Reviews:
Tero7323: Thank you! I hope you had a good holiday as well and enjoy the next chapter.
Hairul The Nightrage Beast: Yeah, since Borkoff is in the lancer unit, it made sense to have him be somehow incorporated into the Locus fight. Isidro took a huge risk to be sure but I had something in mind for what it means moving forward for him. Yeah, a majority of this chapter is dedicated to Voldemort and Harry. Excited as well for the hiatus to come to an end.
Tom2011: Indeed, the wizard duel is at hand.
FuryJoe: Thank you, glad you enjoyed.
OBSERVER01: Cue the Mortal Kombat theme! More than one series of paths are going to cross.
Exiled Soul Nomad: Again, cue the MK theme. I hope the fight lives up.
erica phoenix16: No problem! I hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer- Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling and Berserk is owned by Kentaro Miura. I own nothing.
It seemed that the light, the color of life, was anything but. His iris', that closely mirrored the deadly projectile in color, felt almost blinded by the intensity that came with the sheer malevolence behind the power of the jet.
Had he not reacted out of his stupor, had he even hesitated for a fraction of a second, his life would have been lost to the lively shade of death.
Even then, he found his body being forced to react, struggling against invisible chains as two more identical jets of the deadly green light streaked his way. Instead of moving to the side as he had done for the first, it was far easier to simply let his legs give out from under him, letting the two jets soar overhead as he rolled down a pile of rubble from one of the houses that had stood before the lightning strike from above. It proved to still be detrimental to him as he felt the sharp sting of rocks hitting his sides as he rolled.
"Kffha!" Harry coughed out when he landed on the bottom of the pile. His arms were closed close to his chest for protection, pinning his staff to his side and keeping his hands closed around the small mass within.
"Puck..." Harry managed after another cough. "You okay?" He opened his hands just enough to see the blue glow from the small elf within. His blue tuff of hair was a mess and his eyes rolled in their sockets.
As comedically concerning as it was, Puck still managed the strength to speak up. "Worry about yourself. If you die here and now, I'm no better off. Get up and show that guy who's the better wizard!"
It was strangely stunning to have to get a pep-talk from someone as small as Puck, especially when considering all his tough talk was just that in every previous case. But the conviction in his small voice was stronger than the foundations that used to support what was now rubble. Feeling a flair of pain in his side and leg, Harry forced himself to stand back up. Using his staff as a means of support at first, that quickly transitioned to a sturdy pose as he saw his opponent above him.
He seemed almost a specter as he glided through the air, weightless, a man taking on the appearance of a god in the midst of a hell-swept landscape of his own making. The confidence, the appearance, the power, it was almost enough to remind him of a man in silver armor with the smile of a child and the pull of a star. He could understand why so many witches and wizards fell to or for the persona above him. It seemed that some of those were to be in attendance as well.
From behind him and all along the sides, wisps of black smoke started to appear followed by a series of cracks that might have been mistaken for more lightning ready to rain down from above. When the smoke cleared, men and a sole woman in black robes were standing at attention.
Bathump! He felt his heart hammer in his chest, expecting an attack from any one of them at any moment. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw a brief shuffle from one of the dark shapes on his left. A wand was raised in the air; a wand flew from the hand.
It was not done by Harry's hand, but that of his challenger. "No!" Voldemort commanded in a calmly firm tone toward his subordinate. "You shall all do nothing unless I command it. Merely keep him from escaping this time." The shame was evident not just in the Death Eater, but their leader as well. Such a display in front of an enemy would almost certainly show an inability to keep them in line. Those eyes that burned with an unspoken fury turned to look back over where Harry stood. "What say you, Potter? My offer sounds most generous, yes?"
An offer had been made to him before. Three choices he had back then; now, he had but one.
A large piece of debris levitated from the rubble and launched itself toward the Dark Lord who hovered and watched with the eyes of a bird of prey. Instead of dodging as Harry had with his spells, he moved his wand, a mimic of an invisible sword cutting through the air. Effortlessly, the projectile was cut in half in a perfect line. Voldemort seemed almost impressively amused by the move.
"Are you beyond words, Potter?" he asked as he began to float down the pile of dusted stone and tile until they were almost of an even ground save for where his feet did not touch. "For one so young, are you perhaps learning as you go? Attacking so hastily, I fell victim at the start of this."
Silently hoping that Luca had not evacuated any people to this part of the sewer system, Harry called forth a torrent of water to come crashing from the ground beneath them. Feeling the magical surge in his stomach, Harry willed more of his own power into summoning the wave, the spirits of nature would do little in cities, especially ones as corrupt as this one.
With the force of what might have been the ocean, the wave roared toward Voldemort whose face held a stony demeanor not far from an impassive cliffside. He raised his wand, or it could have been his hand as the two seemed no different from moss on a tree. Like the rubble before it, the wave seemed to almost part in a near identical line from where Voldemort's long and pale hand touched it. The unshapely water began to change as well, taking on a more solid, crystalline shape and structure as it froze over into ice.
A single wave of his wand and it underwent another transformation, an intense heat billowed forth and steam sizzled in the already warm air, dissipating along with some of the heavy smoke.
"You don't have many manners to you, do you, Potter?" Voldemort asked with faux concern. "Dumbledore clearly didn't teach you a thing. Count yourself lucky that you were never taught by the old cod." His tone carried hints of envy. "If only I could say the same." He observed him. His mouth moving a bit at the side. "Do you really have nothing to say to me? Surely you've heard of why I sought to kill you since your infancy?"
Was this a form of baiting? It seemed unlikely for the wizard who had tried to kill him so quickly only a few moments previous. There was a wave of anger palpable in the air to be sure, but Harry wondered if was solely directed toward him. Him just being silent was enough to aggravate the Dark Lord, all for offering no words of exchange. How frustrating that must be, for one who has dedicated a decade and a half to finding and killing one person, to not even receive any form of acknowledgment in return. Perhaps Voldemort's anger now was not too different from how Guts would react when he saw Griffith.
Any hint of a smile disappeared from Voldemort's face when Harry remained silent. "Fifteen. I remember feeling invincible at that age." His tone bristled in envious reminiscence. "You no doubt feel the same right about now. All that fabled power that you supposedly possess; you have tricks and an old relic, but you lack experience of a proper magical performance." His wand hand moved far faster than it had any earthly right to.
Harry saw no jet of light, but the tingle running along his spine clued him into the unseen danger approaching. Reacting just as fast, Harry had the rubble at his feet construct itself into a makeshift wall, just high and wide enough to take cover behind. He was grateful that he kept a bit of distance between himself and his creation as the force slammed into his barrier, nearly strong enough to make it topple over on him from what looked to be the cut of an invisible sword.
Magically halting its fall, Harry cast his gaze to meet that of Voldemort whose face was neither contempt nor satisfaction. He seemed, to Harry's eyes, entirely contemplative.
"Troubled?" Voldemort asked in a tone that might have been convincing to anyone unfamiliar with him. "Confused even?" Voldemort ended his bout of self-levitation and allowed his feet to grace the land he had razed. "We would be at an understanding then, you and I. You now know what it is I feel when dealing with you now." He began to snake his way forward cautiously. "Surely you know what this all means for the two of us. That miserable old codger must have told you why you carry that scar upon your head. When I first heard of it, those words poisoned my mind. I could not think straight when those lines were the only thing that seemed to matter. Incomplete as it was, no thanks to the old goat's meddling, I still understood the meaning, you must as well." Those red, snake-like eyes sparked with hateful determination. "Only one of us may live."
Sensing the impending danger, Harry was startled when he heard a voice speak to him. 'Teacher!' the mental voice of Farnese. 'The others and I are at the tower. What's going on with you? That explosion from earlier was that...?'
