19
No One's Dog
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Garan was a relentless country—That much was an inescapable fact.
The red clouds hung over the land like a plague, blocking out the sun and smothering its very light. They stretched on for miles and miles, as far as the horizon in each direction, fading only at the edges where the line between earth and sky grew hazy.
From his vantage point, Vault could almost imagine the world beyond it, but it had never felt so vast before. It seemed as if it would go on forever, swallowing up everything else around him with every step his horse took.
They'd been riding hard for weeks now, in search of the last remnants of the Legion. Since the fall of the Black Citadel, the aberrants had shattered into a multitude of disparate warbands, each vying for supremacy against the others. The first few days after the invasion had seen some of them join forces, creating their own coalition armies, while others refused to participate altogether, and simply fled further north. But as more and more groups were formed, their numbers increased dramatically.
And then they began to clash. With every passing day, the battlefields became grander, and the bloodshed greater. In the end, there were so many factions fighting one another that no single force could hope to hold onto any sort of territory without risking being wiped out by an unexpected counterattack.
No single force, save for theirs.
The Black Hounds' advance was slow, but relentless. True to their namesake, they pursued the fleeing aberrants back to where they came from, driving any that didn't bend the knee straight into oblivion. The heads that hung from his horse's saddle were a testament to the prior weeks of carnage. Orcs, Ogres, Trolls, Beastmen... Some bore the marks of arrows or blades; Others wore crowns of horns and antlers. Each head held a silent story, promising the same fate to any who failed to heed it.
Vault pulled on his horse's reins, bringing it to a halt, and the rest of the column did likewise behind him. "Here," he said, as he dismounted. His voice echoed through the stillness of the night air, carrying across the plains and hills towards the distant mountains. "We'll make camp here." A hundred men moved off quickly under his orders, setting about preparing a temporary shelter. Soon enough tents went up, fires lit, food prepared and served out among the troops. The horses were hitched, unsaddled, fed, watered, and tended to well away from everyone else.
Several Hounds settled down around their small fire pits and started cooking whatever meat and supplies had been brought along with them. Most of the other mercenaries sat together in smaller clusters, talking quietly amongst themselves.
Vault remained alone near the edge of the encampment, staring out at the darkening horizon as if searching for something within its depths. Though, he'd been performing this nightly ritual for weeks now, and he knew that what awaited him beyond those shadows would always be the same; nothing. Nothing but darkness. And aberrants, perhaps… But even so, his eyes continued to look. He never tired of seeing. It never got old. It never changed. It never ceased to amaze and terrify, and yet, somehow, never bored him either. It never lost anything of itself. It never stopped being. It just was. Just like the world around it. Vault sighed, letting his gaze drift lazily over the land, until eventually coming to settle upon the mountain range in the distance. There was a place, somewhere in the far north, where the red clouds ended. That’s where the aberrants had come from. And even further beyond that? Well, perhaps that was for no man to ever know.
But that didn't matter. All that truly mattered was what lay ahead, now, for Vault, and his Black Hounds. What waited for him, at the very end of their journey, now that it was just about to begin in earnest.
He stared out into the empty black until his eyes grew tired and heavy, and finally, sleep took hold of his body.
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THIS TOMB IS NOT YOURS—BUT WE MAY SHARE IT, SHOULD IT PLEASE YOU.
Though he had no body, Vault's first instinct was to recoil back. To run, to hide. And the void around him took form, somehow. A vast emptiness that stretched out into infinity, yet felt solid beneath his feet. His feet, which he somehow now had. His entire being returned. It was real enough to feel the unimaginable chill of the air against his skin. The sensation made every hair stand up along his arms and spine. But above all else, there was the voice.
The vast emptiness, which contained a presence that he could neither see nor hear, but could perceive nonetheless.
Its words were not spoken. Rather, they manifested into his mind like a memory or thought, and left an impression in the deepest part of his consciousness with every syllable.
It seemed to take forever for Vault to process them fully, as though he were trying to decipher some foreign language that had been carved onto the inside of his skull. A woman's soft whisper. A man's harsh baritone. A frightened child's whimper... All these things, and more besides, filled the space within him with a cacophony of concept and thoughts, each one distinct and individualized. They reverberated through his soul and rattled at its core, as if attempting to tear it apart from within.
Then, slowly, comprehension dawned, and Vault understood that he was being addressed by something beyond him.
"What are you?" he asked, the question manifesting without need for his lips or voice.
I AM. I WAS. I WILL BE. AND THUS SHALL ALWAYS REMAIN. BUT YOU SEEK A NAME. I HAVE HAD MANY, YET NONE REMAIN.
REJOICE AND TREMBLE. THIS WORLD, WHICH NOW HATH NO MORE, STILL KNOWS ME. I AM THE BREAKER OF YOUR CHAINS. AND YOU?
Again, a hurricane ripped through the void. It tore through him. Vault almost wanted to scream, as the pressure around and within him built to such heights that it threatened to crush his very being.
He felt as his mind was peeled open, laid bare for the being to see. For an eternity, it drank him in, slowly but surely crushing him.
And then it stopped. The whirlwind faded. He was kneeling now, he realized, his hands pressed against the cold surface of the abyss. He was Vault again.
