Angels emerged from the previously collapsed tunnels in ranks of two. They marched in lockstep, their eyes hard, their blades and shields out. Their level of organisation was in stark contrast to the dishevelled state of their ragged loincloths, makeshift armour, and mismatched weapons.
Ori watched the procession from a distance of a hundred yards, with Ruenne’del by his side. Despite the intimidation factor, hidden tension in his shoulders slackened. He hadn't realised it until that moment, but the burden of potentially leading dozens, if not hundreds, of older and ostensibly more experienced beings, had seemed daft, if not daunting. What did he know about fighting or the tactics and strategies of using magic? He rolled his shoulders and took a step forward, smiling as an astral-coloured Sprite flew from the procession and zoomed directly towards him.
“Hey glow bug,” Ori laughed in response to her excited flight. Raising his palm, she slowed before transforming to her Pixie form in a brief flash of light to the gasp of Ruenne’del behind her.
“You! Pixie, not a bug. And…” Freya’s words caught in her mouth as she stared at Ruenne’del for far too long, her eyes narrowing, her crinkled butterfly wings riffling as if they were hackles rising. “Why is a member of the Seelie Court with you, Ori?”
“Freya Creisidottir of the Singlet Glade, meet Ruenne’del, daughter of the Paragon of Providence, Seer and Seeker extraordinaire,” Ori said, deciding to enjoy the moment despite his mild exasperation at their mutually frosty reception.
“A Were-Pixie,” Ruenne’del stated, her brows only slightly creased. She seemed more confused than surprised.
“Titania’s…” Freya gasped, then covered her mouth as if holding back a gaffe. “Ruenne'del Tuatha Dé Danann, one thousand and fifty-first princess to the Summer Queen.” She continued. “Why in wild spirits are you here?”
Ruenne’del just shrugged. Ori sighed, unsurprised and little more enlightened by Freya’s proclamation. Freya turned her steely gaze back to him as the march of Angels came to an end, their ranks forming ahead of Jhacrisite and several other Angels. Their towering presence and cold aura of light caused Ori to be thankful they were on his side.
“Ori, what does she know?”
“She knows that I’m the Bondweaver. She has yet to ask what she wants from me—” Ori was cut off by a shout.
“Ruenne’del,” Jhacrisite announced as he approached.
“Father,” Ruenne’del replied, goth-like in her laconism as Ori began to understand her just a little more.
“Ori, I must thank you for finding her.” the seven-foot angel said.
“She found me to be honest. I don't think she was in any real danger.” Ori replied.
“Oh, she was in more danger than you know. If you would excuse us, we have, as you can understand, some catching up to do.”
“Yeah, sure,” Ori said, placing Freya on his shoulder and turning to find a spot out of the way. The last sight he caught of them was of a defiant little princess scowling with folded arms at a man twice her size and four times her weight.
“So, spill it,” Ori said as he sat with a grunt on a boulder overlooking both caves towards either Reach while Lysara’s grounding presence settled underneath his feet.
“She is definitely Royal Fae, of the summer court. You don’t really need to know much more about fae politics beyond the fact that all fae above a certain rank falls into three camps: Wild, Winter, and Summer. Winter is ruled by Queen Mab, the most powerful of the fae, while Titania rules as Summer Queen. Both are known as unfathomable Entities of Power well into the Primordial ranks and are some of the oldest, most powerful existences in fate.”
“And that’s her daughter.” Ori sighed. “Do you know what she wants?”
“She is Leanan Sídhe, one of the nine.”
“One of the nine?”
“Of Titania’s many offspring, only nine are afflicted with this race.”
“Race? Are they not the same race as their parents?” Ori wondered, noting that Ruenne’del was far more fairy than angel, almost exclusively so.
“No,” Freya sighed. “Like all things amongst the fae, wild luck determines which sub-race of fairy you’ll be born if one of your parents is not of the fae. Titania, a Prime Fairy, has lain with plenty of non-fae, as a result giving birth to various sub-races of fae from Spriggan and Satyr to Vulpixin, Selkie, Sprites and Leanan Sídhe who are… accursed creatures, even amongst the fae, as they are known to feed off the Lifeforce of their lovers.”
