Contempt shone in the Norse God's eyes, his smile reflecting off the glimmer deviantly. Diarmuid met that scornful gaze in earnest—unwilling to concede. This God had been responsible for too much strife: the last thing he would do is be intimated. Today—in this match pre-set for repentance—a battle of wills shall take place, and he and his Lady were ready.
This confrontation felt long-awaited, as the crowds roared at the forest terrain being chosen. Standing tall at the selection, Loki's glorified smirk had every hair on Haley's body as honed as a razor. Even she (with her shoulders squared and chin held high) was ready to make a stand against this tormentor. With her Knight's hand clasped tightly in hers, she trained her eyes on the God cloaked in royal purple who settled in the Arena, miles away.
Diarmuid's sharp hearing detected a light buzzing as the Bounded Field raised. A magical wind toyed with his quirky hair, as the white padded flooring shimmered to swaying blades of grass. Bark and leaves stretched far between him and Loki, completely devouring his silhouette, leaving Detainer and Forsaken to their wits and strategy.
Haley blew out a long, stabilizing breath as the Announcer coaxed the audience into a frenzy. For the first time in what seemed like forever, she was entirely calm. Nerves no longer clamped down on her throat. She—and her most trusted—had prepped and planned for this day since the key bore sweet fruit in informing them what to expect.
Just before the call sounded they were to begin, cerulean eyes locked with golden-brown, and they shared a collaborative nod. Together, they would prevail against the animosity yearning to tear them apart.
The air fell stagnant moments later. The sea of woodland grossly expanded, waving irregularly. Haley kissed the back of her Knight's hand, giving it a firm squeeze before leaving the man dressed in orange to advance forward into the growing darkness before him.
Diarmuid felt Haley's magical energy engulf his body with every step into the unknown. Loki's Boss Challenge's rules were simple: Manage their way through whatever trials Loki deemed them to face, and touch him. The Knight expected, however, the majority of what he would witness would be life-like illusions.
Knowing this fact beforehand, one would guess that it would be easy; simply ignore what is seen and find the trickster behind the sorcery. A legitimate attempt to outmaneuver the scheme, but the former Servant knew better. With only Beagalltach (his short, flaxen sword) in his right hand, he needed to be vigilant for the differences between truth and lies. Thankfully, the magical resistance boost his trusty weapon provided would aid in that regard.
"Your Lady ditches you… interesting approach." Loki's metallic voice carried in the cicada like-whisper of the canopy. Diarmuid ignored the goading, his attention fixated on the splitting leaves that were accompanied by a haunting howl.
Immediately, all went silent. Diarmuid kept his breath shallower than a lake's edge, his footsteps as light as the flutter of a butterfly's wings. Inky plumes swallowed the forest, an eerie feeling of being watched creeping up his spine.
He shut his eyes, Little Fury's handle pulsing in his clutches. Which exactly was it? Was the hunted doing the hunting, or the hunter being hunted? Still, he kept them closed, as he allowed his sword's magic resistance and his Lady's enhancements to guide him.
A snarl crawled past his hearing and brought his progression to a halt. Real, or not real?
Two pairs of golden hues found the other and both pondered. Diarmuid shifted, angled himself to the massive beast that exited the shadows, yet still could be one with how obsidian was its fur. Its maw drew back in a spiky, sadistic smile.
Without warning, the monstrous wolf multiplied, surrounding the Irishman too unnaturally swift for a beast of its size. Even so, he waited, only his eyes darting around the playing field—discerning information—before the creatures struck. Their gaping, massive jaws grated through the earth, twigs and soil spraying about.
Deflecting the hailing assortment of canines and belching terrain with practiced ease, Diarmuid swung and slashed his sword. During his prance, over and under, he disregarded elongated fangs, and the violent biffing paws aiming at his extremities. Drool coated his long sleeves, while deep crimson spread like icing on the pitch-black surface. In and out those creations of truth and lies came for the warrior, yet were easily distinguished from corporeal and fictitious. What was abstract was allowed to tear away at him, viciously snarling, all the while becoming transparent once they met true flesh and bone.
