Chapter 52: Thanatonautics
Islands everywhere. A sea to drown in. He drowned. Until he reached an island. It was a large island, complete with its own puzzling kingdom. A familiar stranger pulled him out.
Their gaze was sweet poison. He would rather have drowned. He shoved them away and fell back into the dark depths.
He tried to gasp, but there was a hole in his belly. He tried crawling, but his fingers only managed to rake in wet mud. He tried to speak, but he could only choke on the liquid copper filling his mouth.
A burning light hovered above. Inhuman. Dear to the heart.
But the heart of him was beating slower... slower... slower...
Gone.
He looked at his feet. Snow and rime caked his boots. He tried to shake it loose - no such luck. He knelt down and attempted to flick it off, but the moment his fingers touched the frost they too froze. The crystals ran up his hand, up his arm, up his shoulder, up his neck, and-
Cold air flushed into his lungs. It made the numbness stemming from his abdomen all the more keenly felt.
The little circle of fire was still there. Still talking. But faster. Not that he could hear-
He slowly, painstakingly, brought his hand up before his eyes. It came away sticky and red. Warm too. Which was strange, because he felt so very cold.
And...
Gone.
He was... somewhere high and there was nothing beneath his feet. He was in the sky. Thunder rolled in from every direction. Lightning flashed - from his hands.
Down below, coiling around a mountain, was a lynx bound in scales. Antlers sprouted from behind its ears and reptilian osteoderms ran down its back.
It looked at him. He looked at it. It was his opposite: a panther of the depths. And he: a watcher of the sky.
He had to fight it. There was no choice in the matter. He HAD to. For no other reason than just because.
Lightning fired from his hands/wings.
On his third rez, everything was so much colder. Everything was red, as if a crimson veil had fallen over his sight. The burning light wasn't alone. It was almost lost in all the blue stars dancing around it. And right there, amidst them all, was not a light but two unshining emeralds right over his head.
"-ros!"
His hands were by his side, but something was putting pressure on his stomach. A scorching sensation ran up his spine.
Gone.
Lucidity. Unexpected and bountiful, and ultimately wrong for a dying vision.
"This isn't how death works," Ikharos mused. He knew where he was and concluded that he was deeply disappointed to be back. He had assumed... but it didn't matter what he assumed. His hopes were nothing compared to the vast thought-fields of the Dreaming Mind. Or her masters.
Dûl Incaru smiled. He isn't sure how he figured that, what with her being a skeletal alien of some otherworldly dimension, but she was indeed smiling. She raised a teacup and saucer of dragonbone and drank of the vibrant poison within. It was the same scene he'd grown to know over two long years of cyclic slaughter and continuous reverie. Which he'd oh so recently quit - not that the curse cared.
Ikharos looked around. "Corrupted Glimmer again?"
"Nothing so primitive."
"Death? This is more than a mere dream."
"Beyond death. Try another."
"... Riven?" Ikharos sighed. "I'm never going to live that down."
"Only if you keep your life," Dûl Incaru said smugly. She had a voice so sharp his eardrums felt like they were being slowly raked with serrated claws. Her laughter killed stars.
"I'm guessing the cycle's come and gone. How's Jaxson?"
"He split my skull with his axe."
"Good boy." Ikharos leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and afforded her the same old reproachful look.. "Is this really you, or is this another one of her simulations?"
Dûl Incaru continued to smile.
"I keep asking. You keep doing... this. So what is it? Medusa was a lie. The messages from Eris were a lie. Is this a lie too?"
"Do you miss her?"
The question was so out of the blue that Ikharos was left scrambling for a response. He didn't know why he bothered. She was the Enemy.
But, Enemy though she was, he was still victim to silly mortal whims. "I, uh... No. I've gotten over it. I made a mistake and paid for it."
"Will you make that mistake again?" The Witch's smile fell. She passed on her empty cup to their server: a Taken Vandal.
He wanted to say no. In the end, he shrugged. "I'm only human."
"You were." She leaned forward, all three eyes flashing bright. Too bright to directly look at. "Where are you?"
Ikharos woke up slowly. He felt warm. His eyelids were heavy, but they wanted to open. Light glared through them. It was bright. There was something soft below him. Over and around him too. That he was groggily waking up rather than shaking a fresh revival from his limbs was all the reason he needed to jolt back into action. Or tried to, in any case; his body was still asleep, and it wanted to stay asleep dammit.
Ikharos's eyes opened, but his vision was blurred with drowsiness. He blinked rapidly to clear it away. He was... somewhere. Nowhere he recognized. Birds sang. A light breeze tickled his cheeks. The room was wooden, but not carved. Sung. Delicate leaves hung in the open windowsill to his left. The silk-soft sheets covering him were not of any material he recognized. He heard laughter. Children.
It was an elven forest outside. He was in an elf's house.
How?
A small weight slammed into his chest. He wasn't strong enough to resist. Ikharos went down and murmured a wordless greeting.
"You..." Xiān began. She trailed off and dug her pinions into his skin. Her shell was extra pristine. The gold and emerald fins glittered in the midday light. Someone had cleaned her. Her orange eye burned accusingly. Ikharos dropped a hand on her and, ignoring her cries of outrage, dragged her under his chin. She was hot, almost painfully so, but he wouldn't have traded it for the world.
"Go on," he muttered, "say your piece."
"Idiot." She pressed herself into the crook of his neck. It was her favourite place to dig in. Her voice was muffled. "You could have died so... many... times..."
"But I didn't."
"Actually, you did."
"Yet here I am."
"Here you are. Still an idiot."
He hummed without a tune and closed his eyes. "I feel... tired. My Light is dim."
"We went through so much trouble just so we could bring you back. You are so, so lucky."
"I guess. How's that?"
"We've got good friends."
A throat was cleared. Ikharos opened his eyes and looked up. A man was waiting by the end of the bed. He wore a brown tunic and darker leggings, with a leaf-green scarf wrapped over his shoulders. His ears were pointed. Elf. Maybe.
"You're awake." The stranger sounded genuinely surprised. "You are actually awake. This is... unprecedented."
Ikharos gently dislodged Xiān and sat up. He groaned and rolled his shoulders. "Tell me about it."
"You were dead. And now you aren't."
"Yep."
"Incredible..." The man shook his head to clear away the surprise, rushed to a nearby desk, and returned to Ikharos's side with a small bowl in hand. "I'm going to have to ask you a few questions. What's your name?"
"Ikharos Torstil."
"Good, good, that's very good. Where are you from, Ikharos?"
