Chapter 67: Sever
Formora's blood ran cold. She couldn't think. Could scarcely breathe as it was. "What?"
Däthedr looked at her, frightened and... angry. But not with her. "Osilon has been set alight."
"How?"
"An attack, it is said."
The Empire? No, they couldn't move their army that fast unnoticed, but then... Galbatorix? It was bold, even for him; Formora didn't believe it. Then who would-
"Exos." Formora's mouth was dry. This... wasn't supposed to happen. They were hidden. Her people were hidden! How then, could... but they always had that ability, didn't they? With those mechanical mites and heatscanners and magic. "Why?"
"We don't know."
"How many survived?"
Däthedr winced. "We do not know," he repeated, more quietly. "Word has only just reached us. You know as much as I do now. There-" He paused, looking away. "Islanzadí has called for council. I am summoned. Please, join us."
Formora said nothing. She almost couldn't believe it. Something close to outrage blossomed in her heart, ran through her mind, flushed down to her limbs. Anger roared. It was a sickness, a quick-spreading wildfire burning through her psyche. And it was infectious, if the resolute expression Däthedr wore was anything to judge.
"This will not go unpunished," Formora promised, with more heat than she intended.
Däthedr gravely nodded. "No. It will not."
The council their queen had called was not one of war, but of emergency. Islanzadí saw Formora enter the hall and frowned, but it was short-lived. There were more pressing matters to attend to, and once all the nobles and notables were settled, those same matters were broached.
"Osilon has been attacked," Lord Calliós of Sílthrim uttered with deepfelt misery.
The ensuing silence was near deafening. For some, it was the first they had heard of it. For others, it was a painful reminder of an injury only so recently sustained. Formora simmered with the familiar desire for vengeance. It radiated out from her core, rippling to every part of her; she felt a fierce want for the destruction of those who'd raised a hand against her people in violence.
"By whom?" Lady Violmedr asked, horrified. "The Broddring Empire? Urgals?"
"Nay," Calliós said, his grief turning into puzzlement. "Neither, though... it is reported that a Kull was present. As a Shade."
A Kull Shade. Formora's anger gave way to confusion, and then trepidation. A Kull Shade. As terrible as an elven Shade in concept - though in reality neither had ever manifested before, if only for worldly luck and stiff bans on practicing spirit-craft in both cultures. The very thought of it unnerved her. Not as terrible in scope as the Shade Risen Elkhon, perhaps, but near enough where non-Risen were concerned.
"Does Osilon stand?"
"In part. Fires were cast over the western edge and spread quickly."
Formora snuck a glance at Islanzadí, seated at the head of the table. Their queen looked stunned, surprised to have been caught in such a scenario. Something she could sympathize with, of course, but not ultimately side with. It could have been her own nature, the warrior in her, speaking out, but that was how it was.
They needed to act. First, though, they needed to ascertain what had happened in truth, then act accordingly.
"Have any perished?" Däthedr urgently pressed.
Callíos nodded grimly. "My nephew tells me the local fyrnvard were scattered the moment they gathered to strike against the arsonists. Their foes walked as statues of living metal, some in the shape of men and women. Two were as giants, bearing spears as tall as watchtowers. They spat death everywhere they walked. Many of our people fled before them, but those who resisted... fell."
"Harmony," Formora realized aloud. "You speak of Harmony and their servants."
All those gathered looked to her. "You know these creatures?" Lord Callíos asked, features pale with fright.
Formora presented him with a grim nod. "I do. They are the Grey Folk." She turned to look at Islanzadí. "The very things I warned you about."
There was a muted gasp from beside the queen's throne. Arya trembled, eyes wide. "He told me as much," she quietly admitted. "He told me that Du Weldenvarden would burn if we did not act. He said it. And now..."
"Now our cities catch fire," Formora finished with a grimace.
"Ikharos." Islanzadí stood up, gaze cutting. She bristled at the mention of the name. "His attempts to breed war anew into our lands invited them."
"You can't-"
"Formora Láerdhon," their queen all too briskly interrupted. "You informed me, as well as Lady Violmedr, Lord Däthedr, and Lord Bellaen that Ikharos slew three Harmony west of our lands."
Formora straightened. "Yes, in the Spine."
"You and Narí accompanied him. Your presence must have-"
"Everything we fought, we killed." Formora stepped forth, out of the sidelines and into broad view. "Exos and Harmony both; we put all who tried to kill us to the sword."
"And now," Islanzadí bit out, "these Grey Folk put our people to the sword. This is a bloodfeud - and not one we wanted."
"No. This is desperation." Formora looked around, at the faces of all the great families and houses of Du Weldenvarden. "The Hive march against the Harmony. Both feed on death, so both seek to gather power through slaughter. We are strong, in magic and body and mind. To them - a perfect cattle to cull. That is why they attack; not out of hatred for us, they could not be bothered. No. They attacked Osilon," she returned to meeting Islanzadí's stare, "because they hunger. And we have always played along, docile and content to rest upon a platter of their making."
"We are a meal?!" Callíos rose up, slighted by the mere concept.
Formora turned to face him. "We are the first course. Alagaësia is their banquet." She paused, mouth set in a thin line. "The Eliksni buck against this reality. We must as well. Neither Hive nor Harmony deserve anything from us, not even our indifference. Malice is all they should receive."
"Osilon burns," Laufin, Lord of House Eredos and the city of Kirtan, snapped, "and you want to retaliate against a foe we know nothing of, least of all where they reside."
"North," Formora quickly replied. "They live north, in the fortress of Albazad. We need only follow the Hive, for they have already caught the scent of the Harmony's Darkness."
"Darkness?" Violmedr questioned none-too-gently. "The magic Ikharos spoke of, yes? The one he chases after - like humans with their witch hunts, persecuting unlearned mages."
"It is more than that." Formora hesitated. "It is... a philosophy."
"Of what?"
"Murder. On a scale I dread to imagine."
"We are not children," Laufin said irritably. "My stomach will not turn."
"Worlds," Formora blurted. "Entire worlds, broken and scoured of life. That is the philosophy the Hive follow. That is the philosophy the Harmony seek to emulate. That is why we must strike against them, and quickly - before they amass any more power than they already have."
From the looks of some in the room, her words had not reached as widely as she hoped. She was no suave negotiator, but still...
Formora scowled. "I am going to fight," she vowed. "I am going to dedicate my sword to stopping these monsters and tyrants before they burn the rest of our cities. I ask that you consider what I have said, consider what news we have received from Osilon and the wider world, and that you help me shake off the noose around our peoples' necks. Please. Ëfa vae ach néiat faedhír, vae weohnata hàvr né heim eithaí."
She turned and left, almost trembling with anger - not at her people, but at the Harmony. It wasn't enough that their puppets had captured her, enslaved her, hurt her, tormented her, even having taken her own dragon from her, but now they sought to take her home as well? It was too much. Formora couldn't stand by; she could hardly stand still she was so angry.
And that anger, she knew, was going to propel her back into the arms of war.
