I have a confession to make. I write fanfiction because I enjoy doing so, of course, but I also write fanfiction so I can sleep.
Sound strange? Allow me to elaborate. Sometimes a dream will strike me. A strange, powerful, vivid dream about some fandom to which I feel a distinct empathy for. Every single one of my fanfics start this way. I wake up from this dream in a wistful state of sadness... because for me, the story is over. The beautiful, perfect story is done. Oh it's still there, locked in my head, and some times I can revisit it, on rare occasions when my sleeping mind reattaches itself to the idea, but for all intents and purposes I will never see it again.
That idea in my head, it whirls around and around, gaining strength, gaining reality, until my hands are aching to put it on the screen. To share my dream with you, dear readers, because the only way the story will live is if I put it there.
So here we have before you, Stoneheart. My translation of this dream is a strange one, because I've recently started rereading Stephen King's The Dark Tower, with it's Gunslinger Roland, and I've started playing an tabletop RPG called Cold Steel Reign, which has it's own class of Gunslinger, no less mystical and magical than those of Roland's creed.
I got to thinking about this, as I struggled to translate my dream, and it came to me... Raven seldom if ever speaks of long lost Azarath, of her past there. I can understand why. What if her mother, and priests as WE understand priests weren't the ones who taught her how to focus her mind, suppress emotions, and create the Mental Fields.
After that, it was only a matter of time. The Apocryphal Knights and the Spirit Caste are a mixture of Stephen King's imaginings as well as ideas shamelessly stolen from Cold Steel Reign, along with a few ideas of my own creation. Simon of course, is my own creation, and I hope he fits in alright.
Disclaimer: I don't know what pairings will appear in the story, but it will be extremely Raven-centric. She's my favorite character in the series, and if that upsets you, I apologize. There are a thousand awesome stories that focus on all of the Titans equally... Post's These Black Eyes and Lord Belgarion's Titan's Song are two very fine entries that come to mind. This entry will be my attempt, however feeble, to join the ranks of these two vaunted Titans authors, my entry into the scary and perilous world that is the original character addition to the Titans ranks type story. There have been triumphs, and there have been tragedies, from those who make the attempt, but I am not afraid.
I hope my meager talents will be enough to carry the story on its own fuckin' merits.
Now, one last thing before we get into this tale. Please read the song qoute below, as it has much meaning and significance. Where as the singer in this song refers to the Dark Tower, the intent from the perspective of this story refers to a slightly different tower...
"Songs to sing... Song of Turtle, and the Cry of the Bear. Awake... I can sense it, still I'm afraid. Tower Road lies ahead. Commala-come-ka. Ka has come to me. Grey old fellow, if you finally failed the test what would it mean? We're getting near. We're getting near. Maid of sorrow, your time goes by... Fade away, fade... "Say thank, ya" for the beams are safe my friend. Long days and pleasant nights for you. Save me! The final chord, don't let it end like this. No, not like this. Tell me, when things were finally getting out of hand. It's out of hand. Entangled, I am captured. You have put a spell on me. The last in line, the Gunslinger's line. The sacrifice of innocence. This work needs to be done. Now blow the horn, hail to the gun! Done is done! Yes, there will be no taking back. Every journey must come to an end. All hail to the Gunslinger, praise to the Dinh and the King. Beyond our reach, out of control. Save me! To touch the rose it will not bring release, no taking back. Come save me. There are other worlds. But surely none like this, the world has changed. Done is done! Yes, there will be no taking back. The word is the law, law is Ka. The end of the road lies. Straight ahead it lies, I'm feeling pure. The end of the road lies... The sacrifice of innocence. The hailing of the gun. My way was death and madness. Now let the tower come. Done is done! Yes, there will be no taking back. Every journey must come to an end. All hail to the Gunslinger, praise to the Dinh and the King. Beyond our reach, out of control..." -The Gunslinger, Demons and Wizards
The battlefield was set, the lines drawn, the players all in place. The prize, this evening's destiny, was at stake. Beast Boy and Starfire were firmly entrenched on one side, demanding a Comedy, while Robin and Cyborg had taken their customary places firmly on the side of the Action flick.
Raven, as usual, headed up the neutral side of the conflict, having found her own entertainment elsewhere. As if to firmly set this decision in mind, she steadfastly ignored the clamour around her, pointedly turning the next page of her horror novel.
Beast Boy took aim, hoping through sheer perserverance and tenacity he might weaken his implacable foes' resolve. This tactic had worked in the past, mainly because his enemies, tired of hearing him complain, would give him his way.
"Look, nobody wants to watch a damn action movie... our LIFE is like an action movie... don'tcha wanna laugh?"
Cyborg crossed his metal arms, his face sternly set. He prepared the next offensive, seeing the weak link on his enemies lines as the one with the sense of fair play, the ever cheerful Starfire.
"Look, its real simple. The last movie we watched was a comedy, so this week, we watch an action flick. I don't see why we're still arguing about this."
Starfire blinked, then looked somewhat shame faced. "That is true... but-"
Robin, sensing a wavering of their enemies resolve, sneakily pressed the attack.
"Come on, Starfire... it's only fair... and I promise we'll pick something with Val Kilmer in it."
Her eyes lit up at the mention of one of her favorite actors. She gave Beast Boy an apologetic look. "Sorry, Friend Beast Boy... I must side with Val-... I mean friends Robin and Cyborg."
Beast Boy put his head in his hands and groaned. "Curse you, Kilmer! Curse youuuu!"
Robin, Cyborg and Starfire went over the selection of movies while Beast Boy sulked. After a moment the three teens managed to make a selection and presented the movie to Beast Boy. He brightened slightly at the title.
"Hey... Tombstone... that's a good one. It's been a while since we saw a western."
"Alright! Let's get this party started!" Cyborg cheered.
"I will procure the corn of popping and the mustard!" Starfire announced happily, while Robin, BB and Cyborg sweatdropped.