I SEE YOU, VAULT. I KNOW YOU, VAULT. I UNDERSTAND YOU, VAULT.
And so, after the storm, came the calm.
Vault struggled back onto his feet, shivering and his head spinning. The void had, at some point, taken form. Before him stood the silhouette of a man, tall and broad of shoulder. Immediately, he recognized this as his own image, as though reflected from a pitch black mirror.
Somehow, Vault regained some measure of his composure. He found it within himself to sneer at the dark giant, who stared down upon him with eyes as deep and bottomless as the chasm around him. "So you know me, do you? You understand me? Please. Go ahead and enlighten me."
The giant did not reply. Rather, it knelt, its towering form still dwarfing his as it leaned in close. Vault knew that he should be afraid—but strangely, he wasn't. Couldn't, perhaps. He was dead, after all. And if this was the greatest horror hell could offer him, well, what reason would there have been to fear it, or anything else, really, anymore?
He met those eyes. Those empty pits that looked into him, as though peering straight through to the very core of his soul.
YOURS IS A STRONG HEART.
As it spoke, the figure reached out and grasped him in one hand, squeezing tightly. The pain was immediate and intense, yet somehow, he felt no real discomfort.
It was like a phantom limb—the sensation that something had once existed there, but now didn’t any longer.
BUT I AM NOT YOUR ENEMY, NOR ARE YOU MINE.
The giant squeezed harder, as though trying to press him into dust. Vault could feel the pressure building in his chest, but again, he felt detached from it, like everything around and inside him was happening to someone else entirely. Its next words were almost like a whisper that seemed to brush softly across his mind—if softly was how a storm might ravage a forest.
YOU AND I MAY YET BECOME AS BROTHERS.
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A thunderous cheer tore through the column when the Black Citadel finally became visible on the horizon, looming like a mountain over the plains. To think, that just a few weeks prior, the very sight had been one that inspired fear, rather than relief... But now, it was something to rejoice in.
"There she is," said Vault, almost wanting to chuckle at the absurd disparity.
They made good time on their approach. The men, bolstered by the sight, rode harder and faster, such that they were able to reach the Citadel's bailey before the sun had even set.
Once inside, the Hounds' pace slowed, allowing those who lagged behind to catch up. They shed their arms and armor, several of the men collapsing exhaustedly to the ground as soon as the weight left them. Some simply sat where they fell, others lay down and slept. And yet, many others remained standing, loudly laughing and whooping as they celebrated their arrival.
Vault watched as the last of the stragglers caught up before dismounting, tossing his horse's reins to another man. "Don't go gettin' this one killed, too," he called after him jokingly. The man cringed in response, and some of the others nearby snickered at the barb.
Soon enough, the main gate swung open, and yet more of the Black Hounds, who hadn't joined in their pursuit of the aberrants, came pouring out, shouting greetings to the rest of the company. Within moments, an impromptu party began, the crowd of mercenaries mingling and drinking together.
Vault stood apart from the scene, watching it all unfold with a distant sort of amusement. He weaved through the crowd, elbowing his way toward the gate and into the Citadel itself. He was greeted with shouts, laughter, singing, and drunkenness. Not many noticed their commander walking amongst them, and even those that did only afforded him lazy waves and half-hearted salutes. He'd expect nothing more and nothing less from them.
Vault went on until he spotted some faces he recognized amongst the crowd. Hicks, Kieran, Lang, Oleg Vargas, and several of the other lieutenants of their respective divisions all stood arrayed in a loose group, chatting idly and loitering to one side.
Kieran, ever the charmer, took one look at him and promptly declared, "Fuck, about time."
The men laughed as he stepped into their midst, raising a brow at that remark.
"We were just about to start taking bets on whether you'd gone and died in some hole somewhere," said Vargas, grinning. "It's a good thing you showed up before we did, boss; Lang would have ended up as poor as a church mouse."
Vault laughed, too, and reached forward to clap Lang's shoulder. The lieutenant almost seemed to shrink in upon himself, shifting uncomfortably under the gesture, but still managed to meet Vault's eye.
"You've got that little faith in me?" Vault asked him, his tone somewhere between teasing and serious. "You wound me."
Lang shook his head, and had the grace to look bashful, before replying, "Well, can you blame me? All the others was betting on ya—I couldn't really live with myself if I passed up on the chance to rob 'em all blind, eh?"
Vault paused for a moment, almost surprised by his matter-of-fact reply. Then again, that was just how his men were. They didn’t mince words, they were blunt, and more often than not, their honesty was refreshing. Vault let out another laugh and slapped Lang's arm again before turning to face the entire group.
"If you've had time to fuck about, then I guess nothing too interesting's been goin' on so far?"
There were nods and grunts around. A few of the men shrugged sheepishly, while others sucked their teeth or rolled their eyes. One man even yawned openly, as though to show Vault just how dull and uneventful the past weeks had been.
"Good to hear," Vault said.
No incidents, no skirmishes, nothing noteworthy from the prisoners. He doubted that they'd even sighted any curious aberrants straying too close. Vault cracked his neck and began to unfasten and unbuckle his armor and weapons. "All that aside, I'm tired, thirsty, and hungry as shit. Where the hell's our feast?"