000
The battle was over - or at least his part in it was. Ikharos retreated into an abandoned house (just to get out of the one he'd fought Elkhon to a standstill in) and sat down on the dusty wooden floor, mind awhirl with terrifying possibilities. Javek briefly stayed with him, then left under strict orders to find Melkris and Beraskes along with the humans they'd smuggled out of the city. It left him alone with his thoughts - Xiān notwithstanding, who had been inconspicuously quiet since the fight with Elkhon.
It didn't matter. She helped all the same, silent or no, and provided him with everything he asked. Beyond that, Ikharos didn't care, not for the moment. He wasn't in the mood to bicker or banter. Not while he was studying the... thing inside his ribcage. His fingers prodded the intact skin over the knot of something, unbroken and unmarred. Elkhon's grasp hadn't left a lasting mark. Resurrection wiped away all the physical momentos of the undertaking, though the psychological marks were harder to forget.
"Paracausal," Ikharos numbly reported. "Give me the spectral analyzer."
Xiān dropped it. He caught it, pressed it against his chest, and stared at the report - a big fat POSITIVE. "That's..." Ikharos adjusted the scanner's properties, looking for details. He asked if it was his Light, hopeful and desperate.
It said NEGATIVE.
Ikharos looked up. "Scan me."
Xiān scanned. Then, in a hollow voice, she said, "I'm getting a low-density sterile neutrino count."
"No."
"Ikharos-"
"How?"
"I... I don't know."
"It can't be. Is it really-?" He pressed the spectral analyzer against his skin, adjusted it again for a different question, and scanned the lump of essence inside him.
It said POSITIVE.
Ikharos dropped the tool, curled his shaking arms around his head and howled with horror. The sound got lost amidst the roaring of angry Skiffs overhead and keening of grieving Eliksni outside. He grieved, too - but for himself. It was selfish and still he couldn't shake it, couldn't avoid it, couldn't understand it.
For a while he sat there, incapable of doing anything but despair. When he'd had his fill of that he lifted his head, looked at Xiān with wet eyes and whispered, "Say it."
She was perched on the remains of a broken chair. Had he shattered it? "It's... Dark."
"I've got it in me." Ikharos looked away. "I've got it in me, like... like Yor."
"No, this is-"
"Worse."
Xiān didn't say anything. They both knew the truth. There was a marked difference between cursed soulfire and... this.
"How long?" he asked.
"I don't know. Maybe... when you killed Him. Maybe... maybe some of it was there all along."
"Why didn't you notice?"
"I... don't know that either..."
Ikharos glanced at the scanner and found he couldn't look away. POSITIVE. POSITIVE. POSITIVE.
He had readjusted it to ask "is this Darkness?"
And it had told him POSITIVE.
His hand drifted to his knife (Javek was a star) and, slowly, he pulled it out of its sheath. Ikharos drew in a shuddering breath and brought the tip against the skin of his chest.
"Ike..." Xiān started to say, then trailed off.
He pushed it in. The pain was immediate, but the death took a while. Long enough for him to dig deep and claw at the thing inside him.
Three eyes hanging above, pale like embers of long-dead starfire. They crinkled with sad amusement - and sympathy. So much sympathy.
He returned to life. Nothing had changed. It was still there. Xiān never moved from her perch. Just silently watched as he did it all over again.
A tri-clawed hand, connected somehow to the three eyes, drifted close.
"I have made preparations."
And again.
"So I will prepare a book, which is a map to a weapon."
And again.
"And my vanquisher will read that book, seeking the weapon, and they will come to understand me, where I have been and where I was going."
And again.
"And armed thus with my past, and my future, and my present they will mantle me."
And again.
"Thus I will live forever."
And again.
"I'll make sure."
Ikharos came back whole, alive, without pain and he choked out a body-wrenching sob. He'd... lost. Actually, genuinely lost. He was defeated, at long last. They'd actually done it. Oryx and His twisted family, along with the legions of His frenzied people. They'd done exactly to him what Xyor had done to Rezzyl. Exactly what the Garden did to Rekkana and Yardarm-4. Exactly what Riven did to Uldren.
Uldren...
"He was right," Ikharos laughed and cried. "He was right. 'The line between Light and Dark is so very thin.' He saw it, even... even if not clearly. He knew, deep down. And I... I shot him for it."
Xiān's uppermost fins twitched. "You killed him because-"
"Because of Cayde, I know. I thought... I thought I was doing good."
"You were. You are."
"How many people have I killed?" Ikharos demanded. "How many?"
"Ikharos-"
"Eliksni, Cabal, and... and human. How many?"
Xiān pulled her fins over her eye. "Too many..."
"Too many. Hundred. Thousands. Tens of thousands. Dead. I killed them." Ikharos tapped his chest, a little to the right of his heart - over the core of Dark. "Here's why."
"You fought for the Light."
"The Light's not supposed to fight."
"That's not true-"
"I enjoyed it." Ikharos smiled bitterly. "Killing Uldren. It got hollow real quick, but for a few seconds I was actually happy. You know it. You felt it."
"I didn't-"
"You did."
"Please stop."
"It wasn't just him too. The others. Taniks. Alak-Hul."
"Please."
"Hiraks. Keksis."
"Ikharos, please."
"The Aphelion. Riven. Even... even Draksis."
"Stop."
"Draksis wasn't a monster. He was mean, cold, indifferent to human suffering - but he was just causal, just hungry, just angry. There was nothing Dark about him. Nothing evil. And I killed him."
"Ikharos, sto-"
"I'm Dark," Ikharos said suddenly. Xiān flinched. "I've got Dark in me. I'm-"
"No, you're not."
"I am. I've killed. Even by pre-Golden Age standards, even by those barbaric standards, I've... I've killed too much. I'm a war criminal. And... it'll only ramp up." He looked at his knife again, still in hand. "The violence - it never fucking stops. It follows me everywhere. They follow me everywhere. Hive. And... and it follows me everywhere. This... this isn't fair. I'm so tired of it. So fucking tired. So-" Ikharos dragged the knife over his heart.
The ramshackle door swung open. "-don't, he is tired."
"He is mine-friend. There you are, Kirzen! You won't believe the time I've-" Melkris and Javek saw him. They saw the knife. Ikharos looked at it and lost his grip. It clattered to the ground.
"I've got the Maw in me," he whispered numbly. He held out his hand. A spark of unnatural fire flickered. The power largely escaped him - but it was there, slithering and coiling just below his skin. Melkris walked over and crouched next to him. His eyes were bright, but the glare of stolen stars was stronger yet. It reflected across both of them. "Xiān. The weapon."
After a long pause a rifle blanketed in a tattered wrapping of Wormsilk dropped to the ground. The notched hadium bayonet glimmered in the light of his fire, but the petrified heart was worse. Bands of scars periodically lit up across the dried flesh, in the shape of Hive runes. The heart thumped, once, and fell still. The light died away. Ikharos let go of the unnatural power, dousing the black flame. His own heart hammered against the confines of his chest. The rest of him was frozen in place, rendered helpless in his terrible descent into anguish.
"She's defeated me," Ikharos hollowly announced. "Whatever Elkhon did... it's defeated me."
"You are alive, Kirzen." Melkris took his shoulder in hand and squeezed - gently, supportive, worried. "She has not defeated you."
