Invictus
Or
The Abso-bleeding-lutely Unconventional Poem-Fic
A/N: Dedicated to TheMancer, whose stories I have totally fallen in love with.
Another obscure fandom has been invaded by yours truly! Be warned, this is not my usual style of story. It's a lot gloomier than I'm used to writing, so be generous in your internal reviewing.
If you're reading this, you're either a die-hard Bastion fan (like myself), or I know you personally and have bullied you into checking this out. Whichever one it may be – enjoy!
There's one book in particular I like to read from time to time. It covers the important things, in a manner of speakin'.
The last page [of the book] was about the author. Didn't say much. But the imagination has a way of fillin' in the gaps.
- Rucks, The Stranger's Dream
What the $%#! did the last page say? Tell me where Rucks came from, you %#$ rats!
- Vetty123 (aka The Scribe and Chronicler of this story), Invictus
See that chunk of land over by the mountains? Set 'er down there, Kid. We'll spend the night once we've set up camp. Zulf, give 'im a hand with his work while Zia gets the tents out. I'll get to work on some firewood once we've touched down.
Ahh…there's nothing quite like sitting down for a good hot meal after a long day's work, is there? The Kid'll be done reefing the sails in a minute, then we can get around to setting up dinner. If you get could some water boiling Zulf, Zia can start making some of that grand stew of hers.
That's quite a fire you got there, Zulf – keepin' us all cozy, like. Been a while since we could all sit around the campfire and talk, ain't it? Takes a lot of work to keep a Bastion afloat, you know. What d'you think, Kid?
Hmm? A story? Well, I think I've told you all the ones I'd got stocked up. I could tell them again, but I suppose you've gotten bored of them, eh? The only other stories I've got are from my own childhood, and they're so old they've got Pecker birds nestin' in 'em. But, if you insist, I suppose I could pull one out.
But I'm warning you now: this one…this one's from the old days.
It's from before the Bastion.
From before the Calamity.
Before…everything.
In hindsight, the whole tangled fiasco had started with a promise.
It wasn't a large promise, either: no lord had made this vow upon his kingdom; no person had sworn it by the weight of their own life. No epic quest hung in the balance, no empires were held in thrall. There were no scribes to document this oath; no sycophants hanging onto every portentous syllable. Made in the quiet places of the heart, it remained secret to all but the one who made it.
It was just the promise of a child who was mourning the loss of a friend who had deserved better from the gods. It was made in the desolate wasteland left after the end, upon the knife-edge between two chasms. The child was faced with two choices: to turn the clock back and save the world, or to burn all bridges and live life anew. In a shattered land, a young man had rocked the ruined remnants of his world with his actions, destroying the survivors in an attempt to save those who had been lost.
Standing before end of his labor at long-last, he didn't stand at the head of a sprawling empire or a prosperous region. His words were not noticed by any other than the wide heavens themselves. The only witnesses to his solemn pledge were two small figures who'd stood by him through the thundering storm: a young orphan girl on his right, and a decrepit old man on his left. Standing with his unconventional companions, this boy wielded the power to determine the course of the world; the burden placed squarely upon his toughened shoulders. As he stood there, in that timeless place, he began remembering.
The youth thought of the battering ram slung on his back and an unfortunately misguided comrade abandoned to his fate. Thinking of decisions that had been made; of desperate fathers who'd tried to protect their estranged daughters, of young husbands who'd lost their newly-wed wives, of glorious nations that had lost their vaunted homelands. Remembering a shattered Monument, words around the campfire, an enemy invasion, and the soul-rending look in the eyes of a man who'd just lost everything and was forced to keep on breathing.
He thought of the torturous choice he'd been offered, up on the heights of the world, between tenuous life and certain death. He thought of a limp corpse, betrayed by everyone he knew, freezing in the icy snow. He thought of smiles and frowns, of journals and stories, of friends and enemies, of life and death. Standing there, before the end of all things, he thought of these things and many more.
Finally, he chose to unravel the woven fabric of time and return matters to the way they once were.
This time, he promised himself with a conviction forged of loss and tempered by remembrance. Pulling the lever, he fortified his resolve.
This time, I swear I won't let him die.
The pledge he took as he turned the clock back was never even spoken aloud, but such binding cords on the heart don't need to be uttered aloud. The gods, as they watched, took note of his words and remembered them, even as the world turned to a better time.