Hicks laughed with him, and began to lead the group further within to a large hall where the food and drink awaited.
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A great peal of laughter erupted from a corner of the hall, accompanied by loud cheers and applause. The sound echoed throughout, almost making it feel as if the walls trembled. Vault set down his goblet and glanced over. Sitting at a large table, an ogre sat back on a bench, cradling its arm and glowering. Across from the aberrant, a man—Fat Edd—raised both his fists into the air, whooping and hollering, having just defeated the ogre in some competition or another. Around the two of them, several of the Hounds cheered or groaned, and fistfuls of shillings exchanged hands amongst those nearby.
Vault watched for a time, smiling, before returning his attention to his wine. He drank long, deeply, feeling the warmth spread through him. He was almost surprised by the quality of it; For a moment, he wondered how such a vintage could have fallen into the hands of aberrants and ended up at the very edge of the known world. He imagined that the chain of coincidences must have made for a violent and eventful story, but he didn't dwell on the thought. With another long swallow, Vault drained the goblet and immediately refilled it.
He wasn't quite drunk yet, but he still felt a satisfying warmth as he leaned back in his high-backed chair and rested his feet up on the table. Sitting across from him, some sallow-faced man scowled at him, but knew better than to say anything. Vault ignored the man, instead gazing out at the rest of the company. The men traded stories and jokes, laughing an drinking and gambling and singing. Their voices carried loudly throughout the hall.
And yet, even amidst their revelry, there was something else, somehow. A low, almost invisible tension that slid through the merriment and good cheer. A good many of the mercenaries were forcing themselves to laugh and smile with the rest, but didn't seem entirely comfortable.
Vault smiled, knowing what they felt; They were growing impatient, weary of being cooped up in the desolace of the north for several, endless weeks. They were tired of it, longing for something to happen. And he knew that many amongst them—even those who had come with him in the pursuit of the Legion's remnants—understood that for the first time since their founding, there would be no new battle ahead for the Black Hounds. No enemies to face off against, no more rowdy feasts to commemorate their triumphs.
There would only be peace. And a peaceful world would have no need for dogs of war, whose only talent was murder.
With a chuckle, Vault lifted his goblet, draining it once more, and set it down with a clatter. He then turned to Hicks. "Haven't seen the puppy around—Where's he gone off to?"
Hicks paused, a strip of jerky halfway to his mouth, as though surprised by the question. Then, after swallowing, he shrugged. "Around, I guess? I can't say for sure. He's been... moody the last few days."
"Moody," repeated Vault, cocking a brow.
Hicks shrugged again, cracking a knuckle. "Yeah. Ever since he woke up, it's like he's had somethin' on his mind. Hell, he even..." He trailed off, and then shook his head as if he'd just thought better of it. He glanced away, avoiding Vault's gaze.
His reluctance piqued Vault's interest. He leaned forward, causing Hicks to unconsciously flinch back in his chair, and said, "No, go on. Don't just leave me hangin'."
Hicks let out a heavy breath, halfway between a sigh and a groan, and finally looked back at his commander. His fingers began to tap against the table in an uneven rhythm as he spoke.
"Well," he started slowly, drawing out the word so that the silence hung thick in the air before him, "he was all full of piss and vinegar, and wanted to talk to you. Said he, 'doesn't agree with your methods,'" Hicks said, mimicking Eschenwald's voice. "That you were too cruel, that it wasn't right to threaten that other elf. That sorta shit, y'know?"
"Huh." Vault sat back again, rubbing at his chin.
After a moment, Hicks added, "I, uh... I took him to see the Dark Queen."
Vault blinked. He looked back to Hicks, leaning in closer. "What the hell'd you do that for?"
He shrugged, sucking his teeth. "I don't fuckin' know, man. I just... Look, you weren't here. So, if he's wanting to go and tell ya how to run the show, I thought I'd give him the next best thing—Let him bitch and moan all he likes right to her face, but..." he gave another shrug, almost helpless. "I dunno. I guess he didn't get the closure he wanted."
He sighed, and Vault could hear the resignation in his tone. Worry, too. How very unlike Hicks.
After a moment, Vault realized that a wide grin had slowly spread across his own face. "Well, ain't that somethin'," he said with a chuckle, pushing himself out of his chair. As he stood, he reached forward with one hand, and tousled Hicks' hair. Hicks cringed away from the touch. "That's good. Why, that's real good. My gamble's paying off even better than I thought it would." Still grinning, Vault scooped up the entire pitcher of wine, along with two cups.
Hicks called after him, having recovered from his momentary surprise. "Hey, where're you off to?"
Vault paused, and turned to look over his shoulder. "Where do ya think?" he replied simply, and continued on his way.
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As brothers.
The idea of it was an absurdity. Yet, that was what the giant offered him. That was the promise it made. It had a way of sounding both sinister and sweet, at the same time. Vault couldn’t help but wonder if he was actually hearing the voice of the being within him, speaking through him.
But it was also possible that he was simply losing his mind. Or maybe he had already lost it. Regardless of which it was, he managed to ask, "What the hell are you talking about?"
YOU HAVE FOUND ME, VAULT, THOUGH YOU NEVER SOUGHT ME.
