Lux Aeterna
by
Steven Mayo
Book I The Meager
Chapter 14 Frailty
"And all things change them to the contrary."
--Romeo and Juliet
Herrik Gipson, at point, led them cautiously down the final hall; those last steps among the thousands taken en route to supposed destiny. A light warrior's destiny. It felt a burdensome time for those thoughts on predestination to return, bounding them on some false elastic cord between certainty and hopelessness. Seville most of all was overcome with strange conflict. He remembered how he had thought it all so ridiculous in the beginning; an old man and a professional scholar getting tossed up in a fairy tale, and most unbelievable of all, dragging along some no-good rogue and his incompetent priest. No maps of course, no interrogations, just good, never-let-you-down destiny to lead them to the princess. Seville had trouble pinpointing that one detail, that inch of restraint that limped on its duty and allowed him to go on some holy mission. But then, in only days the pieces stuck themselves together, and this infectious rightness blinded his better judgment. Can four random people be light warriors? Can I be a light warrior? No, of course not, he thought, hesitantly shaking his head at these thoughts, but so slightly the others would not notice. He was no savior, and Edrick also didn't fit the bill. Professor Sylum was a bookworm, not a warrior. Sure, he'd grant Gipson, but the rest of the crew was in need of some refinement.
But here they were. Steps away from destiny, just as Sylum predicted it. Seville didn't know beliefs could suffer such ebb and flow. He didn't know if he could put his faith into destiny, as remarkable as the evidence was, or write it off as coincidence. And he didn't know exactly what the evidence was. Finding the temple, the princess, and her captors. But, the princess was not as he envisaged, whatever that meant, and Domino certainly could have been lying, though the professor did not seem to think so. Was it Chuck Domino's article then that brought everything into question? What was this Lux Aeterna that they were supposedly working for? What are the qualifications of light warrior? If the loquacious journalist presented facts, then it had nothing to do with magical orbs and great consequence. It was just four warriors helping people in need. And if it were not for four unimpressive crystal orbs that came together mysteriously on that first day, he would still be in Corneria city this very moment. Still in jail, he thought, with a certain conviction.
And yet, if all the legend truly requires is four warriors helping those in need, then, that they were doing, or at least they were trying. What did questions of faith in destiny matter, or beliefs in two-thousand year old legends when it came to helping people? Isn't that something you just do regardless of what you are? Well, no, not for him, Seville thought. How many had he conned? How many jobs had he pulled and what was the total value? And what about how it hurt Dunnings? Can a light warrior have this résumé? But did that even matter? Can he turn a new leaf? As Gipson said, change is everything.
But would Seville change? Once every new burden rose and fell on the rogue's shoulders as every more desperate step proceeded down the ultimate hallway, that's what they came down to. That's what everything added up to: can I change? He looked for those parts in him that had to go, tried to separate and dissect them away, but Seville only found that every other part of him was attached. His mind was one big ball of yarn and he needed just the core. Or better he was a house of cards with no more struts to spare, barely standing in the currents. The wind was the future; the only thing that the great Herrik Gipson feared, and it sure was slow in getting there. Easy, right, going from con artist to semaritan? That's what Edrick had told him all those times. But he didn't know everything; barely knew anything actually. But then again, maybe those few things he knew were the only ones worth knowing.
Spiraling between hope and despair, destiny and chaos, the real thought that held onto Seville was, "Poor Eddie, the only hero we have left..."
Gipson waved them silently to a stop when they came to the turn of the hall. He spun his head around to the others, gestured, and looked back. The torchlight was relatively brilliant just around the corner; they were getting close. The knight thought twice and glanced to his warriors once more and signified they ready their weapons. That Seville or Professor Sylum would drop them at all was a false guess, but he did it just to be sure. With black wizards, it was impossible to be over prepared.
Around the corner was yet another hallway, another disappointing march, but ending this one was not a flat wall with adjacent paths to either side but an opening to a wide room. Over the crackling of the torch fire Gipson was certain he heard the low murmur of a voice. Close, now.
One gentle step at a time, they approached destiny.
At the end of the last march Gipson paused and waited, yearning his head as far forward as he could, but the life in the great hall before him was too far off to the side. He hadn't made much of a plan, not yet trusting his three companions with complex tactical maneuvers. Hostage rescuing was never his primary talent, anyways. Utterly silent, Gipson faced the team, took long, heavy breaths, and felt on his brow a fresh trickle of sweat. Such nerve, he thought, the most unsettling he'd ever felt.
By the look on their faces, the others felt the same way, and had as little advice on where to go from there as he. Finally, Gipson nodded; a healthy nod, despite the worry, a proud nod. This was it. Gipson lifted his dragon sword, smiled at them, and turned the corner, ready for war.
The enemy was not exactly prepared, or even paying the slightest attention. When the first bodies came in to sight, Gipson dodged and slung himself behind a ceiling-reaching pillar, and the others followed fast behind. Having left Gipson's armor behind for sake of stealth, they did this noiselessly. A quick glance around the massive stone column, and Gipson saw everything.
At a wooden desk that was weighted laboriously with high stacked parchments and a not-so-foreign wooden box, sat a new man, dressed simply in a T-shirt of very dull purple and black denim pants. His face was in places dark and cavernous, and yet in places shallow and pale, like an uneven earthquake had played across his skull, and his black hair was a veritable grease deposit, shining luminously in the torchlight and tucked flat down his wide and round head. And from the narrow gapings of his slivery mouth emitted the most juvenile, nasal voice that one would likely ever hear. This man ducked his head into a small black rectangular prism that lay just before the wooden box, and he spoke to it about power.
On a stool but a few steps from that desk, facing off into some no doubt interesting cranny of the flat castle wall was Chuck Domino. He was passing the time by picking at his teeth with a wand tip, and occasionally sulking his head into his hands and making silent pleas for peace. Or so it seemed by the intense scrunching of his eyelids. If he possessed interest in the moment it did not show.
And the final piece, Queen Bee, was not far from that, her back up against the wall of the throne room, arm perched atop the one raised knee, mouth pouted forward, disinterested, glorious orange hair unkempt and hanging to her waist. The victim of the most terrible kidnapping in the history of Corneria, Princess Moira simply sat and examined her nails. Of course she was beautiful, of course she was stunning, of course it could look like a kidnapping, but Gipson knew immediately that Chuck Domino was telling the truth. Something with her was wrong.
"It's her," Gipson mouthed, and the others craned to see. They too looked instantly disoriented by the situation. What was this?
"On my move," he then whispered silently, once more readying his blade and performing those first, fateful steps.
He drew himself a good lead into the room, still completely unnoticed despite the fact that his aggressive advance now bordered on flaunting. Domino and Princess Moira were lost in their own boredom, and the mysterious man at the box was too intent on what had just become a message of fear and lament to notice much of anything. Clearly this man was speaking to four light warriors that were supposed to be off in a dungeon chamber, tied to chairs, immobile. And the truth of that situation was broken to him not a moment later, when Gipson called out with supreme authority.
"Don't. Move. One. Muscle!" and he brandished Drâco proudly.
Immediately disobeying, the man at the desk choked on his tongue, hacked through a flurry of wrenching hurks, attempted to jump up in astonishment, and stupidly bounded back over his chair.