"I can't fight anymore. Whether alive or dead is irrelevant; my ability to harm and kill was all I had to give. She's taken that."
"No matter how Maw-bitten that beast is, she cannot steal your fighting spirit. It is impossible."
"She empowered it," Ikharos whispered. "I can't fight. Not with this."
"This is the Maw..." Javek said. His eyes were downcast. Innocence was lost. Whatever respect he had for Ikharos was surely gone - for it had been built on the camaraderie of the Light, not the divisiveness of the Dark. Then, inexplicably, he raised his eyes and said, "But the Light is stronger."
Ikharos laughed bitterly. "As if."
"Be silent," Melkris barked with sudden, surprising intensity. He gently grabbed the side of Ikharos's head (and Ikharos had to bury the instinct to break the shockshooter's hand) and turned it so they were looking right at one another. "I care not for talk of the Great Machine's Light or the Whirlwind's Maw. There are more pressing matters to attend to, Kirzen. Stop dreaming and face them - like a grown eliko."
"I'm not eliko," Ikharos growled back. "I'm human."
"Eia. And there are other humans who need you to tend to them. Your kin." Melkris gestured to the door with a lower hand. "Beraskes watches and tends to those you ordered her to ferry out. They are hungry, afraid, tired, and possibly wounded. They are angry. Treat them."
"They're angry because your people killed their city."
Melkris's eyes widened. His grip weakened and disappeared entirely. "We did," he whispered. "Scars did."
Ikharos shook free and stood up, giving both of the Eliksni a hard look. Recalled images of the city outside rushed through his mind unbidden; ashes and bones, scattered all about. It was worse than a tragedy - it was genocide. The atrocity had been committed intentionally. He had been wrong. Kepler was no different. The Scars were no different.
The only thing different was him.
Was that even true?
It was then he realized Melkris had succeeded. His mind had wandered away from the horror of his body's betrayal. The very concept tugged at him once more, and would soon steal his attention altogether, but the abrupt flush of rage he felt wasn't so easy to shrug off.
"Fine," he bit out. Ikharos, without a thought, grabbed the cursed rifle and swung over his shoulder. It clipped to the magnetic locks under the surface of his tattered robes and stayed. "Who leads the Scars now? I don't care if it's temporary, give me a name. Or names."
"Skriviks holds control," Javek reported, straightening up. "He operates from the heart of the city, as you well know. Shall I call him, so he may summon the officers present?"
"Are there many?"
"Drotos, Kiphoris, Palkra and-" Javek cut himself off, curiously enough. Ikharos idly wondered what he'd been about to say - then he remembered the slaughter and found he didn't care. "Ah, just Drotos, Kiphoris and Palkra of Tarrhis's crews. I believe Velekris and Inelziks are here, though Skriviks scattered them to the edges of the city to gather the warriors and reassert order."
"What of the Ketch?"
"I... do not know, Ikha Riis."
"We'll find out soon enough." Ikharos scowled. He wielded his anger like a shield, if for nothing save temporarily staving off the shock of what truly was. "C'mon, both of you."
000
Javek marveled and despaired in equal measure. Neither could be resisted; both had been drawn to the forefront of his focus by the creature before him. Together they had run off a thing completely free of the shackles of mortality, wielding magic and blade and determination. And yet, alone Ikharos had fallen into the Maw's grasp. Because the Shade had reached inside him and put something there - some sort of spiritual parasite. Whose failure was that if not Javek's, who had remained to help the Lightbearer?
Still he followed the alien creature, blessed by a god he had never once laid eyes on. What alternatives did he have? The human had his loyalty and friendship and unspoken oath of servitude. The human had the knowledge he sought to improve himself, both as a warrior and as a mage, and the human had a vision - one pertaining to a world without war. It was all worth following. Javek was helpless to do anything but trail behind the alien Lightbearer and watch as he presented himself to those who guarded the way back to the plaza, where the dead had been dragged and gathered.
The warriors who barred the way were not of Tarrhis's loyalists, but neither were they of Krinok's mob - and they had been present during Ikharos's introduction. One performed a miurlis salute while the others stared. Some grasped at weapons.
"Hold," Javek barked with more force than he intended. The Scars rustled and paused, taken aback. "This is Kirzen, noble warrior of the Great Machine. Make way, or suffer the Machine's displeasure."
The effect was immediate; the guards cleared from their path and allowed them entry. Javek, upon seeing what awaited them in the plaza, almost wished they hadn't. He heard Drotos's voice and found the Archpriest governing the organizing of bodies and the building of a pyre. The corpses were being stacked, right over a shipment of stolen Cabal oil. Some Eliksni fought the fires raging in the wreckages of Walkers and Skiffs, keeping it from the flammable substances, and others lugged the bodies of kin towards their final farewells. The air was heavy with the smell of blood, smoke, and half-digested ether.
Javek felt sick right down to his stomach.
Monoliks Prime hovered overhead, bristling with Void and heat. Its eye was directed northwards, as if trying to peer after where the Harmony had retreated, through their mirror-like portals and on silvered wings. Below the Prime lurked Skriviks, Archon of Elder Days, and Inelziks, the Poet and Songstress. Kiphoris, the Dreamer, stood with them - shoulders slumped and eyes dimmed. The moment they caught sight of Ikharos, though, all stood tall and puffed themselves up with false-strength.
Javek caught himself in the midst of fielding more traitorous thoughts. Was he so disillusioned? Was he so spoilt with freedom and respect that he'd lost all belief in the archaic system of nobility?
"Ikha Riis," Kiphoris growled as they neared. The ferocity in his voice surprised Javek; what had-
Then he remembered.
Ikharos, unfortunately, did not - for he hadn't been informed of the battle's fleeting, panicked after-reports. "What?" He looked around. "I take it Tarrhis has been smuggled off to the medics?"
Kiphoris went still. Graceful Inelziks and withered Skriviks exchanged a nervous look. The elder shuffled forward, leaning on his staff. "Noble bearer of the Great Machine's graces... I regret to inform you that Tarrhis pak Denaar has perished."
Ikharos made a choking sound. "Wha... what?"
"He is dead," Kiphoris snarled accusingly. "Tarrhis-Mrelliks is dead."
"But-"
"Sundrass died defending him - from Harmony and Wretches."
Ikharos breathed out. There was no ether to mist in front of him, nothing to sweeten the air. There was only the faint scent of Voidsmoke. "I'm sorry."
"She died," Kiphoris continued, voice cracking with emotion, "doing her duty. She died defending our Baron - our greatest chance to heal mine-House and work together. But we do not work together, do we? You do not work together with others."
Ikharos raised his eyes, meeting the Dreamer's glare head-on. "You're upset, you're tired, you're grieving - you know this. Be careful you don't say something you'll regret."
It only egged the Captain on. Kiphoris poked a claw against Ikharos's chest. "Where were you?!"
"Doing my fucking job." Ikharos's eyes flashed. His irises turned violet. "Saving human civilians."
"You swore-"
"That I'd protect Eliksni and human in equal measure, I know. And many times too. But that all stopped when your people burned down a fucking city." Ikharos swept his arms out wide. "Look. All the honours you're bestowing on your dead, your fallen family and friends - but what about the humans who used to live here? What about the bones Javek and Melkris and I passed on our way here? What about the bodies rotting in the gutters, burned to hell and stuck full of shrapnel? People you burned. People you filled with scrap-fire."