Acobi, the Lady of Bounden Chains, was laboring under her iron web when she felt yet another chain add itself to her already crushing burden. The Lady smiled quietly as she considered what this meant. The cloth of time was being unwoven before her, and as oaths were unmade and broken, grains of sand crept back into the shattered hourglass. Yet even as the Goddess of Oath and Abandon watched oaths bind and break before her, she saw one that was forged of shining silver; a blazing escutcheon against the filthy black chains around her.
This chain would not be broken by time or trials, for it had surpassed the pitiful mortal plane and traversed the chasm between the ages. The Kid had made a vow, and the Chastened Maid would hold him to it.
She knew that this chain would change the world.
You say it sounds familiar, eh Kid? Well, I don't know – seems to me like there ain't the slightest similarity.
Besides, the story's just starting…
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole.
The Kid woke to find himself lying face down in a quiet alley. It was soothingly dark, and his eyes were grateful for the quietude of the gloom. As his eyes adjusted to the calm setting, he heard a refreshingly familiar sound from the street. After a few moments of confusion during which he tried to place the sound, he got it. The muted hubbub of a crowded avenue was rippling right by him – a pleasant change from the eerily oppressive silence that had followed the Calamity, swallowing up all sound. After far too long, The Kid could lie back and listen to the sound of the city's heartbeat, throbbing away in his ears.
Evidently the Restoration had worked like Rucks had told him it would. They'd all been thrown back in time, and he could try to fix everything. In fact, he could try to stop the Calamity from happening in the first place – and he planned to do just that.
From his lofty seat above, Lemaign finished his interference and sat back, content with his work. Meddling with the threads of time was normally taboo, but the Mason King had the right to interfere with them as he saw fit. Who would question the King, after all? Now, to see whether the chosen favorite of the gods could surpass the tumultuous wracks that had been appointed to him…
Down below, The Kid got up and stretched his limbs while he surreptitiously took stock of his surroundings. It was a shady sidepath, one of many that he'd treaded back when he was naught but an orphan with no place to call his own. There'd be none of that now, of course. This time, things were going to be different.
With that reassuring thought in mind, he oriented himself and started looking for Nacie's house: a favorite haunt of his before he'd been forced to sign up for the Walls to support his Mother. Once he'd met Nacie and established a base of operations, he could try to find Rucks in this time, and together they could stop the Calamity.
It hadn't been more than a few months since he last saw his hometown – he'd only been on patrol for a few weeks before the Calamity had happened, and he could still make his way through the once-destroyed streets with a degree of familiarity. He'd trod these roads many times before on his way to and from his school, and slipped comfortably back into the teeming streets of people.
Strolling nonchalantly through the city, he looked around at the landmarks absent-mindedly. As he did so, he noticed that the entire place seemed slightly more…primitive. He also noted, with some trepidation, that the welcoming light of the Bastion was absent from its usual position at the top of the city. That vaunted safe-haven was nowhere to be found, and its disappearance was certainly unsettling. Walking through the park, he found that Nordy the Bird Boy (normally inseparable from his feathered friends) was nowhere to be found.
Growing increasingly nervous, he looked for favorite shops and familiar nooks and crannies as he ran about, searching for anything familiar. The bakery, the coffee shop, the blacksmith's – all gone. Soon, The Kid was running frantically through the city that was the same yet not the same, groping furiously for an anchor point.
Coming to a gasping halt in the place where his memory told him Nacie's house was supposed to be, he raised his hand to knock only to realize that the door knocker was different from the oh-so-familiar one in his mind's eye. Taking several tentative steps back, he looked up and realized with a shock that the house's façade was entirely different, and seemed to be…a hairdressing parlor, of all things.
The rest of the day passed by in a blur as he ran from one place to the other, even invading the school for a few minutes to see if he could find a familiar face. Nobody. Even Maude the Tutor wasn't in her usual spot under the flower trees, teaching the delinquent children of the district like she always had. Nothing was the same anymore.
To make matters worse, the entire geography of the city had changed. The Bastion no longer existed, and nobody had the slightest idea what he meant when he asked them where it had gone. The Rippling Walls were missing too, meaning that the city was open to attack from any side. Caelondia wasn't safe anymore.