“Like a vampire or succubus?”
“Succubi drain Will, eventually turning you into drooling meat. Vampires drain your blood, leaving you a dead husk in minutes. Meanwhile, a Leanan Sídhe may age you years in a month. In that month, you’ll be far more productive and creative than most, but like a candle that burns twice as bright… It is only rumour and gossip, but I heard she took a vow to never seek a male lover. As a result—”
“She’s dying,” Ori said.
“Yes, she is.”
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Ori sat, watching. He was unaccustomed to the lack of urgency, the absence of fighting, walking, running, and making. His Split Mind was still active, churning, thinking, contemplating urgent escape plans, tactics, and ways to help and enhance. He wanted, needed, to take on a more supportive role, not just in current events, but in the future. He observed the celestials setting up camp, earthworks raised to form makeshift walls several yards thick while cook fires roasted sanctified meat from the cellar. He noted how beings born with, or at least around, such wonders behaved; their easy familiarity with miracles.
“It must be like a dream outside this prison, with no one going hungry, everyone with a roof over their heads, if so few can do so much, so quickly,” Ori wondered aloud.
“I can understand how you’d think that Ori, but you’d be wrong. Imagine those two hundred or so, with no one lower than Greater rank, spread out among a city of a million mortals and a few thousand low awakened. With all the power and subsequent wealth concentrated like that, how could there not be poor and hungry?” Freya pointed out as if it was obvious.
Ori grunted, accepting Freya’s point, at least on the face of it. He had seen Vespasian through her memories, as well as various other cities through the brief flashbacks of his bonded, and each one had seemed more like the idyllic version of historical medieval cities. Without the naked sewers, overcrowding, and disease-spreading pestilence that plagued Earth even to this day. Was it their experiences that led them to avoid the underbelly of civilisation? Or did magic truly make a difference? It was one of the many mysteries Ori wanted to unravel.
“Ori, have you decided what you’re going to do with her?” Freya asked.
“I’m just going to give her space. I mean, there’s not much I can do until she asks me for what she wants. And that’s to say if she even wants anything from me at all.”
“Ori,” Freya said in frustration.
“What?”
“You do have a say in this too.”
“Do I?”
“I know you’re not this dense. If you intend on rejecting her very likely advances, best to do so now and not waste everyone’s time. Otherwise, you have to decide if she could be bonded.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No. You know I want to change the way my bonds and soulcrafting work? So it’s not all wrapped up in love and lust. And if I can guide her, with soulcrafting, towards a racial evolution, maybe she’d be free from her needs without having to be someone's lover.”
“But…” Freya asked.
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“But what?” Ori asked, confused.
“But even if all of that is possible, just how much time does she have? How much time will it take you to figure those aspects out?”
“I know all this. You know I know this, so just what are you saying?” Ori growled.
“Could you be her lover? It is something you need to decide upon before the choice is forced upon you, or taken away,” Freya said.
Ori scoffed, then brooded. His eyes were deliberately fixed on everything and everyone but Ruenne’del. Was this his life? Choose me or die? While he couldn’t deny his love for either Harriet or Poppy, being forced into such arrangements certainly wasn’t ideal.
As he continued to brood, Ori considered that if he were to truly become the Bondweaver, this passive response to his desire had to change. And in this instance, what was his desire? Was it the way his affinities, specifically Fate and Freedom, seemed to boil in his chest whenever she was in their presence? Was it the feeling of validation and significance he felt whenever she stared at him? Was it just the fact that she needed his help?
That tough outer shell, he knew from experience, was only millimetres thick. That inability to ask for help never meant that you didn’t need it. Because he’d experienced firsthand just how much of a difference such help could provide the idea of not helping out of a cynical sense of self-importance self-worth or pride was anathema.
But was that desire? While she was pretty, it certainly wasn’t in the way Harriet or Poppy made his blood run hot. However, while her outward personality seemed cold, he was drawn towards a vulnerability all too like his own. He sighed.
“What do you think?” he asked Freya.
“Think of what?” Freya asked.
“Of her? Of adding another to my bonds, my lovers, or my family if it came down to it? You know more about her than I do, or at least about the fae and the royals. What’s she like? Would she be good for us if she wanted to join? Assume I don’t know anything.”