Kiphoris snapped his mandibles against his jaw. "That was Krinok, not us; face this like a true-"
"It was you." Ikharos turned his glare on Skriviks. "Convenient - calling this duel for the Kellhood after you murdered hundreds of innocent people."
Skriviks's eyes widened. "Noble envoy, I-"
"Didn't act nearly fast enough. People are dead. Human people. Those are the people I protect - or rather, I'm meant to." Ikharos seethed. His gaze found Kiphoris again. "You swore to me the Scars were different. You made moves to convince me of it. And to my shame, I believed you. That your beloved Kelekhselen weren't like the other Great Houses; that you were good and fair and merciful."
Ikharos stepped back with a derisive scoff. "More fool me."
"Tarrhis was our chance to change it," Kiphoris shot back. "You abandoned him."
"I fought my way across the city, keeping Elkhon off your back. I died. Again and again. I killed. Again and again. If that's not helping out, I've no fucking idea what is."
"Elkhon?" Inelziks asked, confused and oddly meek.
"A Lightbearer stolen by the Maw," Melkris quickly said. Javek breathed heavily; he didn't want more arguing, but... he also did. Something was wrong with him.
"There you have it," Kiphoris snorted, still grasped by misplaced wrath. It was disconcerting to see. "Even Lightbearers are not above corruption. They are no more perfect than the rest of us - and often less."
Ikharos took a step back, eyes widening for but a moment. Then, slowly, narrowed them. "You've made your stance clear, Kiphoris-Veskirisk. Your Scars have no place for me. And this world - my world - has no place for you."
Silence. Deafening silence.
"This," Ikharos gestured to the city around them, "will not happen again. Or we're going to be playing the Hundred Year's Siege all over again. Kiphoris knows what I'm talking about."
"Nama," Skriviks said quickly. He barked an order for silence at the still-simmering Kiphoris. "Kirzen, this was the work of Krinok. With him removed-"
"Where is he?" Ikharos demanded. "If Tarrhis is dead, Krinok better be or I'm going to-"
"Harmony," Inelziks uttered, lowly. From her halting pronunciation she was clearly unused to the word - and its meaning. "They killed many, but... not all they found. They took warriors and dragged them through their wretched mirrors. Palkra-Veskirisk reports that they did so with Krinok, False-Kell."
"They took him?" Ikharos asked with a groan. "Oh, great. Wonder what horror they'll cook up next."
Kiphoris bristled. "If you had been here-"
"Quiet!" Skriviks snapped. "I feel your loss, Drakkir, but I will not humour your attempts at alienating the envoy of the Great Machine any longer."
"It's fine," Ikharos muttered, "already done - and you can thank yourself for that."
Skriviks stilled. "... Kirzen?"
"I'm done. I'm fucking done. Tarrhis sold me a fat tale and Kiph sweetened it, but this..." Ikharos looked behind him. "I can't. I'm not dealing with more fucking Devils. I've already got enough on my plate. There's Hive to kill, Harmony to stop, and..." He stepped away. "I'm fucking done."
"Done with what?" Kiphoris demanded.
"Done with you," Ikharos shot back. "Done with the Scars. I'm done. I swear, if any more civilians are hit, I will hunt your people down."
Skriviks trembled - though with rage or fear, Javek didn't know.
"I'm done," Ikharos repeated, more quietly. He turned. "I'm going to... I'm going."
"Nama!" Inelziks stepped forth and reached out, but closed her hand before she could grab the Lightbearer. "Human, please, our people are lost and-"
"Murderers. Your people are murderers." Ikharos glared at her over his shoulder. "I'm not working with that."
"What can we do?"
"Kick your house into shape, or I'll do it for you." With that, Ikharos walked away.
"Wait!" Javek called.
Ikharos paused. "I'm not going to stick around while-"
Javek, moving before he could second guess himself, undid the clasps holding his Scar cloak, folded it up, and offered it to Skriviks. The Archon blinked at him, dumbstruck. All three nobles stared at Javek, scarcely able to believe what they were seeing. Javek himself cringed and almost fell under the force of their gazes, but he couldn't - not anymore. Since no one was claiming it, he dropped his cloak on the ground and walked away himself. Claws suddenly wrapped around his arm, holding him in place.
"What are you doing?!" Melkris demanded, panicked.
Javek tried to shake him loose, but to no avail. "Making mine-choice. For the first time in our lives we have been presented with options, Melkris! It is time to make the right ones."
"You're... abandoning the Scars!"
Javek looked around, past the bodies and at the smoky settlement in which they stood. "This is not who we are," he bit out, bitter and full of regret. "Slaying those who never once lifted a claw against us? Burning children in their homes? Standing by as a monstrous False-Kell stomps on the honour of our banner, of our families and ancestors? On the future we've been struggling to build for our hatchlings? How can I abandon something when it abandoned us first?" He shook his head. "Ikha Riis is right. There is a war to fight, but not with the humans. I cannot join a house with history as dark as this. This world may be our peoples' last salvation; I will not squander it fighting amongst ourselves."
"You can't," Melkris hissed, looking between Javek and everyone else. Even Ikharos, torn up inside by the Maw's foul powers, was mutedly watching with something approaching disbelief.
"I can," Javek sternly told him. "You cannot keep me here. None can keep me here. Not while I have mine-magic. Remove your hand, Melkris, or I will be forced to cast a spell."
Slowly, gradually, Melkris's claws unwrapped from around Javek's upper right arm. Then they moved to dislodge his own cloak. Javek stepped away, falling prey to his own surprise as the shockshooter dropped his cape bearing the colours and insignia of the House of Scar onto the ash-strewn ground.
"You cannot..." Kiphoris breathed out, eyes wide with bared hurt and pain.
Melkris hesitated. "Javek is... Javek is right. You are the Dreamer, Kiphoris-Veskirisk. It was your dreams we followed without question, without any reluctance. Your dreams; but now... I follow another dream. Mine-own perhaps - or Javek's, or Kirzen's. A better dream. We have to do more than survive, mine-Captain. We... we cannot keep killing. Not like this; not people. I..." Melkris lowered his eyes and trudged away, after Ikharos. A few paces in and he stopped, just to say, "Javek is right. The Scars burned Aroughs-city. The Scars have failed us. It is no house to me - not any more. Now I fight now for Kepler and the house of the Great Machine."
Javek looked back at Inelziks, Skriviks, and Kiphoris. Their expressions - shock, shame, disbelief, even rage - almost broke his resolve, but when he looked at Ikharos - tired, haunted, assured, righteous - he knew he was making a good choice. Perhaps not the right choice - but the better one, that was clear enough.
Together, the three of them marched out of the plaza, out of the makeshift compound watched over by the Scars, and then the city itself. Melkris disappeared by the edge of the outer way, citing that he had to get 'someone'. Javek and Ikharos waited - but not for long, for soon enough Melkris returned with a companion in tow.
The companion being Raksil, Baron-heir and father-mourner.
"I'm sorry," Ikharos said first thing. "I'm... I'm so sorry."