They were all gone. The Jawson Family. Percy the Snitch. The Tunder Brothers. Even ol' Rondy the Bartender, that fortress of longevity and good health, was nowhere to be found. Everything had changed.
As he surveyed the new world that confronted him, The Kid fancied he could hear the deep bass rumbles echoing through the heavens as an omnipotent figure laughed at him from an iron throne on high. Lord Lemaign, the King of Masons and the Holder of the Fates, leaned forward as he watched the boy's soul struggle against the overpowering blackness that was consuming his heart. The God of Hope and Despair watched the two elements war with each other with interest.
Slumping against a wall in the Wharf district, The Kid could feel the waves of anguish washing over his spirit. He knew that giving in to the despair was pointless and would get him nowhere (a lesson that he'd learnt well through the course of his difficult life), but his soul asked his mind to allow him to be weak, just this once. Crippled by the loss of everything that was familiar, he huddled into a small ball in the shadows.
The shadows encircled his mind.
As he lay there, overcome with misery and hopelessness, he heard a reassuringly rough voice conversing with someone out on the street.
"An' ah'm tellin' you, b'ain't no way me boys 'n I are headed out tae t'Wild wit'oot a real fighter ta cover us. Mah crew's made of trackers and the like; t'ain't right for us ta leave town wi' no bodyguard's. T'whole Wild near t'Tazal Terminals're still a death trap, whatever them fancy Rangers may say, an' ah ain't steppin' yon wi'out a guard who c'n cover us all. E'en a Shard's nary a bit good if'n there's no good soldiers to d'fend it, y'know!"
The Kid's ears perked up a bit, pulling momentarily from the morass of gloom that was eating away at his spirit.
The Wild? The Tazal Terminals?
The disembodied voice on the street continued: "Aye, ah tell you – if'n a man who could really use a pike or summat, who could smash some skulls in, like, walked by right now: why, I'd hire that feller faster than 'e could blink!"
Zulf came from the Tazal Terminals.
He could still be there.
With this single thought in mind, The Kid staggered to his feet and slowly made his way through the crowded street until he found himself in front of The Explorer. Reaching up, he tapped the burly man's shoulder.
Looking round, The Explorer exclaimed in surprise. "'Ullo, 'ullo! Wha'ssis here?"
Unslinging his Bullhead Shield and leaning casually upon it, The Kid rested his hand upon the hilt of his hammer meaningfully. Time to start another trek.
Lemaign laughed once more as he saw the light of hope blossom within The Kid's chest. There'd be no more fatalism about this Kid now, no; not after this experience. Now he'd take whatever came to him bravely, striving dedicatedly forward for a new dawn and a better day.
After all, the Mason King knew that success and failure were all in the mind.
The Old City had groups of travelers moving out as they went deeper into the Wild, seeking every treasure the Continent had to offer. They took the Shards with them, which is why we found 'em all over the place. They were always looking for experienced fellows, to help escort them farther in.
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
The small party made their way slowly through the dense undergrowth, the lead scouts hacking crude paths through the tangled foliage with machetes. The going had been going slow for the past few days, but the company forged boldly ahead. Adventuring beyond the edges of the most expansive map, they carved a swathe into terrain formerly without fear, searching evermore for increasing adventure and discovery.
It had been over a year since they'd last seen Caelondia. The company had dedicated several hundred coins and a dozen baskets of fruits to the Altar of Pyth before they'd set off, but their efforts to attract the deity's attention were unnecessary: his gaze was already fixed upon the one who had walked through the times. The Wakeful Bull took the measure of the group of devotees, and found them deserving of his strength and protection – for the present time.
It had taken some thinking, but The Kid had decided to go with the group of intrepid explorers in order to make his way to the Tazal Terminals. Relations with the Ura were still pretty sketchy, but he figured that if he kept his head down when he got there, he should be able to find Zulf and make sure that the disillusioned boy didn't die. Though Caelondia may have turned on its head inexplicably, maybe the Ura had remained the same. It was something to hope for, at any rate.
The Kid hefted his hammer comfortably, secure in the knowledge that his old friend was beside him. Bereft of aught else as he was, its presence was a comfort of itself. The Army Carbine that he had slung on his back was uncomfortable – frankly, he'd rather stick with just his hammer, but The Trappers had assured him an alternate weapon was an absolute must when dealing with the Wilds. Besides, Yurgen had told him to take it, so he did.
