( Square owns everything, even nonsensical things such as this. I may end up rewriting these first two bits to better sync up with the third and latter.)

The first time the Judge sees his old home, it is from high above the desert sea. Ever shimmering, ever defiantly the city sparkles amid the dust covered dunes like a misplaced jewel. It has been years since he has set foot on its sand-strewn cobbles, and if the assembled armada before the city has its way, it will be years still.

The line had been drawn. History would be repeated. Last time he had been a bystander, a victim, a nobody. That had all changed. Things were different now. He was different now. There would be no mercy. There would be no staying hand of a guilt-riddled Emperor to hold the conquest at bay. This time the fires of war would consume those that stood in its path; he would see it so.

And not for the first time he wonders what madness has led him here.

A decade ago, he had wanted nothing more then simple freedom. But freedom is never simple; a lesson that had been hard learned. He had stood by a future Queen, amid fallen knights and pirates alike, but there had been no freedom there, just a different form of servitude. He had been outclassed, out of place, and out of view. But he had watched; he had learned. By the end, he had still played his given role, but his eyes had moved elsewhere.

The serpent crest burns his hand, tearing his mind away from the memories now belonging to someone else. The voice—ever slithering, ever whispering—comes to him, telling him to give the command. And when his hand drops, a thousand cries ring up as the hell begins.

The sky is awash with explosions as his fleet bombards the sky. Peace has no patron this day, the voice gleefully tells him, even the gods have fled. He tries to ignore it, instead wishing he could be down there, in the thick of battle. Not out of some misguided sense of valor or glory, but for pure greed; to get in his share of the killing.

It is unexpected when the battle lasts on into the twilit hours. His former people fight on courageously against the invaders, against the Empire, against him. But as the explosions die down, the inevitable proves itself once more. There would be no victory for his homeland today.

When the gates finally fall, he makes sure his is the first foot inside the city. He wishes he could say it has changed. That it is no longer the city he once knew, and that is why feels nothing while watching the burning fires. But he knows the truth. The city has not changed; he has.

It is by his crested hand that the palace doors are torn from their hinges. The satisfying crash they make upon hitting the ground reminds him of a promise fulfilled. This is what he asked for.

He feels unstoppable when he sees the remaining defenders scatter before him, each having made the choice between heroic last-stand and seeing one more sunrise. His soldiers swarm past him with every intent to make their victory absolute. The cost of defiance would be made clear this night.

The first time he was in the palace, he had willed each step like a frightened rat. Tonight, he strides through the hallways kicking in one door after another. The search is on, and he knows that which he seeks is near. For now, there exist nothing else. Even the voice has grown quiet. Perhaps it, too, understands he is somewhere beyond listening.

His first surprise does not come until he steps into the royal throne room only to find it completely bare. The mirthful vision of a once-companion at his feet, of a Queen on her knees, is stolen from him.

He is not happy.

The next surprise soon follows when two familiar faces drop from the shadows. One is the mentor he never asked for. There, time has left its stain —the eyes are older, the scars deeper—but the recognizable arrogance remains. The other is the vision of feral beauty that his youth once craved. Ever did she exist beyond the reach of any measured clock, and ever would she remain so.

He can tell his old acquaintances are pleased to find him alone; undoubtedly expecting this to make their task much easier. He does not back away. There is no reason to. It was not he who fled their last encounter. The serpent crest flares, and he coils back into a formless stance. His arms snake out from under his cloak; each bearing a fang of metallic death.

No one speaks. There is nothing left to say. It had all been said long ago.

The woman comes at him with a spear. Every attack plunges toward him with fierce accuracy. Striking as she would any other hated enemy. Any sentiments of the past had long since been discarded. He sees an opening and lashes back, only to find her partner there to greet him with his usual coy grin. Now he remembers why two always worked in tandem; each to protect the other.

No matter. He has two arms for reason.

Soon the palace hallways are filled with the clash of metal against metal, an ethereal score to their calamitous waltz. In time it leads them across an outside balcony. Where, beneath the pressing night sky, a loose tile causes him to stumble. It is all the advantage the timeless woman needs.

The spear drives deep, piercing his shoulder. He can only scowl as he feels the blood seep beneath his armor. He looks to her and sees no hint of satisfaction, only resolute determination. He feels disgusted. He has had enough of this, enough of them.

He throws his weapons aside, and raises his fist. The serpent crest erupts and he growls as the sinister flames engulf his hand. They could match the man, but could they withstand the fiend.

Unbeknownst to him, the two have seen their task done. And so he receives one final surprise when a small lander soars overhead. When he looks down, a cloud of smoke erupts at his feet. Long has he hated deception and distractions, and he realizes his old acquaintances are still annoyingly skilled at both. Enraged, he wildly swings his way through the haze only to discover he is alone once more.

"I will find her someday," he yells against the night. "You hear me?"

"But not today, little thief. Not today. . ." a mocking voice calls back, fading into the distance.

When his soldiers find him, the Judge is slumped against the rail. His wound is not fatal, but it does not need to be. Completely Hume he may no longer be, but even devils have their limits. And far has he been pushing his lately. Before his soldiers help him into the palace, the Judge glares one last time up at the night sky.

He will not rest for long.