"London."
"And where is that?"
"England. Britain. Europe. Earth."
The elf gave Xiān a questioning look. She bobbed up and down. "Good... Now, Ikharos, how do you feel?"
"Exhausted," Ikharos admitted. "And hungry. Thirsty too."
"Here." The elf offered the bowl. "Drink this, but slowly."
Ikharos afforded the bowl a cursory glance before trying it. The liquid was dark, and it tasted terribly bitter. Once he finished, and the elf had taken the bowl back, he asked, "What was that?"
The elf hesitated. "Eld ramr. Strengthener in your tongue. It will help replenish your energy reserves."
Xiān rose into the air. She pointed with a fin. "This is Falresídr. He helped a ton. Say hi."
Ikharos gave him a wary nod and nothing more. Falresídr, for his part, presented an awkward bow. "It was nothing," he said politely. His eyes never strayed from Ikharos. "I'm afraid what help I could offer was limited. Noble Xiān did most of the work. I am... glad to see you returned to..."
"To life?" Ikharos let out a heavy breath. "Thanks. I can only imagine how-"
"Horrible it was?" Xiān piped up in a voice much too cheery. Ikharos saw through it. "Oh, it was awful. We were all worried sick." She rotated in the air, "I should tell the others," and she flew out of the room without another word.
Silence reared its ugly head. Falresídr stared. At him. Ikharos sighed. "What is it?"
"How is this possible? There is no spell in the world powerful enough to raise the dead, and yet..."
"You're more right than you realize. No spell in this world."
"I... don't follow."
"Honestly, you're probably better off not knowing. Where are we?"
Falresídr straightened. "Ah, apologies. I haven't... My lord, you are currently in the village of Cirrane. These lodgings are the property of Lady Láerdhon of House Rílvenar."
"Formora," Ikharos surmised.
The elf hesitated. "Indeed."
He looked out the window. He could see trees. And other houses. Gardens too. They were on ground level, or near enough. An open blue sky soared above the forest. It looked far less densely packed than Ellesméra. "Cirrane. Why here?"
Falresídr shrugged helplessly. "I'm afraid I do not know."
Ikharos forced himself to relax. He cycled in air and looked around. His fingers traced the glowing marks left by the Star-Eater's talons. There were other scars with it. Most were thin white marks, but... his hand fell to his stomach and hovered over the place where Kelf had stuck him. Or Elkhon, or whatever she called herself. The only reminder of where the knife pierced him was a small inch-wide spot where the skin was noticeably indented, just above and to the left of his navel. Nowhere near as gaudy as what the Aphelion had done to him, but no less horrific. He could almost feel the phantom blade sinking into him...
Ikharos suppressed a shiver; yet another scar to add to the pile. Another potential nightmare to bother him down the line.
"How the hell am I alive?" He heard himself ask.
"You weren't when we found you." Formora walked in, elegant and grave all at once. She'd changed out of her armour into more colourful and less dire garb. Her boots had been replaced with lighter shoes. Her long-sleeved tunic was a pale cream, a stark contrast to her leggings of dark oak. Her tan cloak and silver sparrow brooch were back. She wore two obsidian rings on the middle and little fingers of her right hand, which had been fitted with clear white diamonds surrounded by tiny letters in winding elven script. A necklace of gold thread hung from her neck. It looped through a silver coin stamped with a star breaking out of a ring, a blue gem in the centre. It was the Reef coin he'd given her, all the way back on Vroengard.
It suited her.
Falresídr bowed again. "My lady."
She offered him a grateful smile. "Thank you for your efforts, Falresídr son of Karléithin. I am grateful for all you have done. Your skills are exemplary - your father would be proud."
A shadow crossed the half-elf's face. "I... hope so, my lady. My lord, I wish you a swift recovery." He turned, gathered a few pots and phials from a nearby table, and summarily left. Ikharos curiously watched him go.
His eyes drifted back to Formora, and found her looking right back. Finally, she said, "You did it again."
"Did what again?"
"You walked into the monster's lair and died for it."
"But here I am."
"Ikharos, this is not a jest." Her eyes were full of something approaching anger. "We dragged your corpse onto a Skiff. Xiān was screaming. She thought you were truly gone. It's nothing short of a miracle that we managed to purge the wound in time."
"But it was-"
"Stop." She walked to the foot of the bed. Not just angry. Furious. With him. "Do you realize how close you came to your final death? We saved you with mere minutes to spare. Minutes. Not hours or days. Minutes. The curse almost destroyed your Light. You... I've never seen anything like it. Your wounds were beyond fatal. They were meant to shatter the very essence of who you are."
"I'm well aware." Ikharos looked away. The far window suddenly became oh so very interesting.
"Are you? It doesn't sound to me like you are. You were dead and the Eliksni couldn't save you. Xiān couldn't save you. I-" She trailed off. He heard a sigh. "We had to perform spells never uttered before. We had to pick at a science we had no understanding of. We put all we had together just to leech away the Dark taking root in you. Xiān told me that, even by your people's standards, your survival is nothing short of a miracle."
"If this is supposed to dissuade me in any way, I'll tell you now: I can't exactly stop."
"No. But you can allow others to help you."
Any other time, he would have argued, but, right then and there, Ikharos couldn't summon the necessary effort. He felt depleted. Not just of Light, but of hope.
Formora took notice. She sat at the end of the bed and lowered her voice. "What ails you?"
Ikharos closed his eyes. Her presence was welcome. She was understanding, vigilant, and possessing of a font of wisdom he knew he could count on. "Kelf was there. But... psekisk. She's turned. She's a Shade."
"Xiān informed me... informed us of what transpired."
"I thought it was impossible. Hezran's notes specifically said it was impossible. We're supposed to be immune. Our Light is supposed to protect us from corruption."
"Perhaps her Light was lost?"
"No. It was there. I saw it. I felt it. She had her Light. She has Light. And she's a damn Shade." Ikharos slowly forced the air from his lungs and waited for the burn. When it came half a minute later, he refilled them. "She's better than me. Stronger. Older. More magic. I destroyed her heart twice and both times she came back. I can't kill her. I can't beat her. I can't..."
Formora's hand found his shoulder and squeezed. "Hvaëtall nàta deyja. Even Nezarec. Even Kelf. We need only find a way."
He leaned into it and looked into her eyes . He had so much to say, but he didn't know how to say it. Not even the ancient language was enough. Not for anything he felt. Not for the first time he envied the Psions for their intrinsic ability to convey each and every one of their thoughts unfiltered with nothing more than a mere glance. Vocal language had never felt so lacking as it did in that moment.