Ah, Yurgen, or, as he was better known, The Explorer. He was probably the only reason that Kid had come along the expedition in the first place, rather than looking for safer transport to the Terminals. A brimming bastion of vitality and energy, he carried his head high and faced whatever troubles faced his crew face-first. The linchpin of the enterprise, looked up to by all his subordinates, blessed by Pyth himself, and respected by Kid: The Explorer was certainly a unique person. Never shying from work, he would often help his men out by taking a shift on patrol, or helping with the cooking.
Often, as The Kid and Yurgen sat together over a Lunkhead leg (surprisingly tasty when well-cooked), they'd talk of philosophy and living off the land. Oh, The Kid wouldn't say much beyond the odd shifting sound as he moved about, but it was a conversation nonetheless. With the rising embers of the campfire glowing in the depths of their eyes, Yurgen would talk of many. He talked of his family, of how he wanted to make their name resound through the ages. He talked of his sling, made from genuine hand-stitched Anklegator hideskin. He talked of his beliefs, of how Pyth only gave strength to those who first gave it to others around them.
They talked of many things on those evenings. The Kid, while he never responded, would often ponder the eccentric Explorer's mannerisms, wondering exactly who this 'Yurgen' character was.
Suddenly, the entire cavalcade snapped to attention as a terribly familiar grunting sound rang out from the trees ahead. The scouts came flying back, clothes in disarray as they gasped out their report: Lunkhead in front of them, a real mean one.
The Explorer listened to them for a moment then turned to The Kid. Flashing a megawatt-grin, he tipped his head towards the growing rumblings in the swamp, saying:
"Ye ken the drill. Ye'd better get a-moving, kid, 'n cut that sucker off. Me 'n the boys'll flank him and shoot his sides up if'n you c'n keep him busy fer long enough, savvy? Jus' make sure he's facin' you, and we'll take care of the rest."
Nodding once, The Kid pulled his Shield onto his forearm and settled into a defensive position. They'd done this several times before, so he wasn't especially worried about the procedure. Besides, a single Lunkhead was scarcely enough to intimidate him; not after everything he'd seen.
Standing above, the God of Commotion and Order stamped his hooves impatiently and snorted heavily. His followers were getting ready to fight.
The Lunkhead stormed out of the bushes, completely infuriated and ready to tear into the intruders who'd dared to invade its home. In the bushes around it, the Trappers silently prepared their own weapons, while Yurgen readied his own Sling, ready to take out the enemy at a moment's notice.
They all knew the routine, and were just waiting for the foe to stun himself upon The Kid's impenetrable defense. Then…they'd strike. They'd done this several times before, and this time would be no different. Just part of the Trapper's everyday life.
Unfortunately, Pyth, the Lord of Chaos and Calm, was never one to make things so easy for those who'd been audacious enough to leave gifts at his altar.
Turning from the obvious target, The Kid, the Lunkhead managed to catch a glimpse of a careless Trapper's weapon glinting in the filtered sunlight. Latching on to the target, it moved faster than the eye could blink, leaping straight towards their hiding place. The Trapper could only watch as the beast's portentous bulk came down towards him unerringly, pulled by the inescapable force of gravity. There was no way he could dodge in time.
His comrades, seeing their friend's peril, opened fire immediately; but the angles were all wrong, sending their shots ricocheting off wildly, and they could only watch haplessly as the beast continued to descend directly towards the frozen Trapper. Breath caught, leaves rustled, twigs snapped, hearts stopped.
The Scale of Strength and Cowardice tipped above The Explorer.
Mind made up with scarcely any thinking, he tensed his stocky legs and made his move. Barreling faster that a Pecker's charge, he charged through his subordinate's position faster than a charging Bull, knocking the paralyzed man out into a sprawl a safe distance away.
A moment later, the Lunkhead landed with a monumental thump, obliterating the ground below it.
Y'know, there weren't many of The Explorers, but they sure were a rough breed. Guess they had to be, with a job like theirs. It was said that even a blow from the mightiest Masons couldn't fell one of those folks.
What's that? You don't like this part of the story?
That's OK. Neither do I.
In the fell clutch of circumstance,
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
"Ah, et's time ta git movin'. We've been cryin' o'er me fer three months now – tha's plenty of time for mah ribs ta have patched up! We're headin' out in the mornin', an' tha's final!"
