''There you are''.
It was even simpler than he expected. Schedule of guards was so easy to remember , and breaks between shifts were too long. Spirits guarding the temple were easily distracted, lured away. There were no wards, no guards inside. Presumably Patch supposed nobody would dare disturb the Grand Spirits.
Of course, hearing their thoughts saved him from surprises. At least there was some use out of damned Reishi.
Temple was big, empty chamber made of igneous rock and obsidian. It didn't look man-made. Floor and walls were rough, uneven, small mounds of material growing from surface full of holes. Perhaps it had one been mound, created by cooled lava, made hollow by passage of time.
It was unbearably hot and dirty, ash scattered everywhere. Which made sense.
In middle of room, spirit stood, only source of light in darkness, . Giant, red and shining, half of it's body immersed in the pool of orange magma, surrounded by half-melted iron fence. It was painful to look at them, as if needles were pushed in his eyeballs. He sweated, wouldn't have found it strange for his bones to melt and flesh roast, as he stepped forward, trying to keep ash from clothes, keeping eye on bumps and obsidian's jagged teeth.
This was Spirit of Fire. Creature with power second only to the Great Spirits. Pure force of nature. Aspect of universe. Formed from countless souls, countless powers. It's mere visage was enough to inspire awe, even in such darkness. Shadows couldn't lessen their shine. If anything, they made them stronger. It was going to be his.
He stepped forward, looked straight into too bright green eyes and smiled. '' Hello. How are you?''
Spirit of Fire shook his head, immediately raising it's awareness to needed level.
He wasn't sleeping. Spirits don't sleep. It is fact. They are pure soul and mind, freed from prison of flesh, and so have no need for it. Some ghosts, only recently departed from material state, will sometimes feel fatigue, be plagued by echoes of dreams even if there is no logical reason for such thing- habit is mighty thing after all, and it takes time to abandon thinking of oneself as alive.
Others, who have never been alive ( and so aren't dead), those pure souls and beings formed from nature will only tire after being drained by fighting. Even then, they won't lose consciousness, nor will they fall prey to their own minds. Spirit of Fire was currently going through such experience.
He dimmed and flickered, darkness and cold eagerly worming wherever he retreated from. His essence shrunk, and he was well aware of his fading powers. Moment by moment, his will was weaker, and he found it harder and harder to think. He stood and observed, his mind taking too much time to process visual information, distorting soothing sound of his sibling wind in horrible growling.
He hated moments like these. This wasn't peace, this wasn't rest, this was... nothing. Simply existing and doing nothing. He needed work, effort, action, anything, to sustain his own sentience, to keep his free will.
That was why he adored fighting. The violence, the strategy, anticipation, all those emotions and inevitable victory- it could keep him going for weeks. In rare moments of peace, master spoke to him, fed him with words and feelings he used to spark and nurture Spirit of Fire's thoughts and choices. And in those even rare moments when master slept, Spirit of Fire remained, kept sane by screams of souls he consumed, by plans he formed, by his task- to guard his sleeping master.
In five hundred years, not once were he and master separated. They fought, lived and crossed Hell together. They were always together, and Spirit of Fire didn't even dare to suppose what would happen without master. It was too much likely that his will and personality and mind would disappear without master. That was their partnership. Death of enemy for soul, protection for aid to nature, power for inspiration. Master allowed Spirit of Fire to live, instead of merely existing.
Master gasped. Spirit of Fire turned and looked... and saw nothing wrong. Master was sleeping soundly, his lips unmoved, breathing completely normal. Yet he heard low, throaty rasp. Moment later, image shifted, like watching one of those sped up human videos. He glimpsed master's mouth opening, saliva running as wound started bleeding.
When world returned to normal, he acted as fast as possible-run at his master's side, held hands on wound and tried to squeeze few remaining drops of power into wound. It flowed, weak, fragile sparks of power. It wasn't enough. It would never be enough.
His fault. Everything was his fault. He should have noticed that his senses dulled and...
No. No time for that. He needed to think of something fast. Grass was too far away, master could bleed to death while he consumed plant spirits. And if he continued this way, there would be nothing left for emergency. Travel to Earth wasn't option-only two days have passed.
Master cried out, low, wet sob. His heart beat against his chest, like stick against drum. Wound grew, as if cells were cut away by shears, and blood followed, dripping out of chest, flowing down, smearing pants and poncho., while his divine spirit looked, utterly useless.
But master wasn't. With bit of direction, he could save himself. He surely had enough furyoku- if he was capable of maintaining Spirit of Fire's-oversoul-no matter how small and weak it was-then he could deal with this. There was just problem of getting to him.
With sigh, Spirit of Fire took Master's hand and spoke.
Darkness. Darkness everywhere. Phantoms walk around, blank and lifeless and full of hatred. Oni dance, tearing mirages and each other to bits. Islands float, memories and sights not his stitched together. Blue and purple wires arise, twisting like veins, as flickering lights flow through them. Above, mirror shatters and fragments fall, rain of glass and blood.
At least it is quiet. Strange but beautiful.
