His memories recalled the sports tournament from the other day. He remembered how skeptical he was when Zuckeroff first proposed to retrofit one of the hangars into a stadium. The project had cost a small fortune in terms of resources, yet Cloud had also backed it, citing the benefits it would bring for keeping the refugees stable and occupied.
He had come that night to see the results for himself, and had seen Veralla: enchanted by the spectacle, exploring the sights before her with the same wide-eyed curiosity just like the day she hatched. She had been elated to see him, and excited to share this new experience with him. Yet he'd been too absorbed in his troubles, too tense with desire to be away in the field, where he felt he was doing something concrete, something that gave what little remained of his life a consolatory coda.
Now, he realized what he actually wanted: to be able to talk to someone, to share his curt sentiments on the situation, to vent his choking frustration, to rage at his meaningless existence, to... to just surround himself, if only briefly, with the illusion of being a normal person having a normal life. And the only one who had given him such ephemeral reprieve was Veralla. Yet that night he had ignored her again, reducing her to just another dragon, and had left without even the tiniest consideration of her feelings.
Maybe...
He angrily cast away those thoughts. Vengeance was only what mattered to him, void it! Nothing else! Nobody else. Who would even accept someone like him?
He rose to his feet and moved next to the office's oval window. Without being sure what exactly he was doing, he accessed the Viirt through the smart-surface glass, and called up the sensor feeds from the base's living quarters. The holiday celebrations were in full swing and the refugees were everywhere, dancing in the large interior plazas, carousing in the lounges, and partying even in the hallways en route from one event to another. Colorful flags and draperies hung from the walls and ceilings, AR graphics overloaded the audio-visual spectrum, and fireworks were haphazardly fired in constant fashion, making the festivities dreamlike in appearance.
Airo silently observed the celebrations. He lifted his hand and the bottle clinked when it bumped the window. When did he get this? He turned his head toward the nanofabricator in the office's corner, as if seeing the machine for the first time. He didn't remember getting anything. It didn't matter. He took a deep draught and let the alcohol release him from his torment.
His eyes returned to the glass screen. All those people... they were on the verge of losing everything, including their lives, yet they seemed so carefree and happy tonight. They raised toasts together, they embraced each other... and shared intimate moments. It was as if they were untouchable, their inner light immortal; not because they were physically invincible, but because they seemed to follow some higher principle, to live some greater truth... which he couldn't fathom.
He drank more. Then even more. His mind blurred, the world outside becoming nothing else but background noise. He drank further still, looking to black out even the microcosm inside him. Yet the haunting thoughts refused to go away: Ferrtau's living chronicle, the celebrating refugees, the Radiant Knights, Veralla... Their images swirled like wayward rays of light inside the dark, grey limbo of his soul.
He threw away what he held in his hands, and grabbed his head. His gauntleted fingers dug deep rifts into his hair. He snarled, the sound distant to his own ears, its meaning both a challenge and an unspoken question. For the merest of moments, his singular resolve broke. Deep down, amidst the blackest recesses of his being, something stirred awake.
A desire for kinship.
"May the stars always shine upon your soul."
He whipped around, shocked by the words. Magus Dei, tall and regal in his red-gold robe, stood at the office's threshold, his bearing calm and introspective.
"What did you say?" Airo growled, struggling to not slur.
"I said the principal blessing followers of the Celestial Way use," Magus replied evenly. He stepped inside, closing the old-fashioned swinging door. "The phrase itself is not connected to any significant moment in your life when you may have heard it."
"Are you using some Æther trick right now to access my memories?" Airo asked, his anger intensifying and sobering him up.
"No, I do not."
"Then why have you come here?"
"To talk."
"And?"
"Should there be anything else?"
"You always have had hidden agendas. Grid-cast the rest of it, or walk."
A flash of disapproval crossed the old Knight's face. His purple gaze met Airo's wrathful glare. "I want you to embrace your second chance at life."
