This chapter was difficult to approach. For a long time, I wondered about if the villain should stay generic. But the story begs for a written villain, or else it would not do the story justice. So this is the original antagonist character of the fic, after five years of waiting since the Prologue...
There is concept art of this character, but FFnet doesn't allow it to post, so please if you want to see him, view on AO3 in the notes for this chapter.
I hope you can accept this new character. ヾ(_ _。）
Thank you for reading so far, as always, I appreciate it!
Silence of Antiquity
The crisp, cold air rustled the fabric of his robes as he drifted forward.
With fixated eyes obscured by shadow, he stared into the horizon of Mamorthod; an endless sea of sand stretched out in all directions beyond him, and yet the energy drifting on the currents of wind beckoned him in what he knew was the right course.
The lost city of Thabes—the graveyard of an era lost, forever cursed by the darkness of its haunting past.
With shuddering breath, he inhaled and allowed the bitter night air to fill his lungs and burn his throat. The closer he drew to that accursed city, the more the sound of the howling wind shifted, and soon enough it echoed in his ears like the wailing of the damned.
A shudder traced up his spine as the overwhelming scent of death enraptured him. Their lives had been lost to history, and yet the land had not forgotten; it fed on their slumbering bodies, their deteriorating corpses fueling the corruption that gripped this place.
With a mumble of words beneath his breath, he slowed his flight before hovering just over his destination.
The ruins of a city once great were not far beneath him, and the unmistakable stench of death yet lingered.
Slowly he descended to the ground, his boots silently touching the derelict stone path. The city ruins sprawled out like a labyrinth; by this point, most of it had been buried by the drifting sands of the desert.
With calculated steps, he walked at an unhurried pace forward. The desert breeze blew back at him as if trying to force him to turn away—as if the city were trying to deny him entry.
A small breath escaped his lips, and the faintest of smiles graced what little one could see of his face, yet no words were spoken.
Though he could feel the presence of every life that had been lost and every soul that had been cursed to wander in this forgotten wasteland, there were the flickers of flame in the sea of darkness. Surely that flame would not beckon the wind so.
Another gust, and his eyes slipped shut beneath his hood as he continued his leisurely pace down the pathway.
Perhaps it had. Though at this point, it was no matter.
Eventually, he returned his gaze to what was before him and paused; ruins that were partially obscured by sand and yet still imposing lay before him. The crumbled entry to an old castle was not but a short distance away from where he stood. He considered the structure in silence: the image of something fading away to the sands of time and yet still holding on by the arms of the spirits that refused to let it fall.
Exhaling from his nose, he found himself growing further jaded—this energy clings to the land, refusing to let it disappear, and to what end?
"One must destroy the past to forge a more perfect future," came his voice from the shadows of his hood as he whispered to himself. "Even in death, you all act like fools."
A darkness heavier than night weighed on him as a presence made itself known.
Neither figure moved as the wind died down—the air was thick as both figures tested each other with naught but their own wraithlike energy. The wailing that had drowned out the cloaked man's voice had been silenced as if those damned souls stood in wait, acting as an audience to the soundless exchange.
After what felt like ages, that new dark energy receded and a voice took the place that it had once demanded.
"… So, you are the one that Zharov sent word of," an old, wicked man said.
At that, the faint smile returned to the cloaked man's face. His neck twisted just enough to shift the fabric of his hood, a gesture to show the old man that he had heard him.
"Correct," the hooded figure responded. "With the dark power that you radiate, I can only assume that I am in the presence of the great sorcerer-king, Gharnef."
The old man, Gharnef, watched him, his wrinkled face grimacing critically as he studied the figure.
At his silence, the robed man elected to fully turn and face the sorcerer. "Volzhin spoke to me briefly about you," he disclosed, tilting his head just slightly to look down towards Gharnef.
Gharnef's critical eye was unwavering as he stared. "Yes… Volzhin."
The tone of the sorcerer's voice indicated unspoken questions, though the robed man seemed unfazed. "Is there something that you would like to ask?" he questioned.
After a few more moments of silence, Gharnef straightened just slightly and glared at the man across from him with his lone good eye. "I've heard tellings from the soldiers that escaped that battle…" he started, "That there was an interesting twist of strategy. Would you care to enlighten me?"
The corner of the man's mouth ticked upwards in a slight smirk. "Ah," he responded coolly, "That. What did you hear?"