Raven closed her book and got up off of her comfy chair, heading towards the elevator without a word.
Robin blinked, the only one who saw her start to leave. "Hey... Raven, where are you going?"
"My room." She replied in her typical monotone.
Cyborg stopped cheering at looked at her. "But Rae... we're gonna watch-"
"I don't like westerns." She interrupted. "And I'm tired. Enjoy your movie."
Any further protest was cut off by the elevator opening and shutting around her.
The Robin, BB, and Cyborg blinked at one another in bemused confusion.
"What was that all about?" Cyborg muttered.
"I guess her Gothness isn't a fan of the cowboys." BB mused.
"Hey, cut it out, BB. Raven's just..." Robin frowned, looking for the right word. "Different. That's all."
"You can say that again." Cyborg added.
"Friends, I bring exploded corn kernals and delicious condiments!" Starfire blinked, coming to a halt. "Did I miss something?"
The other three were quick to refute her, and their evening of Old West goodness began.
She found meditation impossible.
Entering the Mental Fields was normally an effortless practice for her. She hardly ever needed the mirror anymore. Today, however, the fields would not come to her, her Ka was unfocused, scattered and purposeless.
She sighed and opened her amethyst eyes. An outside observer would notice that she was not focused on the world around her, rather, she was focused on a world long past. Her friends would be worried about her, she knew. She'd been somewhat rude in her retreat. Of course she couldn't tell them why she disliked Western movies.
They hit a little too close to home.
Home of course, being long lost Azarath.
-There's no point in dwelling on it.- She berated herself. -What's gone is gone.-
Still, the thoughts would not leave her be.
She was homesick.
-Ten years ago, in a place lost forever-
She concentrated, weaving the rounded stone between her fingers. Her eyes were closed, her mouth slightly open as she concentrated on reaching out, focusing her Ka, making them the vehicle of her entrance to the Mental Fields.
A voice shook her slightly, her fingers faltered. She did not lose the stone, but her teacher was experienced enough to catch her mistake.
"Angel... you must focus. Ka is law, and law is order. Your thoughts must be ordered to enter the Fields."
"I am trying, Brother Simon. It's not easy." She countered, slight irritation in her voice.
"Anger is counter to balance, Angel. Focus is needed."
"I understand Brother Simon." She did try, she really did. Of course, her training was odd. It did not come naturally to her, who's mother was the most powerful of the Spirit caste. Rachel Roth, daughter of Arella, had no choice in the matter however, as the unique training of the Apocryphal Knight caste was of the utmost importance to her, and subsequently, her world's, wellbeing. So she found herself learning the way of the Ka, and the opening of the Mental Fields.
She dropped the rounded stone and lowered her hands in disappointment, opening her eyes to stare at Simon with the abject misery only an eight year old denied can produce.
"I can't do it. I just wasn't meant to do it, Simon."
The young Apocryphal Knight raised one silver eyebrow, his arms crossed, his position one of extreme relaxation, at least, to one unfamiliar with the Gunslingers. A Gunslinger was never at rest, rather, he was a coiled spring, or more aptly, a cocked hammer. Her eyes fell on the tools of his trade, the beautiful and ornate Sacred Guns on each hip, their runes and swirling, artful etching gleaming in the late morning sunlight. There was an air of danger to him, to all of them, and yet Rachel was not afraid.
She had lived amongst the Gunslingers her whole short life.
Simon more than most.
She was far more mature than most gave her small, fragile frame credit for. She could not be expected to understand what a burden her lessons must have been on the young Knight, himself only recently released from his Apprenticeship, yet understand she did. She knew he had better things, more important duties than the minding of a single, half Tainted little girl.
Yet mind her he did.
He did because Arella had ordered it so, through the medium of Brother Gideon, and the First Gun was not to be disobeyed, certainly not by a fledgling Knight who had only recently earned his red gauntlet. When the child was placed into Simon's care, he had admirably suppressed his own irritation at the burden, although he had to have been at least somewhat upset. As an Apocryphal Knight it was his duty to seek out a Spirit Guide amongst the Spirit Caste, one to whom he would be bound and to whom he would confess his sins, and be absolved or given penance. Like his matched set of Sacred Guns, without a match among the Spirit Caste he was Ka unfocused, a set of Guns without a cause.
Still, the duty was not so bad. Despite her father's blood, Rachel was a remarkably consciencous child. Though the burdens laid upon her were many, she had endured them all without complaint or shirking. Her determination not to give into her origins both awed and shamed him. He resolved that he could do no less, and so their association had begun.
He knelt down in front of her and picked up the stone she had dropped. "Do you know why the stone is a part of the exercise, Angel?" His pale blue eyes focused on her amethyst ones, and she found herself drawn into them.
"No..."
He dropped the stone into her palm and presented his own gauntleted hands, one red, the other black. Loops adorned the backs of his hands, a double set of loops at the base of each gauntlet, ringing them. Each loop held a single bullet, their brass casings winking slightly in the sunlight. He crossed his hands, one over the other, his long fingers working dextrously, inhumanly fast, and shells began to empty from the loops, three from the gauntlet beneath into the opposite fingers, a bullet between each set of fingers, index and middle, middle and ring, ring and pinkie. The gauntlets crossed again, this time the other hands set of fingers took three bullets. Her eyes widened as she watched the strange procession of bullets dancing in his fingers, twisting and turning, the light dancing off the brass. It was hypnotizing, watching them move in an endless circle between his hands as they weaved back and forth, his hands crossing one over the other each time.
She felt herself being drawn into them, all the frustration, the doubt and annoyance at being unable to reach the fields slowly leaking away, until...
She widened her eyes. "I can see it..."
"What do you see?" He whispered.
"I see the Ka... I see them, my emotions..."
"You look upon the Mental Fields, little Angel." His voice had the faint air of pride to it. "Perhaps all you need is focus. I will talk with your mother about constructing a Charm you might use to aid you, until you can reach the Fields on your own."