The Baron's son trembled. "I... appreciate your concern, Kirzen, but-"
"But these are your people. You're noble-born. You have a place here."
At that Raksil barked a bitter laugh. "Mine-father had a place. Mine-brother had a place. Because of our places in this house I am the last one left. I have no family. I have no kin. I have... nothing. Nothing, Kirzen. I have nothing." Raksil sucked in a shaky breath. "Please... take me away from this."
They set out into the surrounding marshes with Melkris leading the way. Javek joined him, gaze sifting through the mists of the surrounding bogs to find- There! "Beraskes!" He called.
The four eyes he spotted cutting through the gloom lit up with elated relief. "Splicer!" Beraskes strode into view. There were another pair of Marauders with her, cloaked and veiled.
"Where's the humans?" Ikharos demanded, looking past her with a frown. Human faces were so uniquely expressive, despite the lack of outer eyes. It was oddly endearing.
Beraskes shrugged, pointed further into marsh - inland, where more of the native human empire resided. "They left. Wended their way through the waterways. They know this land - and they didn't want to stay. Not with us, Kirzen." Beraskes blinked slowly. "They are not... fond of Eliksni. Krinok made his impression; I cannot blame them."
"That's... less than ideal." Ikharos grimaced. "Hell. We need to... damn it. Fine. We need to... we need to leave. Javek? Can you order us a ride? We don't have Pikes to make the journey, so..."
"As you decree." Javek nodded and activated his communicator.
"What has happened?" He heard Beraskes ask curiously. Melkris told her - and in a blunt fashion that didn't suit him too. The gravity of what had been done coupled with the shockshooter's subdued voice hit the listening Marauders hard. They didn't say anything for a long time. They didn't need to; while one scowled and left for the city, Beraskes and the other tossed their hooded capes into the muck. It was answer enough.
"What's your name?" Ikharos softly asked the new member of their band.
"Etralenk, Ikharos-Mrelliks," the Marauder said, bowing.
"No, no no, I'm no Baron; stop it, stand straight. I'm not going to ingrain myself as a replacement Captain or adoptive Kell. Everyone understand that?" Ikharos looked around at each of them. somewhat crossly. Javek murmured his acknowledgement. He couldn't see it going any other way.
At a muttered call a Skiff swooped down to collect them, piloted by Calzan - friend and confidant, in whom Javek confided all that had occurred. Another cloak dropped to the ground, tossed out of the rear of the ship just as it took off.
Calzan settled back into the cockpit with Melkris nestled beside him and the Marauders leaning in through the bulkhead hatch. The shockshooter was in an unusually quiet state, but not so their pilot; the old eliko loudly complained to them about everything from Hive to Krinok to even the storm that had chased them into the Hadarac desert - which seemed so long ago to Javek. He remained in the hold with Raksil and Ikharos, both seated across from one another and mourning different people in mutual solitude.
"You shouldn't have done that," the Lightbearer mumbled at one point during the flight.
Javek looked up, saw that the commenthad been fielded to him, and chirped. "It had to be done. Your points struck true. I cannot stomach all that death. I thought we were better than that."
"Skriviks wasn't entirely wrong either. It was Krinok's orders that killed Aroughs." Ikharos looked up. "I'm angry - livid, really - so I could have been biased."
"Eia, perhaps, but it was those not of the Ether-Thief's employ that carried them out. Whether out of fear or duty, it does not matter - they slew unarmed, unaligned humans. Thus they are mine-people no longer."
Ikharos nodded, slowly. "Suppose so." A moment passed - and Ikharos dropped his head into his hands. "This is a mess. This is such a fucking mess. I..." The Lightbearer screamed into the surface of his palms, muffled and hoarse. Something wet trailed down from his eyes. His shoulders shook. His arms and hands slid up to wrap around his face, cutting him off from the rest of the ship.
On a Captain it would have been weakness.
On the Lightbearer Javek couldn't think of it as anything other than the promise of something honest.
Their hours-long flight ended as they arrived by the edge of Silverwood Forest. News of the battle's casualties must have run ahead of them as the Eliksni present had begun burning effigies of the fallen while casting out woven and soldered runes of lamentations. They had arrived to mourning. It twisted Javek's stomach ever tighter. His hearts had never before felt so heavy.
Nyreks - dutiful Nyreks, rendered leaderless and rudderless in the wake of their Baron's passing - met them by the descending ramp at the rear of the Skiff. The Vandal-Commander performed a stiff miurlis bow and, noticing the distinct lack of Scar cloaks present, asked, "What has happened?"
"We are forming our own House of Exile," Melkris told him with uncharacteristic softness. "Kirzen is our muse, our inspiration, our Kell-in-name - from now until the demon-god Nezarec is felled, and perhaps further yet."
"You're doing what?!" Nyreks took a step back. Then he looked past them and narrowed his outer eyes. "Raksil... you have my greatest sympathies. Your father-"
"Is dead," Raksil spat out, pained and angry. "What else is there to say? He flew to his death, leaving us behind. A foolish eliko. So foolish."
"He was your father." Nyreks reached for the Baron's heir, then thought better of it. "Deserving of respect and so much more."
"He was inspiring, true, but not so much in that his inspirations outlive him. Not for me." Raksil turned away. "Do not talk to me about him; this wound is too fresh."
Nyreks hesitantly bowed his head. "But... what is this nonsense? Exiles?" He looked back at Melkris. "If this is another of your jokes, Sharp-Eyed-"
"It's not," Ikharos cut in, voice rough. He marched down the ramp to join them. "It was more Javek's idea - and one it appears I, however unwittingly, paved the way for."
Nyreks glanced at Javeks, then bowed before the Kingkiller and stepped back. "Our camp is yours, Kirzen, as you well know."
"But?"
"But this is... dangerous."
Ikharos looked away. "More dangerous to do nothing. We're going to need-"
"Obleker-17," Javek finished. "I want mine-Servitor."
"Your Servitor?" Nyreks challenged. "Obleker serves the Scars."
"Ask him. Obleker!" Javek's howl rang across the camp. A familiar orb of dark metal and purple glow rose up above the stationed Skiffs and nailed-down tents to float over to them. "Obleker, sacred to mine-hearts, we have need of you."
Obleker-17 hummed both him and Ikharos a greeting. The Lightbearer tiredly returned it with a soft wave of nearly invisible Void.
"Obleker..." Javek held out all four hands. "We have left the banner behind us. We have left this house behind us. I understand you still owe allegiance to Monoliks Prime - but we need you, for without your blessings we will surely starve. And we cannot stay, for to stay means..." Javek swallowed. "To stay means to endorse the place of murderers under the Scar banner."
Obleker stared at him. The holy Servitor warbled a long and puzzling question Javek could scarcely catch half of.
"We are," Ikharos murmured. Then: "All of them."
The Servitor hummed again. It was an affirmative. Javek had to resist the urge to embrace the holy machine; there were too many eyes on them and he still had a reputation to uphold, be he a self-determined exile or no. The sleepless eye, ever vigilant, floated over to their side. They had a Servitor; their position was stable. A start every exile wished for.
"The Barons will not take kindly to this," Nyreks warned.
