can’t upset the timetable too much.”
She relaxed visually at his acceptance of her caution.
“I’m aware.” Tįlåtħ stated with mock condescension. “Have I not gotten us this far?”
“Yes. Yes you have.”
Tįlåtħ smiled as she moved to the remains of the windows with her lover close in tow. Together, standing on the edge, they looked out onto the city which was burning below. To both Dåÿvįåd’s joy and dismay, their campaign had come to be an uncompromising success. There were an unknown number of people dying out there. And they’d been dying in vast numbers, in this manner, for the better part of four years. Assami’s military back was broken and lay all but decimated. Its ports and weigh stations had been all but wiped off of the map.
Lumå’įl’s Drågons had succeeded in claiming the air and water for their own. And the Ǻngëls, who fought bravely to hold this land, had utterly failed and had been pushed to this final point. There was nowhere left to fall back to but the ocean. And here, now, in the shadow of Audaux which filled the night sky, the couple watched with the knowledge that after they were done, an entire civilization would be denied the light of the next morning’s suns.
Death en mass. It was both sad and glorious.
“What’ll happen to these lands when we leave, you suppose?” Tįlåtħ asked.
Without the voices of the saber pressing on his consciousness, Dåÿvįåd really didn’t want to think on it. But he humored her with an answer. “I hadn’t given it much thought past the conquering of it. I don’t know how much our sire has either. I don’t believe Lumå’įl cares as long as it’s brought to heel. However, who could possibly know our Lord’s mind, save maybe for Sin? I don’t think it would be unfair to say that He despises all of Mundus for how She placed it all above Him and how we were all punished for saying so.” Tįlåtħ nodded her agreement to the statement. “As for me,” he continued, “I care not at this point. What would you have us do with it?”
There was no hesitation in her voice. “The same thing that I think we should do to all the lands of this world…scorch it. Raze it to the ground and below. Leave it so that She remembers what She did to us and that none left living forget.”
Her words were quiet, yet vengeful; filled with obvious hurt and anger reflected in her increased fidgeting with the weighty-looking ring on her finger. The Fallen Ǻngëls all felt truly wronged by the Lady of Light’s decision to banish them. They all felt the sting of Her absence, yet even though it led them to violently clash with their own, they all felt sadly justified in their actions during their revolt. Even then… Dåÿvįåd knew that this raw anger wasn’t all her. The half-saber was fueling it. It had to be.
He knew Tįlåtħ’s magnified anger was that of a thousand, thousand of their kind. She’d been one of the first to join Lumå’įl’s cause and one of the first to draw blood. Dåÿvįåd knew that deep down, every blow of her sword hurt her heart, yet he saw that she would never be dissuaded. For he understood what she felt. They all understood Lumå’įl and Sin’s anger and pain.
The Fallen, just as their un-Fallen kin, were beings of raw, untapped power. Lumå’įl and Sin were the greatest of all of the Fallen and Åmbrosįå’s Ǻngëls. Yet even with the strength of all of their gifts, they were still as much a threat to their creator as is a fly to a mortal. And for lack of being able to exorcise her wrath upon the All-Mother, Dåÿvįåd sadly knew in his heart that Tįlåtħ would have her anger and frustrations fall heavy upon the rabble of the world below.
“Leave nothing.” she said. “If they love Her so, and they’re so deserving of the favor that She shows them, then let them join Her in the Dįvįnë Realms. Cast them down for all the loved ones that their infernal machines and toys have taken from us. And when the time comes that you wrest Her from the Cathedra of Creation for our Lord and Lady, they can follow Her to whatever afterlife awaits Gods and Goddesses who are no longer fit for their thrones in death everlasting.”
Such unfocused hate had never been a part of Tįlåtħ’s nature. Not truly. But today? Today, it was. And of course, he’d never been able to deny her anything. He loved her too much not to follow her on her quest in service of their Lord and Lady. Yet utter devastation seemed to be a decision that was almost out of her sphere of authority, and maybe even outside of Tįlåtħ’s emotional ability to cope with after it’s done. But somewhere between her visible anger and hurt, the presence of the half-saber, and the battle quietly raging within her with her “new” self…who knew?
He certainly didn’t.
And what of that damned ring on her finger?
Maybe, Dåÿvįåd forced himself to think, Lumå’įl won’t hold the toppling of a city or two here or there against us if at the end of it all, the Throne of Thrones in Ëmpÿrë is left undamaged. A thought that seemed to be better to him than the alternative; that his eternal lover was loosing her mind to the madness of the cursed saber.
Maybe they both were.
“As you wish.” Even as the words passed his lips, they felt as though they were spoken by somebody else.
They gazed out over the plethora of white and sand coloured domed buildings of the city and the sea of spiked towers that defined its skyline, all consumed by the smoke of destruction.
Tįlåtħ turned her gaze upward toward the green and blue jewel which was Audaux; the planet that dominated the majority of one’s vision periodically as Mundus floated around it. And Dåÿvįåd’s eyes followed. They looked at its thin, barely visible rings, floating in the multicoloured stillness of the Great Expanse. Drifting in perfect silence. It was all very fair; the material manifestation of Åmbrosįå’s very will and essence. Such was the glory of it all that you would think that none could look up into the night skies and deny the existence of the Goddess and God. Both of Ëmpÿrë and Brŭmal.
Dåÿvįåd crinkled his wide nose at his jaded thoughts. “I think I may be starting to feel as you do.” he confessed to his beloved. “Once the others arrive, and we have Įl’įånå under control, we shall set this place asunder.”
“Truly?” she asked.
As they continued to gaze into the night sky, the light coverage of clouds which masked the remains of what was once, in a time before remembering, Mundus’ two whole moons parted and the pair gazed upon the foreboding red glow of the satellites along with their astral trails of debris from their ages old impact. The war was almost won. A moment so glorious. A thought so sad.
“Then none shall ever again know this place as those dying here tonight once knew it.” Tįlåtħ expressed to her confidant.
Dåÿvįåd turned his attention to her soft features and saw that she’d allowed a devilish smile to cross her lips. And in the midst of all of his conflicting thoughts and feelings, her happiness, regardless of how dark it was, still filled his heart with excitement.
Seemingly feeling his eyes on her, she met his gaze and smiled even wider. “I’m in the mood to destroy something beautiful.”