The Conqueror's Spirit
By iGreedy
"Nngh…" Walhart could do nothing but clench at his ruptured chestplate as he slowly fell from his mount. He landed with a hefty crash of metal and flesh at the feet of the man who put him in this position in the first place. The man who destroyed his ambitions.
The Exalt-to-be and Prince of Yilsse, Chrom.
Walhart could have laughed at the look of mixed look of pity and disappointment on the prince's face. Even now, as he laid dying, the prince still wished for a different outcome then this? He had won. If he had the breath he would have lecture the boy, but as it was the emperor had little breath and even fewer words left to utter.
"Do you see?" The words came painfully and it nearly made him black out earlier then he wanted. But he had one last thing to say.
"Often the sword…is the only way…" A numbness in his chest ceased the last of his words. It was not blasted words that changed anything. It was action. It was power.
As if the prince heard the rest of his unsaid words, he shook his head and turned his back on the dying conqueror.
Once more Walhart felt like laughing. The prince could have made a worthy conqueror himself, turning his back so easily on the weak like that.
For that was what Walhart was now: weak. His power. His existence. Now worthless, for one stronger than him had come and smote him down to nothingness. He lied defeated and another was victorious. As was nature intended to be. He only regretted one thing…
"My conquest…ends here…"
Darkness gripped his vision, and soon his heart had stopped beating.
…
…
And yet his mind did not die.
It was as if he was in a dream. Swirling darkness flowed around him. He could see nothing, not even his own body. It was as though he was only a whirlpool of feelings and naught more. His thoughts, memories; this was all he was now.
He felt the curious sensation of himself being lifted up and carried. There was heat, but soon enough he was cold, the smell of damp earth surrounding him. It was suffocating, but Walhart accepted it. Death was the true conqueror in the end.
Time went on, he could feel it. The world was moving on without him. My world, he could not help but think with cool anger.
Then he felt something change. A shadow was being cast over everything, over him. It was a thick and drowning darkness, and it was reaching into him.
When it reached his mind, the Voice came. It was a low booming voice that sounded like a trumpet from afar, calling to him.
And what it said made Walhart's unbeating heart burn with an all-consuming wrath.
"Rise and serve me, your lord and master. Rise and wipe the scourge that is man from the face of the earth. Serve the fell dragon…"
His very being overflowed with rage. His fingers twitched. Walhart served no master for he was the master of everything! He was the conqueror!
The alluring draw that came from the Voice strengthened as it bellowed ever louder, as if suddenly aware of the rebellious soul.
"You will serve me! Rise and become my tool!"
Walhart felt his way upward through the wet dirt. He clawed and gouged.
Within his mind, he was still roaring like a mad beast. No one was to lay claim to him! If they would dare to do such a thing, they would have to do so in battle!
"Walhart the Conqueror never bows to mere words. I serve none but myself! No one will lay claim to me!" the being that was Walhart shouted defiantly.
His hand could feel the cold air and the freezing water touch his fingers. It was raining.
The Voice growled, and the fallen emperor fell a powerful will take ahold of him. It was trying to put him under its control by force – to conquer him.
Walhart almost laughed. It would try to conquer him!? He was the Conqueror! There was none in this world, be they man or god, who could control him!
His body broke through the mud and a great breath was sucked inside his lungs. The drops of water fell on him. He could feel them on his face.
Walhart solidified his will into an iron wall to hold off the Voice's grip. But Walhart was never one to simply be defensive.
And so he pushed his attack. He poured all of his anger, all of his desire to conquer into a weapon and fought back. The Voice howled and screeched as the mind that it had thought would be a uncomplicated (if a bit challenging) affair to take command was now, not only holding his own, but was in fact forcing it back! No human could possibly be capable of such a thing!
The Voice tried one final time to propel itself back into the human's mind. But it was stopped short by another mental wall, and the sound of laughter sounded throughout its being. It was a bloodthirsty and hungry laugh. It was the laugh of a man who would not stop and who would not cease at destroying his foe utterly – even if it meant his own undoing.
The Voice cursed the series of events, but more so that this inferior worm had stopped it in its tracks. The Voice could crush this human, of this it was sure, but to do so would weaken it. The Voice still did not have its true vessel, and it could not afford to waste precious strength on a meaningless power struggle with an ant. With regret, the Voice retreated.
Walhart opened his eyes. He saw the rain and the mud and the tome that was his grave. The sound of other graves breaking and the moans of those within it could be heard by his ears. However he paid them no mind; they concerned him not.
He lived.
HE LIVED!
His mud-encrusted gantlets creaked as they tightened in tight fists. He was not dead. It appeared not even death could stem his will to conquer.
He rose up, yanking the axe that was buried alongside him from the ground. He lived but it was in disgrace. His anger boiled as he thought of the man who defeated him, the man who cast HIS road to world conquest out of reach. The only blood that could redeem him and make him fit to return to his path was that man's.
As the Risen came forth from their resting places, they grew silent at the man standing among the dead. The Voice that called them up from the ground in the first place was gone, but there was a being right here that could lead them – to give purpose to them.
Walhart glared at them, and they came to some form of attention that their past lives remembered. They were meaningless to the now-former emperor. Only one man concerned him now, and he would not rest until it was HIM that lied dying at Walhart's feet, conquered.
Soon, Prince Chrom, I will have your blood, and then I shall take this world for my own, once and for all.
End.
Edited as of 10/8/15.