Farnese, listen carefully. Don't do anything until I get there.
'But -, as you say. What is going on?'
Not wanting to be distracted in this upcoming confrontation, Harry brought the hand holding Puck upward, whispering to the blue elf. "Get to the Tower of Rebirth. Let them know what's going on here."
Puck's blue orbs widened farther than Harry had ever seen them go before, but this was anything but comedic for the friendly elf. "You want me to leave you here all by yourself? I can help!"
"You're helping by being helpful," Harry whispered shouted to the elf. "Now get going."
"If you have something to say, speak up, Potter!" Voldemort commanded, unamused by what he was seeing as an insult.
Harry felt Puck's wings brush against the palm of his hand. "You want me to help, sure," Puck dusted his wings some more. "I'll get to that tower, no jiffy. But don't expect me to leave without giving these clowns a parting gift first." His blue eyes shone with righteous mischief. "Fair warning, don't look too close."
Opening his hand fully, Puck quickly took to the air between the two wizard combatants. His small, blue body seemed to be glowing brighter than Harry ever recalled in the entire time he had known the blue elf. The specks of dust that fell from his rapidly beating wings seemed more akin to falling snow than they did to a colored powder, lingering longer in the air instead of trickling down to the ashen salted earth. Puck's carefree face seemed even more unnaturally bliss as he moved his tiny arms closer to his chest as the bioluminescent light radiating from his body seemed to glow more intense.
Sensing the surprise coming, Voldemort followed the flying elf with his eye, raising his wand to snuff out the light. He wasn't prepared for the light to burst on its own.
Recalling Puck's earlier sentiment, Harry squinted as the light from Puck burst forth from him in a single, glorious spark that could have rivaled staring directly into the sun. And in a single luminous blue burst, the air above them seemed to pulse with the giant spark that Puck had created. Voldemort and those who surrounded them shielded their eyes from the light while Harry internally thanked the elf for the distraction as he zoomed off through the sky as intended.
Way to pull through, Harry gratefully thought of the distraction. Now, he could set his sight on getting the upper hand. In the spasm of momentary, opportunistic chaos, Harry directed his focus to the still plentiful piles of rubble around him. And upon his will, they began to rise.
The clear sky was clouded by dark wings. The sound of them beating could be heard, if one was listening carefully. Looking down from above, it was easy to spot and hear the commotion that was running rampant in the streets of Falconia. Grunbeld and his unit were probably slowly pushing through the central and western districts of the city, trying to either force their way through to where the chaos was unfolding or trying to get the citizens to take shelter. The presence of the warriors probably did little to actually ease them into a sense of security. Warriors on the move meant danger was unfolding, even the dumbest of peasants could discern that much for themselves.
From above, the chaos seemed almost orderly. The sight of a plume of smoke was visible from outside the gate as well. A diversion, or a failure? Either way, it happened, it existed to paint the scene for this coming battle, win or lose.
The hot blood was pumping, through him, through all of them. The thrill of pursuit, a future fight. It was all right here, win or lose.
From below, the sounds of screams could be heard. They feared for their lives, the lives of those they cherished. All they wanted was to hide, to survive this surprise attack, win or lose.
And let them think that. Their lives were ultimately useless anyway. People whose faces were unknown yet real all the same. It didn't matter. If they chose the path of survival let them. His choice was made regardless, just as it had been those years ago. This scene right now; the shouts, the smoke, the feeling of boiling blood, this was a war. His war perhaps?
What might have been mistaken as doubt, was anything but. It was more remembrance than any one single feeling.
How long had it been exactly? The smell of smoke was strong. War had still been going strong back then. A war, not his war. The smell of blood was in the air. That could be said for both. Now, the stench of another's blood came to the nose. It had been his own at one point.
The sword lay broken, shattered in half in a clean cut. Fresh cuts on both his arms and legs. His breathing was heavy, exhaustion and pain both settling into his system. The opponent - no, that would be unfair to refer to him as such. Calling him an opponent meant that he had stood a ghost of a chance to even begin with. He had thought the fight would be quick, and he had been correct. His defeat was swift and without prejudice. Years of training, of honing his sword, becoming both feared and respected, it was all for naught when faced with the lone rider above him now.
He would meet his end here. An encounter that needed not even happen had he perhaps humored the boy's warning. Instead, he had just patted the youngling on the head, dismissing his premonition as a cry for attention; he had not spent much time in the village of late. Besides, the boy and his siblings took after their soothsayer mother, they never just said what was.
"Are you quite finished?" the voice that at first sent a shiver down his spine now only made his blood boil in anger. It was not the first defeat he had experienced in his life, but it was the most humiliating. No one, aside from them, was here to witness it. He had lost, but he had fought with a vigor he never even knew he had. All that bore witness were those blazing sockets that stared at him with unspoken opinions. "Will you hear now what I have to say?"
"Listen to you? If you tell me the art of how you fight, I will give you all the time you require." His deep voice had sounded harsh with humiliation, but not without the spoken desire. He had not been able to land a single hit on this rival. Maybe if he had been better prepared for a fight instead of tracking the elusive black lion, he might have fared better. But that would just be a lie. There was still much to learn, even after forty-two years of age.
"That trinket tied to your waist," a bony finger was pointed to the black egg that hung, "do you know what it is?"
"You ask me what you know the answer to." That much was plain to see. "It is a gift. A symbol of leadership from the gods."
"Who has told you this?"
"The soothsayer from my village. She issues prophecies and such."
"And you believe her based on the word of prophecy?"
"No. I believe her for reasons that are my own." He had told his woman that her prophecies were meaningless unless that person believed in that destined path when she gave it to him, yet she insisted.
"And yet you still carry it on your person." Those eyes never missed a beat. "Do you believe in prophecy, in causality. You must if have not even attempted to rid yourself of it."
"I believe in what I see and have seen before me. I have won countless victories, beat back attacks since I was a milk-drinking boy. I respect you for your prowess but don't dare to assume you know what I believe." Lay the truth bare and even the hungriest of lions would eat from your paw.
"And what is it you believe?"
"War. Surely you would know about that. Just about any king would say it is inevitable." He gazed into those sockets to let him know he suspected his identity. What child had not grown up hearing stories of the Skull King? He had been inspired as a youth to one day surpass the nigh-unbeatable warrior, to live up to the stories that had been passed down. "I train, I fight, I return and defend home. It has happened, and it will happen again. I need not issue or believe prophecy to know it will happen again."
"And is that what you so desire?"
"There are other things war is fought for, yet I do not aim to become fat and content."
His now rival mulled the words over in what was most likely an empty helm. "Believe as you may, and if you do fall into the hearty grasp of prophecy, I expect you to fight as you have here." He turned on his horse, ready to gallop away.
"You will not claim the trinket? It is why you came to me."
Glowing eyes pierced his heart. "Believe what you will, desire what you must. But should your desire change, should you ever sacrifice for what you believe, keep in mind that your skill will only be wasted over time. One war or the next, they will never be the one that matters to you. A fight like this will not happen for some time if you seek an opponent. The king to the east will not give you the same challenge as I, despite his claim of descending from Gaiseric." A mist seemed to roll in, covering the trotting in its embrace. "Fight in the wars if you will. One will surely prove to be far from content."
Reflecting on it now, he wondered if his rival could have seen the future. But he discarded that thought. He knew what this was. Win or lose, this was the war that had been discussed. His fangs glistened as he gave a hidden snarling smile. He would have to thank the Wizard for this if their paths ever crossed.
His were not the only set of beating wings in the sky. "Captain!" one of his lieutenants called to him as they flew over to meet him. His face was like a reptile had crossed with a bird, complete with a longer, slender neck and scaly body.
"What have you to report?"