Time passed. He could have sat there all day and basked in the support she offered, but he eventually had to ask, "How long have I been out?"
Her hand fell away. "Three days.
Three days. "That bad?"
"Worse."
Ikharos winced. Her tone had darkened; Formora wasn't pleased.
"I've never had cause to heal a dead body. I don't think anyone has. The spells Falresídr and I cast were... unnatural. On any other day, I would have considered it dark magic."
His fingers brushed over his most recent scar. "How did you, uh...?"
"Don't," Formora warned. "Don't make me ever do that again."
"... I'm sorry." He didn't know what else to say.
"You were dead. Truly dead."
"I'm Risen. Being dead is kind of a prerequisite. And an aftereffect. And-"
"Stop. Just... stop dying."
Ikharos kept quiet. He didn't want an argument. Not with her. "I'm sorry," he said again. He meant it too. But he couldn't stop and they both knew it.
She stood up. Formora stiffly walked over to a nearby shelf, gathered a pile of elven-weave clothes, and dropped them beside him. "Kiphoris and Sundrass left two days ago to reconvene with Tarrhis, but Nyreks has remained behind with some of his warriors. The Eliksni will be waiting for you. As will my people."
"Back to work, then."
"No." Though she wasn't smiling, her expression wasn't quite as dire as before. "Despite what befell you, we struck a victory. The Broodqueen was slain and the Hive have gone to ground. There is much yet to be done, but... we have time to do as we wish for now. And you need to recover your strength.
"Joy," he groaned.
Her hand touched his face and ghosted over his cheek. "Ikharos. I am... immeasurably relieved. Don't mistake me."
His own hand lifted, and covered it, and held it close. "I would never."
She finally smiled. He treasured it.
Formora left not long after, but it was clear she expected him to rouse himself sooner rather than later. A mirror and small basin of water had been left near the window sill. Though there was a distinct lack of modern infrastructure, the quality of life enjoyed by the elves wasn't half bad. Ikharos took advantage of it and washed himself as best he could. The scars bothered him. Aside from where Elkhon stuck him, there were the spots left by the Darkblade's axe. Each of them had been shallow rending wounds, but each was a reminder of a near-death strike either blocked with a ward or dodged outright.
Formora had been right. He shouldn't have gone alone - but there was no one else to join him. Elves were fine fighters and magicians, and Eliksni were incredible soldiers and assassins, but the Hive... Few could comfortably take on a Hive brood leader and hope to live.
He dried and dressed himself. The clothes left out for him were, again, of a material he just couldn't place. It was soft and yet it did not feel like it would tear easily. The leggings were loose and dark red, like dried blood, but the tunic was a lighter and more inviting cloud-white. A pair of supple elven boots had been laid out. The ends of them were pointed and turned ever so slightly upwards. He assumed it was the Du Weldenvarden fashion - that, or Formora was setting him up for a laugh.
The issue was that he couldn't be sure...
"Ikha Riis?" An Eliksni's head poked in through the doorway. Even without a helmet, Melkris's unusually bright eyes set him apart from his kin. A short plume of red bristles ran down the centre of his scalp. His exoskeleton was faded dark with youth, but for an Eliksni that youth could have ranged anywhere from a couple of decades to a few hundred years.
Seeing Ikharos, the shockshooter let himself in without waiting for a response. He happily closed his outer eyes. "Kirzen! You're not dead anymore!" He walked over and leaned in very close. Ikharos tried to inch away, but claws caught him and held him still. "Stop, favourite human. Let me... Ah! You are more than not-dead! You are alive!"
"Do you mind?" He was finding it difficult to be annoyed, but his ever-vigilant pride forced him to at least keep the façade going.
Melkris beamed. "Nama."
"Melkris, I swear, let go or you'll lose a hand." Ikharos lightly shoved the Eliksni back. Melkris laughed as retreated. "Damn psesiskar."
"Angry is good. Angry means your heart is beating strong."
"That's your justification?"
"Eia!"
"You're awful."
"Nama, I'm very pretty."
Ikharos shook his head out of sheer exasperation. "What do you want?"
"For you to hurry up, lazy human. There is food waiting for us! A glorious meal of fruits and nuts and... and..."
"I just want a drink."
"There will be that too. Let us go!"
"Fine, fine." Ikharos tied the final lacings on his new boots and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. "So everyone else bailed?"
"Not everyone. Other warriors remained. Nyreks is here. Beraskes and Cyrix too. They are fun."
"Friends of yours?"
"Nama. Victims."
Ikharos raised an eyebrow. No doubt it was lost on the shockshooter. "Excuse me?"
Melkris shrugged with his primary shoulders, but there was a smirk in his eyes. "Nothing. You need not be worried, Kirzen."
Ikharos grumbled. "Worrying's my lot in life. And death."
"You are too serious." Melkris reached back behind his cloak and procured a gun. It was bone-white with golden thorns sprouting out of the sides of the barrel. "I, ah, recovered this for you."
Ikharos resisted the urge to snatch the Lumina away. He forced himself to slowly, gently, take it from Melkris and hold up at eye-level. It was unblemished; as pure as the day he forged it.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Melkris shrugged again. "It is your special weapon, yes? It is very... ordinary. Very fancy, eia, but very primitive."
As if. "No." Seeing the shockshooter's questioning look, he said, "We'll talk about it later. I promise."
The shockshooter nodded impatiently. "Eia, very good. Can we go yet? Mine-stomach is too empty!"
And mine had a hole in it. Ikharos awkwardly tucked his cannon into a pocket and waved to the door. "Lead the way."
Outside his room was a corridor and doors to other rooms. Unlike most other places he'd seen in Ellesméra, the building he found himself in wasn't built like a tower. There was nothing but the ground floor, laid out like a classic lodge. It was a touch more quaint than the Rílvenar house in the capital.
Down the corridor they walked. Melkris was, as ever, a bubbling font of infectious excitement, and he babbled on and on about the elven delicacies waiting for them. Ikharos smiled along, but he personally couldn't even think about food. Not with an imaginary knife still twisting in his belly.
The corridor widened out into a fine dining room, complete with a homey hearth and a long table lined with chairs. A few plates of bountiful fruits, nuts, breads, and even a handful of small pastries had been left out. Formora saw them coming and gestured to the chairs beside her. The only others in the room were Nyreks, a Marauder with her helmet on the table before her, and Xiān. The latter flew to him and landed on his shoulder. Her weight was comforting. It anchored him in place and drew him out of his darkening thoughts.
