Author's Note: First of all, Happy (belated) Halloween! Second of all, sorry for the delay. I've been moving to a new home, looking for work, and in between it all, Dragon's Dogma ate up what little time I had left. Anyways, you're not here for my stupid excuses, you're here for the next chapter of the fic (presumably)! But first, a response to a couple reviews;

Dazac: Yeah. That's deliberate.
coduss: Yeah, my brain hurt for awhile when I was mentally mapping all the bullshit planned as well.
ShmokeyDaBear: Oh dear gods NO. No Gwyndolin is not. Don't scare me like that.
Avalance-dragoon: Is this an answer?

Now, without further adiue, let the fuckery commence!

18
IT'S A TRAP!

In the presence of Gwyndolin, the company had various reactions. Solaire, a loyal adherent to Gwyn still, immediately kneeled, while Oscar, after a brief bow, remained standing. Rhea looked away, as though feeling some shame at her recent heresy. Speaking of heretics, Thomas and Laurentius stood. Presumably,Thomas thought. Laurentius stood because pyromancers were never respected amongst the "more civilized" dieties.

"Heretic," the last god of Anor Londo declared. "Thou hast journeyed far. Hear my voice."

"Oy vey," Thomas muttered. "Does your pompous manner know no end?"

"Thou'rt accused," Gwyndolin continued undaunted, "of possession of the power of the Ancient Dragons, blasphemy of the highest degree, murder of the pardoner of Velka, the bearing of forbidden knowledge, and attempted rebuilding of a kingdom of foul demons."

"Excuse me-," Thomas tried interjecting.

"For the past 300 years, thou hast conspired with the wretched denizens of Fallen Izalith, attempted to steal the warriors of Anor Londo, and casually blasphemed against the names of gods."

"Excuse me-"

"Thou'st a vile, wretched fiend who whispers vile lies into the hearts of all around him, declaring them friends. But thou wilt sacrifice them unto his own ends, should they deign no longer necessary to thee. Thine-"

Thomas had had enough, and fired a soul arrow at the god. It did nothing, as apparently Gwyndolin was some sort of hologram, and merely went through the being as though it was nothing, but it was still enough to make Gwyndolin pause.

"Thou would'st strike against the divine?" Gwyndolin asked, shock and anger apparent on his voice. "Does thine heretical blasphemy know no end?"

"I suppose not," Thomas growled. "I'll respect a god that has earned my respect first. And you have earned nothing from me." Gwyndolin glowered at him. That is to say, while his face looked on impassively, the heads of his many snaked legs looked at Thomas, glaring. I suppose that's how he sees, what with that bigass crown on his head. "I've got a myriad of questions, but that's not the important thing. The important thing is the future. For instance, I know how you are destined to die, if you don't let me help fix things."

"You've done enough, heretic! On this day, thou'st shalt die!"

Quelaag then stepped in front of Thomas with surprising speed, considering her... abominal size. "Gwyndolin of the Dark Sun," she hissed in Izalithian, such was her rage. "Sole remaining deity of Anor Londo. Know'st thee this. To lay a hand upon him is to lay a hand upon all of Izalith. To strike at him is to strike at the fires of Chaos. Would you attempt to deny him coming unto his own? Would you invite war with the demons?"

Thomas tried to get a word in edgewise, when Gwyndolin scoffed. "Anor Londo has bested you pathetic abominations before. We will do it again. 'twould not be a war. Merely a cleansing of troublesome pests. A hive of termites left alone far too long."

"Ex-fucking-scuse me," Thomas moved forward, taking center stage between them once more. "Have your issues with me if you wish, Dork Sun. But leave this sovereign people alone. I don't make any claims about kingships or crowns. I'm merely a traveler from a far-off land. Technically, I didn't even ask to come here, and am frankly annoyed about it all. But leave Izalith alone. Let them live their lives in peace. You want to deal with me? Then do it. As an old man in a Western once said, "If you're going to shoot, shoot. Don't talk.""

Thomas stepped into a confident pose, as though facing Gwyndolin was the simplest thing on his agenda thus far. "And I hate to break it to you, but you will never have your father's approval. No matter how many human sacrifices you throw onto the First Flame to overextend your deceased age, your equally dead father would have never given his love and affection to a deformed cripple like yourself. And that's because Gwyn is an absolutely shitty father who cared about his own power and nothing else."

"ENOUGH!" Gwyndolin cried. "Thou may'st blaspheme against me if thou so wish'st, but the name of the Great Lord wilt not be despoiled by thine tongue, nor any other!"

"How's your brother?" Thomas asked quietly, effectively hushing the Dark Sun.

Confusion emanated across the room, when Solaire finally spoke up. "Brother? What brother? The Great Lord Gwyn only ever had two children? Gwyndolin and Gwynevere."

"There was a third," Thomas said. "Back in the ancient days, during the war against the dragons, Gwyn's firstborn son was a dragonslaying god of war. He respected strength of arms, and little else. During the war with the dragons, he grew to respect the strength and skill of the dragons he fought, and eventually tamed a stormdrake, with which he would, and has still to this day, lead a lifetime of battle."

"How dost thee know this..." Gwyndolin hissed. "The records..."

