Chapter 73: Blessing/Curse
His hand was gone. Severed. Cut off. The stump still burned and bled, and all Ikharos could think about was how he felt the phantom sensations of it still. He tried to curl his fingers, twist his palm around, and while he somewhat felt like he was managing it, reality painfully hammered the truth home: he had no hand. No hand.
"Gonna need you, Xiān," he thought while gritting his teeth. "Hope you've decided to help out for real."
"I'm not-" she started to reply, voice raised and then... falling away. "I'm not going to let you die. I'm not... not going to leave you maimed."
"But you'll let me despair on my own just fine," Ikharos bit back. "Glad we've got those lines drawn out."
"I'm sorry."
He said nothing. Offered no reply. His mind was elsewhere; on the other Light dragging him almost by his collar past lashing trees. And even if he had the opportunity, had the chance to say something - it wouldn't have been diplomatic. Not in the slightest.
As quickly as they'd left the clearing behind they were out, out out out - out of the forest, turning to circumvent the trees while pinned against the sheer mountain face jutting straight up into the sky. Ikharos glanced back; all who'd been within were keeping up. Raksil took to the stone wall, even, jamming his claws into the surface to crawl along after them while staying out of reach of the Darkwoods' rending roots.
Darkwoods?
That was what he decided to call it, then?
At least it fit.
Motion. Ahead. They skidded to a stop around the corner of the forest, back into the open of the valley's mouth - right in front of a line of gun-toting Uluru, with a pile of Exo casualties laid behind brutish Legionaries. Where was... there. Kida and Arahynn off to the side, bearing some light scratches but thankfully alive. They were alive. Javek was with them, magic gathering unseen in his hands, and his eyes - narrowed at the other Light, their saving Light like the Uluru were, but stricken with... something.
If someone had threatened his Splicer, then they were going to die.
Ikharos heard a rifle being readied behind them, and when his eyes darted around, he found it to be Neuroc. Not aiming at him - at the other Light. Betrayal wasn't in anyone's books just yet.
"Drop your weapon," she barked. "Now, human."
The other Light looked at Ikharos, turning his head slowly, and his eyes - not glowing like an Awoken's, not shining like an Exo's, just a dull brown declaring himself as baseline human - were only just visible through the cracked screen of his racing helmet's broken visor.
"We need to talk," the other Light said lowly, persistently, with the knowledge that yes, they were going to talk and no one was going to stop them. Then his eyes dropped to Ikharos's arm - or what was left of it. "That first."
Ikharos schooled his face, forcing an expressionless mask, and put his remaining hand against the ragged ends of his right arm. "Xiān."
She supplied the Light. The absence of a Darkness Zone - so blessedly relieving, so freeing, so natural - let the Light flow from her right into him. Ikharos brought it to bear, shoved it into a handheld Rift full of golden power, full of righteous healing, and he forced it on himself.
And then his realization, marred with stray sparks of hurt, rippled through the forefront of his mind as nothing happened.
What was it the Dark did again?
How did it kill Guardians?
How did it slay from within the bullets fired from Weapons of Sorrow? From the tips of Hive blades? From the jaws of Worms nibbling into Ghost shells? How did it kill again, truly?
Ontologically, that was how. Dragon-fangs, he told himself, lining the Ahamkara's true jaws, but there was so much more than that.
Ontologically - that was how the Aphelion had left its mark on him. Ontologically - that was how the Darkblade had left its many little momentos, drawn across Ikharos's chest, crisscrossing the Star-Eater's claw-indents. Ontologically - that was why he was never going to shake the slitted scar where Elkhon's glassy blade had embedded in his stomach.
Ontologically - to affect something's very existence.
The Dark said 'I have erased your hand. I tried to erase the rest of you, but all I could reach was your hand. You will never have a hand again.'
It was like how the gun at his hip had said, once upon a time, 'this is dead now. This is dead and it will never live again.'
RIP Pahanin. Farewell Thalor. Jaren - you can rest easy, your boy's all grown up and he's a hero.
Also, ow. Ow. Oh, it hurts. Ow.
"Weapon," Neuroc heatedly repeated, "drop - now."
The other Light - who was it, could it truly be-? - didn't turn away from Ikharos. As if he were the only thing to matter. The only one who counted. The only thing even remotely close to something, someone, a peer, an equal, a kindred soul. If so, Ikharos practically felt the same; another Light, another Light, there was another Light!
He wasn't alone.
He wasn't the only one of his kind on the planet, free of dark thoughts and Dark gods.
Well, maybe not the former, but the latter-
Wait, no, not that either. Not with how things had turned out with himself and Elkhon. What she left him with. The curse she unveiled. A curse above all the others - and Traveler above, there were certainly others.
"We really need to talk," the other Light asserted. His tone was one of... vague disapproval, significant amounts of frustration and an underlying sense of curiosity. The last Ikharos understood; he felt it himself. The others, though...
"Without-" the stranger glanced around "-creatures intruding on our... private discussion."