Ikharos sent him a lazy look. "I've given them warnings enough. They'll be too busy kicking themselves back into shape to care - or they'll be risking my enmity. The decision should prove a simple one."
Nyreks didn't say much else. Melkris walked past. At a whispered word from Raksil, Ikharos followed them further into the camp - though not before saying to Javek, "Get the Psion. Get Neuroc. She won't survive otherwise, and..." At that Ikharos went quiet, hesitating only a moment before moving on.
"Please remain here," Javek told Obleker. Once the Servitor offered him a hum of acknowledgement, he raced off through the semi-familiar grounds of the campsite to the holding tent where they'd kept the prisoner/hostage/emissary. He pulled back the canvas and found, to his dismay, that the Psion was nowhere to be seen. Her datapad and helmet were both inside, but of her there was no sign. Javek stepped away and asked a nearby Drekh, who quietly stirred a pot filled with foreign herbs and tiny butchered animals.
"She went to the dragon," the Drekh told him. "Nyreks allowed her, on the condition that she left her communication devices behind and brought her guards. He thinks it safe. I do not agree; a Psion with a Wish-Beast?" The Drekh blinked. "Where is your cloak, o Splicer?"
"Set aside," Javek snapped. He made to run to where he distantly recalled the Ahamkara's nest to be, then stopped himself and turned back around. "Tarrhis is dead."
"I know," the Drekh glumly said. "He was a fair Baron. We will all miss his leadership, I think. Particularly when Skriviks hands us off to the others. I... do not want to serve Eskran. I hear he beats his Dregs and Wretches at the first slight, be they intentional or no."
"You don't need to fear such a thing." Javek crouched down beside the Drekh. "Kirzen will soon bring war upon the Hive and the Harmony."
"Good! Both deserve death, and Kirzen is gifted in delivering it."
"Would you help him?"
The Drekh suspiciously looked up. "What are you implying, Splicer?"
"Freedom. Fair ether shares. Your arms."
"You would make me a Vandal?"
"Nama." Javek clutched at the Drekh's shoulder. "I would set you free. Kirzen disapproves of docking, as I do. Come with us and you need not suffer it ever again."
The Drekh blinked in sudden realization. "You are a Scar no longer."
"Nama," Javek agreed. "I am no Scar. Now I am Eliksni."
A pause stretched between them. Then... "How do I join?"
Javek found the Psion and Ahamkara to be just as he pictured them: the latter curled up on herself and exhaling smoke-rings, and the former sitting cross-legged before the dragon. Neuroc's watchful guards were a few paces away, listening in and understanding nothing. The two were speaking in Ulurant.
It was fortunate that Javek knew the alien tongue.
"A distance must be kept," Arke said, lazy and cautious at the same time. Her interest was betrayed with a narrowed eye, knife-thin.
"And so it shall," Neuroc promised. "It will be the distance of a lover's breath, sweet exhalations against bared skin."
"A daring boast."
"A necessary one."
Arke lifted her head. "I shall look forward to seeing how this pans out, o Wielder of Many Minds." Her heavy head craned about. "You seek us, o mage aspirant mine?"
Javek nodded to the guards and approached. "I do. Kirzen-"
"The End-of-Hive calls for your presence," Arke said to the Psion, her voice taking on a husky, almost lustful note. "His concerns are... noble."
"Nobility takes many shapes," Neuroc whispered back, shining eye drifting to Javek. "You speak well, Riisan."
Javek closed his outer eyes in bewildered consideration. "Mine-thanks, Brand-born, but I am not of Riis in truth."
"As I was not born on Brand." Neuroc stood with an alien grace, less beautiful than that of elves and more... military. She had no time to dance, only to operate as her station demanded. "Let us meet with your Kingkiller."
000
Ikharos looked between Raksil, the former Dreg named Ahlok (the sister of Riilix, who had died in the Aphelion caves saving his life), and the wriggling hatchling in her arms. There was a litter of adolescent war beasts by her feet, growing fast and strong.
"You can't be serious," he said.
Raksil blinked, looking as exhausted as Ikharos felt. "Mezha will die."
"The whole reason Tarrhis fought was to get this child-"
"Tarrhis is dead," Raksil snapped. He sighed. "Kirzen... mine-father is dead. His ambitions will follow him to the grave soon enough. If we do not do this, the Barons will rip this hatchling apart to catch a scent of Kellhood."
"So instead we kidnap him."
"Nama, we save him."
"You know as well as I there will be repercussions."
"Then let us dispense with them." Raksil craned his head around to stare at the Eliksni child. "Our heritage was lost to us the moment we lost our forebears. Mezha's claim to Kellship is as dust in the wind; we will claim it so, in the High Speech."
"So..."
"So we save a hatchling," Raksil continued, "who would otherwise be killed. That is what I propose. Not another grasp for regency over the Scars. I only ask that we allow this child's life to be spared."
Ikharos nodded. "Alright."
"Alright?" Raksil echoed. "You... are not going to argue it further?"
"This is going to go badly and you know it, but... I've already got enough grudges to work out with that fucking house as is, throwing another log onto the fire isn't going to make a difference. We'll take him."
"Where?" Ahlok fiercely challenged. She clutched the child protectively, torn between defensiveness and begrudging reverence. She still hadn't forgiven him. Not for the part he'd played in Riilix's end.
"Ellesméra first," Ikharos murmured. He looked at the child, all wrapped up in crimson hollowhot. Little Mezha stared right back. "Considering what's ahead, and the distinct lack of Scar firepower behind us, we're going to need the elves - along with every other stray that comes our way. After that... no idea. But somewhere safe, you can count on that."
"Vow it."
"Alright... Eka weohnata néiat atra haina eom kuasta eom thornessa bran." (I will not allow harm to befall this child.)
Ahlok's eyes widened. She relaxed - gradually. "Magic..." She whispered. Then, slowly, held out the hatchling. Ikharos almost stalled, taken aback. He reached out and, with painstaking care, took the hatchling into his grasp. It was a pudgy, soft-shelled thing not entirely unlike a human infant - plump, with small arms and a comically oversized head. Tiny claws reached over the edge of its wrapping-blanket and grazed the skin of his thumbs.
It almost banished the emotions brought to forefront of his ragged mind by his traitorous body.
Almost.
The creature squeaked and chirped. It grasped at his fingers, dragging one up to its gnashing mandibles. Ikharos pulled the almost-doomed digit away. "Bloodthirsty little thing, aren't you?" Ikharos mused. Mezha bared his jaws wide. Tiny specks of ivory marked where fledgling fangs had begun to peek through near-translucent gums. "You'll be a terror."
"He already is," Melkris groaned from the tent flap behind them, standing guard with Beraskes and Etralenk. They all looked smaller without their cloaks, wiry creatures that they were. Still large, of course, and all a few inches taller than him, but not quite so massive anymore. The illusion had been lost somewhere in Aroughs with their former loyalties.
Kida was there too, near-silent and empty of everything but duty. The Frame had attached itself to Ikharos's retinue of guards upon arrival without a word and hadn't left. There hadn't been a reason to dismiss him either, so...
Ikharos handed Mezha back. "Suppose we can't leave his fate to chance. He'll come with us. Will you?"