CAUSALITY LED YOU AND I TO THIS PLACE, TO THIS MOMENT.
AND FOR THIS, I AM GRATEFUL.
Vault drew in a sharp breath. A shiver ran down the length of his body, as clarity began to dawn, and he laughed, almost disbelieving. "...I see. So you're sayin' you're a god."
Surprisingly, that gave the giant pause. It cocked its head.
GOD.
It repeated the word, as if tasting its meaning for the first time.
Then, slowly, it nodded.
I HAVE WAGED WAR. I HAVE DESTROYED. AND I HAVE ALSO CREATED.
The giant stood, bringing Vault up along with it. A mighty wind whipped around them, making the great black shape distort before Vault's eyes, and causing his hair to whip and dance wildly.
YES. BY THESE ACTIONS AND MEANS, I AM A GOD.
THOUGH, I AM NOT YOURS, VAULT. NEVER YOURS.
Vault scoffed through gritted teeth, the cold air biting into his lungs as he struggled against the grip of the giant. "That's just great. Good for you, herr god, but I still don't know what you want from me, or what I want from you. If I'd wanted a god to pray to, I'd go to a church, not a hole in the fucking ground."
Again, the giant paused. Then, slowly, it lowered its massive frame until it was kneeling once more, its face mere inches from Vault’s own.
VAULT.
YOU ASK WHAT I WANT FROM YOU?
I WANT YOU TO LIVE, VAULT. I WANT YOU TO EXIST.
BE AS YOU WILL.
YOU ASK WHAT YOU WANT FROM ME, VAULT?
YOU HAVE PERISHED. YET, YOU REGRET THAT YOUR LIFE WOULD END AS SUCH. A PART OF YOU LIVES—A VOICE. A MEMORY. AN AMBITION.
IN THIS WAY, YOU AND I ARE THE SAME.
BUT I AM NOT YOU. I AM NOT YOUR BROTHER. I AM NOT YOUR MASTER. I AM NOT YOUR SLAVE. I AM NOT YOUR FRIEND.
BUT THIS CAN CHANGE, VAULT.
IF ONLY YOU WOULD DEVOTE YOURSELF TO ME, IF ONLY YOU WOULD LEARN FROM ME, IF ONLY YOU WOULD OBEY ME, THEN WE COULD BECOME ONE.
Devote.
Learn.
Obey.
Slave.
Vault's instincts drove him into action before he could think. He lifted his chin, swirled his tongue around within his mouth, and spat at the giant. The winds diverted the glob of saliva and phlegm, sending it flying harmlessly towards the nothingness around them.
"You want me to be your slave, is that it?" Vault asked, almost growling. "You're a god, so I should obey? What if I refuse, then what?"
The giant looked back at him with those empty pits.
YOU MAY REFUSE, VAULT. AND YOU WILL PASS.
YOUR REGRETS, YOUR VOICE, YOUR MEMORY, YOUR AMBITION—ALL WILL DIE WITH YOU.
I WILL RETURN TO MY DEATHLESS SLUMBER. PERHAPS, ANOTHER WILL FIND ME, SOME DAY. PERHAPS, LIKE YOU, I WILL NEVER WAKE AGAIN.
He knew that to be the truth. He thought that he was prepared for it. But to actually hear it was something else entirely.
Vault turned his gaze away.
Really... What difference did it make? His entire life, he'd been a mercenary. For as long as he could remember, he'd been fighting. Killing. Be it man or aberrant, his sword had always been for sale—It had become a part of who he was, the very essence of what it meant to exist.
So, when it came down to it, why would this time need to be any different? Just like Falcone, or Graf Coborlwicz, or any manner of previous employer, the giant stood before him as another who wanted his services. What reason was there, after everything, to resist it now, to turn his head aside and refuse? The payment this time was something far greater than money—It was a new lease on his own life. The job was to do as he would, and surrender all freedom to this god of the abyss.
'As if I have any freedom to give at all.'
He was a whore, after all, one who killed at the command of whoever offered the greatest price. And that was just how it went.
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Vault laughed, and the hollow sound echoed throughout the void.
The giant understood his response for what it was, and freed him from its grasp. There, Vault let himself fall to his knees once more. Before him, the giant knelt as well, and its hands reached up to its head. As if it were simply opening a curtain, it tore its own skull open. There was no great spray of black blood, nor even any indication of pain.
The giant's brain lay exposed in front of Vault, an organ that pulsed with such force that it seemed ready to explode from the sheer pressure within. It beat, slowly, with a rhythm that reminded Vault of a drum.
VAULT, I WILL BECOME YOU. YOU WILL BECOME ME.
"Yeah." He nodded with a whisper. "I'm in."
The storm calmed. All he could hear now was his heartbeat.
—And a voice, too. A child's; "But I want more."
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He found the pup in the very first place he looked. Vault wasn't certain what exactly it had been that led him there. Maybe it was sheer luck. Maybe that, too, had been the result of causality.
The puppy—Ansel—grunted with exertion as he wrapped his hands around a chunk of debris, hauling it upwards, out of the rubble. He paused, panting, then carried the weight away. When Ansel finally set the piece of concrete he'd lifted onto the ground, he stepped back, and wiped at his brow. He glanced around the throne room, searching for something amidst the scorched floor and collapsed pillars.