“Hmph, I normally assume such, so that makes no difference. As for the question, the most important thing is whether you could survive her… attentions? If not, little else matters.”
“So you’re saying it’s possible to survive the Lifeforce drain?”
“I’m not certain, but I’ve seen you regenerate Lifeforce far faster than you should. Aethermancy has been known to produce Irregulars among the fae who have gained immortality far sooner than their rank would suggest. It’ll be up to you to find out, and I suspect this may be the reason she was drawn to you in the first place.”
“Wait, really? So you’re saying this has nothing to do with me being a Bondweaver?”
“Perhaps, perhaps not? Only time will tell. Also note it has been reported that as the Leanan Sídhe grows in power, so does the effect of her… feedings, a vicious cycle that has led to the deaths of all the previous eight with this affliction.”
“Wonderful.”
“And beyond that, she is part of the Seelie Court, one of Titania’s daughters, a royal fae. Though numerous, they are well respected and sought after. Any potential pairing between you and her would be challenged. However, should your courtship be acknowledged by the Summer Queen, it would be a spectacular boon. Titania’s name alone would offer you protection influence and access to many avenues.
“As for the woman in question… She’s a recluse and rarely, if ever, involves herself at court. Sightings across Fate suggest she has some means of travel across realms. Beyond that, little is known, as there are thousands of living offspring of the Summer Queen.”
“Hmmm. Well, like I said, I’ll give her space, at least for now.”
“Ori,” Freya sighed.
“What is it?”
“Fine. Do as you will. I agree there are more important matters at hand,” Freya grumbled. “Look, they’re coming over.”
Ori stood as Lysara’s crackling ball of lightning rose from the ground to hover some distance from the opposite shoulder where Freya had perched. Through their bonds, Ori felt a strange desire from his familiars to present a unified front, a display of intent and belonging if not ownership, as if to dissuade all others from attempting to separate them or hold them apart.
Ori shook his head at their antics as Jhacrisite and Ruenne’del approached.
“Hello, son,” Jhacrisite said, his jovial mood contrasting with the expression on his daughter’s face. She seemed deeply conflicted, her gaze distant. However, as soon as Ori spoke, her green-blue eyes locked onto his like burning hot lasers.
Ori smiled. “Hi. I take it you’re running things now?” he asked, gesturing towards the makeshift camp.
Jhacrisite nodded. “Aye, I came here for them, to get them out and clense this place, this prison. It is not the first I’ve infiltrated, though I admit I would have had to struggle much longer without your help.”
“How do you normally break out?” Ori asked.
“Strength and unexpected enchantments normally serve me well, but they have been taking extra precautions of late,” the angel explained, leaving Ori with more questions than he’d started with. “Anyway son, come with me, and let me introduce you to the leadership team and discuss our next steps.”
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He was back inside the meat cellar now devoid of hanging carcasses. The dusty, mouldy space felt clean despite the harsh light of the prison complex hologram. Thirteen Sovereign-ranking angels stood in a circle, their imposing auras pressing down upon Ori with judgment and curiosity. Most frowned in confusion, while others looked on with neutral or inquisitive gazes. Ori fought the desire to either hunch his shoulders or ignite Aura of the Progenitor in response to the psychic pressure.
The angels were all of differing heights and appearances, with some having small, almost childlike frames and cherubic faces full of baby fat. Others seemed androgynous or female, with wiry gold hair buffeted by unseen currents. Beyond that, wings of varying size, colour, and arrangement drew sharp differences between beings. Ori couldn’t help but compare and contrast to High Elves in their alien and inhuman nature despite their initial differences.
Jhacrisite made brief introductions, and Ori noted some of the names and races of celestials: Paragons, Virtues, Powers, Archangels, Cherubs, and Seraphim. Meanwhile, both he and Ruenne’del were introduced as Irregulars on the Path. Then, Jhacrisite moved towards the centre of the ring, his imposing seven-foot stature made even more menacing by the hardness in his gaze. The aura around him congealed and hummed with the intensity of an electrical substation.
It felt as if Ori stood by a bonfire, its light uncomfortably hot, but it was a cold, heavy presence—one of judgement and portents. This intensity grew until suddenly, a ring of Grace, Mana, and light materialised above the Paragon's head into a halo as white and dense as a neutron star.