Ahlok hesitated, looked at Raksil, then nodded deeply. "Eia, Kirzen. I will."
"Fair enough." Ikharos did a mental headcount. "Skeleton crew, but that was always us."
Raksil dipped his head and left. Ahlok went with him, holding Mezha close. Ikharos sighed, counted to ten, and walked out. He almost wished he hadn't; there was a Psion waiting outside, intensely staring at him the moment he left the tent's stifling ether-tasting confines. "Merida-X8," she murmured in Ulurant.
"Neuroc," he greeted cordially, if stiffly. "Have you heard...?"
The Psion Flayer tilted her head. "Hear of what?"
"Tarrhis-Mrelliks is dead."
No reaction. Outwardly, in any case. "My... condolences," Neuroc said slowly. She didn't sound like she meant it. Ikharos tried not to let it bother him; misguidedly driven as Tarrhis was, the Baron had been amiable enough and kind where it counted.
"The deal you had with him is over," he said.
"Is it? Would his replacement not see the benefit in continuing where this Tarrhis left off?"
"They'd have nothing to work with but a broken body," Ikharos brusquely told her. "The other Barons would sooner see you dead than deal with Cabal."
Neuroc went quiet. After a time of mulling over what he'd said, she asked, "What are my options?"
Ikharos hesitated himself. "We could drop you off somewhere north," he murmured. "Close enough to your legion's territory."
"You would spare me where the Eliksni would not?"
"We aren't savages, much as you might like to believe it." Ikharos crossed his wrists behind his back. "Alternatively, we could negotiate new terms. I have reason to speak with Primus Invoctol as soon as is convenient - I've... learned some things that may interest him."
"What terms do you offer?" Neuroc questioned.
Ikharos waved the inquiry aside. "Later. When we're in the air, maybe. Or further yet; I've business elsewhere."
"With the elves."
Ikharos frowned. "You're a sharp one."
Neuroc didn't flinch, didn't so much as twitch. "You did not conceal it overly much."
"No, suppose we didn't. Still - Invoctol acts against them on your advice, I'll turn you to cinders. Clear?"
"Clear." Neuroc straightened her back. "If that is all..."
Ikharos nodded. "Melkris," he said in Low Speak, "take Neuroc to the Skiff. Keep her there, and keep her safe - no point ruining what little goodwill we have with the legions now."
Melkris saluted and marched off with the Psion, occasionally sneaking her a suspicious glance. The Flayer walked on, eye trained on the horizon.
"She was speaking with the dragon," Javek whispered from beside Ikharos. The Splicer sidled over and awkwardly shook out his arms, perhaps missing the weight of his abandoned cloak. "With Arke."
"Neuroc?" Ikharos asked, surprised. Javek nodded. "That's... not encouraging. Were there not standing orders to keep them separated?"
Javek winced. "Nama, though there should have been. Nyreks should have..."
"Could have been Intention; Psions are convincing when they want to be."
"She used magic on him?"
"Not much, evidently, or I'd be feeling it. No, just making him a little more susceptible to her requests." Ikharos hummed. "She bears watching, I think. One of us should be around in case she... acts out."
"You think Neuroc will strike against us?" Javek inquired.
"I don't know. Probably not, but Uluru shortsightedness is contagious. It pays to be careful." He forced a smile. "Nothing we can't settle, right? You did well, fighting against Elkhon and that Harmony like you did." Ikharos dropped a hand on Javek's shoulder. "And that Ahamkara... you're a dragonslayer, Javek the Technician."
Javek shuttered his outer eyes. "I... thank you, Kirzen."
"You're a Zeshus now." Ikharos started walking. Javek fell into step beside him. "Like Formora. Oh, she'll be thrilled - you're a star student. Now c'mon - Ellesméa awaits. Obleker's secured, yeah?"
"Eia." Javek hesitated. "I, uh, convinced another eliko to join us, Ikha Riis."
Ikharos shrugged. "So has Raksil, twice over. Or one and a half times, given that one's a babe in swaddling clothes..."
"Our crew is growing."
"And quickly too. Care for them."
Javek blinked. "Me?!"
"You're their mage," Ikharos said slowly, with deliberation. "You're the sign of change they'll look to for reassurance and guidance."
"And you."
"I'm hoping to limit that. You're free, all of you. No Dregs, no Vandals, no Captains, nothing but Eliksni. I'm not going to play at Riisan house rules." He glanced in the general direction of Aroughs, so far away. "Not for a while yet anyway."
They boarded their Skiff once more and took off without much fanfare. News had already spread through the camp like wildfire just before they left, and another three Vandals and two of Javek's fellow Splicers offered their swords and service to the newly founded band of exiles. Ikharos didn't know what to make of it; seldom when Eliksni broke the traditional mold did they forge something well-meaning or enduring. There had been the tense order of Spider's Syndicate and the kindly House of Light, the latter of which Ikharos had approved of wholeheartedly, but there had also been the infamous Scorned Barons, the anarchic Kell's Scourge, the fevered Devil Splicers, and the rotting ruin that was the wretched House of Dusk.
He fervently hoped Javek's exiles would prove to be as persevering and noble as Mithrax's hopefuls had been.
The Skiff's hold was louder leaving than when they'd arrived, what with all the new joiners. Raksil swiftly took command of the mess and managed to reign the volume back to a manageable level, quiet enough that it wouldn't overly bother the resident hatchling or his war beast defenders. Ikharos retreated up to the command deck where Melkris and Javek were sitting back in more comfortable officer-grade seats and watching over Neuroc as she tapped away at her datapad.
"What'd he say?" Ikharos asked, stretching his arms. A pit had long since opened up in his stomach, stealing away all his warmth and hope, but he was done his damndest to ignore it. It didn't help that Xiān still hadn't spoken to him. Her silence was damning and judging - and Ikharos hated it.
Neuroc didn't say anything. Not for a long time. Taking her lack of response in stride, Ikharos took to the chair beside Javek and briefly activated the holotable to check that they were still en route to Du Weldenvarden. Their heading took a northeasterly direction, targeted straight at Ellesméa. He switched it off once he'd ascertained that, yes, Calzan was taking them straight to the elven capital, but Neuroc hadn't noticed. Her eye hadn't strayed from the datapad, fingers frozen over it.
"What happened?" Ikharos asked. Something else was wrong.
"Attack," Neuroc said quietly. "My legion was attacked."
"By Hive?" Ikharos's blood went cold. Had the Worm-cult turned around? Was the Darkblade taking his crusade back south, to the easy pickings of stranded Cabal and vulnerable humans?
"No. By Harmony."
"... What?"
The Skiff flew over the forests of Du Weldenvarden and slowed above the city of Ellesméra uncloaked, in clear view. Ikharos didn't want to unnerve their hosts. Not when he hoped to beg more help off of them. Calzan guided the ship to docking down on the clearing once used for the camp lorded over by Tarrhis, when he'd been alive. Ikharos grimaced. He actually felt like he was going to miss the Baron. Tarrhis had been a foundation of support he'd taken for granted, and with it gone...
He wasn't doing well. Not at all. When he descended from the rear of the Skiff, slowly and cautiously, it was with a heavy heart - and a growing list of questions, the most pressing among them being WHY?