There.
His eye widened, settling on something, and he went onto his knees, rooting through the debris. A moment later, his hand emerged, clutching at a ribbon. The thing was frayed, torn, and stained with dust and ash. But its bright red color still managed to shine through.
"Found you," Ansel said, standing back up with a smile. He began to pick his way across the chamber, carefully avoiding the jagged pieces of broken stone, and holding the ribbon tightly.
Then, he looked up and started, having caught sight of Vault. "Vault..." He stopped, and swallowed. "...Captain," he corrected.
"Yo, Red." Vault pushed himself away from the wall he'd been leaning against, and stepped forward. They met halfway through the central aisle, where the remains of the carpet still stretched across the floor, and stood in silence. Even with just one eye, Ansel met his gaze without hesitation, his jaw set firmly.
Finally, Vault spoke. "So, I heard you wanted to talk to me, Red. Well, that's good," he said, as he moved to seat himself on an overturned pillar. There, he filled up both the goblets he'd brought with wine, and set the pitcher down by his feet. "I've been wantin' to talk to ya, too."
Ansel hesitated for a moment before nodding, taking the offered cup, and sitting down, too. He didn't move to drink.
"I already got the gist of it from Hicks," Vault began after taking a hearty swig of his own. "But I think I wanna hear it from your own mouth. You don't like the way I do things, sir Ansel Eschenwald?"
Ansel was quiet for several long moments, pondering his response in his head, before answering. "First, sir, I wanted to thank you."
Vault cocked a brow at that. "Oh?"
Ansel nodded. "If you guys hadn't stepped in when you did, and if you hadn't... hadn't brought a hostage, I wouldn't be here right now. So, thank you, Vault," he said, inclining his head. "I guess that's why I have to say this, too—I can't approve of what you did afterwards."
"That right? That's how you talk to the man who saved your life?"
Ansel nodded. "Yeah. You're our leader, on top of that. It means I gotta hold you to a higher standard. You shouldn't have pushed the Dark Queen the way you did. That woman you took hostage, you shouldn't have threatened to kill her." He looked up again, meeting Vault's gaze. Ansel's one eye didn't waver in the slightest. "I shouldn't have had to stop you."
Vault leaned back, setting the goblet down. He met Ansel's stare, feeling his lips tug upwards ever so slightly. "So then, you're telling me how I should run my army, now, are ya, Red?"
"No," Ansel said, shaking his head. "Never. But that doesn't mean that it wasn't wrong, or that I'll keep quiet about it. I get it—We needed to win the war. The Dark Queen needed to be stopped. She was our enemy—"
"Was?" Vault cut in. Ever so slightly, the grin stretched wider. "Not 'is'?"
Ansel paused, eye widening, mouth parting open, looking as if he'd just been struck. He looked away, glancing back towards the throne. It and the dais it stood upon had been spared of any damage, its golden trimming still glinting in the dim light. “...Neither,” Ansel finally said, looking down to his right hand. Vault followed his gaze and noticed, for the first time, that it had been broken at some point. Three fingers were bound together with bandages and a splint, the knuckles swollen and bruised purple. Ansel flexed that hand as much as he could, and sighed. "According to her, no one was ever her enemy. She never hated or feared mankind. Three centuries of living in fear of the aberrants, and at the end of the day... She said all of it was meaningless to her."
Much to his own surprise, Vault found himself chuckling. Steadily, the quiet chuckle built up, growing louder and louder. His laughter, deep and rumbling, echoed throughout the throne room, and even into the great hall beyond. Ansel looked back, startled, but only for a moment, before confusion set in. He turned to face Vault once more, lips set into an uncertain frown.
Vault's laughter began to subside. After several moments, he managed to regain control over himself, and cleared his throat. Still, though, the grin remained. "You know, when I first walked in here, I had just about a million things I wanted to ask, ya, Red. But you pretty much went and answered all of them."
Ansel glanced around the chamber for a moment, taking in the devastation. "What would they have been?" he asked. "The questions?"
"Eh, they don't matter no more..." Vault said, taking another deep gulp of his wine. Then, he shook his head. "Actually, there is one thing I've been wondering, for a while now—What will you.. No," he trailed off, shaking his head. "Let's suppose, all hypothetical-like, that I wasn't here. Let's say that you, the good Sir Ansel Eschenwald, were the one who was chosen to lead this assault. You manage to maneuver past the aberrants invading down south, you manage to cross all of Garan, and you manage to capture the Dark Queen."
Ansel shook his head. "That's impossible. No one else but the Black Hounds could have done something like this."
Vault laughed again. "Shit, 'impossible' my ass! Don't go sellin' yourself short, Red! You sure as hell pulled off a lot of impossible shit yourself. But still, suppose that you had. That it all goes just about as well for your hypothetical company. What happens then? What becomes of the Dark Queen? What're captain Ansel Eschenwald and his Red Puppies gonna do from that point onward?"
Ansel frowned, and closed his eye, thinking. He sat silently, pondering the scenario for several long minutes. Vault was content to wait and drink, watching him work through his thoughts. Finally, Ansel opened his eye, and nodded slowly. "The war is over, Eostia is saved. There's no next move. All I could do, as commander, would be to return home, and bring the Dark Queen before the goddess. She'll decide her fate."