The Marauder offered him a lazy miurlis salute. Nyreks was more formal. He stood and offered upturned palms in respectful supplication. "Velask, Kirzen."
"Vel, Nyreks-Va'ha."
Breakfast - or was it lunch? - was just as he imagined it would be. Everything boasted flavour of some kind, and everything was displayed with utter perfection. Ikharos wanted none of it. Most of it was too rich for his liking. In the end he settled for a small bowl of... something. He would have first thought it a kind of soup, but it was too clear. Herbs had been sprinkled into it and lazily floated on the surface. It might have been squeezed juice, but again something was different. He scooped out a spoonful and tentatively sipped it.
The best analogy he could think was spiced water. The flavour wasn't exactly sweet, far from sour, and it left a pleasant tingle that he could only recall sampling during visits to a certain ramen-specialized establishment. It was cool and enticing- and, ultimately, one of the few things he could possibly stomach in his current state..
"What is this?" Ikharos asked.
Formora gave the bowl a glance. "Draumr-Adurna."
"Dream water?"
"It is... calming. And beneficial to scholars mapping the strands of magic. It's freshwater prepared with a touch of Loivissa extract and crushed Lianí seeds."
Ikharos downed another spoonful. "It's good," he concluded. On a whim, he picked at the front of his shirt. "And what's this?"
"Lamaráe. Nettle-weave."
He nodded. "It's a nice fabric. Made with magic?"
"Of course."
He settled back to enjoy what he had. Once finished, Ikharos pushed the bowl aside, leaned his elbows on the table, and asked in Low Speak, "What happened?"
There was no need to specify. They knew what he meant.
Formora flinched, but she answered first nonetheless. "There... was a complication. The Er'kanii arrived with-"
"Er'kanii?" Ikharos asked.
The Marauder made a disgruntled sound. "Murderers. Flesh-Eaters. Loyal to Cabal."
Xiān's pinions twitched. "What are they like?"
"All mouth and little else," Nyreks growled. "Their only concerns are flesh and bone. Everything is a hunt to them. Everyone is food."
Formora picked up where she left off. "They arrived near our location with the body of the Ahamkara we slew in Ceunon."
Ikharos's good mood evaporated. "... Shit. Did the Hive get it?!"
"Nama," Melkris reported. "But they did try." His outer eyes blinked. "Zeshus and I slew a Knight!"
"You did?" Ikharos turned to Formora. She reluctantly nodded.
"It was unlike anything I fought before," she said. "And certainly stronger. It was determined to kill us. I'm not sure how we managed to defeat it."
He wanted to ask more on the matter, but... "What happened to the Ahamkara?"
"The Harmony took it." Formora exhaled fitfully, brow furrowed and eyes glaring at her plate. "Nezarec's people. They arrived and attacked what Hive that came to collect the body. And... I think they would have attacked us too, if the Wish-Dragon's corpse hadn't been there."
The silver warriors. "They were in the ship too," Ikharos said slowly. "They attacked the Hive leaders. I... didn't stick around to see how it went."
"If they want to kill Hive," the Marauder spat, "then I see no reason to stand in their way. Maw-Bitten monsters, all of them."
"Harmony are evil too," Melkris reminded her. "They sent their pets to attack us in Ceunon."
"I know, you deaf psesiskar. I see no issue in Hive fighting Harmony either. Let them fight. Let them kill each other." She angrily tore at a slice of bread. The display dampened the ferocity of her words. Ikharos looked down at his empty bowl, thoughts in disarray. He mentally kicked himself; he shouldn't have left the Ahamkara's body in Ceunon. He should have done something. Anything!
But the Hive didn't have it. That was a relief. Even so, the Harmony had reclaimed their pet. Ikharos wondered if they were going to try to resuscitate the damn thing.
"Just means one more Wish-Dragon to watch out for," he muttered. "No problem."
A tense silence fell over the table. The Eliksni tried to busy themselves with the meal laid out before them to distract themselves.
"It spoke to me."
Ikharos gave a start. "Who?"
"One of the Harmony." Formora's hand shook, but not with fear. It was anger - red-hot rage. A vehement hate for anything with metal skin. "It... It would have killed me too. But it didn't. Not out of mercy, but because it was called away." Her jaw tightened. "It did not consider me worth the effort. After what all their puppeteering has done, has done to me, they don't even afford me anything but the barest notice."
"Because they're fools!" Melkris crowed. "They know not how dangerous you are, Wishbreaker!"
Formora's fury gave way to a tight smile. "They've underestimated us."
With good reason, Ikharos reflected grimly. If Elkhon's at their beck and call, they've as good as won.
The Marauder stood, evidently finished. She inclined her head to all present, donned her helmet, and stalked away. Melkris watched her go and grinned too broadly for Ikharos's liking.
Nyreks caught sight of it and hissed. "What have you done?"
The shockshooter raised four empty hands in mock surrender. "What? I am innocent!"
"If Beraskes finds something to be awry with her personal effects, she will pry off your chitin with her bare claws."
"But I didn't do anything!"
A distinct feeling of amusement filtered in from Xiān's end of their neural bond. "Actually, it was me."
Ikharos withheld a groan. "What did you do?"
"I changed her helmet's operating systems to English instead of Eliksni. She's going to find it very hard to slip into stealth."
"Is that wise? What if we're attacked?"
"... You're such a fun killer."
"And you're a liability," he shot back. "Next time you and Melkris go plotting, try for something a little less dangerous. Fix this."
"Can it wait an hour at least?"
"Really?"
"Yeah. It'll be funny."
"She's a Marauder. You're playing a dangerous game."
"Like you aren't?" Xiān challenged. She regretted it almost immediately - he could feel it. "Sorry."
Ikharos shook his head ever so slightly. "No. You're right. I took too many risks."
"At least everything worked out, eh?"
She didn't sound sure of herself. He felt the same - uncertain, in every sense of the word.
Ikharos needed to know more. Three days was a long time. More than enough for their foes to make dangerous moves. More than enough for a potential opportunity to slip by their notice.
Nyreks, Beraskes the Marauder, and Melkris were not the only Eliksni in Cirrane. Another four warriors were stationed within the village, according to their Vandal commander. All for Ikharos's own safety, no less. He was going to have to remember to thank Tarrhis the next time he met with the Baron. The Scars were fast becoming indispensable. Hewas under no doubt that they'd use it to call in favours of him down the line. And he wouldn't even begrudge them for it. Not after all the good they had done.