She wrinkled her nose slightly in distaste. "You don't need a Charm."
He chuckled slightly. "I have been trained in this matter since I could hold stones in my hands, Angel. I have the advantage of time on you."
"Did you drop the stones?" She asked, curiously.
"Of course. Many times." He sighed at the memory, his face twisting with sardonic humor. "Many more times than my Master wished I would. I have a hard head you see Angel, and it took him a long time to pound the lessons into me."
She blinked, trying to imagine the reserved and composed Brother Simon dropping a stone and receiving a clout on the head for it. She found herself suppressing a smile at the thought.
"Hmm... yes, it is funny. Fortunately your head is not so hard. The lessons soak in easily, eh?" He chuckled slightly at her displeased expression.
"My head is NOT soft!"
Simon's grin disappeared suddenly, his face went still.
Caught up in her annoyance, it took her a moment to catch his change of expression, but when she did, her breath caught in her throat.
"Simon... what..."
"Shh, Angel..." He whispered, standing slowly.
Then she heard it, a distant pealing, like a mournful sigh ringing out over the valleys and hills. She felt the blood drain from her face.
"The Bell..." She whispered.
"Aye." He was also pale, but grim as death. He took her hand quickly, startling her. In that sudden contact her empathy connected them, she could feel his suppressed fear, as well as a strange desperation and fierceness.
"Come, little Angel. We must fly."
They ran quickly down the hillside, her small feet unable to keep up with his loping, booted strides. She started to trip, a slighly squeak of dismay escaping her. In response he picked her up in his arms, before she could fall, cradling her against his chest as he ran. The scents she associated with him, leather, oil, steel, gunpowder and horse reached her nostrils. She suppressed the urge to sneeze.
His heart thundered with a terrible rhythm, fast and sure, in anticipation of what was to come.
The Mourner's Bell tolled for only one event, had only one purpose. The Veil of Worlds was being sundered.
Her father was coming.
They reached his snow white horse, then. She looked up from her grazing and flicked her ears at him as he approached, whickering slightly as he came near. She could sense something was wrong, and it made her slightly skittish. He calmed her with meaningless words, setting Rachel upon his saddle carefully before vaulting up into the saddle himself.
"Ayah!" He barked, his hands on the reins, his body crouched over Rachel protectively.
The horse bolted forward, spurred by his actions, and the pair of them thundered down the rocky path that lead up to their secluded hill. The trees flew past in blurs of green, and she found herself becoming slightly frightened. Simon was pushing his mount hard, their speed was dangerous. One misstep or miscalculation on his or his mount's part, and the two of them would be dashed to ribbons.
The white towers of Azarath appeared before them with sickening haste, growing larger on the horizon as they neared. The midday sun had faded, growing red and cold as they moved. With horror, Rachel watched as a darkness appeared on the far horizon, a sickening, oily, oozing shadow that blackened the sky and turned the day into a sort of uneasy twilight. The citizens of Azarath looked with fear to the sky, to the coming of Wrath. As Simon and his ward approached with a thundering of hooves they parted like startled chickens, darting out of the way of the fast approaching Knight.
They reached the Temple gates, and the Apocryphal Knights on guard there took one look at Simon thundering close then opened the gates with haste, pale and worried faces streaking past as they darted through the gates. He practically threw the two of them off his horse, tossing the reins carelessly to a stablehand who stumbled close. She stumbled along with him, his grip on her small hand almost painfully tight.
His heavy boots made distinct clapping noises as he moved purposefully through the shining marble halls of her home, the Temple of Spirit.
They burst into the main hall and Rachel's eyes widened at the sight of so many Apocryphal Knights. The dark clothed, deadly looking Knights, male and female knelt as one in a line, their gauntlets crossed at the wrist, gun barrels against each shoulder. Among them moved those Spirit Caste who'd been paired with each Knight. Whispered conversations, confessions of sin and fear along with the comfort that only a Spirit Caste can provide came from each pair.
They were preparing for war.
At the head of these the grizzled and imposing form of Brother Gideon, First Gun of the Apocryphal Knights, rose from his own kneeling position, turning easily, his one chocolate brown eye searching out over his gathered Brothers and Sisters. At his side stood the white robed form of Rachel's mother, her face full of barely hidden fear and no small amount of sadness. She brightened slightly when she caught sight of the pair of them.
"Simon! Thank the gods you have arrived..." She started.
Simon stopped and knelt. "Forgive my absence, First Gun. I came as soon as I heard the Bell."
Arella knelt with Rachel, taking her in her arms. "Are you alright, Rachel? I was worried."
"I'm fine, mother. Brother Simon was riding so fast, please don't be angry at him. I was the one who wanted to get away from everything."
Gideon and Arella shared a glance born of shared intimacy and long association. Gideon shook his head easily. "What is done is done. There is no time for recriminations or accusations any longer. We must hurry. Wrath draws closer, even now the skies darken. We Gunslingers must prepare the defense."
Simon nodded resolutely, sparing no further time on apologies. He stood easily, turning to leave Rachel to her mother.
Arella quickly handed Rachel to another waiting Priest, the elderly fellow leading her away down the corridor, despite her protests. Her cries began to get slightly desperate, and Arella shushed her with a single pained glance.
"Rachel, go with Thaddeus and hush now... I will be along shortly. We must prepare."
"But-"
"Listen to your mother, Angel." Simon said sharply, his tone stopping Rachel's protests. Arella and Gideon shared another glance, this one full of pain and no small amount of regret and sadness. Rachel soon disappeared from view.
"Simon..." Arella's whisper caught his ears as he began to join the ranks of the Apocryphal Knights, he stopped and turned slightly, blinking his confusion.
"Yes Priestess?"
"I am sorry we left you no time to be shriven, young Gunslinger. It was a terrible thing for us to have done. I had hoped..." She sighed. "It matters not. Kneel, Sir Knight."
He choked slightly, looking at Gideon with a slightly pained expression. "Priestess, I cannot... Brother Gideon is.."