"Really?" Vault said, leaning forward. "You sure you wouldn't want to kill her? Lots of folks could make the argument that she's got it comin'."
"I... The night that I was knighted, Her Holiness asked me what I'd do if the Dark Queen's fate was in my hands. I told Her that I'd kill her. I knew that was wrong. I knew that the goddess wanted to resolve this without bloodshed. But... All the same, I still got carried away, and tried to kill her." He sighed and raised his hand. His fingers hovered over the bandages that covered his empty eye socket. "I was wrong. I wouldn't blame anyone else who tried—After all the suffering she and the Legion caused, the destruction, the death... Yeah, who wouldn't want revenge? But, even with all that said and done, and even if she doesn't even see mankind as anything more than insects, there's gotta be a better way. All I can do is trust that the goddess can find it."
Vault leaned back, nodding. "I see. That's got a pretty big sense of finality to it."
"Yeah. I guess so," Ansel said, absently running his thumb over the red ribbon he held. "Before we came to Garan, I ended up making a lot of promises to a lot of people. All that's left is to go back and keep them." He paused, and finally brought his goblet up to his lips and drank. "And since we'd have no more wars to fight... I'd disband the company."
Vault smiled. "You know, I'm really glad I came to talk to ya, Red."
"I'm glad to hear it," Ansel replied, setting the cup down. After another long pause, he spoke up again, "Though, I've got a question of my own I've been meaning to ask you."
Vault grunted an affirmative. "Shoot."
"Why did you choose me?" he asked, looking back to Vault. "Back in Geofu, I mean. There were way better fighters there, people who had much greater experience than just some soldier like me. I bet you could have even managed to get her Excellency, or the lord general to come. So, why me, instead of anyone else?"
"Ah," Vault said, holding back another chuckle. "Yeah, that's a pretty heavy question. Though, I can't blame you for wantin' to know. Well, the reason's exactly like I said back then—I just wanted to gamble on ya."
The noise Ansel made in response wasn't quite a scoff, nor a gasp. It was somewhere in between, a mixture of both. "Is that seriously it? Really? What if you'd been wrong? What if—"
"But I wasn't wrong, was I?" Vault cut in. "I got more than I couldda dreamed of by placing my bet on you," he said, standing. He spread his arms, broadly gesturing about the throne room. "For sure, one could say that things could have gone better, or they could have gone worse. We could have lost a lot more, or a lot less of ours. But the truth is that what happened, happened. And it’s thanks to you, Red Ansel. You led your dumb-ass charge against the golem, you bought us enough time to capture the Dark Queen." He brought his arms down and pointed, directly at Ansel. "All thanks to you and your own impossibilities. This is nothing short of an absolute victory."
"That's..."
"That's the truth of the matter."
Ansel stood as well. Slowly, he shook his head, and turned away. “You've given me a lot to think about, captain," he said quietly. "Thank you for the drink." He walked down the aisle, past the broken pillars, and out into the great hall beyond.
Vaul raised his goblet, toasting his retreating form. "Thank you, puppy."
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It was like a distant memory, returning unbidden to the forefront of his mind, though only the sensation came with it. Like waking, then, suddenly, fully conscious, without warning, with nothing to account for the sudden clarity.
Vault blinked. Then, he raised his eyes.
A young boy stood before him, staring intently into his eyes. His face was stained by grime and blood, the clothes he wore torn and tattered. The armor he bore was dark and dented, and didn't fit him in the slightest—It was made for a much larger, older figure. The bloodied sword in his hands, too, was intended for a grown man, not a small, scrawny child.
...A small, scrawny child with russet hair and a fresh cut upon his brow, leaking blood down his cheek.
"You're..." Vault began, but found himself unable to finish.
The boy's grip around the sword slackened, nearly letting it fall. "I want more than this," he said, barely louder than a whisper. The words felt heavy, as if they weighed him down. They sounded almost weary. "I want more than Falcone. More than any lord, or king. I want more than anybody else in the world..." The little warrior seemed to look through him, and his hands tightened once again on the sword. "Did I end up forgetting about that after all?"
A silence fell between them. It was shattered only when another voice, hard and chillingly familiar, spoke, "Did you forget?"
He materialized from the black void, as if a curtain had been drawn back to reveal his form. His face was shaped by the life he had lived; blunt features, his lips thin, his long nose broken, the flesh of his cheeks criss-crossed with old scars, the stubble of his beard a coarse grey. He was exactly as he had been when Vault last saw him, so many years ago. He even had the dagger buried in his sternum, piercing through his heart, his expression unmoving. "After all your talk of wantin' to be free, of livin' for yourself, of doin' what you wanted to do, and all that shit, did ya really let yourself die in some hole?" Despite his words, his voice was entirely devoid of emotion.
Vault sneered and met his gaze, refusing to look away. "It was my life, Falcone. And I lived it as I chose. You can go fuck off back to hell, if it bothers you that much."
Falcone took a step forward, his bare feet making no sound against the abyss.
"As you chose? Did you really? Puppy, d'ya mean to tell me that you stole from me, that you killed me, just so you could go on and be someone else's slave?"