Overriding the concerned protests of his subordinates, Yurgen levered himself to a sitting position, meeting the eye of the seated Kid, who was watching the interaction with some hidden amusement. The Explorer continued his speech:
"It's been near a year an' a half since we set out, an' we still ha'nt made it to the real Wilds! We've seen naught but two small Anklegators, and nary a sign of any Unknown creatures! We need ta get adventurin', boyos!"
Clearly The Explorer's patron god should have been Yudric rather than Pyth: his impetuous attitude would have pleased the headstrong equine deity. The God of Impulse was, indeed, attracted to this spirited man, and his influence showed in Yurgen's decision-making processes.
And so, after that semi-inspirational speech, the train of men found themselves moving ahead once more. After taking a lengthy break to allow for the recuperation of The Explorer (who had been severely wounded after the tangle with the Lunkhead, but had proven himself worthy of Pyth's patronage), the gang was finally on the move once more. The Kid was itching to get moving and get closer to the Tazal Terminals – where, hopefully, he could find the boy that he'd sworn to save.
Gradually, the going grew tougher. Covering distance was difficult – on a good day, they covered around five hundred paces. Clearing out increasing numbers of Pecker nests and Pinchushion settlements, the group could tell that they were really getting closer to the boundaries of the Wilds.
The rearguard reported that the way behind them closed up almost as soon as the last man had gotten through. The Wild disliked having to share, and greedily snatched back the ground the Trappers had cleared. The way back was shut, and the only way to go was forward.
Almost three years after the expeditionary force had set out, The Explorer called a halt at the very edge of the realms. Planting a spear in the largest clearing they'd come across, he claimed the land for Caelondia, and his men began the difficult task of taming the rough land they'd taken for their own. Converting the green gold of the forest into money proved easier than expected though: lush green vineapples surrounded the party, and they often joked that Pecker flesh was more tender than the best cooked dish in the City.
They had constructed a rudimentary Arsenal for their equipment in a few days, and set up some crude barriers and a watch fire. They were within calling distance of the Tazal Terminals, and Yurgen told The Kid that he could take off just as soon as some walls got set up. With the power of the Shard, it would be easy to bend the Wilds under them.
As the Trappers went about their business, The Kid took some time to look at himself in a mirror. He'd grown several inches over the past few years, and his gangly frame had filled out somewhat. He was also significantly stronger, although his muscles had remained lean and wiry all the way through. Still, he was still easily recognizable as the same rapscallion he'd been…back then. The thought was somewhat reassuring.
Anyway, he'd be off as soon as the Trappers were consolidated. It shouldn't take that long – five days at the most. These were experienced men after all, well-versed in the proper way to set up fortifications in unknown areas.
Except the Wild had other plans.
One by one, the Trappers fell prey to the insidious pitfalls hidden under the vibrant leaves of the forest. Peckers attacked out of nowhere, Stinkweed blinded men and led them into the darts of Pincushions, and Wallflowers shot men from distances beyond sight. Almost before anyone knew it, the party's numbers had fallen a good deal.
There was more to it than that, however. A deceptive smoke had taken to roiling mystically along the ground, fuddling the senses of any and all who were caught in it. It surrounded the camp every night, clinging to the men's ankles as they moved about on the watch. Echoes of the roars of an unknown beast resonated through the mists, disorienting the sentries.
Yurgen had heard tales of such monsters. Beasts that could turn sane men into raving lunatics with one whiff, and unleash a hail of spikes from above. A legendary plant, larger than a building, spoken of in legend and ancient fables.
The Lungblossom.
The Explorer was sure of it. One of those giant beasts was responsible for his men failing to come in after night patrol, or for walking off of the edge of towering cliffs without a clue. He needed to destroy the monster, and fast, before more of his Trappers died.
A council of war was called. After a few brief hours of worried deliberation, it was decided that there was really only one real option available to them, isolated as they were. They would fight. Gathering The Kid and his men for a large-scale attack that would hopefully eradicate the Lungblossom from the region, Yurgen led his group and struck out to the very edge of the mountains, almost entering the land of the mysterious Ura.
The embodiment of Impulse and Bravery pranced among the men, lighting the fires of their spirits and tinting their eyes red. With a toss of his head and a shrill neigh, the Steed of the Sun led the men into their last charge.