"Second chance? At life? What life?!" Airo shouted. His hands balled into fists. "There is nothing for me to live for in this barren future."
"There are those who are here and love you. You can live for them."
"LOVE?! What do you know about love, old man?"
Magus narrowed his eyes. "I have experienced both love and loss. I have rejoiced and have grieved, like everyone ever alive has done. Like you have."
Airo's anger exploded into a raging fury.
"LOSS!?" he howled. "YOU THINK YOU KNOW ABOUT MY LOSS?!!" He snarled, and drove his armored fist into the antique-looking desk by the window, shattering it in half.
"My soul was destroyed when I lost Zenassa, old man! Her death left me devastated! Empty. Furious at the heavens! Furious at the Great Cosmos! Furious at any god or goddess who allowed such tragedy to come to pass and to leave me in perpetual torment!" He kicked the desk chair, sending it flying at the office's opposite wall, where both it and the wooden paneling crumpled.
"The universe at least could have had the polite grace of ending me, too. But no. I was left 'alive'. Left to continue my existence, abandoned to my own meaningless devices. So I tried to exact my own judgment upon such an uncaring world, and then you, old man, you and your dragons and Ferrtau who was the most responsible of all, you all denied me my right. And then you made me suffer, made me spend an eternity in prison, sentenced my very sanity to oblivion. Made me a shell, driven forward only by the ghost of my grief which demands at least some semblance of justice. Made hate and wrath the only emotions I am capable of feeling.
"So do not talk to me about my loss, old man. You know nothing."
Airo finished his tirade. He suddenly felt very tired, his exhausted body and drunken mind bringing him on the verge of his endurance, and only through sheer will – and the gyro-stabilizers of his power armor – he managed to not keel over.
"Then can I talk about those who care for you?" Magus asked, as if nothing had happened.
Airo sneered. The gesture made his vision blur. "As if there are such people."
"There is one. Veralla."
"What about her!"
"She cares for you."
Airo ignored the words. He reached for his fury, holding hard to its blazing inferno, unwilling to let the grief and the hurt replace the rage.
"She has saved your life," Magus continued softly. "She follows you everywhere. She likes you."
"Dragons can be very needy. Your point, old man?"
"My point is, your life is not without value."
"Ahhh, the great Grandmaster has spoken! The Slayer of Dragons deserves to live! Funny, you did not mention that when you sentenced me to permanent cold storage."
"Open your eyes to reality. I told you before, you would have been dead if your life was worthless. Yet it is not. Every life has value. That is why–"
"YOU SENTENCED ME TO BLOODY OBLIVION!" Airo whirled violently and punched the smart-surface window. A web of cracks bloomed at the point of impact, yet the window held together. He turned, murderous hate searing his thoughts.
"You were granted the gift to live again in a time where your crimes would no longer burden your shoulders," Magus said in crisp, decisive tone, his posture stoic as a statue. "You have been given a second chance to come to terms with your grief, to accept it, and to find the beauty of life once more."
Airo laughed mirthlessly. "What an inspiring speech!" Abruptly his voice dripped sharp vitriol. "How come then you do not live by your own words?"
The old Knight scowled, raising a skyward-pointed finger. "I..." He stopped. "What makes you presume I am like you?" he asked, his hand withdrawing again within the broad sleeve of his crimson robe.
Airo laughed again. "Oh, you are obviously like me," he said bitterly. "I can see plainly your soul is wracked by guilt and grief, old man. I do not care for your troubles, yet the signs are there, no matter how well you mask them behind a mien of stoic wisdom and arrogant superiority. It takes one to know one."
Magus stood still, silenced by this reply. The old Knight's expression suddenly became heavy with countless ages, and Airo for the first time saw Magus Dei's true face.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
"Yes, I am not living by my words," the former Grandmaster admitted quietly. "I have lived for long, far too long, and every day I carry the burdens of my choices, of my acts, of my mistakes. Every day I constantly face the memories of my shortcomings, of the wrongdoings I have committed, in spite of the power I wield. Every day, I do not welcome the light of the Fire Eternal, and instead I inhabit a world filled with grey limbo." Magus looked at Airo with profound intent. "Do you really want to take example from me?"