When breakfast - or lunch, but who cares? - was cleared away, Ikharos took advantage of Formora's wordless invitation to join her for a stroll outside. It wasn't just the questions that propelled him on; it was the desire to see Cirrane and... perhaps even just to be in her company for a while longer. The last reason was cause for a bout of inner turmoil. Old pains and new desires clashed with fire. The latter won out, but the former had left its mark. He knew to be wary - he'd been burned twice and had no intention of braving those flames again.
The outside world was testament to the different environments encompassing Du Weldenvarden. While Cirrane was certainly hidden within the massive sea of woodland, the old trees were farther apart from one another than they had been in Ellesméra, sparser. One could see the clouds or stars above with little issue while still taking advantage of the natural cover provided by the ancient forestry. The village itself was beautiful in a way Ellesméra never was. It didn't try to imagine itself as part of the forest. Instead, it married the idea of wilderness and settlement together far more seamlessly. The buildings were created in the same manner as those found in the capital, but they were more recognizable as buildings - not wacky, overly-decorated treehouses.
For example: the house he'd only just left turned out to be a sizable lodge situated on a small rise overlooking the village. The roof was smooth and met in the centre to find a spine for itself, and it was covered in a layer of vibrant green leaves that would no doubt keep elements at bay. The entire building had a vague L-shape, with one segment being the main hall and the rest being the living quarters. The rise it stood upon must have been an ancient plateau of weathered rock, and most of it had been shorn away millenia past to leave the foundations for the Láerdhon household. It was covered in dark earth and overgrown with wild bushes, grasses, and flowers, but parts of the grey stone peeked through in odd spots. The steps leading from the main doors of the lodge down the rise and into the village were carved from that very stone with expert precision.
High-pitched laughter stole his focus. Ikharos caught sight of three elven children giggling around one of the Eliksni warriors. The Scar was making motions with his hands and strange noises with his mandibles, evidently as taken with his audience as they were with him.
He smiled - couldn't help it. There was something endearing about the scene playing out before them.
"Again!" One of the sharp-eared children laughed.
The Vandal flared his mandibles in a mock growl and raise his upper arms menacingly. The children, each of whom looked no more than ten at most, let out little screams and cowered - or tried to, in any case. A contagious fit of ceaseless chortling had taken hold of them. The oldest of them raised a stick as if it were a sword and stood in front of the others as if she were a valiant hero arriving just in time to save the day. She whacked the Vandal right in the chest.
The stick broke. The other children went quiet, suddenly worried. And the Vandal doubled over, shaking with laughter. He dropped a hand on the little elf's shoulder and announced, "You are the bravest warrior I have ever met."
His alien words fell on deaf ears, but the gesture was more than enough. The child smiled widely. Her friends congratulated her on "defeating the monster."
Formora's hand brushed his own. They descended from the rise. The warrior and children looked over. The latter were clueless and curious, but the former gave an elaborate bow. "Kirzen."
"Vel," Ikharos greeted in passing. Formora offered her own smiles to the children, and then they moved on. The laughter resumed mere moments later, sparked by the warrior's continued antics.
"The Scars have implemented themselves well," Formora observed. "Did I not say my people would adore them?"
"You did. I didn't disagree."
"But you didn't believe anything as tame as this could come to be."
"... No. Not this soon. I'm glad to be wrong."
The other properties and estates that made up Cirrane followed the lodge's example. There were defined paths and roads wending between them, even if they were little better than trails of beaten earth. It looked like a true living and breathing settlement. In comparison, Ellesméra had only seemed an overly vain attempt at recreating mythic Elysium.
"This place is a sanctuary from the vices of perfection," he murmured. "A place to persist in everlasting contentedness."
"Are you content?"
Ikharos mulled it over. "No. But if the troubles of the outer world ceased to be, perhaps I could be. I've never managed to find true peace before. I think I'd like to try it. But I am not a peaceful man. I'm finding difficulty in imagining myself without a war."
Formora did... something. There was a subtle change in how she held herself and how she looked at him, but he couldn't put his finger on it. "True. But I think you don't understand yourself quite as well as you think you do."
"Oh, I don't dispute that."
"You fight for peace and safety."
"I know. I'm a hypocrite."
"A hypocrite with noble ideals."
"Noble to you. Noble to I. But not noble to all. There are those who would dispute my ideals and name them falsehoods. They might even be right."
"And there are those who herald you as a speaker of the truth."
"I don't like that. I want that, but I don't like that. I teach. I don't lead."
"They are one in the same."
"No. To teach is to offer an example. To lead is to assign one's self and aspirations as higher and nobler than those around them. I cannot lead. I am not ambitious. I have never been ambitious. I have never grasped power for control or prestige. Only out of desperation have I acted ambitiously. And desperation is animal instinct, involuntary. Beyond my ability to control."
"Oh, but you do have ambitions. You yearn after a brighter future and act to make it reality," Formora reasoned. "That is not teaching. That is leadership. An offered leadership, not seized."
"Think so?" Ikharos shrugged. "Sure, sometimes. But I am a man of the present. Always have been, always will be. It's my fatal flaw. Anything beyond that is just my imagination running wild." He took in the scents of wilderness. The air was fresh and full of the smell of pine. "I could have been king, you know."
Fomora was left utterly baffled. Her troubled frown said it all. "Of... your city? Of Salsburg?"
"Of the Dark." Ikharos stopped, knelt, and picked a vibrant blue flower. He offered it to her. "I didn't know it at the time... but I also think I did. It was a subconscious decision. At my very core I decided: no. I won't take His place. I knew Him, and what He was like. Oh by the Traveler, did I know Him. I read His tomes. I learned His craft. I was there when His son died. I watched His daughters scream their last. He should have hated me. He did, actually. But there was love too - as one loves a fulfilling rivalry. I slew Him. I left His petrified corpse to orbit a dead world, depleted of all soul. I took His heart and caged it inside a weapon I left to gather dust. And, after all that, I swore to forget. I swore to never fall. When the Devils rose once again, and the call to crush them was sounded, I did nothing. I tried to live an monotonous life and fool myself into thinking what I did was right. All because I knew Him and I hated the idea of becoming Him."
He sighed. "I despaired. I thought I was wrong. I hated Him. I mourned Him. I mourned Him because I was, and am, flawed. I mourned Him because He filled that throne and without Him I was the next in line. A throne sat empty, and if I couldn't take it, someone else would. But I still couldn't take it. Because I have no ambition."