On the edge of a towering cliff that overhung a meandering river, the border of the Uran lands, the Lungblossom awaited them. Surrounded by hordes of Lunkheads and Pincushions, the monarch of the Wilds waited for them, resplendent in its archaic yet bestial glory.
A grey horse danced in the winds.
Charging straight in, pikes swinging and hammer smashing, the small core of hardened Trappers assaulted the sentinels of the Wild. Over half of the group fell to the initial wave of missiles from the enemy, blood staining the rich black earth below them. Their comrades, enraged beyond all reason, took vengeance twice over for their fallen friends, before falling themselves. The God of Impulse was present, after all, and foolhardy bravery was expected from those before him.
The Slinger rocketed off shot after shot, taking Peckers out through the eye and pulverizing any Pincushions unfortunate enough to be in the path of one of his blistering attacks. A direct shot from his magnificent weapon, shot by an arm fueled by righteous fury, was powerful enough to send a Lunkhead cartwheeling over the edge of the cliff into the tranquil waters far below.
Three more trappers fell to a flurry of shots from a tight knot of Wallflowers. Rolling into their midst neatly, The Kid laid the entire group low with a massive slam from his Cael Hammer, dispersing their beasts even as their ineffectual shields failed to protect them from his wrath. Turning from their remains, he turned to find that the hordes of foes simply would not slow, and crouched as he prepared to block a particularly pertinacious Lunkhead's advance.
Behind him, the last of the Trappers fell; a victim to a Pecker's mad rush. Only The Explorer and The Kid remained, tired and battered remnants of their once-proud party. Standing side-by-side, their backs to the cliff, the two prepared for what would be the hardest fight of their lives.
Suddenly, they heard a rushing sound from above. Yurgen and The Kid, with instincts honed after years of surviving by the skins of their teeth, immediately sensed the peril and wasted precious seconds looking up at the growing shadow that had been superimposed over them. Their eyes widened as they realized what was coming
Spiraling downwards relentlessly, a torrent of projectiles spewed from the Lungblossom, aiming straight for The Kid, who realized his danger a fraction of a second too late. There was no way he could get out of this one. Time ground to a halt.
Yudrig, the Morning Stallion, pranced over The Explorer's head. The God of Impulse and Bravery whinnied curiously as he wondered which way The Explorer's impetus would turn him – sacrifice once more, or simple shocked acceptance? The Steed of the Dawn reared back upon the wind, kicking his feet upon nothing, as he waited upon the man. Dancing with the aether, his flowing form waited to carry a Spark to the sky.
Yurgen's mind agonized through his options.
The Stallion stamped his hoof.
The Kid, suddenly cognizant of his impending doom, tried futilely to evade the coming fire, knowing full well that he could never make it. Just as he was accepting this fact, he felt a heavy shove from behind, throwing him stumblingly to the floor, half-out of the coming attack and dangerously close to the cliff's edge.
The Lungblossom's shot hit a moment later, assailing its target with a bevy of shots that tore the ground up.
As the dust cleared, The Kid felt a stabbing pain sear through his feet. Both of his legs had been trapped, and, though he couldn't tell through the obfuscating clouds, he knew they were broken beyond a doubt. He'd broken bones before, and he sucked in his breath sharply to stave off the pulsing pain. There were more important things to be doing right now.
A sound from in front of him diverted his attention from himself, and his eyes widened as he took in the sight before him.
Coughing up blood, struggling to remain upright, and yet refusing to fold from the manifold blows to his body, The Explorer remained unbent, broken yet not beaten by the pounding blows delivered from above. Despite the immense brutality of his injuries, Yurgen stood tall after the barrage.
On the brink of the abyss, standing between The Kid and the arrayed forces of the Wild, The Explorer refused to be cowed. Swinging his rugged sling in one hand, he spat blood onto the ground as he used the other arm to wipe his face clear of the grime. His eyes, unclouded and piercing, turned to The Kid's shocked form on the ground, and an uneven grin spilt from his tattered lips.
A grey horse pawed the ground gently.
"Hey, Kid. My folks'll be waiting for me at home. The Jawson family: e'ryone in Caelondia know their faces. Do me a favor, and tell 'em summat for me, eh?"