Gideon shook his head slowly, his mustache twitching slightly as he spoke. "Do as she says, boy. Now is not the time for propriety. There will be no other time."
Simon chewed on this for a moment, considering what was happening, then obedience long ingrained in him forced him to his knees. He bowed his head, his Sacred Guns crossing in the age old position of confession.
"Forgive me, Priestess, for I have known fear and pride. My arrogance knows no bounds, that I tried to teach the Mental Fields to one of the high caste."
"You did so under our instruction, Brother. There is no sin in obedience. What is your fear?"
He paused a moment, his eyes closed with pain. "I fear death, mistress. I fear for Azarath. I fear the coming of Wrath."
She sighed. "All men fear, Simon. We strive to rise above it. Recite the Litany of the Gun, once, and be forgiven.
He nodded dutifully and proceeded to recite, his voice strong and sure with the long practiced words.
"Wage war against Tyrants, so people are free to make of themselves what they will."
"At all times, protect your Brethren. Honor them, aid them, bury them under the blessed rites as you can, avenge their deaths where you can, as you can. Deliver their guns to their apprentices or masters, that they may continue to aid the cause."
"Let all who are to die by your hand, sense clearly their death in you. Do not kill from hiding; do not shoot someone in the back, who was not first facing you."
"Grant mercy to the meek."
"Grant death to those who ask it of you."
"Suffer no soul to live beyond its body. Suffer no body to live beyond its soul."
"Avenge your own dishonor."
"Should any one of your Brethren fall, and turn against you, destroy them without delay."
"Do not fall willingly into death, but do not crawl from death for the pleasure of others."
Arella nodded quietly, her voice now hoarse with emotion. She knew what was to come, they all did. All they could do was buy time.
"Rise shriven, Gunslinger. Your conscience is clean."
He stood quietly, holstering his guns and raising the hood of his cloak as he did so. They were all in positions of such waiting, the Gunslingers filing out of the main hall into the streets of Azarath.
Arella and Gideon looked at one another as Simon rose, so many things unsaid between them. Wordlessly she began to cry, tears sliding down her cheeks. Gideon stepped close impulsively and she hugged him, the two of them caught up in emotions they had suppressed for so long.
Simon's eyes widened at the display, then he turned away, the line of his jaw clenched slightly. It was not unheard of for pairs to harbor such feelings for one another, but it was frowned upon. It clouded purpose and scattered Ka. Out of respect for the two highest of their respective orders, he politely ignored them until they could regain their composure from their lapse.
"Arella..." Gideon started.
"I know." She whispered.
He released her then and stepped back, his eye slightly misted. "Keep her safe, Arella. Send her away. I swear upon my guns that we will fight to the last man. If all that we can provide you is time this day, then you shall have all of it that you need."
She nodded, turning quickly lest he see her stricken expression. Gideon watched her disappear before turning to Simon, pulling his own cloak up as well.
"Are you prepared, Brother?" Simon asked as Gideon passed, matching his leaders strides easily.
"No." He said gruffly. "Nothing could have prepared any of us for this. I will do what must be done."
Simon nodded, his own heart full of sadness and tension.
They did not look back.
The citizens of Azarath watched as the procession of Gunslingers filed among them, their booted feet filling the air with the sound of purpose. Several of the citizens bowed, whispering prayers for the resolute defenders as they silently made their way to the great steps which lead to the gates of Azarath. A cold wind tugged at their cloaks, and several shrieked exhultations of fear and pleas for aid in this dark hour from the terrified citizenry tore at all of them. For centuries the Apocryphal Knights had defended this city against all who would move against her.
Centuries of honor and pride, and the spilling of blood. All of it coming to this last desperate stand.
They formed ranks, tiered by the very nature of the steps upon which they stood. The gates creaked behind them, then clanged shut with terrible finality. The shadows grew long, the grey, unnatural twilight widened into dark pitch. A shadow crept closer, a tide of darkness, and red eyes watched them from it.
Simon stood next to Gideon on the last tier, flexing his hands slightly. He narrowed his eyes at the half formed demons that roiled in that cloud of ink approaching, flashes of red lightning appearing in the distance, as more terrible horrors advanced behind the tide.
No words were spoken, and yet as one the Gunslingers threw back their hoods, their hands waiting inches from the holstered instruments of death at their hips. As one they waited, each face, old or young, scarred or fair, male or female, was alike in their resolution.
The city would not fall. They would hold it up on their shoulders. The city would stand.
They would not abide its fall.
The first shrieking, howling wave of monsters errupted from the gloom, tearing across the distance in frightening leaps and bounds. As one the sound of a thousand guns sliding clear of well oiled leather errupted, hands coming into a cross at the wrist, guns pointed at the first tide of Hate.
The sound of angels clashing. Of thunder booming, the war cry of an angry god. The guns errupted as one, fire and smoke blasting forth.
The first wave of demons faltered, then shattered, thrown back to be torn to shreds as the next wave cut through them in their haste to reach mortal flesh. Black blood spilled upon the white marble, staining it with pools of inky darkness.
The hail of fire never ended, as they began the dance of bullets through their fingers, their hands coming in that weaving dance that Simon had shown Rachel earlier, its true purpose coming clear. Fingers removed empty shells and replaced them with fresh shells plucked from the gauntlet loops, then into the guns, thumb and trigger finger emptying them as they crossed again. Spent shells rained down with a merry tinkling noise at their booted feet, and smoke rose slowly from their ranks, obscuring them save for the flashes announcing the new bits of lead being added to the fray.
The demons fell, the tide faltered, but the press of bodies thrust them closer and closer. The first rank was reached, and now the screams of men and woman joined the wails of the Damned. The tidy, even ranks of the Gunslingers became a chaos of men and women whirling and dancing, firing as targets came upon them, or striking with the butt of a gun here and there as the enemy came too close. Unstoppable they were, gods among men, and yet they were only human, only mortal. Here and there a brother or sister fell beneath the ravening horde, their cries mercifully short as their lives were ripped from them.