Formora stared at him. He looked away. Ikharos regretted even bringing it up, but now that it was out he just couldn't stop.
"Someone took the throne. They replaced Him. She replaced him. All our efforts... wasted. Our victory was undone. But I didn't care. Ambition is a trap, because power is a cell. The more you grow, the more constricting it becomes. I fear ambition. That is why I am not ambitious. Because I am craven. I believe in the childish fantasy of flying free. I cannot lead because I have no chains to bind me. I am not ambitious, and I don't know whether to be glad for it or ashamed."
She took the flower and held it over her heart. "You speak of gods, but here the gods don't matter."
"Who are you to say that?"
"A mortal." She tucked the flower behind one ear. "I am greater than any god. You are greater than any god. We are all greater than gods. If the Hive's faith is ascension, then it is a lie. They are cutting away all their greatness because another god deceived them."
"There is truth in their words." Ikharos hated himself for saying it.
"I refuse to believe it."
"I did too, for a time. But someone - not a friend - told me a story to prove it. Here, imagine three nations with three great queens. One fosters a law-abiding community. Another builds a tower for her people to touch the stars. And the last conquers the world. Which queen is greatest?"
"The just queen. The kind queen. But not the ambitious queen."
"Are you saying ambition is bad? It's a cage, but not all cages are evil. Freedom is just as culpable, if not moreso."
"Ambition unmonitored is terrible. All things must be kept in moderation. Desire in all its forms are just one of many treacherous paths we tread."
"Then you'll like this; in some nations, those three queens sit down and work together. Their new nation is lawful, it pierces the heavens, and it is ringed in spears."
"Did your not-friend say that?"
"He did. But I got the feeling he didn't approve. He called those nations crowned in spears oddities. Rare and short-lived, ruled by the small-minded."
"Better to live short and meaningful lives than to languish in purposelessness for all eternity."
"There is no purposelessness for those who cling to high ambitions. There is no purposelessness in the Hive or the Harmony. There is one singular purpose for them, and that is survival to the very end. And their survival means the rise of their imagined Final Shape."
"What is your purpose?" Formora's eyes pierced right through him.
Ikharos hesitated. "A nation boasting spears," he admitted. "But that is my example. Not my right. I can't change that even if I wanted to. I cannot lead others to it. I don't have the ambition to do so."
"You fight for it."
"I do. I adopt the enemy's truth to make my lie all the more real."
"Therein is your ambition. To make a supposed lie reality. It is example and right."
"Am I wrong to do so?" He whispered conspiratorially.
Formora gently laid a hand over his beating heart. "No one is wrong. No one is true. You already know this. There are many truths. We've merely picked one to champion. To us, the other truths are wrong. To believers of other truths, we are wrong. We are the liars. But you are not wrong."
He straightened. "That's what I want to believe."
"Then believe it. I certainly won't stop you."
"Why?"
"Because I believe in the same thing. That their 'Sword Logic' is a mistake."
"Where's your evidence?"
"Your survival. The Broodqueen's death. She followed her truth, you followed yours. Who lived? Who died?"
"We both did."
"You've come back."
"And her Echo might still be kicking, if the Harmony haven't snagged it. She's depleted, I'm weakened. We've reached a stalemate."
"No. You won. Your death came to be because of someone else."
"Who follows the same truth as the Broodqueen. The Dark is the Dark, and both Shades and Hive owe allegiance to the same theology. Elkhon might kill a Hive, or a Hive might kill Elkhon, but to both of them that is right and proper and they would both accept it."
"You wouldn't. If you were slated to die you would fight it."
"So would Elkhon."
"For a different reason. She would end thinking it an unavoidable fate. But you would consider your death unfair. You would rage."
"'Rage, rage against the dying of the light.' Aye, maybe. But in the end we're still both dead and forgotten."
Formora tilted her head. "You know what you believe. Do you consider what you believe to be right?"
"I think so."
"As do I."
"Well, that settles it." Ikharos smiled uncertainly. "You should have been there to debate with Oryx into stepping down. It would have saved everyone a lot of trouble."
"I suppose you did, in a way."
"Now now, that's how they think. Don't be switching sides on me."
The corners of Formora's lips twitched. "Why ask these questions? Why field these challenges?"
"I... Do you remember, some time ago, when I told you that I don't expect to see the future I dream of? My fantasies have always been out of reach. And I... I fear I am finally becoming disillusioned with all of it." Ikharos barked a short, bitter laugh. "How ironic, eh? I, slayer of Oryx, have become little more than a bitter old man."
Formora furrowed her brow and offered him a critical look. She didn't approve. "But why now? Surely you've asked these questions before."
He knew the answer to that. It had stuck a knife in his belly. "Elkhon is... I don't know. I've never seen anything like her. She's an unholy cross of Light and Dark. She's better than me, and I don't mean just physically. Not even magically. I mean... she has two logics to fall back on. Two. In terms of sheer power she outclasses me in every way."
"No." Formora shook her head. "Not every way. I refuse to believe it. Your drive is greater than hers - and I don't need to meet her to know that. There is no one with such drive as you. Your determination has laid waste to gods. It has bound peoples of distant stars together as allies and friends."
"The alliance was your idea."
She smiled. "I made the initial push, yes, but we both contributed. Cooperation: is that not the framework of a nation ringed in spears?"
"What are you saying?"
"That our truths and beliefs have borne fruit. It works."
"Elkhon has that too."
"Does she? From what I can tell, she is nothing more than a creature of sheer violence."
"So am I."
"... No. You aren't." Formora walked on. He went with her. "You are accustomed to violence, that I won't disagree, but I am too. But we do not fight for the fight itself; we fight so that others may enjoy peace. So that, maybe, we can enjoy peace."
"A peace I'm losing faith in."
"I don't believe you are."
"Why's that?"
"Because you're enjoying peace now."
Ikharos couldn't summon the words to vocalize his denial, because, with a start, he realized he was enjoying himself. "Not disillusioned enough," he mused.
They reached a building different to all the others. It looked like the elven version of a chapel. It was made the same way as all the others; sung from trees and foliage into a splendid form.
"The Library of Manin-Kvaedhír," Formora murmured. "This was my mother's focus for almost all her life. Now it is my duty to uphold."
"I do love libraries, but..." Ikharos turned to her. "Is there an ulterior purpose to this?"
"Does there need to be?"
"No. But there is one, isn't there?"