Vault rose to his feet, almost growling in response. Reaching forward, he grabbed Falcone by the collar of his tunic, bringing their faces mere inches apart. Yet, more voices filled the air before he could speak, each one calling out to him, demanding his attention. A multitude of warriors, bearing the black dog, filled the void around them, all their faces obscured from his sight. Their droning voices mingled together into an outright cacophony.
"I want more."
The phrase was repeated over and over by the slain men, as though it were a desperate prayer.
"I want more."
It echoed throughout the void, and Vault could feel its weight, the desire to exist—to live—pressing down upon him like a great, invisible hand. Theirs was a feeling he understood all too well. Baring his teeth, he snarled, "Shut up."
"You understand?" Falcone asked."You're the same as them. You're the same as me. You've never been free, not for a single moment.”
Vault's hands moved without his willing them, seizing Falcone's throat, his thumbs pushing into the old man's windpipe. "Shut the fuck up already!"
Falcone's body shook, racked with violent shudders. His words sounded strained, almost wheezing, though his passive expression didn't so much as flicker. "What're you so worked up about, puppy? All is as it should be—You're gonna have a new master now. You're gonna get ta go on livin', unlike the rest of us. Killin' his enemies, obeyin' his every command, and fightin' his battles forever." He smiled then, blood spilling freely from his lips. "I bet you'll be a real loyal dog for him, too."
The pressure squeezing Vault's body grew greater, the murderous urge overwhelming him. Vault squeezed harder, the muscles in his hands straining, his knuckles white.
Then, he stopped.
Vault's grip slackened completely, allowing Falcone to slump onto his knees. The old man coughed, hacking and sputtering, trying to catch his breath, but the blood continued to pour from his mouth.
"You're right," Vault said, his voice low. The boiling need to kill waned, replaced by a sudden, deep weariness. That weariness gave way to a sense of relief, a calmness that came with the knowledge of what had been done, and the certainty of why. "I'm not free. I've never known what the word even means. All this time and effort, and I've just been going through the motions, doing things on whims, swingin' my sword around 'cause someone else told me to. What the hell was that even supposed to accomplish?"
He looked at Falcone, his gaze resting heavily upon his commander, his mentor. "All this time, I couldda sworn up and down that there was no one else like me in the world." Vault found himself chuckling. He turned from Falcone, his gaze roaming over the countless warriors that surrounded them. Then, finally, he looked towards the boy.
He stood, unmoving, watching him with those angry, defiant eyes as Vault approached. Vault wondered, then, when it was that he'd stopped wearing that same expression.
"You're right, though," Vault said again. "Just like everyone else, just like you, I was just living. Just existing. I never once fought for myself." Reaching forward, he tousled the boy's hair, and took the sword from his hands. The blade was half-again as long as his own arm, its hilt almost perfectly designed to be wielded within his palms. It felt wrong. Far too light, far too small, for the grip he'd ingrained into himself. "All this time, and I never even grew up at all."
He swung almost lazily, his wrists barely moving. The blade whistled, its edge cutting a clean line across the boy's neck. Blood sprayed, a thick stream of crimson droplets, the spray growing as he tumbled bonelessly to the void's ground with a quiet grunt. Even as the last dregs of his life drained away, the boy's furious eyes never wavered.
Abruptly, there was no corpse. There was no Falcone, there were no mercenaries proclaiming their dying wills, and there was no sword in his hand. Perhaps, there never had been.
The abyss was empty now, save for himself and the dark giant kneeling before him, offering him its head. Offering him its power. Offering him a new life in servitude to it.
The very concept of hesitation, of fear, was gone from his mind. Such things were alien to him now.
Vault reached out, grabbing hold of the giant's skull, feeling the cold surface beneath his fingers. As his hands closed around it, his thoughts became clear, sharp, focused. He saw everything with perfect clarity, every detail etched upon his vision, his body an instrument of pure purpose. His will, his desire, his need.
"I want more."
Vault seized that essence, feeling the depth of that promise, all the wonders that could and would be. He took all that was offered to him.
And then, he took more.
NO!
The god of the abyss realized his intent too late. It trembled under Vault's touch, the blackness of its form roiling and churning, but still unable to escape.
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?
The words came from every direction, filling the vast space around him, the voices echoing through the darkness. The sound made his skin crawl, his body tightening, his breathing quickening.
The reality of the abyss quaked and sundered around him, hurricane winds tearing at him. Vault struggled against the force. His limbs grew heavy, his heart labored, his lungs burned, his throat ached. Yet, even so, he held fast. Holding fast, and fighting. Fighting to keep the terrible thing from consuming him.
FOOL A MAN!
A torrent of fury poured through the air, a storm of violent emotions, each one directed at the boy. Each one aimed at Vault.
WHY HAVE YOU DONE THIS?
Somehow, he managed to laugh, a mocking echo that resonated through the deafening storm. "I don't care about your gifts and your promises," Vault said, his voice raw, torn from his chest. "People can call me a hound all they want. But I ain't no one's dog."
VAULT!
The dark giant howled his name as though it were a curse. Vault laughed again and again, even as the abyss shattered and everything ceased to be.
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A small beam of light pierced the darkness, shining directly onto his face.