Chuck Domino's toothpick was quickly made a weapon, and unlike the man who could only be his boss, he gave not the slightest flinch. The flat, dull edge of the wooden wand aimed straight into Gipson's chest, and Domino held it there and waited. For a journalist his readiness for battle was uncanny.
"Impossible..." he muttered quietly, perhaps for the first time approaching speechlessness.
Princess Moira didn't move at all, only stayed at her seat against the wall and watched like one might a boring play. When Gipson saw this, greater and more dire red flags billowed in his mind. This situation was out of his control before it began, he thought.
"Out!" he shouted, and the acoustic boom of throne hall ricocheted his deep voice around them. Quickly the three other light warriors joined him, Sylum bearing the potent Werebane and Edrick just trying his best to look threatening. Seville edged himself to the side and scuffed his feet, ready to make a dash for the princess if Domino should try something.
"How did you ... how did you ..." the clumsy man stuttered through violent breaths, darting his eyes to and fro between the light warriors and Chuck Domino, perhaps his bodyguard.
"Now," continued Gipson in a lowered tone, but not with a lowered weapon, "I want to keep this as simple as possible..."
"How did you..."
"You are outnumbered and by the looks of your help, Domino, you're hugely outgunned. That said..."
"How did you..."
"Would you hush it, Gar? What are you, asthmatic now?" convulsed Chuck Domino in bitter disgust for the situation. Gar stopped speaking and settled for annoying Domino through pitiful wheezing noises. The mage was quiet and calculating, he let Gipson speak on.
"...That said, there doesn't have to be any bloodshed." From the corner of his eye, Gipson could see Seville inching closer and closer to his dash for the princess. The knight was wary of the move, wanting to make more time while he figured out this odd vibe he was receiving. "You know why we are here. We'll do what we've come for and go, nobody gets hurt, nobody needs to get hurt. Your fate can be left to the King's prerogative."
Gipson could swear that at that moment he saw the princess stifle a chuckle under her breath. Domino was undaunted.
"How did you escape your confines?" the black mage asked haughtily, while the unimpressive Gar was finally taking control of his breath and wandering, almost aimlessly, into the situation.
"Okay," the knight continued, as if Domino had never spoke, "Let's do this slowly. Princess Moira? Can you walk?"
"Listen, champ..."
"Princess?" inquired Gipson direly, purposely above Domino's interruption, though Gipson could not help keeping his eyes on him. Moira did not move.
"Just hear me out for one..."
"Moira," Seville began in Gipson's stead, already half the way to her, "It's time to go. We've been sent by your father to rescue you. Just walk over to us and we'll get out of here."
"That's it, hold up a minute, buck-o!" shouted Domino angrily. "You're not taking the princess out of here just like that, or at all for that matter, so allay the hurry one bit, and let's have a conversation."
"Enough!" Gipson roared, swiftly unsheathing a dagger and launching it true to the black mage's throat, and as Domino twisted and halted the blade in the air with a deft swoop of his wand, Seville let loose his tarried feet, took his own dagger firm, and charged to the princess. Even when he came upon her and offered his hand she did not take it or stand to leave. In fact, she looked Seville in the face as if he were some dumb beast, and waited for events to run their course.
Entirely expecting his attack to fail, Gipson made a rush with his dragon sword even before the dagger was magically halted, only to stop dead in the air just like it. Domino, with a quick draw of a fresh wand, suspended Herrik Gipson in his attack with a firm thrust of the dowel, but from there his options thinned. Edrick stupidly gazed at the excitement, but Darrin Sylum eventually rallied himself to join the attack.
"Garland, a little help, maybe?" Domino requested emphatically, jousting Sylum off with a lance of ice from the wand in his off hand.
"Princess! Quickly!" Seville commanded at the sidelines. She finally did look at him, and then she opened her mouth and made to speak in length but was cut off. All she got was, "I don't think you'll understand this, but..."
"What do you mean?" the man, now officially named Garland, asked, trying his best to not be Sylum's target.
"I mean, do it! You know what!" replied Domino, furious, again sending Sylum astray with a well-aimed blast of ice magic.
Garland seemed to lament for a millisecond and then he dragged in a deep breathe and said, "Right!" in his pipsqueak voice. Running to a more central location in the grand room, Garland clasped his fingers together and sunk himself into his mind; the results came instantaneously.
Black figures, black creatures from some void, sporting antennae and tendril-like claws, melted up from the cold stone floor and scampered about in ballet-worthy sync. The very same creatures as the single apparition from the dungeon room, like shadows only opaque. A dozen of them in all, they briskly and tactically circled Sylum and Edrick, with two each put on Gipson and Seville duty. Gipson, still enwrapped in Domino's magic, did nothing, and Seville, now seeing himself greatly outnumbered, backed from the fight.
The rogue swiped his arm through the air to capture the princess's undivided attention.
"What is this?!" he hissed at her, but she only passed a nonchalant glance back to him before focusing her attention on Chuck Domino and Garland. Seville felt angry breaths tensing in his chest when the princess looked away from him. He didn't realize how close the shadows had become.
"It's always a fight with you people!" the black mage chided, releasing Gipson with a jab of the wand. The knight bounded back and slid across the ground, where four shadows quickly surrounded him on him all sides. "Perhaps you shouldn't delegate diplomatic avocations to the so very … philistine Mr. Gipson."
Gipson clenched his fists and reared a charge but Domino already had his wand aimed right at him. Reluctantly, Gipson curled his lip and edged back from his stance. When one of the pesky shadow creatures drew too close he kicked it, and it flew a good five meters.
"You see?" continued Domino, then he pointed to some papers that had strewn about the stone floor, indicating that the still uncomfortable Garland was to pick them up. "Barbarous."
Domino stood still then, waiting for Garland to finish the short task and join him before the wooden table. To pass the time, he scratched his head and squeezed the sweat from his eyelids, and after that he took to twirling the wand between his fingers. However, rather than fixing the problem, Garland only managed to knock another tower of paper over onto the floor. Domino sighed.
"Over here," he said, looking at Seville and marking the spot with his outstretched wand. Resignedly, cautious to put distance between himself and the princess though he couldn't understand her disapproval of being rescued, Seville walked over, joining the others in front of Chuck Domino. About ten feet separated them.
"Garland! Forget it! Let's just do this already." Domino seemed incredibly tired.
The man named Garland nodded, dropped the papers in his hands back onto the floor, realized that was a stupid thing to do, went back down to retrieve them, realized he hadn't gotten anywhere in doing that, decided to let them stay, and finally stood next to Domino at the table laden with the wooden box identical to that one from the dungeon room.
Domino shook his head, not so much in real disbelief but in that false disbelief that comes after a person makes petty mistakes again and again.
"Get on with it," Domino commanded, and the four light warriors seriously began to question who was really in charge.
"Right," Garland said, an awkward smile forming on his deformed face and quickly disappearing for a stern, professional grimace. He turned to the light warriors. "Welcome…"
The intonation of his greeting matched the voice from the wooden box perfectly, though still in a higher register. He was definitely the one who had been speaking to them.
"…In case you haven't guessed this already, my name is Garland. Yes, as I'm sure you're thinking it, I am the voice in the box. I am also the no-doubt diabolical kidnapper you've been hunting these past four nights. So am I, in effect I suppose, the enemy. Or at least, your enemy."