Still the guns blazed, the screams continued. The line held.
Rapidly the loops emptied of bullets, those on the back lines paused now to reach for the bullets on their belts, rapidly filling the loops on their gauntlets. Those beneath them, unable to spare a moment from the slaughter, were forced to turn to hand to hand, gun becoming a different kind of weapon. The heavy single action revolvers fell like clubs, the butt of them smashing limbs and skulls, booted feet twisting and turning, arching up to strike and kill, every body part, elbows, knees, foreheads, everything becoming something with which to draw blood, with which to kill. They twisted, they danced, they laid about them with righteous fury, teeth bared, eyes flashing.
They screamed, they bled, they fell.
The first rank disappeared, then the second, then the third. The invaders were halfway up the step, and Gideon and Simon found themselves cut off from the rest, back to back, one reloading as the other danced around him, his own guns blazing, barrels near glowing from the heat. A circle appeared around them, a wall of dead, two, and then three, and then four bodies deep.
Their Brethren slowly fell, but the First Gun and the least of their Order stood resolute, turning, twisting, guns blazing, death flying.
The press slowed, and then stopped. They stood side by side, chests heaving, surrounded by demons, the smoke oozing in almost palpable streams from the barrels of their pistols.
A cracking sound caught their attention. The demons faces twisted in terror and panic, scattering away from the doom amongst them.
Someone was clapping.
They turned together and saw what was before them. A towering red figure, four gleaming eyes staring down at them, mouth twisted in a mockery of humour. His clawed hands came together in a mocking salute of their skill and bravery.
"Well done, little gunmen. I see that peace has not erroded the skills honed in my first attempt. I am pleased that my absence has not turned the wolves to sheep."
Gideon focused his one burning eye on the Demon Lord and scowled. "Did you think Azarath would forget you, Demon? She stands proud, to spite you. Turn away or be destroyed."
The demon's four eyes widened and his mouth split into a nasty grin.
"Gideon, you still draw breath? How unlikely, old man. It has been a long time. How is Arella... does she talk about me often?"
Gideon's face went pale and his drew his lips back in a silent snarl. "She has forgotten you, Demon. Your filth could not touch her. She remains pure."
Trigon raised one eyebrow and sardonically chuckled. "Heh. I saw the gleam in your eye, mortal, when you looked upon her. Her purity is something of a lost cause, I'd wager, and it was not I who sullied her most, I think."
Gideon growled, and Simon stared up defiantly, his pistols pointed at the demons face. "Spare us your lies, Father of Wrath. You will find nothing but death here."
Trigon chuckled, unmoved by their defiance. "Oh I agree young wolfling... I forsee much... Death... in the coming hours. The hour of man has faded, Gunslingers. Lower your weapons and I shall grant you a quick and merciful passing. I am late for my daughter's birthday, and it's not right for a daddy to disappoint his little girl."
Simon lost it then, the hammers of his weapons coming back. "Filth! She's nothing LIKE you. Curse you, Wrathbringer!" His guns roared defiant counterpoint to his words, his face lit by the fires of his weapons and the fury he felt. The bullets slammed into Trigun's face, bouncing off and whistling in random directions as they struck. The demon recoiled slightly at the impact, not truely hurt, but stung nonetheless. He roared.
"Impertinance! I will destroy you!"
"Simon! We must buy time! Do not-" Gideon shrill cry came too late, and was broken up by the roar.
Seeing the time for words slip through their fingers, Gideon gritted his teeth and turned his own guns to the demon, letting fly with his own barrage. The demon twisted away from these bullets, roaring and bring one massive fist up, smashing it down at the pair. They danced away, whirling in opposite directions as the mass of demonic flesh shattered the steps on which they stood, sending slivers of marble scattering outward. Simon darted forward, his booted feet nimbly dancing up the demon's arm, his guns flaring as he moved, until he was practically on the demons shoulder firing both weapons into his face. From these blows the demon bled slightly, his mouth open in a roar of anger.
The demon reached up and caught the squirming Gunslinger in one clawed hand, shaking the wits out of him before tossing him at the wall. It cracked in a spiderweb formation, a depression forming in it before the stunned young Knight collapsed onto the steps, his guns hanging from nerveless hands only by sheer force of prior training.
A Gunslinger released his weapons only when holstered or in death.
The demon's eyes widened and he looked upon the fallen Gunslinger in distaste, ignoring the flashes from Gideon's own pistols. "I'll teach you a lession, insect."
He opened his mouth wide and a flash of blue light errupted from it, streaking towards the fallen Knight. Simon's eyes widened as his doom approached, he tried to pull himself to his feet but he was hurt, stunned, clumsy and slow...
"NOOO!" Gideon's shout preceded his darting charge by only a hair's breadth. He rushed in front of the blast, his cloak streaming behind him like a penant. It struck him and he glowed a sickly blue for a moment before collapsing onto his hands and knees.
"Gideon!" Simon recovered and ran to the First Gun's side, a sickly greyness advancing up the stricken Knight's extremities as he gasped in shock and pain.
"Simon... I can't move my..."
"Gideon! Fight it! Fight!" Simon put his hands on the First Gun's shoulders. The grey advanced up the man's limbs and onto his trunk, Simon felt the flesh harden and turn to stone under his palms and moved them away, his face full of horror. Gideon's mouth opened to say something, his eye found Simon's...
And then the single warm brown orb turned grey and lifeless, cold as the stone it had become.
Simon fell backwards, skittering back in shock.
"No..."
The Demon chuckled. "Ha ha ha ha ha... I must applaud you, that was a fine show. Foolish little insects... you can't stop me! You heroics grant you nothing! Your stand here was empty and without meaning! See the fate of men! This Doom was upon you as soon as my daughter first drew breath! So it is Written! Ha ha ha ha HA HA HA HA!"