Illusions scintillated before batting out of existence. Expeditiously, the Celtic Spirit bounded and maneuvered through the shady towering woodlands, parkouring tree trunks to evade the single, pursuing wolf. Despite its persistence, and his own constant acrobatics, not a single twig snapped, nor did Diarmuid emit a sound in his elegant push onward.
Though the Fenian Warrior pressed forward—preceding him, the shadows twisted. Howbeit the terrain revised, Diarmuid anticipated with great willpower, seamlessly predicting where the next strikes would appear. Dodging and swiping, grace never vacated his form as aggravated shrills swept over the battlefield.
As his feet lost traction, darkness cracked like glass—snarling so ferociously, his body crinkled. Through the fractured sky, a full moon's gleam reflected off sandy irises. An irresistible pull tugged when attempting to slow or stop to evaluate the newly-born incentive. The grand chorus of howls coming from the ebony wolf's head overtook the enormous sphere and his own psyche.
The Knight was a mosquito to a fly trap, lured into the wide open muzzle of the beast with no escape in sight. He was going to be eaten—swallowed whole, along with the moon.
Sealing the visions away with the shutting of his eyes, the suspecting Knight hurtled himself into the remotest part of the fangs and sliced. Beagalltach sang its victory cry as the blade eviscerated tongue and teeth. It wasn't until what was once the wolf's throat evaporated and a loud smack scattered into the shuttering leaves, did the ordeal return to normal.
That tree ate your face, dummy! Haley's intellectual, coltish scorn blended with the ringing in Diarmuid's ears. Peeling himself away from the wood, he rubbed his nose with the inside of his palm.
Indeed. It seems I let my confidence get the better of me, he responded telepathically, attempting to fight (or at least, hide) his smile but failed. To those observing, he must look like a fool, grinning to himself in the silent gloom.
Deep within his gut, magic pulsed, catching his attention. It faded in and out: he reflexively palmed his torso. Merlin's magic… and Haley's mana… I must remember not to expend too much of it, he thought to himself, returning his attention back to the dimmed grove. The curtain of foliage returned, and yet Loki was still not in sight. Just how far had he managed to decipher his test?
To Diarmuid's dismay, it seemed that he had barely progressed. He spared a glance at Beagalltach's platinum-yellow handle, sheathing the similarly colored blade. His left hand remained on the hilt as he lifted his gaze to the withering leaves.
Thick fog slowly began misting from the ground up, devouring timber. A rotting stench infiltrated his senses, making his nose crinkle. His right hand twitched, itching to cover his mouth and nose to shield it from the revolting smell.
Wide orbs shot to his hands. "They won't… move." Luscious green perpetually shrank and browned, and whining mingled in the haze.
Attempting to move was like fighting dense gravity—he was being drawn to the ground as if groveling at one's feet. Tilting his head required too much of an effort; he dropped to what was left of verdant blades of grass underneath his palms. In fact, carefully craning his head revealed the patch in which he lay was all that yet flourished.
Eyebrows furrowing together, Diarmuid palpated the ground, inching his face closer. "Gravity…" he murmured to himself, staring down, and down—
He concentrated: not on the decaying milieu surrounding him, but rather the magic coming apart under the surface. As if in answer, like a drop of water in a pond, the world rippled at his touch. When he'd been ensnared by the rift of Loki's imagination he did not know—maybe it had been the work of that strange fog that now obliterated the forest and engulfed the Arena in a soft plume of grey—but he reached out into the void below…
… And as though peering through a mirror, his own self stared back. His swallow was almost audible, his hand halting at the sight—for what stared back at him was a reflection of what he'd become at the end of the Fourth Holy Grail War. His fingers trembled at the sight of blood flowing like a waterfall from slitted pupils. A sound resembling a cough passed through his lips, the center of his chest feeling like it was being compressed by a diabolical force.
The thing glaring back at him quirked a fiendish smile, its outstretched hands wrapping around his throat.
"Why you reside here—that is what you are, what you've become," The Norse God mused. "What you flee from."
Diarmuid grunted, displeasure and perhaps some fear crossing into his expression. The grip on his neck tightened. I do not cower from this part of myself, he thought proudly, pitying the display before him. Nor from the pain that still lingers in my heart.
