“What good is power if it’s left unspent?”
These were the last words of the godlike persona as it left the immortal body to its mortal devices. Henry understood immediately what these words meant, not just because of how he felt in this moment, but also because of the impressions of actions that came to him simultaneously.
Visions of empires burning to the ground, of salt being sewn into the earth so that no enemies may ever rise from the ashes, of the frail and weak mages and sorcerers who would dare oppose him having their skulls crushed to powder under his feet. These things did not repulse him anymore, they only spoke to an ever-growing lust for power. It was all-consuming, this urge to conquer. What good are morals when dead? What values are any more than valueless without action? What words hold meaning when the tongue is cut from its root?
None and nothing. This was the inevitable and only answer Henry could come to for these questions. None of these things held any meaning. If he was to live, it would be fully. If he was unable to die, it no longer mattered what others thought of him. If he was unable to be judged even as a corpse there was no purpose in considering the judgment of others. The judgment of grass as it is mown down means exactly the same as these mortals soon to be culled did to him. They could not oppose him, that much had been shown on these desert sands.
And what did it matter if others would come to find out? Words could not stop him and no action possible could end his pursuit of power. He would grow stronger so quickly that he would outpace all possible means of resistance. It was entirely unnecessary to hold back when the enemy was clearly so weak; if these pathetic mortal nations could not find a victor in ten long years then their will to conquer was clearly underdeveloped.
Henry would put himself aside and take the position of power that had always belonged to him. The throne atop the world had called his name from birth, and yet others had dared to step in his way. No longer.
His will permeated the air, and Amanda, though bruised and battered, tried to draw another sigil in the sands with her still-bloody finger. She could not, and collapsed to her side. A “tsch” resounded through the air, but a finger soon reached out in seeming compassion.
A cold needle of a finger pressed against Amanda’s forehead, and she could feel a slowly-pulsing mass of power behind it. It was frothing just below the skin, eagerly waiting for his will to consume her, to erase this waste of skin who had allowed witnesses to escape from the desert, but no such action came.
“Accept it.” Henry demanded, and Amanda obeyed.
She began to writhe as the static consumed her mind. Her thoughts were completely washed out and her skin tensed, flushed with blood and yet freezing. The sun struck her hotly, and yet winter had graced the sands once more; some glacial power awakened to radiate frost from below this place of death. She could no longer think, nor conceive her will at all. It was merely natural to obey, to follow, to accept this power. It was the only possible outcome for her to act in love for her superior, for the one who would destroy Xevis and render him not so much as a thought ever had again in this world. She traced an outline of static in the sand and a portal swiftly opened.
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But it exploded in her face and threw the two some ten or twenty feet backward. Henry caught himself in the air, but Amanda was not so lucky. Though she landed on her feet in the sand and was resilient enough to slow herself, her body’s reaction to the foreign material had left her weakened and nearly no magic essence remained in her body after sustaining a forcefield for long enough to slaughter a village to the last man, woman, and child.
Amanda was injured, but she would recover. This wasn’t beyond the scope of her abilities to fix, all it would require was time and—
“Ow,” her bones began to ache. She tried to stand but was unable.
Henry winced as her ankle snapped and she fell on her butt.
The pain did not phase her, being an archon capable of regeneration meant sustaining injuries. It was natural to her position, and yet the pain never lessened. At first her mind had been cleared to its thoughts because of the overwhelming influence of her benefactor, but now the pain overwhelmed all. Though cold and static-filled strength had filled her, now all that was left was the empty weakness of a paper cup twice used and twice empty.
Henry was clearly distraught. His eyes stared into nothing, pupils large and expression blank in a way only known to signify something akin to the terror one feels when permanently breaking something only known to be valuable in the aftermath. It was not permanent, but made Amanda feel better about the situation and took her mind off the pain.
“So he’s still human after all,” she thought,
“I can fix him.”
…
“I’m ok,” she finally spoke aloud.
Henry’s expression melted, but he clearly didn’t know what to say.
“It hurts, but I can fix it!” Amanda continued.
“Just get me somewhere with magic.”
Only when Henry remained silent did she continue speaking,
“We could go to a sect? You don’t have to join them forever, you could even destroy them from within.”
Henry’s distraught expression was finally entirely gone, and he spoke.
“Ok. How do we get there?” Henry said, gesturing to her limp and backwards-facing right foot.
“Here’s your first lesson,” Amanda began, pointing to his right hand and curling her finger in to bring it to her. When Henry did she guided his middle-finger in the sand to draw the first runes of a basic teleportation sigil.
When they finally surrounded her in a complete circle she spoke,
“While there’s no runes underneath me, this is enough to bring me somewhere with enough magic to heal myself and return. Just put some of your… energy? into it and it should activate.”
He did, and the sigil exploded. She was gone at least, though it was unclear as to where.