Doctor Darrin Sylum sunk his head slightly to one side, and prepared to sift through this man's words. He wasn't interested in semantics, or even in compromises. Sylum waited to hear the proposition. Herrik Gipson just waited to strike.
"To address that end, where supposedly we would have a combat of sorts and to the victor goes the princess," Garland gave an open-handed acknowledgement of her existence. She smiled and waved back, a twiddling-finger kind of wave, and an extremely sarcastic smile. "Let me inform you, as a gesture of kindness, that in that situation, there is no victory for you."
"Let's test that right now!" Gipson barked, and for once Garland displayed backbone by warding the knight down with a firm showing of his palm. Again, Sylum tried to take over for the knight.
"Master Gipson, let the man talk. As long as the princess is in our sights he can stall to his heart's content."
The princess visibly laughed at that, but then she looked away to avoid having to answer for it. Garland sighed; Domino did nothing.
"Lieutenant First Class, right? Of the Knights of the Coast?" Garland asked, but Gipson only flared his nostrils and said nothing back. "And a knife fighter that I understand can put up quite the fight?"
He looked Seville over, who was still burning within to know why the princess had brushed him off. What was the meaning of all of this?
"And a white mage to clean up the mess? Not a bad party, not at all."
Sylum bit his lip. Garland hadn't mentioned him.
"My point being, Master Knight, and please keep this in mind: we put a stop to your offensive in twenty seconds. How much longer do you think, Master Gipson, would it take us to kill you?"
"About twice as long as it took me to kill you!" Gipson threatened, repressing his roar. His fists clenched anew.
"That's it!" Domino broke in, jousting a wand in Gipson's direction. "You don't talk anymore. I'm tired of listening to you. One meeting was too many, a shame it is I must suffer three."
"Shut your partner up and I'll put you out of your misery!"
"Gipson!" Seville interrupted.
"What?"
"You are the greatest warrior I have ever seen, but in this case I'm afraid they are probably right." Seville turned the dagger uncomfortably in his hand, waiting for things to reveal themselves, hating these delays. The princess was chuckling to herself once again.
"You see what I told you about him?" Domino said to her victoriously.
"And here I thought you were exaggerating," is what she said back.
"Journalists don't exaggerate, Moira." She laughed to that.
"Anyways!" Garland forced onto Domino, for once affecting his behavior. Domino actually quieted obediently, a scowl returning to his face. "Given that an aggressive offense on you part would unquestionably result in the death of your entire party…"
Garland looked them over along with offering a cordial tuck of his hand.
"…and I don't want that, you've all worked so hard to get here, so perhaps we can approach an alternative together, something beneficiary to both sides, something … symbiotic, if you wish."
"What do you mean?" Seville inquired, a new chord of tension wrapping into itself on the back of his neck as Sylum's predictions appeared to be coming true. His clenched his dagger tighter. "Just, get on with it!"
"Of course. I'm going to proposition you now, you may ask questions, accept, or decline. You accept, and this world is ours for the taking. You decline … I'm afraid you will die."
"Get on with it!" Seville screamed at him. He couldn't fail, not like this, he couldn't let it all slip away after this. In his mind, for the first real time in four days flashed the gaunt, unhappy image of his Godfather, Dunnings. Seville knew just what he was unhappy about.
"Doesn't that hurt your head?" Garland asked out of the blue. "The screaming and everything? I'm sure the headaches must be killer after what you went through."
Thick beads of anger deposited in the rogue's throat.
"…What does that matter?"
"Well, why do you do it? Purposefully bring yourself pain like that. It was a long trip you took to get here, I'm trying to offer you some comfort. So please, stop yelling."
Not a one of the four light warriors could believe what they were hearing from this Garland. Just who was this guy?
"The proposition," Sylum entered and requested. In his peripheral vision he saw the knight grit his teeth.
"You're right, it's time," said Garland, he paused a very brief moment, then, "Join us."
A block of the most ridiculous silence.
"What?" Gipson said, half-query, half-growl.
"I'm quite sure you heard me," Garland retorted pompously; the knight squeezed his knuckles tighter.
"I'm quite sure I didn't, because I know you wouldn't…"
"Why?" Sylum interjected, very levelheaded.
"Protection … to a certain extent, but also credibility."
"Credibility?"
"Every show needs a straight man, of course," Garland winked.
"I don't understand what you mean," Sylum said to him as his three partners reeled with the anticipation of combat. To be honest, the professor wasn't thinking that was going to happen.
"My apologies…" Garland said with a comely grin, "I've been needlessly vague. Let's get more concrete."
Garland clapped his hands to set off the job and walked around the wooden table, signifying the wooden box with his outstretched arms.
"Gentlemen, I give you the Requisitive And Didactic Imaging Object, or Radio as we call it for short. Simulating the very enchantments that haunt these castle walls, this device can transmit the spoken word half-way across the globe as long as there's another one over there to receive it. Logically enough, there are transmitters, like the one you see here, and receivers, like the one you saw in the dungeon room that you so bafflingly escaped. They are a tad bulky to move but are virtually impossible to destroy, and as long as they do remain intact the enchantment is permanent."
Garland paused and waited for response, but the light warriors were dumbfounded in totality. Gipson was so confused he even let his bared sword off of ready and just held it to his side, staring blankly at the wooden box; the Radio. Garland, realizing that his response wasn't going to come, went on.
"Imagine, if you would, this instructive scenario: a civil war breaks out in Elfland, between them and the dwarves, and by an astonishing bout of good fortune the dwarves overtake the great race and install one of their own as king. As his first decree, the new king sends all of the Elvish dissidents across the ocean, where they decide to seek refuge with their nearest acquaintance, Corneria. Now, you could learn about all of this the day that the Elves arrive on your shores, huddling for food and shelter, or you could have known about it five minutes after the coup began, with daily updates."
Garland paused again, the grin growing wider on his face. By now Chuck Domino had eased himself to the side a few feet to let Garland play his part, but he didn't smile. Domino veered his eyes into the light warriors with utter conviction.
"The effect …" Sylum began, very slowly and carefully, "… the effect on the political structure … the effect on the entire world would be … astronomical…"
Garland nodded his head, jerked Sylum with his fishing hook.
"No more isolated nation states hunting barbarically for more land," Garland said. "No more worry as to whether the attack is coming, no more messengers throwing their lives away, no more doubt."
Garland placed his palms to the table and leaned forward with a sincere brogue upon his stumpy face, a smile all-assuring.
"Imagine! A single world community! Our ability to connect with each other will create an ability to … understand one another. Politically. Socially. Personally. We could transmit messages to the entire world weekly, daily even. This is a revolution!"
The information sunk a little deeper; Dr. Darrin Sylum most of all was stricken with the most terrible conflict, one of duty, understanding, and desire. As he stood he began to breathe heavily, his chest rising and falling like the waves of high tide.
"You would … you would need … thousands!"
"Yes, of course," Garland returned plainly, "That's exactly why we're building thousands. My good friend Chuck is quite skilled at it. It is a … delicate process to be sure. We are not fooling lightly with the powers of Lich, simply using his strength for a more complete purpose."
Not one of the light warriors had realized the dark children, the sentry shadows, has long melted back into the floor, and with Domino's wand sheathed once again, they were quite unguarded. Instead, they could hardly realize a thing.