The metaphorical strangulation pressed harder, but he merely let it, sinking into the pit hiding behind the roaring copy. Through it the Irishman went, caring not for the bellows grabbing and clawing at him from behind… he left what was thrashing and cursing him—what he would always be—behind. No longer did he desperately crave to turn back, to hate himself.
He only smiled, all too aware of the frustration he felt building in the God who watched.
Blinking away the remnants of the trickery, he'd found himself… sitting. Cocking his head to the side, Diarmuid stared down the length of the table. The unpleasant odor was still wafting in the air of this… dining room? He went to push away from the wood, as a female's snickering whistled by. With a flutter of his eyelids, the owner of that soothing yet disturbing voice sat directly across from him.
The woman was simultaneously the definition of beauty, yet the vision of horror and death. There was a presence about her that even the power of Beagalltach faltered against. Whatever she was, it made whatever resistance to the magic he managed wave in and out.
Unsure of which was worse, the sickly form that was her body, or the patient stillness of her body which... The Knight's throat bobbed. If he had any food in his belly, it'd be spattered all over the pearly white table. Eating utensils appeared before him, as though the sorceress he faced had sniffed out his thoughts.
"What are you?" Diarmuid ground out, finally able to fully comprehend the grotesque woman.
Every bit of her was exposed, in marked contrast to the grimy walls. Skin tissue hung below her waist, putrid holes scattered about her thighs, and bone splintered through the bits of her that withered. Black and white hair spilled over her shoulders. Some strands were crusted, almost sticky in texture. The reek that saturated the vast dining hall was her .
The woman sneered through her abnormally wide mouth, her eyes cold and calculating. "I am what you are. Alive but not, dead but not, a monster but not."
Was something drugging his senses? Diarmuid pondered, leaning forward on the table, gaze narrowing on what could only be described as death incarnate. Once again, he was pinned in place. A prisoner of this platform.
"This is a lovely game you're playing," she weighed up his abilities with that look of hers; a wild predator sizing up its prey. "I'll play along, too."
"What—" She waved him off, sneering at snickering at his struggle against whatever bound him. This was not—
"You are unnaturally beautiful, but let us have your body reflect how ancient you truly are."
Aches polished the Spirit's physical form, beige skin wrinkling and shriveling. Dark hair greying, the flesh of Diarmuid's cheeks sank inward, his eyes melting into pools of liquid. All the while, his organs turned gummy, wasting away with the rest of him.
The woman's purr was positively feline as she said, "Perfect—now your outer self matches your inner self."
His scream was muffled by the ash in his esophagus. No longer capable of seeing, insensible to anything but the feeling of his bones clicking and disintegrating—
Harsh laughter bounced off the walls of the distorting room. Diarmuid needed his body to get up, to overlook the illusion. He felt his brain oozing out the vacuity in his skull. It was not real, not damn real, he scolded himself, tore at himself.
However the Knight struggled to regain control of his mind, the more substantive it all became. Reality and fantasy blurred together and her damn chortling refused to cease.
"Oh, how I do enjoy your struggle. It's wonderful, but I kid you not. What you're experiencing… is indeed my power."
It couldn't be. There was no way—Diarmuid refused to acknowledge it. He disregarded how his bones slowly crumbled into dust, like an hourglass.
Diarmuid, hey, what is it you're seeing? You gotta keep moving, hey, HEY!
"Keep… moving…" his clacking teeth clicked out. Moving. Moving.
"Oh? Interesting." The voice slithered into his thoughts, caressed his mind. "Interesting."
Push, ignore the blanket of death making a tomb of your mind. So he did. Even though his bones were disintegrating, even as the world surrounding him said it was unwise, that this end was better.
Amusement flashed across the woman's appalling appearance. "You sure? My realm is better."
Diarmuid strutted forward, pieces of his profile reshaping.
"There can be peace for you," her cryptic visage crept up at his right side, flat against the inferior realm of magic. Still, he disregarded it. "You'll only know suffering, He'll never let you leave that place." She now flanked his left, beckoning him to dissolve into dust.
"Even so," Diarmuid rasped, dragging his misshapen physique towards the towering gates, "I will not abandon what I consider most precious."