"Do not play dumb with me," the sorcerer-king hissed. "Out with it. They caught sight of a strange tome in Volzhin's hands, and claimed he controlled an enemy dragon. Never have I heard of a tome such as what they described—even Imhullu's power is different in nature. This was your doing, and if you wish to see Medeus, then you would be wise to divulge all that you know now. Otherwise, I shall have you torn limb from limb for meddling in our conquest."
The smirk faded and was quickly replaced with a hardened expression. "… Take me to Medeus, and I ensure you all will be revealed that you need to know."
Gharnef's eye narrowed. "Unlikely. Why must I trust you, a man who seemingly appeared out of nowhere…" he glanced over the man's dark yet ornate robes as he continued, "Dressed in such strange garb, having set a course straight to our leader, rife with power? And… completely without name. Who are you?"
The cloaked man hummed in mock thought. "Would knowing my name truly allay your concerns that much?"
The sorcerer's eye narrowed further at him. "It would be a good start."
There was a long silence. The tension in the air, procured by the magical force of their souls, would have been paralyzing had either of them faltered for so much as a fraction of a second.
Finally, a sigh escaped the hooded man's lips. "If it would soothe your soul so, then I shall abide. My name is Fafnir."
Gharnef's gaze returned to normal. "Fafnir," he repeated. "That is a dragon's name."
Fafnir huffed slightly, clearly unimpressed. "Now you must see why I wish to meet with Medeus… do you not?"
The fabric of Fafnir's cloak shifted out of the way as he raised one of his hands slightly, revealing clawed fingers. "I have travelled… very far to meet this dragon emperor of yours. Allow me to speak with him."
Considering Fafnir's words, the old sorcerer drummed his fingers quietly on the Imhullu tome he held at his side. "… Not yet," he responded, drawing a deep scowl from Fafnir, "I want you to answer me first. Tell me, what happened to that tome you offered Volzhin? What magic was that."
"The tone of your voice denotes more of a demand than a question," Fafnir responded flatly. "The tome itself had limited use. The one I provided him would have disintegrated the moment his life left his body. You have Imhullu… I am certain you can do anything that you wish with the magical prowess that you have. I can smell the stench of your rotted soul, as you've given it up to the darkness long ago."
At that, Gharnef laughed madly. Fafnir's words seemed to have earned his favor.
"You are sharp for a young one," Gharnef commented, "You are right. I can do anything that you can, and much more, as I sacrificed my humanity long ago. I am glad you know your place. I simply wanted to know where you learned such magic, yourself."
"I am far older than you seem to think," the hooded manakete professed. "I have had a long time to practice what I do, just as you have."
"And yet you've still not given up your soul," the sorcerer-king taunted. "I see."
The two of them stood still, staring each other down—Gharnef could tell the manakete's eyes were burning on him from even beneath the shade of his hood. With a twisted, amused grin, Gharnef let out a cackle.
"I can sense such a deep hatred burning in your chest," he observed. "Fine. I will entertain your request to see Medeus."
What little the sorcerer could see of Fafnir's face showed him that his response came as a surprise to the manakete.
"However, we will need time. I will contact you myself when Medeus is ready to speak with you, youngling," Gharnef added, much to Fafnir's chagrin.
However, the manakete decided to withhold any further comment. "Very well," was all he managed to mutter.
If time had taught him anything, it was that patience was rarely a virtue; however, in this case, he would have to play by the dragon emperor's rules to get what he required.
There were no parting words as Gharnef whisked away into the darkness of the ruins. Fafnir watched his retreating form and narrowed his eyes behind his hood. That man, Gharnef, was without a doubt a man with nefarious intentions—Fafnir doubted his loyalties to the dragon emperor.
Though he had no room to speak, for he was not exactly loyal to Medeus, either. No, his loyalties lived and died with Nergal.
He inhaled slowly, the desert breeze once again flowing back through the forgotten corridors of Thabes as Fafnir's and Gharnef's conflicting energies ebbed. The choir of wails rung in his ears once again, screaming in a language long lost, yet he could feel their lingering pain through their cries.
Though his heart still beat, he found himself commiserating in their cries—to lose all that you hold dear within a blink of an eye, to be lost to the tides of time. The silence that the world hears is the echo of all that have perished; it is the hopes, dreams, and ideals of those that were swept away in the current of fate.
This forgotten city of Thaubes was the perfect example of the dance of disorder—the stillness of suffering—that was brought forth by those with power beyond sense, or by ambition beyond compassion.
No creature, man nor dragon, should have the gall to claim such a loss as necessary. These neglected wails only reassured his resolve.
Midst the silence, he found himself snarling. No—this cycle would end, and he would ensure it so.