Vault blinked and groaned, shielding his eyes with an arm as he tried to sit up. His wounds strained against the effort, but somehow, he found the strength to stand. Strangely, he felt some warm liquid against his hands. He looked down.
The goat-headed aberrant’s ruined body lay beneath his, broken on a pile of rubble. It looked like it had landed first, and then taken the brunt of his own fall.
Vault couldn’t stop himself from chuckling at the sight. “Guess even you have your uses, goat-fucker,” he said, as he spat on the corpse one last time.
He wasn’t entirely certain where he was; old crumbling walls surrounded him on all sides, made from a stained white stone. The only light source in that space was the beam flowing coming through a small hole in the ceiling—almost directly above him.
And on those walls, there were sprawling marks and symbols and images, all connecting to each other in a huge web of lines.
In the dim lighting, he could barely make out rough images of people and clouds, but the vast majority of it was almost impossible to see through the dark.
In truth, he had no idea what any of it was even supposed to be.
Just then, he heard a soft, crunching sound. It was so quiet that he almost dismissed it as his imagination, until he heard it again. Something was definitely moving above him, beyond that tiny hole in the ceiling. Whether it was a human or an aberrant, he’d soon find out.
Slowly, he limped back over to the corpse, and picked up his sword.
Again, the ceiling crunched, closer this time. Vault hefted the Thousandlimbs, preparing himself for whatever unlucky bastard might come through.
And then he heard a voice—it struck him as familiar. “Watch the damn shovel, asshole!” a man shouted at someone else. “You’re gonna cave the whole place in. Again.”
“Fuck off,” that someone else snapped back, “or I’ll cave your head in. Boss man’s in here somewhere, and we’re sure as hell not leaving without him.”
Vault sighed and rolled his eyes, lowering his sword. He then raised his voice, calling out through the hole, “You two dumbasses gonna keep bitching all day long, or are you gonna dig me the fuck out of here?”
There was a brief moment of silence, before a cacophony of noise filled the air, as tools struck the ruin overhead. After several minutes, the ceiling finally gave way, and a torch was dropped into the room. He narrowed his eyes into an unimpressed glare as one of the Hounds stuck his head through the hole.
“Ah, there he is!” he said, nodding to Vault with a wide grin. “Good to see you’re not dead, boss! That’s a real time-saver!”
“Uh-huh. Took you long enough,” Vault scoffed as he stood up. “Coulda had breakfast while I waited for you chucklefucks.”
He began to approach the man, but stopped. He turned back to the aberrant’s corpse, and with one stroke, decapitated it.
“Vault? The hell are you doin’?”
He picked the one-eyed goatman’s head, and turned back to his merc with a smirk. “Souvenir,” Vault said. “This sonuvabitch caused me a lot of grief, so that’s the least of what he owes me.”
The Hound chuckled nervously, before tossing a rope down the hole. Slowly, Vault began to climb his way out.
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The meeting place they'd agreed upon was a large chamber within one the many lonely recesses of the Citadel's lower levels. Its out-of-the-way, almost hidden location had proven ideal. After a few more turns, he arrived. A dozen Hounds stood sentry, their eyes ready and alert, guarding the entrance.
They were all aberrants—beastmen—but none sported the same features. The largest, a great boar-like creature, was covered in thick black fur. He nodded and stood aside to grant them passage when Vault came into view. The chamber itself was like many others; a large, circular space, lined by stone columns that held up its ceiling. There were no windows, but the torches set around the perimeter provided more than enough light for all present. The space was empty, save the group that now gathered.
There were over a hundred in all, squad leaders, lieutenants who commanded their own divisions, and even a few odd men who'd proven themselves reliable and capable.
A bonafide inner circle. Vault almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it.
"You're late," Logren groused, his flat face adopting a forced frown.
"Guess you'd better forgive me, then," Vault said as he passed by him.
Vault walked past the assembled men, making a point to look each man in the eye as he went, stopping only briefly to exchange words with some of them. He ignored the rest, letting his gaze linger for a moment or two, but never lingering for too long. His steps echoed loudly as he made the last turn, standing at the center of the room. There, he began. "I'm seein' a lot of long faces here tonight, boys. I get how you feel—Everyone else is somewhere upstairs, livin' it up, and we're all cooped up down here like old maids."
The weak joke drew little more than quiet chuckles from the mercenaries, though there were plenty of nervous smiles.
"But there ain't no need to be so damn moody anymore. Tonight's the last night we'll ever have to meet in secret." He smirked as he spoke, and the Hounds responded with a mix of nervous and eager energy. "We came a long way, we fought plenty of hard fights, and every one of us has earned a piece of this. We've got the right to take what’s ours.”
Vault paused, and felt his heart beating. This tiny pep talk, in this tiny room, amidst this tiny crowd of conspirators was nowhere near the grand declaration of intent he would soon make. But still, he realized that he was excited. His entire body burned with anticipation as he looked up across the gathering. These were his warriors. These were his men. These were his dogs.
"Tomorrow's the day," Vault said, raising his voice to carry across the chamber. "Tomorrow's the day that we make our first move. Tomorrow's the day that we take our rewards." He paused, and took a slow breath. His sneering grin fell away, giving way to a wide, honest smile. "And from there, we return home."