A solicitous hum vibrated in the nothingness from her, Diarmuid halting abruptly at the revolting doors. The path within them stretched endlessly—so far—where they led was only a mystery. His hand found Little Fury, and his other settled on his chest where his heart resided. An invisible string tugged the reformed Spirit, a tether and guide to the magical energy he knew so well.
Diarmuid drew his weapon, steel whining as he levelled it to the woman that embellished life and death. Lunging into the Gate that whispered of Hell, he sliced, cleaving the facsimile of madness from the base of the skull down the middle. He hadn't landed, no, instead he drifted through the strange portal. Behind him, what he'd slain burst into speckles, ominous laughter left in its wake.
Bouncing off the mystical interior, Diarmuid found the forest and reached for it—and was blocked by another impenetrable wall. He collided into it face-first, as the fortress closed in behind him. His back was pressed, his cheek kissing the terrain. His fingers splayed, he shoved off the door, searching for the rope of energy linked to his Lady.
The casket knocked him around like a rodent in a cage, and yet he followed that pull. Strips of rainbow colors tried to blind him, while another impenetrable blockage made him stumble. Loki's gossip mixed with the beckoning of that estranged woman, all attempting to steer him the opposite way.
MOVE DIARMUID, OR I'LL CHOP ALL YOUR PRETTY HAIR OFF WHEN THIS IS OVER!
Well, that was a strange motivator.
With a choking grip on Little Fury's handle, the Knight pivoted the blade along the faces and obnoxious taunts. He fell into the void of erratic colors and repugnant scents and carved his way through the fluctuating labyrinths. Still, he found himself vanishing and emerging in new locations, letting that link drown out the rest. He thought he'd be diving and dodging for eternity, up until the woman's contoured face winked.
And he blinked.
Pine and air knocked Diarmuid out of his stupor, looking left and right. He was perched on top of a long branch of a tree, the woodlands seemingly untouched.
What in the hell was that, Diarmuid?!
Bewildered by the alarm in her intuitive question, he replied, What happened?
You were racing through the challenge with incredible timing, and then you just, freggin stopped mid-leap and decided to take a nap on that damn branch!
Wait, so what—what he had seen? Was it, not part of… no, it had to be part of the illusions Loki had them fight against. Haley, you had not… had you not witnessed my triumph over that odious woman?
The absolute puzzlement that spread in their quick mental silence made Diarmuid quite nervous; then she replied, What woman?
There was no time to decipher the questionable imagery, he surmised, not with the Arena trembling. There was still work he must do, to reach Loki. When he managed to plant his feet in the dirt—ready to proceed to the edge of the boss round—the groves convulsed.
The ground disintegrated, Diarmuid tottering as he regained his footing on what broke free from the earth's binding. He swore, gaping as the massive rod of serpentine emerged. Its green scales matched the leaves, them being as large as himself.
He ran.
There was no fighting this enormous monster, illusion or not. His sword was not capable of a blow that would result in a flinch. Oh, what he'd give to have Moralltach be present, as he assumed that mighty blade was singularly powerful enough to somehow find an effective means of doggedly mangling and maiming this gargantuan reptilian monstrosity. It was known for leaving no blow left unfinished.
The head was so far off, it was as though the Giant was slumbering, completely unaware of the warrior wandering its back. Suddenly it was too smooth, his boots losing traction as he stumbled over the edge. Over the slope of its body, the scenery flickered; his spine cracked as he found himself splayed out in the upheaved dirt.
He arched upward, wincing at the pain. In one fluid motion, Diarmuid was at the height of the trees. His eyes barely registered the blur of free-falling as he braced himself, adjusting for impact—and then he flickered out of existence, erratically finding himself spiraling and crunching across tree after tree.
His stomach was more topsy-turvy than the strenuously interchanging setting. With each second he adjusted, he found himself in yet another new place. The wretched sound of his bones snapping, and his skin being pierced by the felled timber, troubled him. Haley couldn't manage her healing magic if he could not remain in one spot—in her line of sight.
Sucking his teeth at a sharp impalement through his torso, Diarmuid raised the golden sword to slice away the edged wood. Ominous hissing halted his downward stroke, his head turning slowly in the direction of the sound.