The approaching foes were milling about, getting ready to overpower the lone figure with sheer numbers. They'd take him out, then turn to the smaller form lying behind him.
"Tell 'em about The Slinger, Yurgen Jawson."
With that, The Explorer unceremoniously kicked The Kid's crippled form off of the precipice, sending him tumbling to the waters far below. As he fell, stunned, through the cutting air, he could hear a final cry, even as a magnificent steed nickered softly upon the wind.
"Tell 'em that Jawson conquered the Bog!"
Thus did Yurgen Jawson, The Slinger and Explorer, pass on into the stars.
The Kid landed with a crash in the freezing river.
Legend tells of an Uran scouting party that stumbled across a peculiar sight: a decomposing, putrefying Lungblossom on their very borders. They couldn't find a single clue as to how it had been killed until they cut the disgusting thing open like a rotten Vineapple.
There, in the rotten core of that husk, they found a smooth slingstone that had bored straight through the beast like it was paper, stopping in the dead-center of that monster.
Now, now, don't cry, Zia. It'll all work out in the end.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody but unbowed.
Floating gently downstream, The Kid could feel his body failing. The ice-cold waters of the mountain river were chilling his extremities, and his shattered legs were already numb. He was briefly grateful for the relief from his pain, but he couldn't seem to hold onto a single thought for more than a few seconds. His head was spinning, and he was already feeling warm and fuzzy.
In the back of his mind, he knew that feeling warm when one was actually freezing was indubitably the first sign of hypothermia, and he knew that unless he managed to get to dry land quickly, he would die. He knew the thought should have rankled something within, but he simply couldn't bring himself to care. After all, would dying be so bad? Life was pretty much past the point where it was worth living, and was currently scraping the bottom of the barrel of miseries it had dumped on him. Death wouldn't be so bad. In his semi-delirious mind, the dead welcomed him with open arms.
Gamboling merrily about, the wandering Olak happened to glance at the one his father had showed so much interest in. Frolicking nearer, the Carefree Son saw that his Spark was running low. After a moment of whimsical deliberation, the God of Chance and Whim snapped his fingers before gusting along his jovial path, spreading fortune and malaise with equal generosity.
As he drifted, The Kid became dimly aware of a rushing sound somewhere in the periphery. Turning his head to get a better look, he saw a shoreline stretching to his right and realized detachedly that he must be near some sort of beach. He thought about making an effort to get to the shore, but the need to do so was forestalled by the feeling of rough sand and gravel under his body as Olak laughed. With a tumble and a spin, The Kid was tossed to the shore by rippling waves.
The wind was cold and biting against his face. Dragging himself by his arms alone farther up the shore, he eventually found a boulder large enough to keep him from the worst of the gusts. It was a large and smooth stone, and he decided that it would serve as one 'wall' of his lean-to. Propping himself up against it, he emptied his Pack out with fingers that he couldn't feel.
Fumbling for his waterproof ammunition bag, he scattered all of his gunpowder onto a nearby log that appeared to be somewhat dry. Using the flintlock hammer of his rifle as a trigger, he soon had a blaze going. It only took a few moments for the water to steam off of him before the raging inferno the powder had sparked.
Finally dry, he collapsed to the ground. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to rest for a few minutes before taking advantage of his new-found fortune to assess his injuries.
Of course, the God of Chance and Whim both gives and takes away. His legs had sustained compound fractures, and while the Kid had learnt the basics of first-aid from the Marshalls during his shifts on the Rippling Walls, he knew that this injury would take several months to heal. He made some rough splints to help the process using some wood fragments.
Setting up a makeshift shelter to keep himself at least moderately protected from any sort of harm, The Kid settled in for the night. He arranged the soaked items in his Pack out before the fire, setting them so that they'd dry out before the morning. Keeping his hammer within easy reaching distance, he stoked the fire one more time before watching the setting sun until he fell asleep. He propped his head up against the supporting rock behind his shelter, easily able to locate any threat if he was awoken.
The next morning, he was roused by an unpleasant pressure to the nape of his neck, as well as a muted chattering that seemed to be coming from behind him. Nodding his head tiredly, he dazedly hoped for the annoyance to cease, and was pleased when the both of the annoyances faded. Drifting back into a lazy stupor, he was on the verge of falling asleep once more until the pressure returned, this time more insistent.