"You still haven't explained our purpose?"
"You will bring our invention to the people and proceed from there on a schedule we have laid down. They will receive you as light warriors; as heroes."
An unsteady looked passed between the four, and then they entwined their own and placed it uncomfortably on Domino, who looked them right back in the eye. Garland took direct notice of this.
"Chuck's article has shaken your faith; your faith in yourself. And you believe the same has happened throughout the small part of Corneria that even knows you exist. In truth, it was merely a tactic employed to ensure that you would act rashly. Emotion is always an efficient catalyst to the achievements of a destined hero. And as for the people, when you return with our great gift, they will only trust you more. The king is wise to the fact that his people are only looking for the next big show, and so we must be wise to that as well, and plan accordingly."
"We weren't sent for some wooden box, no matter how powerful," Seville sneered, looking the princess over once more, internally cursing her lackadaisical stare into the events. "Do you have any idea what would happen if we returned without her?"
"Absolutely," Garland bragged, smiling effeminately now. His ability to turn his lips for the right moment rivaled even Herrik Gipson's. "King Eliv will go into an ferocious tirade, whereupon you will inform him of our whereabouts and that he need only come claim his daughter. Eliv will believe you, as materialistic as he is, every father would give his life for his daughter when it finally comes down to it, but he won't go himself, and he won't send a recovery squad. He'll send an army. But of course, we are only building his hopes. When that army arrives, they will transmit the message back to him, via the radio we've given him, that no one was found. As a result, Eliv will declare war on the world."
"Some promise of understanding, huh?" Seville chastised. The knight to his left had put his long sword back into the air.
"By this time, of course," Garland continued, ignoring Seville's comment, "We'll be safely out of the country. In Elfland, in fact, where we will be installing our next series of radios. They will buy into it because, using the already operative installment within Corneria, we can prove to the Elves the substantial power of the thing, the power to know everything about everyone. They will look upon us very kindly, assuming they don't lynch us for being human, but last I heard they don't do that anymore."
Sylum almost chuckled, by this time euphoric within his own wonderment at the size of thing that they, four warriors from a second-world country, could barely even scratch the surface of. This was so much bigger than everything he could hardly keep himself from fainting, though all he saw to his sides were born weapons. That, he decided right then, could not be.
"King Eliv's world war will be fierce, and will spread quickly. We can only hope it won't spread more quickly than us. The radios will be distributed in mass; we'll get people to do it for us. Every country will listen in, their very first radio transmissions will be the warning that a mad king is coming to slaughter them, and those statements will be correct. They will put up their guard, and together, the world community will put Eliv at bay. Their safety and victory granted by the will of our machine. How could they possibly deny us then?"
"You would start a war!" Seville roared.
"Start a war to end war, Seville." Garland knew then to turn his smile down, to remove it actually, and replace it with a very thin, certain gaze. "This will also go as a lesson to them. How can there be war in a world community? Because any assault will be announced long before it occurs, communities will band with others to survive, and they with others until eventually there is only one nation."
"It's too big!" said Seville. "You know something will fail in your perfect little plan."
"Ah! I was hoping one of you would bring that up," the smile returned. "Tell me, Seville … no, Eddie, we'll start with you…"
"My name's Edrick," the priest said. His feelings so far were too confused to pinpoint, but mainly they revolved around distrust. He could not let a war begin because of himself. Would not!
"Forgive me. Edrick, tell us, what do you remember of your dream? The so-called, demonstration I graced you with."
"Nothing," Edrick said forcefully, trying his best to disprove any point the scheming little man was trying to make. Besides, he didn't really. He couldn't remember a thing.
"Oh, sure you do. I'm not talking about images. Think more abstractly. What do you really remember from your dream?"
"I told you nothing!" Edrick defied, his conscience aching at his temples as the lie slipped from his mouth. When he began to think about it he knew exactly what Garland was wanting him to say.
"Another approach perhaps? Because I know you know what I want. Fighting is useless, I already told you that. Now, is what you remember 'joy'?"
Edrick ducked his head away; he wouldn't look at Garland.
"You acquiesce, and I'll take that as confirmation. It's okay to feel joy sometimes, Edrick, this world forgets that now and again. Besides, in this instance you were unable to resist it, but there's not a doubt in my mind that you didn't feel it or that you can't remember it. I know."
Trickles of shame tucked themselves around Edrick's eyelids; still he did not look towards. Garland let it go.
"And what about you, Seville? What do you remember from your dream?"
Seville thought everything over, wondered if it would do any good to deny it like Edrick had, but then understood that it really wouldn't. He looked Garland straight on and spoke very bitterly.
"Fear."
"That's right, you did, didn't you? Fear! It's amazing stuff. Live in a haunted palace as I have for the past three weeks and you'll learn a lot about it. About it's power to … influence. Even control."
"What's the point?" Sylum asked.
"The dreams you had are another power of the radio, obviously we won't spread this one around. No, we'll keep that power just for ourselves. Tell me, what might happen if we gave a king a dream, gave a dissident army a dream? Dreams of fear or jealously, or even joy? They won't remember what it is they dreamed of, they won't remember the fantasy we gave them. The only thing they will remember is the feeling. What do you think would happen, then?"
No one spoke back; Garland chuckled.
"Allow me to put it another way. Let's return to our past scenario, elves and dwarves. I ask you…" and Sylum knew that very moment that Garland was looking right at him, right into his very soul, "How would you like to be the dwarf king?"
Sylum dropped his long sword, and it landed with a deafening metal crack on the stone floor. He didn't pick it back up, didn't even seem to know he'd dropped it. Garland knew he had him, and moved in once more for the kill, pointing to the radio on the table.
"Because with this thing, we can own this world!"
Gipson ripped an extra sword from its sheath and snapped on the air.
"You're mad!"
"Undoubtedly," Garland responded, looking a little flustered by Gipson's firm approach, "But I'm also right."
"Not if I stop you right here!"
"Back!" Domino shouted with his wand fresh in the air, directed at the knight, the fiery aura of something quite deadly already brewing on the end. Gipson snarled, the clean edge of his dragon sword itching to be used on this refuse. But he desisted as the threat of Domino's magic came into play. Gipson showed his teeth like a wolf.
"I've given you my proposition," again Garland seemed to be looking right into Doctor Sylum, "So now it's time for you to make your choice. I'll repeat for the last time, Master Knight, you are making the wrong one."
"Then let it be the wrong one!"
Seville took half a step forward, desperate to figure things out once and for all.
"One condition," he said, and Gipson turned towards him aghast.
"Seville!" but the rogue somehow stared the towering knight down, then he looked back to Garland who had put on a cautious face and had ducked his ear forward, pretending he couldn't hear.
"And what is that, Seville?"
Seville wasn't sure if he should say it or not, whether it meant something or not. Seville just wasn't sure of anything anymore. Still, he spoke, and said it as proudly and confidently as he could stomach amidst the inner turmoil.
"The princess goes free."
Garland rolled his eyes.
"Are we still on that?" The response made an infinite number of ice crystals sink deep into Seville's chest. "I was hoping to keep proceedings simple and avoid this little bit until later, but if we must we must, so, gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to our leader, our … mastermind, if you like, the stunning Princess of Corneria, Moira."