Black and red pupils glared, the head—as large as a damn skyscraper—bobbing. Its tongue slid out to slither and coil around his ankle, hastily jolting the Spirit from his dilemma. Saliva coated its long fangs as it cocked that ridiculous face.
"Ynnnggg?"
Diarmuid's brows raised. From the angle he was tangled, Diarmuid had the idea to swipe his weapon, hoping to connect with the organ digging into him. Given his position, the strange serpentine language being uttered to him again seemed rather implausible.
"Yannckkk, nyyahh, nnng?"
Was… this thing trying to communicate with him? Its tongue squeezed tighter, his breath catching in his lungs. The warrior tried to wriggle free from its grasp, without success. The reptile merely inched closer, eyes flickering to his sword.
"I… do not—" the Knight tried, "Understand," he ground out.
The thing's eyes remained strained on Beagalltach, with a hint of worry. Diarmuid had slayed a Giant once before—with its own damn club no less—but Little Fury: did this snake actually think it was a threat?
Against his better judgement, he dropped his weapon. Was it centuries that it took for the clang of metal to hit the floor? Certainly felt like it. Perhaps that indeed was what the serpent waited for, as its clamping slacked immensely. With peculiar gentleness, the beast settled the Knight back on his feet. It slithered its tongue underneath Beagalltach, concealing it away.
Hole in his waist sealing shut, Diarmuid side-eyed the Snake. Well, that was unfortunate; it seemed as though he'd bargained his hide for his weapon. Its rounded face peeled back into a vicious smile, those teeth threatening to sink into its victim. With this round forever changing, its face began to warp to someone all too familiar.
A heavy breath exited Diarmuid's lips, and he really began to wonder.
Just how was his Lady faring with all this?
—
Loki crossed his arms, bracelets clanging against each other. Too fast—this was all being completed too swiftly. His illusions should have more effect. What he'd managed to recreate to confuse the contestants did not hinder them. Not as they were supposed to. The Forsaken fell under his spells, yet…Yet the girl was even more dumbfounding.
He slid his attention to where the woman trekked the terrain. How long had it been since he spotted her? When she had slipped from his sight and abandoned her partner, he'd thought it amusing… an interesting game the pair had decided to play. Separate illusions would require arduous attention on his part. It was not difficult, no, but then, in her departure…
No longer present was the Detainer of Diarmuid.
It took time to locate her; she was hiding in the wilderness, attempting to cross the distance quickly. An adequate attempt at strategy, but rather pathetic. Once she was spotted, the trials for her began all the same. Fascinating it would be to watch the woman's mind break, like the fragile glass that it truly was.
The God of Mischief had witnessed enough in the area to narrow down exactly what tormented her. Every trial he'd placed them under was with the help of Merlin, as well. Though the girl had impressive blocks to her psyche, the Forsaken's dreams were laid bare. It was a simple task for the Mage of Flowers to tap into it, albeit reluctant the Half-Incubus was.
Loki wondered if they even suspected that Merlin only graced them with his help due to the bet he'd placed. Why he had chosen them in particular he wasn't aware (and tried not to care) but among the Panel, they wagered on who'd be the last standing.
All in keeping with his plans, of course… Getting the Gods involved in his pesky Tournament. A distraction, his way of leading them to believe this entire thing was for the purposes of amusement alone. And it was, of course, as watching the dead fight amongst themselves was pure entertainment. Struggling souls clinging to an inkling of hope, only to meet with despair.
It was delicious.
Just like the girl screaming, clawing at her throat.
The Norse God leaned back, braiding his fingers together and flexing them outright. Seated at the top of a grassy hill that overlooked the woodlot, he observed the proceedings with spiteful joy. Shredding the woman's mind to pieces after she'd blatantly made a mockery of him would please him just as much as having the Gods bow to him.
He picked away at everything he knew she hated: ensuring that she believed insects were devouring her insides. He then took it further by insinuating her father was training her to reconstruct her organs just as quickly as the vermin tore at her.