"My world is already the same," Airo said, averting his eyes.
"Do you desire to become Veralla's world as well?"
He cast a cold glare at the old Knight. He crossed his arms and turned back to the window, not wanting to show any more weakness to Magus. The smart surface had begun to recover, golden glow enveloping the slowly disappearing cracks. Airo stared at the window's visual overlay and at the fractal mountains outside, unseeing.
What if he died in the war? What if he truly left this world? Would Veralla become attached to anyone else? Would she be happier? What if he failed and Ferrtau destroyed reality itself? Then she would die, like everyone else, and only he and his nihilistic indifference would be to blame.
Why did she care for him?
Why did he care for her?
He uttered a single syllable. "No."
"Then live for her. Live for yourself. Live for both of you."
"No," Airo said again, tone hardening. "I live only for revenge. To fulfill my vow. To make Ferrtau pay."
"You cannot defeat him while you are the same as him."
Airo turned, his worn and angry countenance smoothing into a neutral expression. He regarded Magus with contempt. He harbored intense dislike for the old man; they had bitter history between themselves, or at least he still held major grievances, even if the old man had discarded him as another tragic event in the endless stream of life. Airo wondered grimly why Magus persisted so much in meddling into his private hell. Perhaps the old man indeed regretted what he'd done. Perhaps he sincerely felt sorry for Airo's wretched fate, and wanted to help him out of kindness, like a Radiant Knight was supposed to.
Unlikely. If it was true, why the bummed geezer waited seven centuries to do something about it?
Airo felt his interlocutor hadn't finished. Time to see where this dead-end of a conversation leads to. "And if I 'embrace my second chance' how would that enable me to bring Ferrtau's downfall?"
Magus didn't answer right away. He asked instead, "Do you know why the Order of the Radiant Knights was founded?"
"Yes," Airo replied sharply. "I learned enough from Ferrtau's pretty speeches in his living chronicle." He winced inwardly at letting his mind slip so and reveal what he had found at the Shard.
Magus raised an eyebrow. "I see. Then have you learned why he was called the Lightbringer?"
"It is because he had been turned into a symbol of your Order and your beliefs."
"It is because he truly walked the path of the Celestial Way," Magus corrected.
"What is the difference?"
"To understand the difference, you have to understand the Way itself."
"I understand it well enough: it is a pile of philosophical crap made to placate keening souls with false promises of awakening."
"There are no invalid interpretations of the Way."
Airo sneered. "And what is your interpretation then, old man?"
Magus smiled, a surprisingly warm gesture, and looked beyond the window, his purple eyes seeking the mountains and the sky above them.
"Amidst the entire universe," the old Knight intoned, "there exist nine primal directions: Forward, Backward, Upward, Downward, Sideward, Inward, Outward, Stillward; and finally, the Celestial Way, which unites all previous directions of the Great Cosmos.
"And from that core constellation every other Way comes forth: lifeward, deathward, richward, poorward, joyward, sorroward, freeward, shackleward, loveward, fearward, lightward, darkward, and so on.
"Thus the Celestial Way defines All, and at the same time, encompasses All: the Alpha and the Omega, the Ying and the Yang, the Aught and the Naught, and the Ten Thousand Things that form the rest of the absolute, grand totality of existence – magic, reality, energy, matter, thought, life, death, freedom, enlightenment, and ascendancy."
Airo listened silently, assailed by sudden memories. Long ago, an eternity before, Zenassa had spoken the same words.
"The Way is immutable and never-ending," Magus continued. "The Way is ever-changing and fleeting. The Way is an idea. The Way is a journey. The Way is a path to enlightenment.