"What?!" Seville stammered and spun his neck to view the woman sitting until this moment lazily up to the wall. The princess looked back and brushed some rogue strands of her wavy red hair from her face. She gave the gawking thief a sinister smile and finally stood to join her partners, clicking her tongue to the top of her mouth a few times as she approached.
"Gee," she began, her voice was haughty and malcontented, "Admirable sentiments can be such a killjoy sometimes. Especially when they've already taken you so far."
"How could you … how could you …" Seville tried to find words, but neither him nor his team could produce a single manageable one.
"Very easily. Any Cornerian who has half a mind can tell that my father's a fool; he's just fortunate that none of them do. At least except his own daughter, and that's what will come back to hurt him the most."
"But … but …"
"Don't try too hard now, the answers aren't always right in front of you," Princess Moira said, by now sitting back against the wooden table, her hands grasping it around the edge. She talked liked Garland, very affirmative and condescending. "His kingdom is built on publicity. Act like you should be famous and you will be, that kind of thing. What it's not built on is policy, or heck, even intelligence. And that is why Corneria is being driven into the dirt. Many of his own people love him, but that is something that other nations don't see, and he doesn't know how to command their trust. They don't respond to entertainment, they don't watch the magician's dancing girls, they watch the magician. And that's a pressure my father can't handle."
She stopped to look them over once. Edrick still was at a point where nothing came together, and Gipson also was static with his approach. Seville looked as if he needed a mother to cradle him. Nothing. All of this was for nothing.
Sylum was very intrigued.
"For the sake of Corneria his reign has to be stopped. That's something we can do. With or without you, mind, but we are offering you your life for your ability to protect ours. This is a good deal, Seville."
How dare she speak his name!
"In your plan Corneria loses its war. This country you're saving would be devastated either way it seems. Why through bloodshed?" Seville asked.
"Corneria will be rebuilt," the princess answered simply. "The victorious nations will join and aid the reconstruction."
"Why?" the rogue interrogated, not knowing why he even bothered to continue speaking. He was going to fail and he knew it, and the thought tore through his gray matter like shrapnel.
"Because we'll tell them to. We've already been over this, there is nothing we cannot control."
"Except," Garland entered once again, "…for you four, which is why this time, and this is the only time, we are offering a choice. You know what you need to know; now it's time for it. Join us or not, right now!"
Silence. The wafting, sickly kind of silence that made you feel green all through your body blanketed over them and injected its poison. Half a minute passed, and then a full minute, and then more. Not one of the four light warriors felt like one, or even felt like part of a team. Each was alone with his thoughts, completely isolated from companionship. They each knew their answer, but were awfully afraid of the others'. The three opponents, the pestering mage, the treacherous princess, and the mysterious Garland just waited for them to speak. They stood almost shoulder-to-shoulder, a fortified armor designed only to intimidate. Anxieties stood on a wire.
"I will not let you start a war," Herrik Gipson finally said, low and threatening.
"People go to war for all kinds of reasons, Master Gipson," Garland retorted bombastically, "Elves slaughtered five-hundred thousand dwarves over control of a fourteen mile-long straight. The Leifens, the ancients, the cultural, not to mention biological backbone of the entire human race was massacred almost to the point of genocide over salt. Some people…" and once again he seemed to gaze deep into Sylum's mind, "Some people even go to war over ideas. I am not ashamed to go to war for the betterment of the world community. Neither should you."
"I will not let you…"
"You are a knight, Master Gipson, war is your job. All of your friends in the K.O.C. are going to fight in it. So, too, can you, in the most important way. This is the war that the Knights of the Coast were established for. The great war! A war to end all others. This is not something you can stop."
"I will not let you start a war!!! As a Knight of the Coast, Lieutenant First Class, it is my duty to protect the innocent, regardless of creed or country." Gipson was alive with fury. He turned and squared off with Domino, who held the wand as ever, up and menacing. "Get one last feel for it, Chuck, because in five minutes you won't have a hand to use it with!"
Domino unsheathed an off-hand wand and set his eyes to kill, assuming with his body a battle stance.
"Proposition failed," he told Garland and the princess, "Just like I told you it would. Recommend termination."
Garland bit his lip, and then he shook his head like you did to someone passing up the greatest deal in his life.
"Very well, I'll cede to your judgment."
Gipson sprung forward with a wide swipe of the dragon sword, and a misfired bolt of lighting snapped on the ceiling, sending the foundation into rumbles and loosing large stone bricks, which fell in a haze of dust.
"Wait!" a defiant voice screamed over the contest. Gipson and Domino, half a second from going into each other again halted with bitter looks and turned to the source. It was Doctor Sylum who had stood out and brought them to a stop. He looked very strong, and yet at the same time infinitely weak. "Just wait."
"This is the only way, Doctor!" Gipson defended.
"No, no that's not true," Sylum defended right back, then he paused a good time where he seemed to be trying to pull the words from deep within him, from his gut, but also from the darkest skirts of his mind. "They … they're right." An even more potent agony flushed over then. "We should join them."
"Professor!!!" Seville and Edrick shouted in unison.
"Sylum!!!" Gipson added with even more energy. Had they been looking, they would have seen Garland take two small steps back, cross his arms, and smile.
"If there's a way we can win then we should do that!" Sylum argued.
"That is not winning!" yelled the knight.
"Yes," the professor said straight into Gipson's face, and then he looked back and forth between his friends, "Yes it is! Think of it! Every man, woman, and child in the world will know our names. We'll be famous!"
"At what price?" Seville asked, completely and utterly in shock.
"A price I've already paid," the doctor answered darkly.
Gipson roared and charged upon Sylum, bringing the long sword quite near his throat, and grimacing with disgust.
"Traitor!!!"
Sylum slapped Gipson's sword to the side with the Werebane.
"I don't apologize for the world's weakness!" An astonishing anger trilled in his voice. He raised the Werebane into a battle position and, the edge crossed against the legendary knight. Gipson marked him strategically with a counter-position of his own.
"I have seen you with a sword, doctor. This isn't a path you want to take. This isn't winning, I assure you."
"I'm defending what I believe!" Sylum said, nearing delirium.
"Professor, Master Gipson, please…" Edrick attempted to plea, but neither was listening. Seville moved closer to intercept them, but he was afraid to get in striking distance.
"I'll give you one move, doctor, but after that we're doing battle, and I will be myself from that point on. It won't last but one move longer."
Seville hedged closer, warning hands out and frightened.
"This can't happen," he said as if it were metaphysical certitude. Sylum nodded then, and Seville could only assume it was to him.
"Remember…" the doctor then said to Gipson. "Remember that I saved your life."
There Sylum sliced his blade at Gipson who easily blocked with his primary hand and then went in with his off-hand short sword. More dexterous than he had ever let on, Sylum wrenched the Werebane backwards over his hand and blocked the attack, stepping backwards quickly from the force of it. Gipson growled and approached, and Sylum found his balance and his grip on the blade.
Twice more the knight went into the fray, and twice more Sylum found himself stumbling out of it alive and uncut. Gipson was furious, making sloppy attempts with the dragon sword that Sylum could just defend, though getting more and more fatigued with every bone-aching repel.
"Stop this! Stop this!" Edrick was screaming over the battle, but the combatants were set in this contest until it was done.