Elves lurked at the edges of the glade, curious and mystical. After a few minutes of standing around a small group separated from the treeline and approached. Ikharos crushed the desire to grimace and sucked in his reservations; Islanzadí was among them, brow furrowed and eyes glinting. She didn't look happy.
Not that he cared. Not when a figure separated from the group and quickly closed the distance. Ikharos took a few steps forward and caught Formora in a tight embrace that forced the air from his lungs. She clung to him, tightly, and muttered, "Eka eddyr ilia eom sjon ono ósjaldan." (I am glad to see you again.)
"Eka kunna du samr," he told her right back. (As I am for you.) Ikharos pressed his face into the crook of her neck and breathed in her scent, pine and lavender and autumn leaves. Her heart was racing - faster than was warranted. Ikharos pulled back, abruptly, and asked, "What wrong? Did someone-?"
"Osilon was attacked," Formora breathlessly blurted. She looked worried - scared, even. "By Exos, Shades and Harmony."
The other elves had reached them. Islanzadí had begun to speak, but all Ikharos could think to say was, "Are you fucking kidding me?"
That shut her right up. Everyone else too. Formora gave him a look that was partially questioning, partially reprimanding. "Ikharos?"
"Harmony hit us too," Ikharos admitted. This was not what he needed. "At Aroughs, just as Tarrhis was answering Krinok's challenge. They... they killed him."
"Tarrhis?" Formora's arms unwound themselves and she stepped back. "They killed Tarrhis?"
Ikharos nodded, breathing through his nose. Osilon too? But... why?! The elves weren't a threat. Not like the Cabal and Eliksni were. Unless... the Harmony saw them as one? But they'd waited thousands of years leaving the elves in peace, why...? "And Sundrass, and many others. Elkhon was there."
"Who?" Someone hoarsely asked. An elf. Ikharos didn't care to see who it was, he had to look at Formora, he had to find something to anchor him in place and keep him from drifting away with the turbulent tides that threatened to destroy all conscious thought.
"Elkhon," Ikharos repeated with a rasp. "Shade Risen. And... Mora, one of the Harmony... it wielded Darkness. Actual Darkness. Killed an Eliksni with it right in front of me. Not Hive spells or Scorn curse; it was wielding the real thing."
"We knew they served the Dark," Formora said quietly.
"But this is so much more. They wield it like I do my Light. Like you do your ancient language. Like a Psion does its Intentions." Ikharos closed his eyes; his own words were the grim reminder he didn't need. "The Cabal were hit too, outside Carvahall. Harmony tried to assassinate Primus Invoctol, but... he managed to restore order and fight them off."
"... Why?" Formora drew in a shaky breath. "Us, the Eliksni, the Cabal... why?"
"I don't..." Ikharos looked down - at his trembling hands. Slender fingera drifted into sight and touched his palms, bringing a vague sensation of I'm here, you can breathe, you can think, just take a second to gather yourself. "I don't know. Not yet. Just heard about the Cabal, and this..." He paused. "Could be a message. Could be something else. Could be..." Ikharos frowned, troubled. "It could be a dare."
"A... dare?" Formora echoed. "You think they meant to invite us north with... with violence?!"
"It's one of the few things we as people all understand. No one misinterprets the act of killing."
The fingers pressing against his open hands moved. Ikharos bemoaned their absence, right up until they brushed against his face. "What happened?" Formora asked quietly. "There's something else, isn't there? What... what did Elkhon do?"
She near spat out the name, bitter and hateful. Ikharos would have found it amusing if it wasn't so horrifying - even without having met her Formora despised the Shade. Which shouldn't have been such a surprise, but still - it was eye-opening.
"Later," Ikharos promised. He couldn't say it then. Not with everyone watching. Only Melkris and Javek and Xiān knew, and not one of them was about to blab, but Ikharos was under no illusion that the elves listening in were same. "I need to... hell." He bit his tongue, hard, and didn't much react when he tasted blood. "This is... Traveler above..." Ikharos gasped out the last part, breaths cycling in and out faster and faster. His adrenaline was up, but not with the intent to fight - he felt as if he were about to bolt and run to the nearest tree hollow so he could despair in solitude.
Islanzadí said something else. He couldn't hear her. Or anyone for that matter. Javek barked out an order and Obleker floated out, radiating waves of goodwill and support, but - but it wasn't enough. His arm was tugged; Formora dragged him away, out of the clearing, deeper into the city-
-and before the manor owned by Däthedr, and, finally, inside. Ikharos walked on automatic while his mind grappled with the reality of their situation and gradually led him back to the room he'd been spared when last in the elven hall.
He sat down on the bed, brought his hands together with his fingers interlocking, and watched as Formora cautiously stepped in after him. She knelt beside him, taking his hands in her own. "What happened to you?"
Ikharos sighed. "I think I'm having an actual panic attack. I... the door."
Formora stood up and closed the door.
"The walls."
"Atra nosu waíse vardo fra eld hórnya," Formora murmured. (May we be warded from listeners.)
The magic widened and caught on the confines of the room, becoming rigid and impermeable. Ikharos felt a small surge of relief - and that was it, because the thing inside him spiked and prodded at him much like he imagined a Worm would a Hive host. "I... drove Elkhon off."
Formora came back, sitting beside him and once more taking his hands. "Is that not a good thing?"
"She reached into me..." Ikharos tapped his sternum, over where the knot of other pinched at his being. "And... grabbed something. Woke it up."
"Woke 'it' up?"
"Darkness." Ikharos's eyes felt warm, almost hot. His ears pounded and his vision blurred. "I've got Darkness in me."
Formora didn't respond. Ikharos refused to look at her, afraid of what he'd see - because as new to it as she was, there was no mistaking the sheer evil of the Winnower's touch.
"How?" she asked softly.
Ikharos took a deep breath. "I don't know. But this... this, I think, came from killing Him."
"Who- Oryx."
"Yeah."
"... What makes you-"
Ikharos pulled away a hand and lit it up. Fire, black and twinkling and wrong, wreathed it. "This," Ikharos said as he stared at it, voice empty, "is Blight. Taken Blight. I've only ever seen a ratty little man use it with any amount of control, and he only ever wielded counterfeit Taken essence. The Techeuns had to neuter the Desolates before handing the Taken-imbued power to any prospective Guardians hunting down enemies of the Reef. This, though... this is genuine. This is Darkness, pure as moonlight. This is the Deep. And I... I don't have a Tablet of Ruin."
He sucked in air, too fast. "This is forbidden power. This is improper. This... this is the enemy. And I have it."
No reply.
Ikharos quenched the flames. It went reluctantly, completely unlike his happy-to-serve Light. "I have it. I have Darkness."
"What..." Formora began. She cleared her throat. "No. Stop."
"I can't-"
"Ikharos, Osilon still has fires raging. If what you say is true, if the Cabal and Eliksni were attacked... then we need to act." She brought a hand to his cheek and forced him to look at her. "I'm sorry. I am. But... what do we need to do?"
It was all he needed. Purpose.
AN: Many thanks to Nomad Blue for going through and scolding at my mishaps and mistakes, the lifesaver!