The demon brought down one huge fist, smashing the statue of Gideon to pebbles. Simon arched upward, screaming in rage, his pistols up again. He fired again and again into the hateful form of the Demon Lord in front of him, but the damnable thing just continued to laugh, casting the blue rays around him, the fallen bodies of his brothers and sisters turning to stone around him. Still he fired, his face a mask of hatred and rage, unknowningly fueling the demon's glee. He continued long after the hammers clicked down on empty chambers.
The demon threw forth one last beam of blue, and Simon's transformation began, his limbs stiffening to stone. Still he continued, until his fingers could no longer pull the triggers, his last conscious expression one of defiance and fury.
His pale blue eyes turned to cold, grey granite, his silver hair dulled and turned to ashen gray.
The Gunslingers fell silent. The demons danced and chortled in glee around the huge form of their master, smashing the various statues to flinders, tossing bits of rock and pieces of their own fallen brood at one another in glee. One of the more bold specimans picked up half of the shattered head of the First Gun, waving it above its own visage in a dance of freakish celebration before casting the stone down upon the skull of one of it's fellows, both of the objects shattering from the impact.
Another reached for one of the limbs of the grim statue of Simon, preparing to create a club for its own amusement. A single huge fist pulverized the demon into the ground, smashing it with a squelch of black blood and pulped flesh. The demons stopped and stared at their Lord in terror, rolling and gibbering, abasing themselves before him.
"No... that one remains... a lesson to those who would defy me. Let him look forever upon the ruins of his kingdom and despair. Let this be the fate of all who would defy Trigon! Lord of Scath! Harbinger of Wrath! Prince of Hatred!"
He turned his gaze to the gate and it shattered in a hail of blackened iron and red hot shards. The shrieking of the city's citizens began, as off in the distance a shooting star arched up from the Temple into the night sky.
Trigon's four eyes followed it and he grunted, a scowl appearing on his face. "Arella... you ungrateful bitch... so that was what this whole pointless endeavor was about."
He howled, tearing down the street, destorying buildings as he came. "No matter, witch! She is mine! I will have her one day! You have only doomed another world to this fate!"
"I am Hatred, and I shall not be denied!"
The burning began. The dying commenced.
The death of Azarath was assured.
-Present Day, the bones of Azarath-
Silent. Dark. Cold.
The long cold, shattered, blackened ruins of a gate, the blackened, cracked and in some places melted stone of a once beautiful city.
Nothing stirred, save a cold, deathly wind listlessly stirring the ashes. Here and there foul things skittered into the shadows, a cold black rain fell from a bleeding, gloomy sky.
Endless night, unending dark.
No color save shades of grey, of black, of midnight. All of the green growing things long since dried up and turned to dust, or withered and become poisonous, twisted... mockeries of life, full of hatred and despair.
A lone statue, weathered and strangely untouched amidst the ruins, alone on a blackened and twisted stair way. The rubble at its feet littered with the still barely recognizable pieces of other such statues, forgotten and alone.
Somewhere in amidst the rubble, a single disonant peal of a bell... calling the long lost citizens to a safety that was a lie.
A curious light haloed the statue, a warm, white light. The dark things nearby skittered away in fear, no blaspemous eyes able to bear the purity of it.
It had taken a long time... so long to marshal the power necessary for this last, desperate act.
She wasn't even sure it had a purpose anymore.
For a long time it was touch and go. The foulness that had encased the noble soul in darkness was powerful, and she so weak, so frail in her tattered state. It took all of her hoarded and jealously guarded strength to enact the process, but once begun, it could not be stopped. He would either be purified, or lost forever.
The light faded, the statue twisted slightly...
Then a figure collapsed onto its hands and knees, shaking, contorted with disorientation and weakness. Guns held in anger for what seemed like an eternity collapsed to the blackened marble, clattering as they fell.
A long suppressed cry of rage and despair escaped lips that had been frozen in an endless snarl for over a decade.
It came out as a hoarse, whispery sound of grief, like the last, silent, unheard cry of an old man denied the company of loved ones in his final hour. The figure rocked back and forth on his knees, gauntleted hands, loops empty of bullets, covering the face, tears staining the well worn leather.
He rocked back and forth in misery, his hands falling to his sides, his unseeing eyes turned to the weeping sky. Cold black rain mixed with his tears, hiding them, the foul fluid stinging his pale blue eyes.
He did not care.
"Siiimmooonnnn." A whisper reached his ears. He didn't react.
"Siiimmmonnn." The voice was repeated. He started, looking about him wildly.
He saw nothing. Nothing but devestation and endless darkness. His home was dead, long forgotten.
The misery flooded him again, but this time he closed his eyes against it, struggling to reach the Mental Fields. Time later for pain. Time later for grief and shame. For misery and the sting of failure. He forced himself to calmness, locking his emotions inside his breast tightly.
A worn and weathered Simon Artaine stood, drawing up his cloak's hood against the cold and the wet, his empty guns holstered once again. His eyes searched the landscape carefully, but he could find no sign of the speaker. He looked with suppressed sadness at the broken bodies of his fallen Brothers and sisters. Quietly he stepped through their remains, singing just barely under his breath the last rites.
There was nothing more he could do for them.
After a time he picked his way through the shattered gates, a stricken disbelieving expression faintly visible on his face as he witnessed the destruction in Trigon's passage and long habitation. The Azarath he had known was gone, forever shattered under the assault of implacable hatred. With her defenders slaughtered, the citizens had been without a prayer, without a chance for survival.
Even with her defenders, she had never had a chance, he realized dully.
The worn and well picked bones of the fallen littered the streets, huddled in houses and near the ancient, burned out shells of churches. Most heart rending were the tiny bones sheltered amongst the larger forms of their fallen parents, sheltered in those last moments of terror.
Even the children were not spared.
He made his way to one of the churches, the ancient, blackened and crumbling wooden door collapsing inward at his touch. As he suspected, the church was long defiled, the symbols cracked and crumbled, or covered with strange, blasphemous alien runes that made the eye ache to look at them. He clenched his teeth against the blasphemy and pushed at the altar stone, his nimble fingers finding the catches hidden there that would release the stone from its mounting.