Gipson practically rounded on Sylum, dizzying him in a wind of the blue aura from the dragon sword, but at every strike Sylum managed to have his own sword there to block it. Then Gipson made a swift jab with the short sword, which Sylum fenced away but at the loss of his footing. Careening backwards with flailing arms, Sylum could almost feel the hard stone cracking into his skull but at the final moment his body was jerked sideways from the right arm and a gruesome yelp pierced the echoing walls. The sharp sound still ringing in his ears, Sylum jaunted his head up and was immediately blinded by a rain of blood that trickled around his glasses and pasted his eyes. The split-second image he had had time to receive was of Seville, his mouth agape, his eyes scrunched, and his chest ripped through.
"No! Seville!" Edrick cried, running so quickly to the rogue's aid that he tripped over Sylum's legs.
At first Seville was too surprised to feel the pain. Beginning at the collar bone just under his throat and stretching downwards diagonally towards his side was a blood-soaked canyon of flesh, the crevice so deep he could make out the flecks of white bone from his rib cage. His dull maroon blood flooded out down his shirt and legs, and his chest and left arm uncontrollably twitched. Then the momentous pain seized his muscles, his nerves shot on and off, he was instantly light-headed, and as the world began to rotate fiendishly around him he realized his legs had given way and he was staring hopelessly at the ceiling. Hard breaths came one at a time.
"No, Seville, no!" the priest pleaded, crawling to Seville and wiping the blood from his face.
Herrik Gipson was halted at first, an icy blizzard shooting through his veins, but soon they were replaced by the hottest of fires and his eyes glowered at Sylum, who was still entirely awe-struck and frightened at the ruined sight of Seville. The doctor dropped the carnal weapon like a man whipping away a serpent, as if it would make him strike again. He wiped the guilty blood from his eyes and slapped away his glasses in confusion and frustration, moving slowly the whole time on his elbows and feet. He couldn't see what was around him; he only felt the burning sensation of the salty blood in his eyes and saw black-splotched cuts of activity around him.
From Gipson's perspective this traitor was crawling away from his fate, trying to avoid what he'd done. The knight had never known such anger. He bellowed his fury so powerfully it echoed down the distant halls and returned to them, and then he charged the prone Sylum, who turned in fright from the noise. Gipson impacted his foot solidly into Sylum's shoulder, and the doctor flung onto his back
He had the audacity to raise his arms and defend himself, and that only made Gipson angrier. The knight reared his sword high like some righteous demon slayer and saw at that last moment how Sylum's tears mixed with the blood in his eyes to give him the impression of crying that very blood.
"Please!" Sylum begged helplessly, "I don't want to die!"
But Gipson had made up his mind. With a swift punch the blade pierced through Sylum's belly, and the doctor wrenched up in a spasmodic flinch, unintentionally digging the sword deeper until it exited through his back. Sylum coughed and felt at the weapon through his belly before walloping pulses of agony made it too difficult to even sit up, and he fell to his side, curled in a limp fetal position, looking away from everything.
Gipson was suddenly sick all over, sick with fear, with anger, and with guilt. Every extremity tingled with anxiety, paranoia, so violent a sensation his hands shook and his knees trembled. He forgot what was happening around him, stopped hearing the tear-filled cries of Edrick, and was beyond Seville's choking gasps for life. All that remained was the feeling, flushing into his pores like a poisonous gas, striking him so harshly about his throat he could barely breathe. He dropped to his knees and stared at his hands like foreign things, awful things. His dementia was only broken by a sudden white heat from behind him that lit the whole of the room brightly. Instantaneously the situation rushed back to him.
"Edrick! No!" he called even before he spun to see that it was true, only he was too late.
Edrick's hands were held over Seville's dying body, white wispy air fluttering between his fingers.
"You can't die on me!" the priest assured, finally certain of his spell. He thrust his hands into Seville's chest, and the vibrant positive energy beat through the rogue in hot shockwaves. Seville's eyes shot open, and his mouth sucked in a vacuous breath. The wound rippled and stirred, the patchy walls of flesh flapped, but nothing healed. Instead, bruise-black rivulets slithered like worms down Seville's right arm until the rot had grown to his fingertips. His palm was dull purple. He didn't seem to be breathing.
"No!" Edrick shouted. "Don't fail me now!"
He began to shake his hands feverishly to work another cure spell into them, but just when the brilliant aura had enwrapped his hands once more an arm craned around his chest and pulled him away from Seville.
"No, Edrick!" Gipson warned. "You mustn't!"
"I have to help him! Master Gipson, please!"
"You can't, Edrick, you can't!"
The priest looked the knight over with a visage of the most severe boyish fright, the color so faded from his face even his freckles had evaporated. His cleric's robes were freshly dyed red.
"But I must try!"'
"You can't, Edrick, to try is to kill him faster!"
"How can you say that?" Edrick pushed himself from Gipson's grasp and pulled away as if Gipson was conspiring against him. Gipson dropped his head and searched for the words to explain. Why must it come out now?
"The scars, the blackness on his arm and neck; it is called ghost rot, and it feeds off your white magic. He cannot be healed."
The utter horror sucked enough color from Edrick's face that it was transparent, and pitiful tears washed through his eyes.
"But … but there must be something…"
"No, there's no cure. There's nothing we can do."
"It can't be!"
"It is!"
Edrick looked at Seville who was breathing once again, but very spastically and painfully. His eyes were open and delirious, his hands clamoring aimlessly about the blood-wet stone floor, his feet doing the same, his mouth clapping open and closed like he was muttering shouts, only they were noiseless. Teardrops rolled down Edrick's face. How could there be nothing he could do? Why hadn't Seville told him?
Much like a boy entirely out of his league, Edrick fought through those painful, hiccupping sobs and tugged Gipson by the arm.
"Seville can't die!"
Gipson had been looking the wound over but then he turned to the priest and dropped his voice.
"Edrick, I'm afraid … I mean … with that bleeding … there's just no way…"
"I think we can abort the mission," said a completely forgotten voice then.
"You're right. They're not much good to us now. Okay, go ahead and get out of here, we'll need to start by tomorrow, I'll finish this."
Gipson curled his fingers into a fist, bared his teeth, and looked at the three at the table who had done no more than stand and watch. Domino and Moira picked up a few pouches and bags that were scattered on the floor and made for the hallway, leaving Garland there. The knight unsheathed a fresh sword slowly and angrily, dramatizing that metal shink as he pulled it, digging his deadly gaze right into Garland's face. For once Garland looked pensive, that perpetual pompousness finally put to rest.
"There is much darkness in your heart, Master Knight. You seem very familiar with what it is to hate," as he spoke, Garland inconspicuously brought his hands together. "I wonder why that is."
"Save it!" Gipson commanded.
"I think it is because you … are not real…"
"I've had enough!" The knight hollered and he lunged forward with his sword aimed straight for Garland's heart. But in only two steps the ground beneath him felt like little more than air and he toppled forward into a mass of shadows, the black, insectival monsters with tendril-claws, beacon-yellow eyes, and smooth bulbous heads. Instantly he couldn't breathe, could hardly move. They grappled his throat, twisted at his limbs until the bones ached, and scratched at his skin. How many, he couldn't tell, but it felt like hundreds.
He thought he heard Edrick yelling for him in some distant place, but that voice distorted, jumped octaves, and spoke nonsense. He was really just hearing his own insanity, he thought.