“At this moment, brethren, we are Heaven's judgement manifest.”
Ori gleaned an understanding of what it meant to be a Paragon, feeling the heaviness of Providence as if its value could be placed on scales and measured against anything in the universe and never be found wanting.
“Through fortune and divine will, we have been led to this concentration of evil that Heaven has graced us with the duty and honour of purging. While some of your bodies still bear the wounds of deprivation inflicted upon you, and while some heads are held higher than others, none of us can say we are done with the coming fight. Celestial light will not be snuffed out by the darkness that sought the strongest of us, that tore us away from our loved ones, our homes, our duty, and tried to break us.
“Here in the deepest, darkest caves of our ancient enemy's bastion, we stand united as vessels of divine retribution. We fight not for revenge or hatred, but for the celestial order that guides us, for the Grace that nourishes our souls, and for the justice that shall prevail!”
“For the justice that shall prevail!” the gathering echoed, Ori, finding himself swept along with the current, his mind spinning with dopamine and heart hammering with a rush of adrenaline.
“This is our plan,” said Azrael, a Virtue with a calm demeanour and silver eyes that seemed to see into the soul. He took a step inward to the ring as Jhacrisite seemingly ceded the floor. “As you may know, the Galroga sits in the Nyxul Reaches. Divination and observations from our forward scouts report various Fleshcraftings that enhance speed and agility, along with the expected increases in toughness, resistance, and regeneration. To put it simply, a hundred Sovereign rankers may not be able to break its defences via conventional means. However…”
Uriel, a tall, ethereal angel with bowl-cut silver hair and eyes that glowed with a soft blue light, spoke next. “We can strip its enchantments. Riven into flesh they may be, and bound with its soul, it is possible with the right counter-enchantments to foul such glyphs that bestow it power, inflicting debilitating pain and weakness with every successful stroke.”
“But there are hundreds of glyphs!” someone interjected.
“Aye, there are at that. It will be a long, steady battle, a costly battle, though it can be done,” Uriel continued.
Ori ground his teeth, the idea of anyone dying after just being set free rankling him. He was appalled by the waste of life and talent, his White Mage screaming at him to interject. Just as he was about to step into the circle, a forearm barred his path. Ori glared at Jhacrisite’s cool amber eyes, a mental message—fewer words and yet understood just as clearly—forced him to stand down, more convincingly than any physical impediment at that moment might have.
It was as if Providence had told him to honour their determination and sacrifice with the same honour it was offered.
The rest of the meeting devolved into discussions and arguments Ori struggled to follow. While not completely harmonious and free from frayed nerves and acrimony, Jhacrisite’s halo seemed to focus the mind and press upon everyone present the urgency of the situation. Meanwhile, Ori brooded, his instincts a roiling pot of conflicting desires. Hadn’t he just been happy ceding leadership? Didn’t he just decide to step back and take up a more supportive role? If those things were true, why did he feel so sick and impotent?
“Do we know of any artificers in the camp that could aid me in crafting counter-enchantments?” Uriel said, his words taking a second longer than normal to register as Ori managed to drag one fragment of his Split Mind to the present.
“I… Yeah, I could help,” Ori said.
Uriel nodded beatifically and continued. Just like that, Ori’s mind became focused on a series of solid goals and achievable enchantments.
“We have to be realistic,” added Raziel, a Seraphim with fiery red hair and golden eyes. “Our numbers are limited, and the longer we stay here, the more danger we invite upon ourselves.”
“Sometimes the only way to overcome a great evil is with great sacrifice,” Azrael said softly, though his eyes held a steely resolve.
“This is mad,” Ori muttered, shaking his head. “There has to be another way.” The thought of losing more lives in this grim place filled him with a sense of despair and anger. He had to find another solution, something that didn’t involve sending these newly freed celestials to their deaths.
“We need a diversion,” suggested Samael, an Archangel with a calm, measured tone. “If we can distract the Galroga, we might have a chance to strike at its weak points without facing its full wrath.”
It was then that Ruenne’del took a step forward towards the centre of the circle and spoke.
“I can distract it.”