"A scout has just reported back. They caught sight of the Black Swordsman in the East District! He's joined by a woman, a witch, and some Kushan by the looks of it. Captain... Locus looks to have been slain. Were ready to pursue at once!"
The Black Swordsman? His feeling of satisfaction grew with every word. It had nothing to do with wanting justice for Locus, the lancer had been too delusional for his own good. It was more about wanting to feel what he had felt back then. Just how many had he fought and killed since that fight with his rival? None of them, not one of them had even been able to hold a candle to what he had felt back then. None except for some bastard boy with a sword as large as his burden. Somebody who understood what it all meant.
He was prepared right there to fly off in the direction of his newest challenge when something caught his cat-eye in curiosity. Down below and to the eastern half of the city, he spotted the scene of where the lightning had struck. Some of his Fliers had been caught off guard by the magical blast. But their charred corpses weren't what held his attention. It was the hovering pieces of debris which hung suspended on an invisible rope, ready to drop at a moments notice. His mind drifted to another previous encounter where he had crossed paths with both Struggler and Wizard. It was reminiscent of a move the Wizard had pulled on him in that fight.
"Pursue if you please." It would do no good. The Black Swordsman is beyond any of them. He took into consideration of where the Black Swordsman was in the district to where he knew the Wizard to be doing battle right now. They weren't too close in location, but they would be intersecting at one point. Was that where the Black Swordsman was heading, to help the Wizard? He thought better of it. Knowing him, he would be looking to battle the still-disguised Femto. "Have you located Grunbeld or the Godhand?"
"Grunbeld dispersed his unit to cover more ground. The Hawk of Light is making ready to intercept separately."
If that was true, Femto knew that they were trying to go. He looked back down at where the debris still hovered in the air. Even if the Black Swordsman and the Wizard were separated now, they had a plan for being here; a way to communicate to ensure that they would all be at the same place.
Win or lose.
"You have your orders," he told his lieutenant. "Proceed as you see fit."
"But, Captain, will you not be joining us?"
"I will fight him." The way he said it, there was no questioning his tone. "There is another who demands my attention at the moment." Two, to be exact.
It seemed that Potter had more than his fair share of tricks up his sleeve. That pixie of sorts had to have been of this realm as no pixie in magical England was known to perform a light trick like that one. He couldn't even fully fault Potter for pulling a trick like that, underhand tactics were often rewarded among the ranks of his Death Eaters. He was, however, consumed by envy. This was the second time Potter had managed to show qualities that he himself was renowned for possessing.
This boy, this boy of just fifteen was proving himself to be as advanced as Voldemort had been in his later years of Hogwarts and beyond. While he had amassed a following, discovered long lost secrets, and pushed the boundaries of magic like no one had before; Potter used his skill for... what? What was the possible endgame for Potter, a boy who seemingly takes the gift of magic for granted? While muggles dealt with primitive tools, wizards had a multitude of ways to do things faster and better than ever before. There was always a way for a solution for those clever and cunning enough to discover it; be it a cure for boils, talk to animals, or even escape from a run-down shelter where greatness was looked down upon.
The enigma that was Potter was just baffling to him and he had no doubt that his ancestor Salazar would be rolling in his grave at the idea of someone like Potter having magic. In ways, Potter was worse than any mudblood that dared to pick up a wand. Even those with the dirtiest of blood still had some desire to do something with their magic. How could he possibly call this boy his rival, his possible undoing, if he had no grand vision of what he had magic for? And that was a far greater insult to the art than he could possibly imagine.
Even now, Potter just stood there, unmoving, silent as before. He had a sword drawn and his relic of a staff held up to some extent. Wait.
Voldemort spared Potter of his poisonous gaze and looked above. His already pointed glare became even more so as the light from the sun was a sore spot after that blasted pixie trick. When he saw it, his eyes widened. Noticing he had figured it out, Potter sprung his trap. Piles of debris which had laid at his feet came careening down toward the earth, resembling falling stars from above.
A quick swish and a curve of his wrist, his wand transfigurated the projectiles closest to him into wisps of sand. Cries of "Bombarda!" from his Death Eaters filled the air as they too realized what was happening and the air was filled with the sounds of thunder.
A few, such as Yaxley, were either too slow to respond in time or failed to take out a sufficient amount. With a bang loud enough to rival their previous chorus of the incantation, the dusted rubble became stained with bits of red, splashing out like drops of rain.
It was all so similar to how he had used the lighting previously to level this small part of the city district. Another parallel, another mark on his already deep disdain for the young wizard. He could feel the fires inside of him burning white hot, licking at his bones to be unleashed. He would not deny them.
"He's facing Voldemort?!" the urgency in Sirius' voice was very apparent to Farnese as the blue blur, better known as Puck arrived at their location to give them the full detail of what was going on in another part of the city.
"And a bunch of his goons are there as well!" Puck exclaimed as coherently as possible, his usual high voice seemed even more amplified.
"And you just left him there alone?!" Sirius showed no visible signs of calming down with the knowledge that his godson was in danger. Farnese recalled when they had not heard from Harry since his capture the previous day and how frantic Sirius had been then. Even so, they had all known in some corner of their mind that there had been a high chance of Harry being detained once he set off alone; yet it had been a known flaw, to begin with, even if it had worked out. Now, here they were, at the steps leading up to the ancient Tower of Rebirth as planned.
"He told me to make myself useful, and I did," Puck's remorse weighed down on his defense. "Now that I told all of you, I can go back and help him out!"
Sir Azan cleared his throat. "Pardon me, my elfish friend, I don't mean to sound rude, but I doubt there would be much you could do in the battle."
"Hey!" Puck protested, even though they all knew it to be true. He might have pulled a quick trick to get here, but it was one that likely wouldn't work again.
Farnese stepped between all of them before they got unnecessarily distracted from their current goal. "Please! We're close to finishing all of this, have faith in my teacher, he has pulled through on many situations before and I have no reason to think he won't defeat this Voldemort."
"It isn't just Voldemort," Sirius paced on the steps of the tower. "The moment he thinks he's been backed into a corner, he'll have his followers move in. Or, he might just call for more apostles to come to his aid. He's not one to lose when he's set his mind to something."
"Neither is Harry," Farnese spoke the praise of one of her teachers. He would make it here; he had to.
If Sirius heard her, he didn't outright voice his agreement. "Farnese, tell me something."
"Yes?" she cautiously asked, having a feeling where this was going.
"What you, Schierke, and Harry plan on doing here, can it be done by just the three of you?" Sirius asked his question.
She knew something of the sort had been coming, and she gave her answer as best she could, knowing that it would not stop Sirius from what he planned on doing. "We can as long as we can access our astral forms."
"Then I'd be as useful here as a beater without a club. You need Harry, I'll make it happen." Before he could leave, Serpico glided forward to put his hand on the other man's shoulder.
"It isn't in my place to tell you what to do, my duty is at Lady Farnese's side. I can understand the want to protect a family member a great deal, but do not throw your life away because of it." His eyes were open more than just a sliver of their usual width as he met his gaze.
Sirius gave only a slow nod. "Don't go worrying about me. You all have your jobs, and I know exactly where I need to be."
Puck couldn't help but get one last word out. "As I was flying here, I saw a lot of those apostles heading in this direction. You really planning on fighting your way there by yourself?"
Turning to look at the elf, Sirius flashed a toothy grin. "Ye of little faith." He took off down the steps of the Tower of Rebirth, his body going from running on two legs to four before their eyes. The black dog bounded off the rest of the way, leaving one battle for another.