"Kill them," Garland ordered his dark children, and then he wiped down his purple shirt, and then his jeans, like a gardener finished with a hard day's work, and he sauntered lazily towards the exit.
Edrick could feel his presence as Garland passed behind him, felt it like the passing of a devil, a soulless, heartless being of death. He shivered throughout, but didn't turn to stop him, knowing he couldn't. Knowing he couldn't do anything. Garland was gone from the room and they were alone with their failure. Seville had gripped Edrick by his robe, tried to pull him forward, tried to speak, but all that escaped was blood down the sides of lips, tracing jagged patterns over his pale cheeks.
"I want to help you," Edrick told Seville, unsure of whether or not his friend could hear him at all, hoping to find something truly important to say. A convulsion waved through Seville's body, making him yelp and cringe inwards over his gut. Edrick laid Seville once more on his back and used the sleeve of his robe to wipe away the stagnant sweat that mottled red on his cheeks and throat.
A tortuous screaming sound rang across the room, so screechy it nabbed Edrick in his spine and he bounced over Seville's body, overtaken with nerve. Scanning for the source he saw the air fluttering with the black shadows, all of them flailing and gripping to each other for safety and eventually slapping hard into the stone floor all about the room. Spark light twinkled to Edrick's right, accompanied with the crisp sound of a sword scraping the stonework. He looked and saw Gipson, brandishing Drâco proudly, eyes obsidian-black with intensity, fresh cuts down his face, through his shirt, and over his arms. So many wounds his skin looked red enough to match his hair.
"You think you can kill me with a couple bugs!!!" he shouted at the man who was no longer there. "I'm Herrik freakin' Gipson!!!"
The raging knight marched to the closest hobbling shadow, underhanded a deft swipe, and bisected its head. It pranced backwards like a beheaded chicken and then tripped to the floor which it then melded, once again, back into. The other shadows began to hop madly and gaze their beaming eyes at Gipson. In their dancing kind of walk they very slowly approached, all together.
"What are you waiting for? Come kill me!"
Edrick lay as close to Seville as he could, keeping his head low and inconspicuous; the shadows seemed little interested in him. The shadows fanned outwards, creating a wide semicircle around the knight, who continued to stand with the dragon sword ready and a fearsome scowl on his battered face. He took a dagger in his off-hand as the dark creatures closed in.
"Edrick…" said a weak voice, and the priest shot his eyes to Seville hopefully, but he had his face turned to the side and was just doing his best to breathe.
"Edrick…" the pitiful voice said again.
A pressure the weight of a boulder sunk in Edrick's chest as he realized the only other possible person who could be speaking. He glanced carefully over his shoulder and saw that Professor Sylum had turned himself around and was staring deadly at Edrick, his arms slung limply before him and his livid face, tricking with blood from his mouth, pressed against one of the blocks of the floor. Only his mouth moved, very slowly.
"Edrick … I can help him…"
The priest was staunched on his knees and fingertips as if he would suddenly need to break away in some sprinting run, and he looked between Seville and Sylum with a quiver running consistently over his bottom lip. He shook his head uncertainly.
"Edrick, please… I can help him…"
"Done enough, haven't you?" Fresh, urgent tears swelled in Edrick's eyes.
"I can help him…"
"You can't!" the priest defied, his voice cracking into a squeal.
"No, you don't know that…" Sylum crept one of his arms in Seville's direction, grabbed as tightly between a groove in the stone as he could, and pulled himself inch at a time towards the rogue. The sword sticking through him dragged along and made a horrid screeching sound.
"You should stay back!" Edrick said, but Sylum continued to approach.
Two of the shadow creatures were flattened forcefully into the temple wall which they defensively reabsorbed themselves into, and with a pointed dash Gipson circled a squad of five and slapped at them with the broad end of the Dragon Sword. When struck hard enough the shadows popped like melons, their individual bits splaying about the room and sinking into the floor.
When on the attack they were fierce and quick, rapidly pouncing one after another at Gipson's backside while he jabbed feverishly at the hordes before him. For every one he killed, three more seemed to drift up out of the floor and gnash their claws against this combat. Gipson spun unexpectedly and skewered three bodies on the end of his blade and he launched them off with a hard jerk to the front, the catapulted shadows knocking through the offensive lines and scattering the army.
They shook their spherical heads, but before they could reorient themselves the master knight was already upon them with two blades, chopping heads and limbs with single strokes.
A brave shadow leapt to his face and scratched as violently as it could before Gipson could pierce it through with his dagger and punch it to the side. Fresh running wounds clouded his vision long enough for three more of the demons to run beneath him and pummel the backs of his knees so that they jerked forward instinctively and he fell to his face. A wild attempt with the longsword behind his back dethroned the imminent attackers but when he tried to regain the sword for another attack five of the creatures had already grabbed hold of it and torn it from his grasp. Twenty of the shadows piled on top of Gipson and those that could sank in their claws.
"Don't come any closer!" Edrick shouted at the very slowly approaching Doctor Sylum, who left a wine dark streak of the blood in his path. Black blood.
"I have to … I have to try …" Sylum muttered, hardly able to put together two words. Though his mouth opened and closed as he gulped the flowing blood away, and though his arms were frantic and nearly unmanageable, Sylum's sickly white, alien-looking eyes were unflinching, their gaze deadlocked on Seville, whose own eyes were closed as if he was sleeping. Harsh breaths came and went from the rogue, each one as if it was the last.
"If he could be helped, I would do it!" Edrick defended. "I would do anything!"
"I can help him…" Sylum persisted as he crawled, now quite close.
Edrick made to warn the doctor again but his tongue was choked in his throat by a bright yellow flash and accompanying explosion. A new wave of shadows shuttled past, most of them in several pieces. When the echoing flurry of noise settled low enough they made out the sound of Gipson howling. Edrick slapped a chunk of shadow off of Seville's legs and twisted to see Gipson just as the orange fire was dissipating away. His shirt was bitten over with burn holes and two of the great red steeples of hair were noticeably singed away. Gipson threw the remains of the glass decanter from his fire potion to the side and began to look about vacantly. The two shadows that had not been consumed by the powerful blast looked at each other, and then sank away into the ground. The dark army had been defeated.
When his bearings rushed back to him the first thing Gipson said was "Stop!", with his dagger jousted towards Sylum. Gipson stood and bounded to Seville in three great strides, never dropping his readied weapon, but still falling weakly by the rogue's side as his many wounds began to get the better of him.
"You stay back!" he shouted, looking as if it had taken him twice the normal air to say it in. Though his lips were tightly shut he seemed to be biting and his breaths became more and more difficult. His skin was terribly perforated with gashes, some dangerously deep.
"Master Gipson, be still, I'll cure you."
"I'm fine! Don't come any closer, doctor, or I'll finish what I started right now!" Gipson pointed twice with the dagger tip and glowered.
"If you want to save Seville's life then you must trust me."
"Trust you!" Gipson stammered. "You've given up your trust!"
Sylum stopped crawling not two feet from Seville's side and he pressed himself up as high as he could and jostled himself around to his side, slowly making his way to his knees. The hilt of the short sword stuck through him was shaded in dark blood, the same that ran to the base of his legs.
"You hit my liver, I will be dead in minutes," he pleaded. "But I may be able to help Seville. You must let me!"