Slowly, with the resistance of machinery long since decayed and rusted from neglect, the stone moved aside.
Hidden inside was a small battered metal box, its lid sealed over with wax and affixed with the holy seal of Azarath. Saying a quick prayer, Simon lifted the box out of its hole and broke the seal.
The box opened easily revealing a another small case and four wooden boxes marked with the symbol of the Apocryphal Knights. The case, he knew, contained the holy oils and blessed tools necessary to care for the Sacred Guns properly. This he slipped into an inside pocket of his cloak.
The wooden boxes he opened, revealing the rows and rows of shiny brass shells. He removed these quickly, his nimble fingers filling the twin gun belts around his waist, all the way around, then the loops at his wrists, then the loops at the backs of his hands. Finally he filled each gun, and returned them to their holsters. This task completed, he filled his pockets with all of the remaining bullets from the boxes, before returning the empty boxes to the case and returning the case to the hole, shutting the altar again.
He destroyed the marks of his passing, and strode out of the ruined church no less burdened by fate, but more confidently now that his stores were full.
He surveyed the destruction, searching for the strange whispering voice which had called him out.
A disonant pealing again, the sound of a Bell cracked and useless, toning out. He started at the sudden sound, then his eyes searched among the dust, falling upon the distant, blackened tower that once held the Bell of Mourning.
A tower which had apparently long since lost its top, the belltower and the bell missing.
He narrowed his eyes at this, then shrugged and picked his way cautiously through the rubble toward the distant, shattered remnant.
The Bell tolled again, calling him onward.
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The door was missing, the tiles that made of the floor of the tower long since cracked and shattered. Here and there the basement could be seen through the floorboards underneath the tiles, and he stepped over them cautiously, his ears straining for every creak and groan of stressed timber. He looked upward.
The sky appeared dull and lifeless, clearly visible through the gaping hole where the bell used to sit. A slight pattering of rain descended upon him, filtered by the wreckage.
A flutter of movement caught his gaze and he turned suddenly, guns appearing as if by magic into his hands. The tail end of a white cloak flashed for a moment, then slipped up the ricketty stairs, hidden from view by the tall guiding rail wall.
"Wait!" He called, his guns going back into their holsters with practiced ease. He held out a hand, then staggered towards the retreating form.
One booted foot crashed through the floorboards and he fell to one knee, cursing and swearing. He jerked his foot free and sprinted over the cracked tiles for the stairs, reaching their base in only a couple of steps.
He peered up the stairs. The glimpse of that cloak and one soft white slipper disppearing around the curve of the stairs spurred him onward.
He vaulted up the steps quickly, avoiding the cracked and missing steps more by luck than any conscious effort. Despite his haste, despite the speed at which he moved, the figure retreating from him remained frustratingly out of sight, never further, nor closer than it had first appeared. Finally, the stairway at an end, Simon found himself on a ragged wooden platform several hundred feet above the tower floor, the open space around him.
He gasped for breath and stared around him, catching no sight of the white presence.
His eyes fell on the landscape and he stopped transfixed.
Destruction as far as the eye could see, distant storm clouds roiling, red lightning flashing out in the distance, continuing the destruction still. The barren hillside, the blackened, ruined buildings.
His eyes fell on the Temple of Spirit, and widened in shock.
The building was twisted, ruined and foul with darkness. Her gates, in the distance, were shattered, lying broken. Her arches and spires long since decayed and fallen like the hopes of her people. A dark malevolent cloud of ink roiled over it, four huge eyes searching the landscape with malignant satisfaction. Simon's eyes narrowed sullenly, his teeth clenched, his hands flexed.
"Trigon..." He hissed.
He took an unconscious step forward, than another, before a whispery, familiar voice stopped him cold.
"Seek thee to fall willingly into death, Gunslinger?"
He started, turning with sudden desperation, shock apparent on his face. A white cloaked stranger stood before him, hood up and face lowered. It was not possible to see the face of the one hidden, nor its hands, which were held together, hidden in the folds. The form was female, but the volumnous cloak hid any further detail.
"Who are you, who treads this realm of ghosts and dust?" He asked warily, his hands on the butts of his guns.
"A spectre, Simon Artaine, last of the Apocryphal Knights, last of the Gunslingers. A memory of former glory."
His breath hissed inward, he knew this voice. "You can't be... you must have died..." He breathed.
"Indeed I did, Gunslinger. Indeed I did." Arella lifted her face and drew back her hood, his startled eyes falling upon the ruin that was once great beauty.
Time had twisted Azarath. It had not been kind to her, either.
The wizened thing before him bore little resemblance to the High Priestess he remembered, the flesh long since gone from the high cheekbones. The skin was tight as leather against the ruins, holed here and there, skull-like grin visible through the wreckage of drawn back, tattered lips. The hair was long, falling contrastingly against the decayed flesh in still beautiful lengths. The hands which drew back the hood were but skeletal claws, bones clearly visible.
Worst of all were the eyes. Still perfect, still full of humanity and sadness... an aching reminder of what once was.
Simon recoiled in horror, turning his gaze away from that ruin.
"Merciful Gods, Priestess... this is... this is..."
"Abomination?" She said, pulling her hood back up to hide the decay. "Of course. Punishment for defying Trigon. He was ever one to find that punishment which most stung. To walk amongst the dead of my people, unable to ease their passage, a corpse myself..."
"Yes... this is Trigon's work." She barked a short derisive laugh, no humor in it at all. "You expected mercy?"
He looked at her again, his expression pitying but wary, nonetheless. "Of course not."
He sighed. "All hope is lost, then. Look at our home, Arella. Azarath is no more." He turned back to the roiling cloud that was the Lord of Hatred. "I failed you. All of you. We failed." He turned his head slightly, gazing at her sidelong, his expression sad.