He is laying inside battered, broken frame. Oni avoid it, too scared of he who created him. He is too powerful now for them to torment him, too powerful to escape without his permission. Neither islands nor blank figures pass. For once he is spared thoughts and emotions of all those humans. They are all same, really, but there are so many, and pain never gets smaller.
'' Why am I here?'' Nobody answers.
He probably fell asleep. He could rest a little, even if it has only been what, a week since he slept last time. Besides, not as if he would be in danger. Not even X-Laws would dare attack him out of Shaman Fight. Not until their precious Gate of Babylon was opened, of course.
It is really nice here. It has been so long since he had nice sleep, his dreams free, his mind his own. It won't hurt... Just a little more...
Sword slashes, hits, cuts apart. Skin and bone, flesh and nerve, everything breaks.
It is quick, passes immediately, but he screams, long and high. Pain is deep and sharp, cutting him apart. If he was hit by lighting it wouldn't hurt as much.
He is frozen, imprisoned in his own body. Limbs hard as stone and rigid as metal. Everything is paralyzed-heart doesn't beat and mouth doesn't close and air just comes in and in and he can't let it out it is too much he will explode lungs don't work...
'' What the fu...''
Ash and iron in mouth, in stomach in bowels, everywhere. His nose is filled with odor of too old corpse, thick, clotted blood and muscles that are now only mush drown him. In his hand it is, soft and hot rot, coating him whole, imprisoning in cage of broken bone and ripped veins and wet skin. Body laying on dirt, black and ripped and smashed, white bone protruding from dark mess. Cream poncho and big earrings and long brown hair are only clean things on it.
No. No it can't be, how, doesn't make any sense it is impossible! It can't be him, not this time, not again!
Cold, so cold and dark, he is naked on the Pole and it is night. He can't see anything but he knows that his blood is becoming ice, that wind is resting in his bones and that he is being clothed into frost and snow. His eyelids are closing. It is warmer. Just to sleep a little...
No. He won't allow that. He isn't dead yet. He knows that, if anybody can guess if they are alive or dead and in hell, it is him, and he knows that he is very much alive.
Glint of porcelain teeth. Tiny smile, curved like scythe. Chuckle like breaking of fine china. Amusement, how can you think you can change it. Denial, you can't do anything. But freely try. Pathetic, you are laughable. Greatness, it is so much bigger than him. Deep sense that it is right.
Hell it is. He can do anything. He is greatest, the master of pentagram, strongest shaman in each of his lives, only shaman to command demons, only shaman to complete Taizan Fukun. He is eternal, one who defeated death, defeated seventy five Lords of Hell. He has surpassed limits of mortality. He is the savior, the justice, the representative of nature. Future Shaman King, the God of utopia. Nobody has right to order what he can and can't do.
He clenches teeth and hands and focuses his furyoku with only two words.
'' I live.''
White light erupts from wound, bright as sun and cold as iceberg. Blood stops, wound lessens, aged and closed. Master becomes quiet and peaceful, and it seems as if death has retreated, burned and banished by master's power.
Spirit of Fire lets go of his physical form. Oversould disappears, furyoku that maintained it returning to master. He will need it all.
It is strange, being without Oversoul. He has no form, no shape. He is just presence, power undetectable by all but strongest shamans. He is essence of flames and heat, of light and life. It is feeling of ultimate freedom, at price of limited combat ability. You can't really fight someone if you don't have body, after all. Nor eat if you don't have stomach. Or mouth.
Clouds are gathering. He can feel arrival of his cursed siblings, rain and lighting, poor souls who haven't been blessed with intelligence master gave him. Weapons, to be used by chosen warriors, without will or thought. And so they would remain, given that master's chances of becoming Shaman King were slim to none.
It wouldn't do for master to catch cold on rain. Or be hit with thunder. They had enough injuries to deal with.
Spirit sinks into his third sibling, earth, courses through them, becomes one with them. Ring of dull orange glows around master, and they arise, magma held together by his will. He shapes them into dome, with hole for entrance, and quickly removes himself, letting sibling Earth become solid again. Without heat, molecules grind together, forming rock.
Master would need something to drink, he remembers, and enters his sibling again, this time in front of entrance. They rise and shape into bowl, allowing rain to rest inside.
Spirit of Fire comes inside, warms master. He inspects him, notes nothing wrong. Poncho is dirty, will have to remove it later.
Master lost lot of blood. At least the litre. Furyoku and his power won't hold him alive forever. He will need transfusion soon.
Well, what had to be done wasn't hard ( or so they said, for some reason. Spirit of Fire disagreed). It was time to visit Earth.
He looked onto master. Now he was sleeping contently, calm, but less than half hour ago his life was on line. Borders between sleep and death were always blurry with creatures of flesh, and now with all those wounds and storm...
Earth could wait for tomorrow. It wouldn't disappear, after all. Even humans weren't that destructive.
So far.
In vast cavern, beneath forest, beneath ground, beneath ocean, god stretched.
It wasn't smart god, more like animal. But it wasn't idiot. Something was on it's planet, killing plant, eating souls, reshaping land. Land it protected since time immemorial, land it was son and master of.
It had to go.
Thank you for reading! Please review! Here is second chapter, and third is on the way. It is similar to first, but I wanted to throw some things about characters here. Don't worry, action will start soon.