Admitting defeat, The Kid sat up and stretched, yawning hugely as he worked the kinks out of his spine. Mildly curious, he turned around to examine what it was that had awoken him, only to find (with something of a shock) that the boulder he had been leaning on through the night had pivoted on some kind of hinge, exposing a gaping hole in the ground. In fact, the rock appeared to be completely hollow, nothing like the solid stone he'd imagined it to be. That wasn't the biggest shock, though.
Not three feet from him, holding a wooden bucket loosely as she stood half-in half-out of the hole, staring slack-jawed at him with eyes wider than saucers, was Zia.
Zia!
No, not Zia.
Although she shared the same hair color and pale skin, there were telling differences between the girl The Kid knew and this one. Besides the general facial structure, there were also physical differences – this girl was a good foot taller than Zia, and was lankier. There was no doubt that there were resemblances, but those could easily be chalked up to ancestral heritage rather than any blood relation. This wasn't Zia, but a girl of the Ura.
Olak the Carefree Son laughed at the delightfully twisted story he could see unfolding before him. Frivolously flitting upon the winds of the heavens, he fairly shook with mirth.
Down below, The Kid and the girl stared at one another for a moment more, before she eeped quite daintily and ducked back into the hole, slamming the door (rock?) back into place behind her, leaving a very confused Kid behind. What had just happened?
It took a few moments of thinking before the answer came to him – he was in Ura territory, and he was obviously sitting on the front door of one of their burrows. Before the Calamity, they'd all lived in tunnels under the ground, so it made sense that they still lived there.
The stone cracked open a few inches, and a pair of wary eyes glinted from the gap. The Kid hastily held his palms up, fingers apart, to demonstrate that he wasn't a threat. The rock crept a bit further up, and The Kid leant as far back as he could, what with his ruined legs and all, to show his goodwill. Eventually, the girl had come out entirely and, after a few wary seconds of scrutiny, scurried to the river, filled her bucket, and scuttled back, shutting the 'door' behind her hastily. Obviously, Uran trust was hard to win.
The Kid spent the rest of the morning setting up camp at another point a little farther down the shore, although he could still see the entryway into the Burrow he'd apparently stumbled upon. Moving his unpacked gear was difficult with his injuries, and it took him till midday to get his things moved. He had supplies for about a month of inaction, and briefly considered fishing to supply himself with meat.
As he was examining the river, he heard a noise and looked up from his labor to find that the stone had been rolled back. Emerging from the was the girl he'd seen earlier, along with two parent-looking Ura. The woman had a matronly air to her, and the daughter was hiding behind her skirts, peeking out nervously at the stranger who'd intruded upon their domestic life. The male was a good deal more threatening – obviously the father, he was understandably aggressive towards this heavily armed Caelondian who had just started camping outside his family Burrow.
Apparently, the two of them doubted the goodwill of a Caelondia, but they seemed to be somewhat more sympathetic to him due to his obviously debilitating injuries. After a good deal of pointing and gesticulating, as well as some unintelligible chatter between the trio, The Kid managed to convince them of his peacefulness.
Although they seemed unhappy about it, the two older Ura consulted each other in undertones, before turning to The Kid once more. The male figure stepped forward and, after a good deal of pantomiming, told The Kid that he could stay on the beach as long as he didn't cause trouble for them; a condition to which he readily acquiesced.
He didn't really bother them, of course. The only time he saw any of them was when the daughter (her name, he found out, was Zuria) came up for the daily bucket of water. He always waved to her when she showed up.
Eventually, she started waving back.
In recent history, there have only been two Caelondians to successfully coexist in peace with the Ura. One was a missionary who was sponsored by the government and well-known through both nations. You know who I'm talking about, Zulf.
The other, a couple of decades earlier, was a drifting fighter who had wandered into the Uran lands and made himself at home. Folks said that the curse of Olak was on him, though, and he kept to himself most of the time. Still, he was a peaceful kinda guy with white hair and a Cael Hammer, who wanted no trouble.
That's right, Kid. He was kinda like you.
A/N: This will be a two-shot. The next update will be in precisely two weeks.
I do not own Bastion (that's Supergiant's, bless them) or Invictus (which is William Henley's). This should be at the front, but it ruined the flow in my head when I left it there.
Reviews/criticism/flames/any type of interaction is always appreciated, despite how rarely it's received.