"I thank you for releasing me from my imprisonment, you who were once one I held esteemed, but you must know I cannot allow your half existence to continue. Suffer no-"
"Suffer no soul to live beyond its body. Suffer no body to live beyond its soul." She interrupted, her hands clasped in front of her. "I know well the Litany, young Knight. I expected no less, indeed I long for it. Still, once you have fulfilled your duty, what then?"
He sighed. "What else is there to do? I shall bring war to the Tyrant, and he will surely end me this time. Still, I have no other-"
"She still lives, Simon." Arella said quietly.
He stopped, his expression turning to stone. "What?"
"My daughter is still alive. She-"
"How COULD you!" He roared, his guns lifting in the blink of an eye. His eyes were full of hatred. "You KNOW how much he covets her... what he will do! You have DAMNED her, Arella! You could have saved her, could have ended her suffering before he could get to her, but you allowed-"
"SILENCE, YOUNGLING!" The hissed voice drove him to one knee, his face turning pale under that assault. "Dead I may be, but I am STILL your better, and you will not speak to me in arrogance of things of which you remain ignorant."
He blinked.
She settled slightly, sighing. "Do you think I would allow him to get his hands on her? Of course not. I knew we had lost... Gideon... all of the others knew. As soon as Trigon was able to rent the Veil, all hope for Azarath was lost."
His face turned to despair. "Then why?"
"There was more at stake than the fate of Azarath, no matter how dear it was. Like it or not, my daughter is a portal, a doorway through which Trigon can wreak his vengeance upon other worlds. Killing her would have only doomed another innocent to accept Trigon's foul seed. He will not be so easily denied."
He looked down, chastened.
"Your conviction does you credit, young Knight. Your heart is in the right place, it always was. Even as an apprentice, your Ka remained the most pure, the most focused. It was hoped..." She sighed. "It was hoped that you would one day ascend to the rank of First Gun."
His features twisted with disbelief. "Me? But I am... was... not even blooded... not even paired. How could I have..."
A small bit of humour escaped her. She chuckled very slightly. "Did you think your guidance of my daughter was mere happenstance, Gunslinger? Even then, you were chosen. She was too young to accept the bonds of course, but linked you remained. There would have been no escape for you."
He reeled at this. A thousand clamoured protests flooded his head. "But... she was but a child! How could... I mean... But I-"
"Age matters little. Ka bonds were it will, destinies are chosen beyond mortal ken, young Gunslinger. Perhaps the gods forsaw this doom, perhaps they were hedging their bets, I know not. Mark my words, Gunslinger. Time has passed during your imprisionment. Much time, I am afraid. My daughter has had to fend for herself for far too long."
"She's here!" He asked, disbelief apparent.
"Of course not." She scoffed. "As Trigon rent the veil, so we too, have commited this sin. It was our last desperate option, the last effort of a dying race."
Despair filled his features again. "Then she IS lost... At least she is safe-"
"Have you not been listening, Gunslinger? It was I who released you, think you I would do so to no effect other than to prolong your suffering? I have waited too long, marshalled my strength for far too long, to let you waste what I have done. Mark my words, Gunslinger, what I have done to you is far worse than anything Trigon committed, to my shame. I would have left you eternally still, had there been any other way."
He looked confused. "I do not understand... What sin? I feel fine..."
She shook her head, sadness in her voice. "You will learn, Gunslinger. For now we must hurry. There is little time. Already He searches for you, and this time He will not hesitate to destroy you. Already He reaches out across the gulf of worlds, His influence in my daughter is growing. She NEEDS you, Gunslinger... needs you more than I can bear. For this, I would sacrifice a hundred of you, a thousand. I have only one, and it will have to do."
He watched her, his features set, stony as he considered her words. Then he knelt, his guns forming the cross of confession. He lowered his head. "I swear it upon my guns, High Priestess. I will guard her with my life. I will not allow that foulness to touch her, that destroyed my homeland."
"Done!" She cried. "I bind you to your oath, swear that you will hold it above all other things... above even the Litany."
He balked. "I cannot... I dare not..."
"SWEAR IT!" She hissed, her skull inches from his face. He paled, then gazed into her anguished, still human eyes. "Swear it, or all is lost!"
"I swear." He whispered hoarsely.
She backed away, allowing him to regain his feet. "Time grows shorter still. Fullfill your duties, Gunslinger. Slay that soul which hath outlived its body. Send me home..."
He raised one pistol slowly, focusing his Ka upon it. The Mental Fields jumped to clarity and he infused the bullet with its energy.
"I have bound my soul to a spell of transit. It is linked to the world my daughter has fled to. When you strike, the spell will take the last of my energies and open a portal, a conduit between your guns and the new world. You MUST open the way, it will last only for a heartbeat. Strike true, Gunslinger, it must end with a single shot. Protect my daughter, tell her that I love her. Remember your Oath!"
The hammer pulled back, the shadows loomed. "Gods' speed, sister. The Fields await." He intoned.
"Do it!" She whispered.
A crack of thunder.
An empty cloak folded upon the ground, smoke rising from it.
The smoke coalesced then fled into the barrel of the gun in an odd reverse of normality. Simon raised the gun high in the air, then brought it down slowly, tearing a hole in the fabric of reality itself.
He was sucked through in an instant, the rush of air stirring the cloak on the ground and throwing up a thin patina of dust.
The hole disappeared with a sudden crack of displaced air.
The dust settled... the cloak was lifted by the wind and slowly fluttered down from the tower, the only hint of movement.
It was soon darkened and stained by the rain, before long it matched the landscape.
Death returning to Azarath, after a brief respite.
Raven, once known in another life, another world, awoke to a sudden surge of warmth within her. She blinked, casting outward with her power for the source of the unsettling feeling. As soon as it appeared, it was gone, leaving her as cold and empty as she usually was.
She settled back down, her amethyst eyes troubled.
"Something is coming." She whispered.
Try as she might, she was not able to get back to sleep that night.