When the woman finally killed the man—her first kill—shame engulfed her. This particular matter had Loki grinning from ear-to-ear. During the apocalyptic Tournament round, he'd noted her in taking human life; therefore, thrusting her into this sort of conflict hopefully furthered her mental disarray. By the way her body sluggishly plowed onwards, it was likely so, especially given the next tribulation awaiting her.
Which was the Knight Haley tortured herself for—the Spirit that time and time again she defied odds and himself to protect. Loki had the Forsaken sprawled out before her, a chasm in his chest so large that there was no saving him—caught by a trap of the Arena. In reality, the body of what hung there was just a large sack, disguised as her fallen lover.
Trepidation twisted her sweet face, her bellows of agony sweet as candy. Never should she have put distance between them. If they'd fought together, his soul would not be lost to the Underworld. The hole in her barriers—Loki shoved these thoughts in it. There was no healing magic, no ounce of power within her that could stop the Shadows from vacuuming the remnants of that physical form.
On her knees, she pleaded, "Loki, Loki please! Bring him back—you're not, you aren't supposed to destroy his soul!"
Loki simply smirked, casting his voice to the grieving woman, "I did not. He merely found himself in a trap by the illusion, and stumbled to his death. Tragic as it is, there was nothing I could do for his fret… his fret over you. "
Tears soaked her face, as the realization set in. Haley caused this. Her stupid plan resulted in an accident that took what mattered most in her pathetic life.
Pleased with himself, Loki shifted his attention to the real former Heroic Spirit. His lips drew in a line. Having expected the girl to be the more difficult opponent—given her mental talents and knowledge of magic—he had planted a backup plan: one that would guarantee his victory, and not a soul would suspect him, nor know how he did it.
How had the Irishman managed to navigate that… What was at work here? He should not be at the final stages of the challenge! He was so close—Loki rose to his feet, extending his arm to adjust the snake. In his peripherals, Haley still wept over her fallen hero, so the Norse God gave his direct attention to the Forsaken.
Diarmuid shifted on his feet, eyeing his Lady as she was trapped at the back of the serpent's throat. She clawed and thrashed about, her long hair torn to bits. Her eyes were sewn shut, while liquid venom ate away at her.
Dying—she was dying. Her heart would give out, he would never make it to her in time. Her pitchy voice was shrill as she declared, "Diarmuid… the only way… to save me… forfeit…!"
Magical energy embraced him, the terrible vision of the woman he loved almost unbearable.
"Haley… I… have failed you," Diarmuid sniveled, taking a pitiful step forward. He couldn't save her, he couldn't help her. "I am sorry, forgive my uselessness…"
"I won't forgive you, not unless you make it right! The only way… the only way to—"
Diarmuid just smirked.
Haley dug her fingernails into her palms, disgusted by obscene choices and vast differences in the trials Loki threw their way. Daring the risk, the Psychic sent a gentle wave of magic to Diarmuid. She was close. Hold out a little while longer.
Shaking her head from the edge of the Arena's platform, she snuck her way around the mound of grass. Quietly and delicately, she scaled to the peak, to see Loki standing tall—defenseless. The jabs from her doppleganger to Diarmuid solicited a roll of her eyes. She crept up behind him, the most unsuspecting she'd ever seen an enemy, and eliminated her magecraft just as she palmed Loki's shoulder.
Whipping his head to the figure behind him, Loki's eyes widened, his mouth twisting in a ludicrous gape as he strove to make sense of the scene; his speech failing him, as he yet heard the piteous wails of the woman weeping for her fallen colleague. How did she… How dare she approach him, without evidence of her copious tears on her visage—nor any signs of the scratches she had clawed into her own flesh in her abundant grief?! What… what!
Rich mirth infusing his smooth voice, Diarmuid spoke. "I jest, Loki."
The God swiveled to face the Spirit idling behind him, outrage writ large upon his imperious features.
"Did you truly believe Haley would ever treat me as such?" His smile grew broader. "No, my Lady's heart beats steadily for me; I shall not be dismayed by such trickery."
Loki trembled, his lip curling from his temper, "HOW?!"
The hill and forest came apart, the tiled flooring and stage returning. Haley strolled over to Diarmuid's side, grinning like a madwoman. "Illusion magic."