He instantly knew that he had woken a dragon of some sort. If Voldemort was barely holding back his anger before, he seemed all but ready to just release it now. The Dark Lord used his unoccupied hand to slowly close his fingers to his palm. It almost looked like he was making a fist, prepared to just start wailing on his opponent in a drunken state. That was until Harry felt his unruly black hair move with the air that was being pulled toward Voldemort.
Moving his wand hand close to his chest as the pull became stronger, Voldemort waited until he had a sufficient amount of pull to it before throwing both his arms wide open, his wand pointed directly at Harry as the spell careened toward him. At what he first perceived to be wind, such as the methods Serpico uses, Harry quickly saw that this was not the case. Voldemort's spell had only been pulling friction, pulling energy toward him and when it released, it was a pure wave of dark, jagged corruption, turning the very ground beneath it to salt.
Knowing that any spell he had that might stand a chance of countering taking to long to conjure, Harry fished inside his satchel to pull out a golem totem and tossed it in front of him. The earthly drone grew to an appropriate size in front of Harry, taking the brunt of the incoming blow while Harry took the time to jump out of the way. He barely made it. The same tide of rough, jagged darkness completely consumed his golem, reducing it to nothing more than dust and clay as it continued to shoot forth, forcing even Voldemort's own followers to avoid the incoming tide as it came to a stop once it decimated a nearby shop.
Harry tried reigning his breathing in as Voldemort turned to him once more with his wand raised. He was more exhausted than the dark wizard, but he wasn't without his wits just yet. This entire battle so far hadn't just been about avoiding his attacks and dishing out his own without purpose. He thought of Guts, how the swordsman was able to beat larger and more terrifying opponents by finding the flaws in how they fought. Voldemort clearly thought himself superior, but instead of being fully cocky about it, he actually did have skill and experience to back up some of his claims. While the Death Eaters had yet to attack, holding back on their master's orders, it likely wouldn't stay that way for long if more of their numbers died off.
It all really fell on just killing Voldemort as soon as possible before that could happen. While all of his attacks had been batted away so far, Voldemort had failed to get a hit in as well. In terms of just raw magic, Harry was confident the hand was in his favor with his studies under Flora and reading of spell books from Diagon Alley. However, Voldemort had been at this practice for far longer and knew spells Harry had yet to even touch upon. Harry still had his sword but doubted that Voldemort would conjure one up himself for a close-quarters fight.
A shadow passed overhead and Harry feared that Voldemort had already launched his next spell. That was not the case at all.
You're kidding me, Harry thought in abject exhaustion. Perching amidst the piles of rubble was a familiarly unwelcome sight. With the large, bat-like wings folded close to the hulking, fur-covered body, the head rose up bearing the singular horn. Red cat eyes glistened with cruel mirth and the snarling grin was a friendly gleam of malice. Would he have to now fight the both of them? Harry was not alone in his stupor at the arrival of this unwanted visitor.
"What are you doing here?" Voldemort seethed out. "This is not your fight!"
"It is not. You merely caught my eye is all." His response did nothing to placate the already growingly frustrated wizard.
"If you have come here to interfere, you are to be most disappointed. This is my affair, my prophecized duel." The remaining Death Eaters shifted to take in the new addition who made no move from his gargoylian perch.
"And this is what you so desire?"
"It has to happen. Regardless of what I believe, there is always power beyond what I can scarcely imagine. And how can one ever be free if not to sacrifice what they believe? To be unbound by fate, causality's flow must end for me. No prophecy, no inhibitors." Was this truly what Voldemort believed? Just seeking more than what he already had, never satisfied with what he had? It almost reminded him of how Griffith had been, rising through the ranks of nobility until he became a demon prince. The difference being, Griffith had known of his limitations. "Leave us to our devices already!" Voldemort ordered the apostle.
Harry found himself under the stalking stare once again. "And is this what you desire as well, Wizard? Do you share the sentiment of this fateful duel?"
"Tch! Kuhuhu!" Voldemort cooly laughed, his smile sharp as knives. "You waste your breath asking him a question like that. He's as quiet now as the night I first encountered him, same silence as ever. I would much more prefer to relive that night instead. His father put up more a fight than he's doing now. I could actually respect a man who accepted his fate before being put down. Even his mother was more expressive. She begged like a whore to spare his life. A pity he would act so unappreciative." The woman next to Voldemort cackled and a few others joined in as well.
He knew what it was Voldemort was trying to do; lure him in and catch him with the bait. A discussion he had previously with Schierke reminded him of what he had said in regards to his parents. Sure, he was sad that they were gone, that his life had been so drastically changed because of it. And while he still would like to know what it would have been like if they were alive, he was left with the fact that he could only want. Want to know, want to think, even want to feel sad at their passing. And yet...
"Why are you asking me that question?" Harry asked of the behemoth apostle while his stare was directed toward his opponent. Voldemort's brows furrowed and any trace of cruel mirth vanished from his face as Harry finally spoke. "I don't want to be in this fight, prophecy or no. I'm needed elsewhere." He spared a look over at the spectating apostle before looking back. "Sorry to disappoint you." He wasn't quite sure himself at whom that last part was directed.
Voldemort stood, unmoving. His face was not contorted in any form of a snarl or sneer; his posture hardly seemed suggestive of a fight with his arms having lowered to his side. Hidden fangs lurked behind his eyes, dripping with venom that did not dare to strike just yet. Evidently, it was enough to cause concern for the sole woman - Bellatrix, who had been standing off to his side.
"My Lord?" she asked, delicately fierce. Voldemort didn't even grace her with his glance; instead just staring right over toward Harry.
"So that is what he believes," Voldemort said, at last, his voice lathered in disappointment than anything else. "Even after fourteen years... now I know. Should I even bother?" he raised his head, his face seeming to have de-aged as his smile was one a youthful adolescent would wear. One that was filled with the promise of a dream left unfulfilled. One that he recognized. "Just kill him."
The change was palpable in the air. What had once felt an unmovable, impenetrable wall was now a gentle stream in the midst of a raging storm. The path forward was clear so long as it kept to the smooth ebb and flow that had been carved out by both magic and ingenuity. Riding forward, there was no resistance, not yet anyway. Any obstacle that stood in his path remained to be seen, but it did not take an incredible amount of foresight to know that it would not last.
Moving forward, the smoke and dust in the air did not impede him at all. It wouldn't even if he was fully alive. The sight was not a new one by any stretch of the imagination, the cause may have differed, but the effect was the same. The farm fields themselves seem to be largely intact, the damage minimal for the most part. The defenses would prove to be poor as his presence clearly demonstrated.
He crossed the long stretch of the farmland in but a few moments, the smoke and fire burning a bit lower, but still held strong. Once he neared the main road where the gate remained open, he glanced around for any sight of the two youths that had agreed to take up the task of setting off the chain of explosions outside of the city. If they had been careless, they could have gotten caught in one of their own attacks. And as he followed the ebbing path laid before him, he found no sight of the two boys.
There had been tracks looked to have been left by a quadrupedal apostle as well as some blood that belonged to both the beast and to a human as well. Yet being in an open area, he knew the places to hide were minimal. If the two were alive, their only refuge would either be in the city or out back in the forest. Either way, he doubted that they had met their fate so soon. Under normal circumstances, he would have doubled back to check to see if his suspicions were correct, but if he did, it only delayed the time needed to distract the Godhand from directly intervening with the attack.
By now, they probably knew exactly what the purpose of this attack was and where they were going to accomplish their goal. Femto was likely already on the move to intercept and would be isolated from the others, who were not reborn into this world as he had been. They would be confined to a specific place, yet still able to cause some very unsettling problems.
Let them try.
Inside the city now, he was more than a blur to any passing citizen, not that they even paid him much attention anyway. They were far too busy seeking shelter or being cattled around by either the city watch or by a woman who seemed to be leading them to where a few other girls had upheaved a cover above the sewer levels. She too had found her courage since his last glance.