"He cannot be cured!" Gipson hollered. "It feeds off white energy!"
"Not all magic is white or black…" Sylum slumped himself onto his behind and examined Seville's malicious wound as best he could at that distance. When he ducked his head closer, Gipson met it with his dagger and warded the professor back. "No, please! Whatever you believe about my faith, whatever you believe about my loyalty, you must put that to the side. I know you have never questioned my knowledge."
"What would you do?!" Gipson snapped.
"Please…" never had a more sincere word passed Gipson's ears. The knight looked at Seville, barely breathing, and he looked at Sylum who had minutes at best. With almost painful restraint, he dropped the dagger and looked the traitor over coldly.
"Whatever it is, do it, and hurry. You don't have any time left!"
Sylum nodded and lifted his arm out.
"Help me," he requested. "Pull me closer, I can't move my legs."
Gipson did so immediately. Sylum slumped to his side, knees bent with his legs flat on the floor and tucked under him, propping himself on one tired arm. The wound was as deep as he remembered, not really deadly but for the blood loss, which by the looks of the murky red pool to Seville's left was already substantial.
"He's fatigued," Sylum said, watching Seville's face for signs of consciousness. "He's too tired from shock to open his eyes, but he has some time."
"But we can't cure him!" Edrick stated blankly, and Sylum nodded it away.
"The bleeding will have to be stopped."
"It's impossible!" Gipson raged.
"No," was all that Sylum answered, slowly fishing his trembling hand into one of his trench coat's many pockets. He removed a small wooden jewelry box with a latch that clicked in his shaking hand. Sylum gulped hard twice and the trembles subsided a little; he opened the box delicately. Inside was a something that looked like a long sewing needle and also something that looked a little bit like thread, only thicker. Then Sylum pulled a vial from another pocket, immediately recognized as some of his morphine.
"Make him drink this!" he ordered, a task that Gipson went directly to.
After several attempts Sylum threaded the needle with the thick wire and tied it into a small knot on that end. He studied the long, deep cut once more and took a few more calming gulps. He had become very lightheaded.
"Seville … my friend …" Sylum wiped away a layer of Seville's sweat from the rogue's face with his hand. "…I'm so sorry. And … if you can hear me … this is going to hurt a lot."
Then with the final precise motion he might ever be capable of, Sylum grabbed the jutting skin at the base of the cut and stabbed the needle through.
"What are you doing?!" Edrick shrieked in terror, rounding Gipson into rearming the dagger.
"I'm sewing him shut," Sylum answered plainly as the needle stretched across the chasm of the wound and exited out the skin on the other side. "It's called surgery. The Leifens did it, since they didn't have white magic they developed many other forms of healing."
"But you're hurting him!"
"It might save his life. Be quiet!"
Sylum continued one stitch at a time, the black thread pulling Seville's parted skin together tightly. At times Sylum's hands began to shake so tremendously again that he stopped and put the needle, closed his eyes, and just breathed, a sour yellow complexion painting in shades onto his face.
Gipson and Edrick were silent and still, the tension wrapping them in a stifling heat, and they never offered help or made further threats. They let Sylum do it, whatever it was, and he never looked at them for approval, his eyes, when they managed to be open were direct and severe, watching his procedure with what care his delirious mind would allow. The surgery was half done then, and Seville was still sleeping.
"When I finish you get him out of here!" Sylum commanded. "The temple will try to poison his wound, and he is not strong enough to fight it. Get him as far away as you can, and give him more of the morphine if it looks like he needs it."
An incredible numbing sensation flushed through Sylum's body and he fell to the side and smacked the floor. He tried to shake it off but realized he couldn't even feel it, or anything for that matter. The final moment had come, his nerves were giving out. Even in his fingertips he felt nothing. The pain from the sword had vanished into a dreamy state of perpetual floating. He thought he could move, but the world around him drifted in mosaics when his eyes shifted.
He coughed a clot of blood out and it hung fresh from his chin. Hands moist with the black signs of his impending death, he grabbed for the needle and tried to finish his task, lost for feeling.
"Professor," Edrick said meekly, no longer understanding right from wrong from anything else, "I … can fix you, ya know? I will still cure you if you ask me to."
The priest expected to have the knight glaring down on him, but Gipson was resigned and his face was emotionless.
"No … I wouldn't … be … able to … bear it…" Sylum responded monotonically, finishing another stitch with his left hand and palming dumbly into one of his pockets with is right hand. With great effort he extracted a thin, leather bound book, already damp with his own blood. He tossed it at Gipson.
"You … give this … to him … when … he wakes up …"
Gipson opened the cover of the short tome.
"No …" Sylum reprimanded. "For … him!"
The book was snapped shut.
The final sutures were the slowest, with Sylum dropping his head and closing his eyes every half-minute, each pause longer than the one before. Once they thought Sylum had actually died, but he returned each time as if he'd been dozily slumbering for years at a stretch. In fact, Sylum didn't even realizing he was doing it, as from each wake he began exactly where he was before, never skipping a beat to reacquaint himself. With one final gush of energy the professor closed the wound, tied the wire into a scraggily knot, and pulled the needle away.
"Go …" by now Sylum's voice was barely audible. "Keep … pressure…"
He jaunted forward onto the palms of his hands and watched the blood from his mouth drip onto the floor, suddenly overtaken with his final feeling: cold.
Gipson nodded to Edrick, who was wiping messy tears from his face and sniffing repeatedly. They stood and looked down at Sylum, eyes unbearably drawn to the black bloody sword protruding from his back. The professor was still like a statue, a perched gargoyle. He was content to kneel there and bleed. Neither could find words to say.
Gipson lifted Seville carefully off the ground, and motioned Edrick to the hallway, That walk was the longest either had ever had in his life, dragging one of their compatriots to his likely death, and leaving another behind to his certain one. Gipson had had enough, so he didn't plan to drag it out any longer, and when he came to the threshold he just kept walking, but Edrick turned. Sylum had not moved, but Edrick could make out that his eyes were open, often blinking. The priest waved his hands to signal the rights of passage and sniffed again.
"I'm sorry," was all he thought to say then, and he turned and followed Gipson down the hall.
Sylum noticed first how quiet it was, when finally the footsteps had passed even their faintest echo. Even the temperate, nostalgic crackle of torch fire seemed muted and distant, and eventually not there at all. Sylum wondered if they had gone out because it had become much darker in the room in the past minutes. But when he looked they were burning as they always would, long after he had rotted to a skeleton.
Cataclysmic images wanted to take over his mind, terrible forewarnings of guilt and damnation, but they couldn't. In his brain, what was left of it, things were tranquil and motionless. There was no color but white, but a calm, dormant kind of white that caressed you in its feathery embraces. For the first time in a long time it was pleasant.
Then his arms gave out and he was lying on that temple floor staring along the plane of existence and becoming more and more awestruck by the second at how astonishingly white everything was. Then he couldn't even hold his eyes open to see it, and that was too discouraging to accept.
Doctor Darrin Sylum took his final breath, and died.
Every long hallway was nothing to their funeral march; they passed as if they were but inches long. Every path they could choose only led one direction: out of the Temple of Fiends. The dying man in Gipson's arms never stirred, even when their journey had brought them out this dungeon and into a bleak early morning. Gipson and Edrick kept going, farther and farther, mourning all the living and the dead.