"Oh yes, the records," Thomas continued, a sour taste in his voice. "See, the Great Lord saw this as nothing less than the ultimate betrayal. His son, heir to the throne of Anor Londo, and the rays of sunlight he wielded, was dead to him. Any and all record of his existence. Every note, every tome, every statue, everything about him, was stripped. Gwyn wanted his son gone. His godly status, his very name, was removed. He lives still, a nameless king without a kingdom. An exile. A warrior. A Lord." Thomas rounded on Gwyndolin. "Merely because your father couldn't see past his own, petty hatreds. Will you fall victim to the same trap?" Thomas double checked his weapons, and made sure they were sheathed, and his hands were empty, before walking to the specter of Gwyndolin.

"Leave war with Izalith behind. It's not them you want in the first place. It's me. But while we're here having a nice pow-wow, I thought I'd offer an opportunity." At this, the young sorcerer extended his hand. "Put aside your father's hatred. His battles are not your own. His rage, not yours. His jealousy and fear should not rule you." The Dark Sun looked down, as though pondering. "Gwyn's a dead king, with a dead crown. Don't die with him, Gwyndolin."

Like a viper, Gwyndolin snapped back up, and blue light came down from the ceiling, beaming down on Thomas with the weight of at least seven trucks. "Thou... wilt not... blaspheme... against... my father. And thou wilt afford me the respect due to the captain of the Darkmoon Knights, due to the god of the Dark Sun, to the sole guardian of Anor Londo!"

Thomas raised a hand placatingly. "Apologies. I'm just... In a bind. As are you. But if you don't work with me, if you don't allow me to break fate, you too, face a sorry end." Gwyndolin glared at him, and this time, Thomas returned the stare. "Imagine, if you will. Betrayal from one of your own Darkmoon Knights, poisoned, weakened, as he declared himself Pontiff, taking command over your people, an iron fist in a velvet glove. Imagine yourself weakening further, your last family imprisoned, as you are lead to the cathedral of the Great Lord. Anor Londo's silver-armored knights consumed, their armor being used as grisly puppets filled with rotten meat, in service to another, cruel god who wishes not for an age of Fire, but of deep water. And imagine, spending days in unending agony, as this god devours you, slowly, exulting in your suffering, prolonging your end just so they can luxuriate in the painful shudders of your screams. Imagine no sun, Dark or Light, hanging over Anor Londo, for the rest of eternity. This is the future that is ahead of you. Will you allow it? Will you allow Yorshka to wonder what ever became of her brother?"

"ENOOOOOOUUUUGH!"

Gwyndolin glared at Thomas, unadultered hatred pouring from him. Touched a nerve, there, Thomas thought.

"The answer, is no, heretic. I will not work with one who debases the gods so."

"You're making a mistake," Thomas warned.

"No. Clearly, I am making the right choice. Your punishment is decided. Thou wilt spend the remainder of thine days trapped in a particular prison. There, the prison shalt be left to rot, and you with it!" At this point, a hole opened under Thomas, and he barely managed to grab onto the edges. Solaire tried reaching through, but the moment his hand touched the blue light, he recoiled, clutching his hand in pain.

Looking below, Thomas made an educated guess. It seemed like he was going to see some kindness after all. "Solaire!" Thomas called, the wind of the painted world forcing him to shout. "The painting in Anor Londo! The doll! I'm in the painted world of Aria-" Anything else he would have said was cut off. Literally. Gwyndolin closed the portal on his hand, taking the sorcerer's fingers with them, forcing Thomas to fall to the Painted World of Ariamis with fewer fingers and more swears. Before long, there was a thud, and then silence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lol'th - The Outskirts of New Izalith

The First Princess of Chaos was furious, and yet calm. Father had told her, long ago, that this would come to pass. She knew. And she also knew what she had to do. But this did nothing to quell the rage burning within her breast. Drawing her jagged scimitars, she snarled at the aspect of Gwyndolin. "You will release my father! Now!"

The god gave a disdainful laugh. "Under who's authority? Yours? The authority of abominations and brats mean little to me, less when the brats are also abominations." And at this, Gwyndolin vanished, one of Lol'th's scimitars quickly striking where his head was. Then, she turned to Thomas' friends. They were in various degrees of shock. Solaire, Pharis and Rhea were looking at the floor, as though unbelieving that he had fell through. Had this not been a prophecy come to pass, Lol'th wouldn't have believed it either. This Thomas was a torch to a wildfire, compared to her father, but the flames were similar enough that she could still see him as such. Laurentius, Griggs, and Charles all seemed in a state of disbelief.

The one who took it worst, however, was Oscar. Fallen to his knees, the knight had pounded twice at the floor, expecting it to give. Shaking his head, he looked to Lol'th, as though asking what they should do now. "This is your time", Father's voice echoed in her head. "There comes a time in every woman's life where she needs to learn to lead, to take charge."

I hope I don't let you down, father... she thought to herself. "We march on Sen's Fortress," she said. "Then we make our way to Anor Londo, and free Father from the painting. Solaire. You have the doll?" Nodding, Solaire pulled it out as confirmation. "Good. Then let's go."

AN: And so ends the first arc of the story: Prophet. When I can be bothered to write the first chapter to the next arc, Exile, depends on my living situation. Rate, review, I would appreciate constructive criticism. ttfn