Further, he rode, the feeling of danger grew. One only needed to cast a look to the sky above to see that there were a number of winged apostles circling the perimeters of the city. He wondered if he would be seeing any trace of his supposed rival, suspecting to meet him on the field of battle. But he didn't. Perhaps he was already engaged with the now wielder of that cursed armor. If the direction those apostles were going was any indication, that's where the Black Swordsman was, ever the attractor of danger. There was little doubt that his successor, sans the blood, would overcome his encroaching foes; but still, this is why he was here.
A division of land-based apostles was to his charge, moving east to the unfolding battle. His sword, which had yet to be encased in its full potential, moved in accordance with his arm that felt no burden from the weight. The first barely registered that his leg had been cut from his body until he dropped to his remaining appendages. A quick slash of the sword proved fatal, cutting deep at the base of the spine, bits of bone fit right in with the cobblestones below.
By the time the other demons recognized the threat from their flank, it was too late. His arm swiveled about in the socket, cutting foes both above and below from where he rode past. Two limbs, four limbs, or even eight, their parts were strewn about the streets in a fashion to a toddler tossing his toys about. Any citizen who happened to be watching would only see the members of their savior's army being torn to ribbons of meat by what could only be death incarnate. The once protectors of the city now heaps of smoking carcasses for the vultures to scavenge.
The four legs of his horse left the ground on instinct as a serpentine apostle tried slithering in for a bite. With all the dignity of stepping on a worm, his sword was thrust through the demon's gaping maw, his horse spurring into action, carving a twisting path down along the body of his assailant as well leaving a neatly dissected corpse behind.
A giant of a leg meant to come down and crush him; but much as he had the first time, he would leave this one to fall to its knees. Riding circles around the massive whale of an apostle, he carved chunks from its legs, slicing through major muscles and veins to topple such a giant. When it fell, it landed akin to a tree in the wild. Only, instead of crushing smaller trees, it fell through the top of a house, the inhabitants taking shelter in a desolate corner, huddling together to stay alive. They would not be the only ones.
Keeping on the move, he managed to carve a path leading forward, toward the main street of the city, the palace laid near bare for him. The number of War Demons subsided, replaced with humans in plates and chainmail, armed with sword, bow, and shield alike. The emblems of their sigils varied as did the ethnicity, but the cause of their heart was the same: to defend their city from the invaders.
His steed cleared the first line of defense with a single leap from his steed. The soldiers below were far too slow to try and stop him. Some did try to thrust a spear into his steed's flank, but a quick flick of his sword lopped off the tips of the weapons, rendering them futile. Continuing to gallop past the ranks of mortal soldiers, deflecting any attack that came his way with ease, he ascended the zigzagging roadway up to the main palace.
Had Femto anticipated his arrival and station regular mortals near and at the palace itself? It seemed unlikely. The attack had been so swift and sudden that even the Godhand would be in a frenzy trying to stay true to the laws of causality. No. These soldiers were likely here to just act as security and a deterrent should anyone try to attack the palace. They would be met with only humans, not demons. And thus, his men would not see him turn into what he truly was if the time called for it. He would appear to all the world a savior as he had always pictured.
At the top, the guardsmen had little time to react before he and his mount plowed straight through; the bridge and subsequent portcullis ended up much the same way the apostles before them. The inside of the palace seemed oddly deserted. The fiasco during the wedding must have called for a quick dismissal of guests and nobles alike. But all of their lives were ignorance and bliss when compared to what lurked on the lowest level of this place. Even from here, he could feel the pull, the familiar emptiness that had fueled him for centuries now.
He rode, following the pull, the invisible string that would lead him to those four. No one, not a single soul was here. If they hadn't known before of his coming, they did now. For all their knowledge, all their power, even they had been blinded by the flaw of causality for just the briefest of moments. Even he had almost felt the closest thing to surprise that he was permitted to. The first time in so very long... he felt-,
He drove the tip of his sword into the wall, the shadows morphing to avoid the tip of his blade.
"How perceptive!" the familiar crackle of a laugh greeted him as a face and stunted body began to emerge, swirling forth from the shadow. He withdrew the point and cut again, this time above his head, barely missing the next one.
"Would you expect any less from one such as him?" the second one asked in his hollow voice. He could sene the third from behind and whirling around to face her.
"You both make it sound as though his timing is disastrous. It couldn't be farther from the truth. Wouldn't you agree?" that only left...
Rising from the pooling darkness on the floor, the fourth and tallest figure emerged. His sewn gaze piercing and his presence consuming. "We welcome you here at Falconia, the anchor for all of creation."
"An anchor it may be, but for a ship that is filling with water," he retorted. "Your welcome is that of a graveyard."
"Is it that far from your royal standard?" Slan teased. "But surely this must be nostalgic for you. This location, the design, does it not warrant any form of gratitude?"
Ubik cackled as he circled around overhead. "She speaks the truth!" his glass covered eyes started to glow white. "It was here that-,"
"Your words are poison, snake," he swung at the impish Godhand, only missing as a tear in the air opened, swallowing up his strike. He pulled back before it could close on his arm.
"To have come so far, yet to recoil at a mere shadow of the past," Conrad spoke up after Ubik. Before he could take a swipe at the other stunted Godhand, Conrad began inhaling the air around him, pulling him toward a tear that opened up in front of him.
His steed fought the pull, but even he failed to come to a complete halt. The gaping tear rippled as they neared. To escape, he swallowed his blade as he had before, pulling it out in its true potential. He made a cut himself, opening up his own tear before he could be pulled through the other. He emerged behind Conrad, his sword poised to cut his plump head from his hunched body. He was intercepted yet again.
Tendrils of shadow rose up from below to solidify themselves, acting as a wall for Slan's unholy brother. "You actually mean to do battle when it is just yourself fighting? Femto is the greatest danger right now, he pursues your companions right now."
"He would not do that," Void's voice spoke to all of them. "He hasn't learned, he remains unchanged. Cursed to endure the same mistakes, the message never having set in. There is a reason to all things in a meaningless world, this one and the next. That is something that he never understood, never bothered to question it until the hour was long past. Even now, his flame burns low, fighting against the raging storm as the embers seek to further their spark. Why else would he have waited this long if not for others to bear the flame of defiance?"
"Your words are as profound as ever," he met Void's gaze. "There would have been a time I would have pondered what you meant. That time is long past, as are you. The last of the past's blood will never fall victim as those of ancestors past. If this is to be my end, I know that the cycle has been halted." He cut the air again, opening it right behind the bulbous brain that was Void's head. As he thrust his arm through, Void anticipated the move and countered. His arm went through Void's own tear, exiting to his side. He raised his shield to deflect his own attack.
Pulling his arm back once more, he rode instead for Slan who seemed anything but threatened by his charge. Before he could even reach her, his steed gave a cry of distress. "Nnnehgghh!" from below, Void had struck, a tear opening at the entire floor. His mount was already more than hoof-deep into the vortex which continued to pull them down. He tried spurring his horse up, but the pull was too great to simply trudge through.
Ubik circled around. "The King of the Galloping Death. Just how many enemies met their end while you were mounted? Have you perhaps forgotten to the sands of time?"
He responded with no words. With a slash of his sword, he cut down at the tear Void had opened, creating his own in the process. The deathly shade of red from his tear met with the warped darkness generated by Void. By the time the two tears intersected, it was too late to stop what happened next. The very atmosphere seemed to be pulled in towards the intersecting vortex. Cracks started spiderwebbing along the walls. The resulting blast took them all five of them in, joined together as the force expanded outward and inward. A perfect conjuncture of harmony and chaos.
"What the hell was that?!"