The edges of her lips threatened to flash another smile. "My mother was a scholar. My father was a caretaker to the surrounding groves. I am neither. I cannot care for a forest. I cannot manage our ancestral archives. Not as I am. I am Formora the Warrior, not Formora the Librarian. I am ill-suited to this task."
She wasn't wrong. In appearance alone, her profession was more than obvious. Formora had a slender physique like all elves, but where most retained an effortless strength, she went a little ways further. Her shoulders were broad for what she was and her arms were wrapped with compact muscle and sinew. She had a lithe, wiry frame that painted her as more a fighter than anything else. There was a hard edge in her gaze that no other Fair Folk possessed - not Oromis, not Arya, not a single other elf.
Only Enduriel, for what short time Ikharos knew him, could have boasted the same.
"If... we make it past every calamity," she said slowly, "then maybe I could embrace a new vocation, but... it is open to you as well."
She was offering him a library. A library.
Ikharos grinned. "I do love books." His giddiness fell as the rest of his mind caught up. "But I'm in the same boat. I have no time for it now, and there's no telling what happens later."
Formora didn't seem to much mind. "We'll see what the future brings, in that case." And she opened the front door.
The inside was as elegantly shaped as the out, but all the more glorious for the bookshelves within. Ikharos breathed in the achingly familiar smell of dry paper and strode inside.
There was a desk piled with scrolls nearby. An elven woman had been sorting them, only to look up as they entered. She offered Ikharos an uncertain, confused smile, but when she looked past him her expression lost all warmth. She inclined her head stiffly and touched her lips. "Lady Láerdhon. Atra esterní ono thelduin."
"Atheirí," Formora greeted reservedly. She mirrored the motion. "Mor'ranr lifa unin hjarta onr."
No love lost there, Ikharos thought
"Is there anything I may help you with?" Atheirí asked.
"We're just here to peruse. I apologize if we have disturbed your work."
"These archives are yours, my lady." Atheirí bowed her head again. Her posture was respectful, but there was a touch of hostility and coldness apparent even to him.
Evidently, that was enough. Formora abandoned the entire conversation and delved deeper into the library. Atheirí watched her disappear into the maze of bookshelves, then turned to Ikharos with a puzzled expression.
"Did you arrive with the Eliksni?" She asked.
Ikharos nodded. He was still fixated on the thinly-veiled confrontation. "I did. Not conscious at the time, though." Atheirí continued to look puzzled right up until the moment he added, "I was the dead guy." Puzzlement turned to disbelief, then morphed into something not quite unlike horror. Ikharos moved on and followed Formora into the literary paradise. A smug, self-satisfied smile found its way onto his face.
He browsed the shelves, hoping to find something both in a language he knew and of a topic he had an interest in. There were plenty of tomes and scrolls that filled one quota or the other, but finding both at once was rare. It took him a five-minute search to locate something satisfactory, but once he did he set to work immediately.
The book, Deed of Gëda by Veöhr of Kirtan, was a simplistic fictional story written in both English and elven runes. It was so very cliché as a heroic tale, but after the first three chapters Ikharos began to pick up on the message Veöhr was trying to impart. A noble elven lad had grown irrationally and terribly homesick, and swore to return to his ancestral country of Alalëa across the West Sea and reconnect with his mother's people. To build a ship and gather a crew, the elf performed nine great deeds to earn the favour of his queen so that she would allow him to construct an elven dhow and leave Alagaësia forevermore.
The elf, Gëda, did all that and more. He followed the teachings of an ancient dragon, he dueled the Urgal Chieftain Zushkran, he orchestrated the first trade negotiations between elves and dwarves, and he finally built his silver ship. Alas, Gëda found that he had changed his mind and now considered Alagaësia home, but he was yet a slave to the oath he uttered in the ancient language not ten years before. Tearfully, Gëda bade farewell to all he had grown to love over his decade-long endeavour and sailed away, never to be seen again.
The last line read: "Ever lost was he, Gëda of Tulóthr, to memories of grey."
The ending was both unsatisfying and fulfilling at the same time. As a story it was a only an all-too-short gentle tragedy. Nothing like Shaxx's favoured tales, written by some ancient pre-Golden Age poet with an wholly too dark imagination, but the real beauty lay in how tenderly Veöhr pressed forth the dangers of overly rash oaths made with magic. For a society fluent in the ancient language, it was likely a necessary lesson to learn - and quickly at that.
Formora reappeared. She held three books, all piled up in order of size. Ikharos returned the Deed of Gëda to its old spot and asked, "What are these?"
She handed him the first. "This is Convocations, a book of philosophy written by the revered scholar Nuala. Her studies mainly pertained to magic theory and the movements of energy. I thought that you might find it intriguing, given your prowess with magic. And this," she passed over the second, "is Súndavar. Shadows. It's... about Shades. All we know of them. It describes their natures, their tendencies, their weaknesses, and their vices. Much of it is hypothetical, but we still may learn how to-"
"Thank you," Ikharos said quietly.
Formora graced him a fleeting smile. "You're very welcome."
He looked the book over. The cover was black leather and the pages were yellow with age. A silver rune rested on the front cover. It curled like a wicked hook, with a tail that tapered off into nothing. Ikharos nodded gratefully. If there were any potential weaknesses, then they were worth exploiting. "What about true names?"
She looked up sharply. Formora's expression became guarded. "Who's true name?"
"Elkhon. Or all Shades, preferably. Are they really called shadows in the ancient language?"
"Not truly. As a whole, they are Súndavrkyn. Shadow-kin. But that is only the true name of their kind, not any individual. I am of the Älfakyn and you... you are Dauthné. Those words hold little sway over us, just as Súndavrkyn does over Shades."
It was disappointing, but he'd already doubted defeating his foes would ever be so simple. Ikharos opened up a random page... and made a face. "I can't read this."
Formora took it from him. "Ah. Liduen Kvaedhí. The Poetic Script. I hadn't... The fault is mine. I'll transcribe it myself."
"Is it difficult to learn?"
She gave him a thoughtful look. "You are fair with languages." Formora reverted her attention to the book and began skimming through it. "I could teach you."
"That would be excellent. I appreciate it."
She hummed to signify that she had heard. Ikharos looked at her. Not for any other purpose than just to see her. She was fierce. There was a strength in her beyond the limitations of her body. A strength of will. She was effortlessly beautiful. All elves were, but she was special - though that could have been a biased opinion on his part.