As Loki's expression shifted between stunned, dithering, and outright furious, the telekinetic said (not without a smidge of triumph and satisfaction), "Some of the only Magecraft I know is illusions. With the use of the key—giving me one edge in this fight—I had Merlin arrange it so you couldn't sense when I started the magic. When I left Diarmuid alone, it was only to make sure you believed I was falling for your traps as well."
The rest was obvious, Haley assumed… While Loki focused on slowing her Knight's progression, she let him see the delusion of her magic falling prey to his trials; though in reality, she was steadily closing the ridiculously long gap between them. Course, she had a front row seat to the madness he was inflicting upon Diarmuid. Telepathically, she communicated to him, helping him endure it with enhancement magic and the like. It made her progression rather slow—but it succeeded.
Loki was too distracted by the speed and ease in which her partner was completing the tasks, all the while smug about how terribly she was handling it. Judging by the twitch in his eyebrows, The God of Mischief had come to the same conclusion… And was not at all happy about being outwitted.
His consternation and outrage served to inspire even more pride in the woman. Haley puffed up her chest, holding her chin high, as Loki's nostrils flared. To his credit, he only mirrored her smile, his eyes informing her that this was not over—not by a long shot. Still, the woman didn't back down.
"We have winners," Loki admitted at last, gesturing to the announcer and anticipating crowd of the decision.
The blonde woman swirled over in the air, her skimpy dress swaying in the breeze. "To Diarmuid and Haley, winners of the third Boss Battle!"
The crowd roared, their bellows of jubilation increasing threefold as the Announcer continued to gleefully chirp, "Spectators, your patience in navigating the dual perspectives of our combatants has rewarded you all with a truly majestic, extraordinary battle! Of course, our multiple TV panels gave you the inside track on the powerful illusions of our God, as well as the cunning actual machinations of our wily victors—granting you the incredible insight between madness, and truth! Show our Detainer and her Forsaken your appreciation for their win!"
Haley and Diarmuid shared a wry look as the horde cheered and screamed, fascinated to learn their stratagem had been on full display by the Panel alongside the spectacle of the Boss Battle. However, now was not the time to muse upon the intrigue and backroom deals, as their victory had relied upon the very same factors, to some extent.
So yes, Diarmuid would not focus on that prospect; he would only bask in his elation of their win, as he snagged his wonderful woman's hand. Azure eyes locked with his, sharing the victory together. He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers in a quick kiss. Glorying in this much needed win, the Knight raised their clasped hands high above their heads and cheered.
His Lady hollered with him, unafraid of the glower from the bested God, squarely aimed in their direction. Diarmuid knew she didn't care; nor did he. They would rejoice, consequences be damned… Rile the onlookers to root and share in their victory, for Loki had robbed them enough of their joy.
In spite of all the seemingly insurmountable obstacles before them, their careful plotting and use of Merlin and the God's arrogance had paid off. He and Haley stood together as one, rightfully claiming the honor Loki had tried to steal away. And as the jubilance spread like wildfire, Diarmuid smiled, truly smiled. For he could not be any more proud.
oooooooooooooooo
I know it's been a bit since I've updated this fic, and I just lost a bit of motivation to writing it. I'm not trying to guilt anyone into anything, or make anyone feel bad. I just needed to take time away from writing to get myself together, as I was really tearing myself down over it and the lack of some things.
Anyway, I hope this chapter was worth the wait. I was really having fun with the mythos that drove the illusions going on. I wonder if anyone caught what majority of this was, and exactly what was happening? Especially one scene in particular...But in the end, Haley and Diarmuid triumphed! Their careful planning since chapter 13 and a little help from their rewarded keys and Merlin securing their victory. I still cant imagining their cheeky grins, and Diarmuid grabbing Haley's hand and raising it high! It fits so well to a song, too.
Anyway, hopefully you enjoyed it just the same, and are looking forward to more! Id love to hear your thoughts on what you think the future beholds for the tournament and our heroes!
Also, if anyone is interested in getting updates on the fic, seeing chapter snippets before they're written, want to ask me anon questions, or see my art that I draw in correlation to the work, and much more, follow me on tumblr! You can find my account, here:
Jelliedfox