Guts blinked the sweat out of his eye as he stared in the direction Casca had directed her question. The palace of Falconia, which stood as an easy sight for all citizens, seemed to be shifting. It had nothing to do with his vision being so focused on the battle, the place actually seemed to tilt, sink almost. It wasn't long after that the air was filled with the sound of a resulting explosion.
Rrssshhhhhbbrrrrrkkkkk!
"Schierke, you didn't set off any magic spells, did you?" Guts asked. Depending on how powerful those runes were, they could work just about anywhere and on anything.
The short witch shook her head. "No. That wasn't my magic, and... I don't think it was Harry's either. This was something else." More like someone else. "But, Guts, about Harry..."
"Yeah, I know." Farnese had gotten a hold of them not long ago to let them know what Puck had to say concerning the wizard of their group. He was engaged in a duel with that Voldemort guy north of where they were now. To the east, the monumental Tower of Rebirth could be easily spotted, despite being more than a fair distance away. Not just that, the War Demons had figured out where they were and what direction they were heading in. Already they had to fight their way through the streets to get this far. Even after losing a captain like Locus, they still pushed forward with more vigor than before. He suspected they would only full abandon the cause if the Godhand were defeated. And so presented the dilemma. Schierke and Farnese both insisted that the ritual they were to perform would need to be as powerful as they could muster, they needed three to do their trip to the astral layer. "Silat!"
The Kushan assassin flicked some blood off of his blade as he acknowledged Guts' call. "Yes?"
"You and your Bakiraka go and head for the tower," he pointed with Dragonslayer for reference. "Defend it as best you can until we get there."
Silat barked out a few orders in his native tongue and the Bakiraka made a beeline by either rooftop or street for the tower, their numbers far fewer from when they started. Ever since the fight with Locus, War Demons have been pursuing them restlessly. The ones acting as scouts had largely torn to pieces and devoured alive. One of Silat's own personal guards died protecting their leader, leaving a visible change in the younger Bakiraka leader, letting him take more of an offensive stance when the War Demons attacked, adding his skills to compliment Guts and Casca.
The latter of which pulled her blade free from the eye socket of a felled apostle, killing it after Guts had cleaved the legs away in a single swing of his sword. He could see she was beginning to feel the effects of battle, and he felt exhausted to some extent as well. He had yet to fully don the Berserker Armor, but he knew that it would only be a matter of time. When that happened, it wouldn't matter how exhausted he felt, he would fight with renewed vigor, only feeling the effects once he broke out of the armor's influence. The only one yet to feel the wear of battle was Schierke, who aside from magically detonating the runes outside the city, was instructed to conserve her energy until she needed it for the ritual. Guts had been fighting to keep her unscathed as well.
"Kuhrreee!" hearing the screech from above, Guts saw multiple winged apostles descending toward them. Momentarily setting Dragonslayer aside, he attached his repeating crossbow to his prosthetic arm and took aim. He squinted as the demons came flying in from the direction of the sun overhead. Cranking the lever, Guts released a barrage of bolts, some landing fatal blows in the eyes, mouth, and wings of the apostles; others bounced harmlessly off their fur, scales, or thickened hides. For those who were dealt a fatal blow, they crashed down, slamming into homes and shops alike. The ones who lived screeched with unbridled fury at the loss of their comrades.
Those who landed close to Schierke were met with a sweeping of blood-stained iron, cutting through bone easier than carving a cake. An apostle with a long neck and beaked head with jagged teeth evaded his initial swing but was too slow to dodge the attack from the flank as Casca raced in to cut from the underside of its wing down and along to the upper thigh.
Moving its leg to kick her away, the talons scraped against her shoulder plates. The attack did little to deter her, she still landed her next attack of cutting the back of the leg, but it ended slopier than anticipated; and twice as painful for the apostle. "Kurreek!" it shrieked. "When the captain gets here, you'll- gnnck!" it ceased talking as Guts swung his sword upward, severing the veins in the neck and causing a pool of splash at his feet.
He had done the same to countless apostles in the past, rarely had he actually listened to their final words before ending their existence this did raise a question to his mind, where were the captains? They had already dealt with Locus, Voldemort was battling Harry, but for Rakshas, Grunbeld, and Zodd, they were yet to be seen. It wasn't like the latter two to miss out on a fight, unless the Godhand had ordered them against it. Either way, he didn't have time to wonder where they were.
All but lifting Schierke off the ground, Guts led them further down the street as the sound of approaching land-based War Demons hounded them from behind. If they met up with Harry now, they could eliminate Voldemort as well. They'd be completing two tasks for one, and from there on, there was the Godhand.
He didn't even have it in him to be disappointed. It was inevitable that this was going to happen, and he knew it. The moment Voldemort had realized what his entire quest had been about, he lost all interest in following through with what he had started - at least, by his own hand. If Harry was going to view him as nothing more than an unnecessary obstacle, why should he waste his time to get his hands dirty? In hindsight, he would have preferred to continue on their solo duel than face off with his followers.
After Voldemort gave the order, the converged on him, a pack of wolves moving in for the kill. Not be underestimated, Harry took a page from Puck's book and created a blinding light from his staff that could have rivaled the sun above, blinding one of the Death Eaters before moving in close to cut him with his sword. His death enraged them further and served as an example for them to keep a fair distance when next they tried to strike.
Moving fluidly, almost a whole body divided into separate entities. They all seemed to cry as one, two magical words that spoke the promise of death, "Avada Kedravra!" green light illuminated the air around him, soaring toward him faster than the hawk statues that lined the once peaceful city.
Feeling a torrent roaring inside of him, Harry summoned the water from the sewer below as he had from his earlier attack on Voldemort. He guided it about in a circle around him, forming a bubble of sorts and then dropped the temperature, solidifying what he had crafted with ice. The crystalline structure added an almost kaleidoscope image to when those multiple jets of green all collided with. The sounds of the collision seemed almost non-existent either from the thickness of the icy barrier, or how silent death actually was.
The silence, much like his barrier, was shattered as a new spell came flying in, this one more orange in color. Shards of his former protection shattered to the wind, some vaporizing on impact, others finding a home in Harry's shoulder and leg. Still standing where he had given the order, Voldemort watched on as he lowered his wand to his side once again; his face a smoldering indifference. His intervention drew the attention of his Death Eaters as well.
"You can either die by Potter's hand or by my wand. Do take caution and choose wisely."
The woman, Bellatrix, seemed to take that to heart as she began launching a multitude of spells Harry's way, not all of them even being the killing curse. Some spells he was able to counter with his own, some he barely had time to deflect, and others actually managed to hit their mark. He tasted a coppery feeling in his mouth as one of her spells hit. "Kuhe!" Harry felt himself gag up some of his own blood from the unknown spell. Then came more pain. The feeling of having red-hot needles thrust into every pore of his skin consumed him. Was this how Guts felt after he used his armor?
His senses felt all foggy. He coughed up more blood as the pain only intensified as Bellatrix laughed at his agony. A ringing sound was all he could hear alongside the laughter going on around him, almost like a bell was rapidly tolling to seal his end. His vision was starting to cloud over. He could see his blood on the stones where he had coughed it up, he saw an almost disappointed Zodd perched off at the sidelines, Voldemort was just a blur as he oversaw the torture. As the ringing intensified, signaling his end, he could almost discern lips moving to speak the two words that would end it all.
And the pain ceased.
He wondered for the briefest of moments if he had just died, but the thought was quelled as he winced. The spell had stopped, the pain was mostly gone, leaving only his very sore body left with a sense of sudden withdrawal. The sounds of a wand clanking as it fell to the stone could be heard as the ringing ceased in his ears followed by a shriek of, "You!" from Bellatrix.
