Firstly: A GAZILLION apologies for everyone who are expecting a new chapter to Two of a Kind. We're working on it, but all world seems to be set against us. Life keeps on getting busier and despite us having more or less the entire main plot down, there's almost no time to get together to brainstorm the details and write. One or another seems to always be busy. =(
So, I just finished Fable: The Lost Chapters, which I borrowed from a friend, having the hero act like I would, and ending up quite neutral. The game was amazing, but the ending left me cold. Especially the good ending but, really, both. It all ended so neatly and abruptly (I'm a big fan of foreshadowing) and made me think "That was it? Wasn't Jack supposed to be a being older than the world and its gods? How could he die that easily?". I looked at my copy of Diablo 2 and suddenly this drabble came to me.
I don't own anything, not even the game. I might buy a copy in the future though.
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How can you kill a being older than the gods themselves?
…
The Jack of Blades was defeated in the hands of the Hero of Oakvale, and peace returned to the lands, for as long as possible in a world like Albion. The Hero, weary with the trials of his life and age, retired to seclusion, or perhaps died of his wounds. The details of the story vary with each telling, growing more epic and spectacular.
This is how the guild told the story, and how it spread. The truth, however, is only known to the Hero himself, and doubted of by three others, who were involved themselves.
The truth…
The dragon, though horrible and demonic, had only been another manifestation of Jack of Blades. The hero felled it after a long, arduous battle. The Tear of Avo sung as it cleaved the beast's flesh, and finally it was dead, the mask sucking out its soul. The Hero was gravely wounded, but knew that his duty was not yet over, not as long as the mask could be worn. But what could destroy such a thing, as it still whispered temptations of power, appalling as they were. The dragon had been yet another puppet, used by Jack just like he had.
The Hero glanced at the flowing lava. No. How could something so mundane as molten rock destroy an artefact he hadn't been able to break, even wielding the Sword of Aeons, weaker as it was before being cast to nothingness, and later the powerful Tear of Avo? Casting the mask to the molten flow would only hide it, perhaps safeguard it in a layer of volcanic stone. But for how long? Gems were often found from such stone, and it wouldn't be long until someone's pickaxe freed the mask.
He needed to safeguard it himself, find a way to destroy it here in the Northern Wastes where it was made, many a millennia ago.
Against his will the Hero's hand held the mask, bringing it up. He fought the movement, realising he had held on to the artefact too long, and it had found a weakness in his defence of will. There was a triumphant flash of red light, and searing pain. A presence, foreign and yet not unlike the connection of the guild seal, or the disembodied voice that had tormented him while he toiled to open the Bronze gates.
The mask felt cool and oddly comforting against his skin, and he could hear his own mouth forming words, the Jack of Blades' voice ringing from his lips, mocking him. He could sense the ancient being's glee, and wrestled control back, if only for a moment. But that moment was enough. He grasped Maze's clasp, a memento of a second father he'd had, and concentrated the odd powers Theresa and his mother had awakened in him, binding them to the clasp with his will.
The Hero threw a cloak over his battered form, fastening it with the clasp. For a while still, he would be the master of his own mind and body. But for how long, he didn't know. Throwing a final glance at the dragon corpse behind him, the Hero dragged himself outside.
…
Outside the gates, Briar Rose, Scythe and even the guild master, Weaver, awaited. Looks of relief washed over their faces when the Hero limped forth from within the Bronze Gates. Confusion reigned as he handed his sacred sword, the Tear of Avo, to the guild master, asking for it to be safeguarded in a secret place so that he could never again lay his eyes on it. The Hero then relinquished all his armour, weapons and equipment, keeping only his cloak and clasp, some warm clothes and a simple knife along with food and a few potions.
The hero spoke to Briar Rose, asking her to tell his wife his love, and to make sure Jack's tale, and his, are never forgotten. She is the scholar, and so agreed eagerly, though unnerved by the unblinking eyes staring at her from the darkness of the Hero's hood.
Scythe remained silent, and only spoke after the Hero had retreated to the frozen wastelands, disappearing to the blizzard. The guild would need to prepare, in secret, as what his eyes saw from underneath the dark hood was not a man's chin, but a smooth, featureless face, of a material completely unlike human skin. It might take years, decades, even centuries. But there would become an evil greater than imagined, and they would need to be ready. For the enemy had obtained the bloodline it wanted.
How can you kill a being older than the gods themselves?
You can't.
The Jack of Blades is eternal.