"The Way can be considered many things. It is simultaneously all of those things, and yet none of them. The Way can become known in time, yet it is by definition unknowable. The Way can be followed, yet it will only lead to where one desires to go. The Way shines with the immortal radiance of the stars, yet it will never bestow awakening against one's will.
"The Celestial Way is what one desires it to be."
They had talked about philosophy on that day, hours before leaving for Utopia Draconis, before ascending to the stars, to join a dark, terrifying conflict on the other side of the galaxy. She had tried to persuade him for them to stay. He had told her it was their duty to go, to be peacekeepers and to become one day true Magisters.
"Thus I cannot tell you my interpretation of the Way." Magus' solemn tone subsided, and his voice became quiet and thoughtful. "I can endue with word my own experiences and contemplations, yet no matter how long or with how much veracity I speak, I would be unable to confer the true depths of my own unique understanding. I can merely express an evocative simile at best, or a drab, dry commentary at worst.
"Yet what I can do is help others find their own Way. That is why the Radiant Knights exist. To give the very best example any of us are capable of, and to let the inner light of our souls and the outward brilliance of our actions inspire others to seek the transcendent beauty and unconditional love of the Fire Eternal. To Ascend, and to Awaken.
"I want to help you find the Way again, Airo."
She had died because of his foolishness. Even if Ferrtau was the one who had killed her, it was him who had led her down that path in the first place.
He realized: the sole responsibility for her death lay upon his shoulders.
And yet, she had done so much, so far away from home. She had advanced science and humanity's understanding about the world. She had helped him create veronite. She had brought into the light an entire mythical race, opening wide the cosmic doors to both wondrous opportunities and horrific scenarios.
He wondered what would've been if Zenassa had never uplifted the dragons, if the two of them had never gone to Utopia Draconis. Perhaps galactic history would've been different. Perhaps it would've been the same. Regardless of what would have transpired on a grander scale, Zenassa would have been alive. Airo never would have experienced bitter, anguished loss. He never would have broken his friendship with Ferrtau. He never would have felt crushing loneliness and...
...
...and he never would have met Veralla.
He lowered his head.
"You did not answer my question," he told Magus curtly.
"I did not, because that is an answer you have to discover for yourself," the old Knight replied.
"A bloody hint would be appreciated, anyway."
Magus again revealed a hand, palm open, as if to indicate everything. His pensive expression became wistful.
"Perhaps the key is the relationship between you and Veralla," the old Knight said at last. "Perhaps it is not a coincidence Kalessia has bestowed her child upon you. Perhaps reality's salvation – and your revenge – is Veralla herself."
"Riiight. Ferrtau wanted her for some reason. Being a Primordial dragon, you speculated before."
"Remarkable memory," Magus noted dryly. "Yes, I think Veralla is a Primordial dragon. And if she manages to awaken her abilities, then she can turn around this war entirely on her own."
Airo frowned.
Magus went on. "At their core, Primordial dragons are a myth. When dragonkind was, let us say, restored to their greatness, they started appropriating their own culture, as usual for any species of newly-ascended consciousness. This included the development of their own origin myth, with the accompanying legends, stories, and creators. One of those metaphysical tales is about the Primordials. If we cut out the fluff from draconic lore, a Primordial dragon basically is an avatar of Creation itself who is able to transform, erase, or rebuild reality itself."
"And how can such a legend have any basis in... reality?"
"Because we tested it," Magus said grimly. "You know about Project Ascension. You were there when it started, and... Zenassa was part of it. Ferrtau, too. Officially, the project's goal was the uplifting of the dragon race. However, there was another, hidden goal."
"I knew that."
Magus face grew darker. "Do you know the particulars, then?"
"No."