Harry saw one of the Death Eaters fall, and somehow, he suspected he would never get back up again. A hand gripped his arm and helped him back up to his feet. "Can you stand?" Sirius asked, his wand drawn.
"I can now," Harry answered, his leg still feeling lingering pain from where an ice shard had pierced him. "What are you doing here?"
"Are you really asking me that question?" Sirius asked sounding jokingly hurt. "If I'm not here to bail you out of hairy situations, what am I even doing? You say you have a plan, I'm just playing into it." The grin on Sirius' face wasn't just one of camaraderie, it went as deep as blood was red.
"Sirius Black," Voldemort's already narrowed eyes seemed only slits. "Pettigrew is already dead, in case you haven't heard. I apologize for robbing you of your revenge. It just seems as if neither of us is getting what we want from an idolized past."
"You couldn't kill Harry then and you can't kill him now," Sirius taunted. "Fighting in the first war, it doesn't surprise me. All those atrocities committed in your name, they were all done by other wizards. As someone who used to copy off other people's work, I know what it's like to cut corners like that. It is a fast way for people to fear the name."
"Shut your mouth, blood traitor!" Bellatrix yelled before turning to her master. "My Lord, let me dispose of this filth that dares to slander your name!"
Voldemort barely moved his eyes to look at her. He sighed. "It is exactly for people like him that I have made this my goal for the last odd decade. There is always going to be the talk that my power is inferior, that I am beneath a pretender." He knelt down, his open palm touching the ground. "I am magic. And magic is might." A shockwave seemed to rock through the ground, catching even his Death Eaters unaware from the shock wave. He stood back to his full height. "Potter may not want this, but this is beyond him. Neither he or I can escape fate without the other."
When he fully looked at Bellatrix, it was the equivalent of an unspoken command. She immediately went to engage her cousin in a flurry of wandwork and spell casting. Sirius reacted quick, not just by deflecting and countering the deadly spells being thrown at him, but also by redirecting both of their spells to hit some of the few remaining Death Eaters Voldemort had brought with him. Some of the colliding spells caused mounds of a puss to leak out from the eyes, others turned their flesh and robes different colors, others caused them to yack up blood similar to Harry previously.
With Bellatrix fully occupied in her family rivalry, Harry was going to make short work of some of the hexed Death Eaters but was ultimately cut short as a sunbeam rocketed his way, scorching the earth and igniting the very air on fire, burning his lungs. He shielded his eyes from the intensity of it, leaping out of the way, pain flaring up in his leg. Even Zodd took flight before landing on a new perch in order to avoid the flames.
A continuous torrent of the golden-red flames erupted from Voldemort's wand, seemingly obeying his every command with just a few twitches of his long, slender fingers. The engulfing flames matched only by the consuming fire reflected in his red eyes. And with a twirl of his hand and the fury in his heart, those great flames began molding themselves into an entangled python of a beast, smaller flames sparking out of its gaping maw in the style of a dragon.
He knew what this spell was. Guts had mentioned it when he had first fought him back at Hogwarts and later confirmed as Fiendfyre. The flames burned hot enough to rival that of a dragon and were some of the deadliest spells anyone could wish to conjure up. Guts had been able to best the flames when donning his armor, but he was without the aid of the swordsman now, just his own wit and magic.
Quicker than a whip, the flames lashed at him. Balls of flame sprung forth from the fiery gullet, melting the rubble on which they landed to nothing more than clay and sand. For the ones that came too close for comfort, Harry magically impeded their movement, granting him time to gain proper distance, but that left an opening for the main serpentine body to coil around behind him, forcing him into the parameters defined by Voldemort.
The head of the serpent flashed into existence, bearing down on him, seeking to engulf him in the flame-coated maw. He could see the teeth through the sweat dripping down from his brow and into his eyes, stinging them alongside his now bristling skin. Right when the jaws moved to close in on him, Harry focused his magic to a wind-based spell. When he performed it, the wind fanned the flames hotter than before, singing his cloak, breeches, and undertunic something fierce and succeeding in making his throat feel drier than it had ever felt in his life.
But it worked.
The miniature tornado of sorts completely dispersed the would-be consuming flames that surrounded him. "Haaa. Haauu." Harry panted, feeling the stress and strain from previous injuries amplify due to the heat.
"You fight with much fire in your heart. Perhaps I was mistaken about you once more." Voldemort's expression had changed, if only slightly at the sight of a near exhausted Harry while he himself had barely broken a sweat.
"Kahuu. Kaghha." Harry coughed out. He raised his blurry and stinging eyes to stare at his foe. "You know... I think I figured out why you haven't accomplished your goal. Huhu... you can't decide if you want to kill me, or... start a conversation."
Voldemort only smiled but a fraction of the whole. "You share much of the same cheek as your father. But, I suppose you wouldn't know that. Let me reunite the two of you." The flames seemed to rally back around Voldemort, forming a two-headed snake this time as it posed behind him, ready to strike.
He was exhausting a lot of his options here. Aside from the items he had been given, his satchel only had one golem talisman left, one that was inscribed with the rune. It could come in handy if it got close enough or was damaged and forced to explode, but that just came down to if Voldemort could be caught off guard or not. As he pondered this, a spell flew by overhead. Fearing that he had been caught off guard, Harry was about to act in a desperate manner, but as his eyes followed where the spell came from, he paused.
Off to the side, Sirius continued his duel with Bellatrix; the rest of the Death Eaters either incapacitated or down for good. The rate and ferocity the two were hurling spells around was unreal but left room for potential. Sirius was tiring from not having to only fight off his cousin, but the other Death Eaters as well. Bellatrix should have had the upper hand on him, her eyes were glowing with the magical energy coursing through her system, but she was slow herself. Her free hand would often move to her side where Guts' Dragonslayer had wounded her previously.
It was a battle of stamina as much as anything else at this point, waiting to see who would get a lucky hit in. With spells flying left and right, launched and deflected, Sirius made sure Bellatrix never had time to utter those two killer words. Bellatrix, on the other hand, was firing off every other spell in her arsenal, pushing back on Sirius' defenses and wearing him down physically and magically.
"You're going soft, Bella!" Sirius taunted her as he batted away another one of her spells with his own. "Stop pretending that we're kids again!"
"What right have you to call me by name?!" Bellatrix screamed at him. "Your mother was right to cast you aside, all you've done is smear the name of Black!" her eyes glowed with power and her mane of dark hair seemed to billow around her, acting as her own type of Fiendfyre.
Sirius' spell collided midair with her own. "And here I thought you were happy to be a Lestrange. I suppose I can always burn that out on the family tree."
"Grrhha!" Bellatrix gave a yell to rival a fell beast. Her spellwork became more erratic, more wild, more dangerous. If it was her overwhelming assault or just fatigue setting in, one of her spells finally landed a hit.
"Huuhg!" Sirius winced in pain as a large cut appeared in his flank running from his navel to the kidney. Blood began soaking his once fine robes as he dropped to his knees in pain.
"That's what you get!" Bellatrix's eyes blazed with furious madness, missing the hidden swish and flick of Sirius' wand.
"Heegh!" Sirius gave a laughing cough. "I'm sorry for Cissa."
The boulder he had been levitating came down as Bellatrix disarmed him. Down, above her. Her legs made a series of twitches as red soaked into the stone, eventually stopping and going stiff once the warm pool had reached its peak.
There was a ghost of a smile on Sirius' face as he looked over to Harry, still present as the encroaching inferno rapid roared toward him. Harry had not been the only one watching the duel of cousins play out. Sirius had won the duel, but Voldemort had lost a top lieutenant. If he truly cared about her or not, it didn't matter now. He had suffered too many losses in the past and present to let another one go unpunished.