Her lips were thin, but he could always pick out the soft smile just waiting for a moment to shine. They were pressed together thoughtfully at that very moment. Her eyes were a powerful and bright emerald green, with dark slanting eyebrows above. Her skin was tan and sun-kissed, which admittedly wasn't unusual among her people. Her lashes and brow were deep black, and her hair was the colour of smoke. She wore it swept back from her brow to reveal a widow's peak, and it tumbled just over her shoulders. Her pointed ears cut through the strands and proudly shouted to the world: I am an elf.
Ikharos held her dear. He'd already accepted that. Dearer than almost all others on Kepler - or even the universe at large. He treasured their talks and their friendship. His respect for her was beyond what he held for most. She was a good person. Great. And close to him and his heart. She was different to him, and vastly so, but he knew what it was like to love something different. And love perfectly encapsulated what he felt.
As if she could feel his gaze, Formora looked up and raised an eyebrow as if to say: yes?
He grasped for something, anything, and settled for: "Why are your ears pointed? What purpose does it serve? Increased sensitivity?"
She frowned suspiciously. "Are you asking or is Xiān?"
Ikharos shook his head. He mentally kicked himself. "No. She's off plotting with Melkris." A hint of mischief prodded him to add, "Should I tell them?"
Formora pursed her lips distastefully. "She will not touch my ears. Neither will Melkris."
"Is that crossing a cultural line?"
"No. I just don't trust either of them."
"So I'm taking that as a 'quite sensitive.'"
"Don't tell them."
Ikharos chuckled. "I won't. What a state we're in, that we don't trust our comrades."
"Not those two." Formora closed the book and added it to the pile. Ikharos glanced to the third one.
"What's that?"
"This?" She held it up and gave it a pensive look. "The Lay of Vestarí the Mariner. It's a well-known poem among my people. The Äthalvard consider it the epitome of Old Alalëan literature. I haven't read it in some time; I thought to do so with what time we have left here."
"And how much time is that?"
"A day. I don't think the Eliksni will mind if you take this time to recover."
"Who decided this?"
"Me." Formora looked back to him. "I had set it aside to convince you what an asinine scheme it was for you to fight the Broodqueen alone. I... didn't expect you to be so agreeable."
Ikharos averted his eyes, suddenly self-conscious. "You made some good points," he mumbled.
"I know. You should listen to me more often."
"Maybe."
Formora rolled her eyes. "If you're done, we might as well quit this place. I doubt Atheirí will appreciate us staying here to all hours."
He didn't dispute it. Elven feuds were something Ikharos wanted to stay well away from. They gathered their tomes and walked out without so much as a glance at the elven librarian. He swore he could feel the librarian's glare burning a hole in his back.
Great. Now he was guilty by association.
Evening had begun to fall by the time they ducked out of the library. The horizon was cast in a bright orange light, leaving the opposite side of the sky as an ugly bruise purple. The cawing of crows filled the air and their dark forms flitted across the sky. Ikharos tensed. He knew there was no way - not a single one - that a Reef drone could have crawled its way across the cosmos to find him, but the deep-rooted wariness towards all dark-feathered avians was hard to ignore.
"Carrion birds," he decided.
"Field birds," Formora corrected. "Osilon is to the north. It's the agricultural centre of Du Weldenvarden. The birds come seeking what grain and seeds will be left out for them, in exchange for leaving what is to be planted alone."
It was a far less grim reality than the one he'd envisioned. Ikharos accepted it without a hitch. But, as they made their way back to the lodge, he pressed another question. "What's Atheirí's problem with you?"
Formora went rigid. She looked around to ensure no one was listening in, and when she spoke it was barely a whisper. "I knew these people. Few in Ellesméra ever met me before, but here... I knew them. I know them. And they know me. Their... forgiveness is slow to come. If it ever will."
Ikharos thought it over. It must have been tough. Tougher if she was expected to be these people's liege. Ikharos, not quite sure if he was doing the right thing, put an arm around her shoulders. Formora sighed in a relieved manner and leaned into him. His heart raced. He was sure she could feel it... and he didn't care.
They strolled back to the lodge at a leisurely pace. He cherished every moment of it.
000
"I say to thee, o repurposed chanters,
From whence have you come?
There is a chill in the air, a bite in the wind,
I know this sensation.
I call it Truth."
"Hark, brother, they come from the north!
They wield power, and all power is north!
They bring us a welcoming warning and mask it in worship!"
"No, imaginative Cheirrlok, brother of endless thought,
This is worship masked as a welcoming warning,
And they do not know it!"
"Ah, they are honest beyond their own understanding!
A sharp eye you are, o beloved Kirrnaka-Hul,
Icon of Honesty!"
"We must all be sharp!"
"We must all be hungering!
Hear how Maalcoth roars!
Hear how-
Sister!"
"O wise Tir Argok, Waker of Honesty,
Where is your flesh?"
"GONE! GONE! GONE!
Claimed by soaring birds of Sky!
They dive and strike, strike and dive,
With rending beaks they tear at our truth and scrabble for morsels!"
"O dear sister, you are broken!"
"I am sharpened!
My flesh was a vessel!
The Logic has torn it from me,
(Which Logic? - One Logic!)
And left me as my true self!"
"She speaks of honesty, Cheirrlok.
We know our sister. She-Of-Many-Lies.
She has never lied to us her brothers."
"She hasn't.
Our birth was made in honesty.
Mother and Father wished for strong children.
We are strong. Honesty is our sword. Honesty is our foundations.
Honesty is our God."
"Honesty is war, conquest, and schemes reunified,
Our honesty is our blades, ambitions, and lies,
And our lies are knives in throats.
Ir Eirim wields a knife.
She will cut away the very Sky."
"Look! The silver one flees.
He fears my truth. He fears my Honesty."
"His Logic fails him. He fails his Logic.
Catch him!"
("Air'ganí onr, Grathrblädrn.
Ono eru rangur.
Vaet galasönar threyja du samr endir, mar nosu eru raehta.
Aí sverd er né galasön. Thar er né nuan unin onr.")
"I cannot. He falls upon his own spear.
He is a thief of himself.
He steals the death I am owed.
Silence o Worm, epicurean of my soul!
There is no feeding here, only unsafe treachery!"
"Did you hear him Sing? There was a sway in his words.
It pleases me to think of it sharpened to a point."
"Build upon it, Cheirrlok. And build it strong."
"As ever, o brother Kirrnaka-Hul, I shall.
By hand and eye I now construct a sword of stolen words."
AN: Here's the chapter to which Dominion was tied.
Thanks to Nomad Blue for editing! If you're at all interested in the Ben 10 verse, I recommend his fic Hero Storm.