"Well, I will be brief. Project Ascension lasted right until the fall of the Transhuman Order. During that time, the program discovered dragons had limitless potential. They were the first to learn to channel the Æther. They could overcome all boundaries when it came to laws of physics – time travel, immunity to cosmic entropy, soul transfer, quantum duplication, multi-instanced singularity. Those results were never achieved with decisive reliability, yet the gathered data pointed decisively toward one thing – all dragons, while lacking the means, had the potential to become Primordials – creatures of immeasurable power, able to control and shape the very foundations of the universe."
"And you think Veralla is actually a Primordial dragon?" Airo asked, heavily skeptical.
"Yes, I do," Magus nodded gravely.
"She cannot even breathe fire or fly, and you think she is some kind of a manifested god?" Airo shook his head. "This is beyond delusional even for you, old man."
"If I am wrong, why would Ferrtau seek her out then?"
Airo had no reply for that.
"How did you discern her supposed true nature, then?" he asked.
"Experience."
Airo waited for further explanation, yet there was none. He and Magus stared at each other. A full minute passed.
"Now you are aware of how things all tie together," the old Knight said finally. "Veralla cares for you and wants to be with you. I dare say she may even... love you.
"In turn, if you embrace the light of the Fire Eternal once again, you may be able to help her awaken her true nature. Then the two of you may rise against Ferrtau and defeat him – and thus save the galaxy. Then it will be your choice, Airo Dragonslayer, whether you will enact your revenge, or you will forgive and have once again a future to look forward to."
Airo stood silent, mulling over Magus' words. The old man had smoothly fallen back into his grand theatrical routine. It probably had something to do with age and immortality.
When he awakened from cryostasis, he never imagined any of this. He simply thought himself one lonely, broken individual, whose only purpose was to take the life of another in the meaningless name of personal justice. To take a life that had been long, prosperous, and successful. To take the life of a hero.
The realization hit him. "Answer me one question."
"Ask," Magus said.
"If Ferrtau had achieved such enlightened heights to be called the Lightbringer, what made him fall from grace?"
The old Knight's expression was unreadable. "His dreams."
The office door banged open, nearly torn off from its hinges. Zuckeroff barged in, fully armored in a combat exoskeleton, one hand futilely searching for the door handle, the other gesticulating frantically.
"Boss! Boss!"
"What?" Airo snapped.
"I, uh, um..." Zuckeroff's concentration faltered, as he realized with some delay he might've intruded upon something important. He eyed the broken furniture.
"Well? Grid-cast it already, Lieutenant."
"There's an urgent message from Captain Riley! He's found some Union forces in trouble!"
Airo's attention snapped to that bit of information in an instant.
"And why did not Cloud inform me about this?" he looked accusatorily in the vague direction of the ceiling, as the SAI was already integrated everywhere in Ilsorin's infrastructure.
"I'm sorry for failing to notify you at a moment's notice, Commander," Yeoman Cloud replied with a tone both apologetic and flamboyant. "Unfortunately, for some reason I was completely and utterly blocked from accessing this room in any matter up until six-point-three seconds ago."
"Blocked?" Airo repeated. He cast a dark look at Magus Dei.
The old Knight had once again returned to his calm and composed demeanor. "What we talked about could bear no interruption."
Airo's scowl became a furious expression, yet he said nothing. There was no point. "Is the skyship ready for takeoff?" he asked Zuckeroff.
"Uh, I think so, yeah. There might be some repairs left hanging, but engineering gave it a green light. Uh, Elder Darkovitz assembled a crew while me and Kiana were searching for you. Only waiting for your command, Boss."
"Let us go, then. I already have my armor and weapons on me."
"Um, yeah, right on, Boss. But why do you wear them around all the time? Isn't it, uh, a bit tiresome? I mean, I know 'bout power armors, and I'm trained to sleep in one if I have to, but any time I do so, I'm always cramped and sore afterwards, and while it feels awesome to constantly look awesome, um, as in, wearing a power armor, they're somewhat limiting in freedom of movement, even though today's technology is advanced enough that–"
"Shut up, Zuckeroff."