In that passing time, Harry wondered if he had unknowingly cast a spell to make the passing go slower. He could see everything so clearly through his dry and tired eyes be it the inevitable future, the sickening present, or his own past riddled with constant failure. Despite all he had learned, his knowledge failed him too, at this moment. He failed the original Band of the Hawk, he failed in preventing an all-out battle, and now he had failed a man he had barely begun to know; a man who held so much to an unattainable past and who only wanted to protect him.
By the time the head of the serpent passed through, there was only charred earth in its devastating wake. Mere shadows were permanently burned into the surrounding rubble; just ghosts of who and what was once there along with the falling soot.
What happened next was something Harry could hardly explain himself. He had not known his godfather long, but his jokingly friendly smiles, his good-hearted laughter, the fact he had been willing to come to a whole new plane of existence just to help; it was all a reminder of yet another good piece he had lost, and another failure to add to his ever-growing pile. He felt more like Guts than ever before. He felt a snap.
His feet were moving on their own, the pain flaring through them hardly seemed to deter him. In fact, all the pain and damage he had sustained hardly seemed that severe now. It surprised even Voldemort. The dark wizard's attention shifted back to Harry once more. A sort of mutual understanding flared in the man's red eyes as he willed the other half of the Fiendfyre serpent in Harry's direction. This time, Harry made no move to evade Voldemort's incoming assault.
The water which was still gushing out of the busted sewer pipe rose up to Harry's unspoken magical command. Rushing alongside him was his own torrent of watery magic that could rival Voldemort's in scale. He knew that nature-based magic was weak in cities, but he hardly cared about that. He was pouring his own magic into this, magic stored up in the staff even to enhance it to a size that would suit his needs. And much like a battle of swords, they clashed.
Hhsssssssssssssss!
Water met fire in a blaze of glory. The Fiendfyre burned hot as any dragon fire, but the ferocity and quantity of Harry's water was holding its own, turning into steam on contact, but continuing to surge forth in greater amounts to combat the consuming flames. The steam was growing heavy now, creating what seemed to be its own fog in the surrounding battleground. Through that steamy mist, he could see Voldemort heave a sigh of frustration even as his eyes bore the same passion they had before. And for that moment, Harry agreed with his foe. It was time for this to come to an end.
Willing forth the last of the water, he sent the wave forth, doing his all to encase the coiling Fiendfyre in a watery prison before letting it all splash down on top. HHSSSSSS! Steam was everywhere now, coating both of their vision in a haze. It was exactly what Harry needed to move in close to Voldemort.
However, the Dark Lord suspected this. He already started clearing the steam in front of him, spotting the silhouette of Harry as he rushed forward. "Then let us end it." He raised his wand, the spell ready to leave his tongue. "Avada-,"
He spotted the incoming projectile Harry had thrown his way. The golem was growing in size the closer and closer it neared him. Quickly, he halted his spell and send an overpowered blasting hex it's way. As expected, it shattered. And before he could speak those two words, the glowing symbol on the shattered piece of the golem had caught his eye. Harry had already raised his own magical shield, prepared for what happens next.
Whhakrssshh!
The rune detonated, knocking Voldemort clean off of his feet and adding yet another layer of smoke to an already mist-filled space. He wasted no time in rising back to his feet, waving his hand and wand in front of him to magically disperse of the makeshift smokescreen. By the time he realized that Harry was already behind him, he could only turn and raise his wand for one final curse.
It never fired.
A flash of blue cut across the air and through Voldemort's long fingers. His wand fell from his hand as a different sort of curse left his mouth at the feeling of Harry's sword. And at that moment, Harry saw fear in Voldemort's eyes. It did nothing to stop him from thrusting his blade through the Dark Lord's naval, twisting the blade as he cut with all his might along his side before carving a chunk free right at his flank.
"Whaaaghhh!" Voldemort cried from the gaping hole in his side and his loss of fingers. He raised his free hand, intent on performing wandless magic, but he was already weakened. Another flash of blue later and half of his free hand came falling to the ground. And after that, Voldemort fell himself. Harry had done it.
"Ahh. Huuh. Ahh." Harry suddenly panted. The rush of adrenaline and emotion was draining out of him. Pain and exhaustion were once again returning to him. With what strength he had in his legs, he started walking off, the tower clear to his sight in the distance.
"Arrgh!" the sudden gurgling cough made him stop. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he saw Voldemort trying to rise up once more. It was a much more difficult task when both his hands had been severed to some capacity. "He...al! H-eal!" Voldemort seemed to be trying to force regeneration to occur. If it was happening, it wasn't occurring fast enough. Bloodshot eyes glared over at him. "Where are you - gha! G-going, Potter? Get... back here. We-we're not... not..." he seemed close to losing consciousness. Harry cast him one last look before his attention went back to the tower in the distance.
His mind was already decided.
"Potter..." Voldemort wheezed out, falling back to his knees. "Get back... Potter..."
Even though his ears were still ringing from the explosion, Harry could clearly hear the sound going on behind him. The beating of wings cleared away the lingering steam. Harry internally cursed himself at neglecting the idea of the other apostle present. With what strength he could muster at the moment, he turned to face Zodd who had landed between him and the fallen Voldemort.
"So, it is finished?" the elder apostle questioned either one of them.
Voldemort spat out some more blood. "It is... not!" He tried and failed again to stand. "I can still... fight. I just need to - hnngh! heal."
Zodd looked him over. "You are already at death's door. Healing will only do so much for you now."
"No!" Voldemort yelled in clear defiance. "Being left to die is not my end!" he pointed his stunted hand over to Harry. "It is him or no one! Gnngh!" Voldemort looked up at the towering Zodd. "Help me up. Stop Potter from leaving. You wanted to watch a fight, did you not? Ksskhs! Fulfill your own desire. Potter disgraces the battle. If he wants to be free, he has no choice. Causality will determine..."
Now, Harry was met with Zodd's inquisitive gaze. "Fighting him now, has your view changed, Wizard?"
"I said as much before. I only did what I had to. Whatever prophecy desires, I don't care. Sorry to disappoint you." He met the gaze of the beast apostle who stared down at him with an unreadable expression. Then, the apostle spared a clawed paw to pick Voldemort back up. Harry sighed in frustration, his arms shaking but ready to continue the fight if need be.
"Yes!" Voldemort beamed bloody. "You will be rewarded for this!"
"Indeed. I shall."
Zodd's clawed paw squeezed tightly on Voldemort's body causing the dark wizard to hack up more blood. "Gnngh! What are you... doin -nnghh!"
"Just remembering." Lowering his head, Zodd lined his horn up with the gaping hole Harry had carved out. He shoved it through, jerking his head up suddenly, Zodd let go of the bottom half as the torso landed at Harry's feet. Dead eyes stared blankly up at him, speaking promise of one last curse.
Jerking his head to the side, Zodd cleared the blood that had tainted his horn as he lumbered over to where Harry stood, dumbfounded at what he had just witnessed. As he looked up to meet the gaze of the elder apostle, he did well to hide the fear that he felt at the moment. "Why did you...?"
"The victory was yours. He was already dead." Zodd stared him down. "Again and again, you and the Struggler have fought against the current that pulls us all. Beyond what you or others may desire, there has always been something more. Win or lose, you have fought to realize this, a truth long forgotten. We are not on the same side, nor are we allies. But in this war, the one that I have desired, I will claim my own fight as you have shown, win or lose..." he lowered his paw to the ground in front of Harry, his cat eyes alight with deadly promise. "Tell me, where is it you wish to go?"
A/N: So sorry about the delay for this chapter, I'm working two jobs now and one of which doesn't let out until 11 at night so my time to write has been limited. I'll still get these last few out before the story comes to a close. Thank you for reading.