SURRENDER THE THRONE
...
I must note before I begin as always that my interpretation of Kayle has been built from scratch and is individual. She operates on different rules than any other Kayle I have encountered and has background and reasoning. Please don't steal it; if you're curious about her you are more than welcome to ask me questions. I am mostly available on my Tumblr blog, under the same name.
Let my blade speak the law.
...
A sudden hush sweeps over the battlefield, and the struggling villagers and soldiers stare at the sky, hollow-eyed and uncomprehending.
A long heartbeat, and realization dawns; men and women flee, screaming in terror, but it is too late to stop the streak of gold and fire plummeting to the ground. Far, far too late indeed. The angel crashes into the ground hard enough to leave a small crater, crouched with wings outspread, and then she stands, and her flames spread.
Lacrimosa dies illa—
The only thing many can see is the crown of light burning over a faceless helm.
Cries of hollow despair echo around the barren fields as fire streams over flesh, scorching not the body but the souls within. Each person cries out in turn as the flames hit them, horror, shame, gladness all in turn as their souls are laid bare for her to see, memories rushing by in the flames and piling onto the scales in her mind. It is crude, rushed, but effective.
She takes it all in so quickly that not a single person has time to run from the battleground, and indeed many fall to their knees before her.
Qua resurget ex favilla—
She knows now who must be struck down. It is time to carry out her judgments.
While some gaze at her with tear-streaked faces, awaiting their fate, the damned rise in angry desperation, gathering weapons and rage to rush against her.
Judicandus homo reus—
She reaches down to lift the innocent from the bloody ground, her grip warm and reassuring, speaking words only they can hear. Tears flow freely, but the forgiven and redeemed stumble away slowly, grateful yet so strangely light. How wonderful, to be validated or pardoned, truly.
Those she has no hope of saving know who they are the moment she passes them by, and they rise in one last desperate bid.
She does not hesitate.
Huic ergo parce—
She cuts them all down one by one as they charge her, a figure alone in a maelstrom of hatred and anger and gleaming steel, but she shines so much brighter.
They all fall before her, and she is unstoppable. Every calculated move of her blade is a deathblow, a quick and painless execution.
She transcends death and mortality, a fire that can never be extinguished.
"Who's next?"
Ego expiabitur—
Moths to a flame, they rush to their fates, and each death is a blaze of glory.
The twin deaths are not far behind, but they smile from the shadows, only watching the carnage. Oh, but they have grown so familiar with her, in her time on this new world.
She is beautiful to behold.
She was forged for battle, an ancient weapon whose edge has never dulled.
Blood streams from her armour, but none of it is hers.
Judicandus homo reus—
One desperate youth manages to shove her helm off partway before he falls, and she simply shakes it off, golden locks spilling over her shoulders. Her movement continues unphased; she is a force that cannot be swayed.
Her face is blank. It is not cold, no, but instead a mask of pure anguish, dull and resigned. Her bright eyes are dark.
She feels every drop of their pain, knows every suffering.
Dona eis requiem! Amen—
Finally, she reaches a cowering man, spineless and trembling before her, and she speaks, her words laden with an unshakable finality.
"Look what you have wrought," she says, and her voice is devoid of everything but tired disappointment. In every world, every time, the same.
"Greed has been your downfall. Feel the pain of all those you have left in your wake in the next life, and know their suffering. An eye for an eye."
Judicandus homo reus—
Her blade falls, and eyes go dark.
She picks up the false crown that clatters to the ground, glittering and tempting, and her fist curls around it, crushing it.
Her flames roar brighter, and as she walks away from the broken and bloody field, molten silver and gold drip from her hand.
Nothing breathes in her wake.
Miserere mors est. Amen.