"Who are you?" Ikharos rasped through a mangled mouth. "Which one?"
The cracked racing helm tilted. "Which one?"
"Of Gunther's Six."
Nothing. Well, nothing at first, but as Ikharos thought the other Light was going to say something, Raksil intervened - on his behalf, of course, with only the best intentions, but Ikharos's curiosity was as hungry as the Void and didn't appreciate being denied. "Kirzen. Your arm."
Ah, yes, that was a pressing concern, wasn't it? Ikharos pushed his Light into it, trying for another Rift, but no luck. Maybe a little Void spent towards Devouring another entity's matter and existence? Wait, no, the only people around were the allies - or similarly non-hostile, at least towards him. Allies. He couldn't do that.
His arm, though...
"You're bleeding out," Xiān blurted, "rapidly. Cauterization wasn't perfect."
"Clean, though," Ikharos reasoned, realizing only a moment later he whispered it aloud. He looked down at the mess of a limb and staggered forward. "Psekisk, I need-"
Raksil grabbed him, steadied him and held him still as Javek raced forward. Ikharos, though, was struck by the sudden concern to ask, "Was anyone else hit?"
No one answered.
Then, "yes," whispered by one Ästrith. "I... my magic won't..."
Ontological.
Raksil disappeared, assumedly to reach her, and Javek remained with Ikharos, looking the grievous injury up and down, left and right. The Cabal, led by Neuroc, hadn't budged; they remained in place, all guns aimed right at the other Light. Even if they didn't know what he was, they surely knew he was different. The guy wasn't exactly trying to hide his Light signature - which was laced through a slick weave of sharpened Void. A Nightstalker, perhaps, or a Voidwalker particularly dedicated towards the Attunement of Fission.
Either or worked in his opinion. Subclass didn't much matter; just having another Light, no matter class or subclass, was a relief in and of itself. Ikharos would have even taken a oafish Striker at that moment.
"Can you not heal?" Javek asked, voice wavering. Something was up.
"No," Ikharos hissed. The pain was throbbing, lancing up what remained of his arm with every heartbeat - which was steadily growing quieter and quieter. "Dark was involved."
Javek blanched. "Maw?"
"Yeah. Raksil had to cut it-"
"Raksil?!" Javek sucked in a deep breath. "Raksil! Humans cannot regrow limbs!"
"... But Kirzen-"
"It was the Maw!"
The Vandal, somewhere to Ikharos's left and out of sight, whined uneasily. "Oh."
"'S fine," Ikharos gasped. "I... screw it, Xiān?"
She compiled by his head. Ikharos heard sudden Ulurant chatter and felt the attentions of a couple of Psions turn their way, but he ignored it all in favour of raising his ruined arm for her to inspect. Her bright-fire eye blinked, twice. "Oh."
"That's not... comforting." Ikharos winced past the tangy taste of blood and sting of his equally wounded tongue.
"This is bad."
"How bad?"
Her eye raised up to meet his. "Worse than... worse than Elkhon's knife. This is... Can you feel it?"
Ikharos grimaced. "Yeah... yeah, I can."
"I can't-"
"Do what you have to."
"That's it. I don't know." Xiān trembled. "The Dark only stopped short of the rest of the limb, but the influence left behind... we might have to cut upwards to cauterize it all over again."
"Do what you have to," Ikharos repeated, hissing through clenched teeth. He felt lightheaded, but the pain - it never once ceased.
"No burning yet," Javek interjected, voice cracking - or, well, cracking more than was the Eliksni norm. Goodness, he loved the sound of those voices... Hated them, feared them, felt all sorts of things too, but loved them above all else. Because Eliksni... he understood Eliksni. Perhaps not entirely, maybe, but as good as. Eliksni weren't paracausal, spectacularly driven and dangerous they may have been, and they did not attack his Light directly. That was key. That was why he loved them - because even the worst of them, the most terrible, they had nothing on the other monsters he found himself arrayed against time and again.
Javek plucked a satchel from his bandolier, snatched another from his belt and then cleared the snow from the ground by their feet with a sweep of his lower hands to drop the pair of pouches onto the frozen earth. He opened them up and started to pull things out - rolls of gauze, needles, phials of all sorts of chemicals and even pouches of Eliksni-styled cytogel.
"Not all of your medicine will help me," Ikharos murmured with some exertion. "Some might even make me sick."
"I know," Jaxson said, too quickly. He sounded... upset. Highly upset. And his hands were shaking. "Must form a tourniquet."
Raksil half-led, half-dragged Ästrith over - who was clutching at a shallow gash on her thigh just above the knee, muttering all sorts of spells under her breath. Arahynn trailed behind, pale-faced and baffled, glancing behind at the bristling, howling forest. "The trees..." he breathed out. "What-"
"Not trees," Ikharos grunted, voice hoarse and rough and muted. "Teeth."
Arahynn's expression became all the more dire. "Teeth?" he echoed weakly.
"My magic isn't... isn't mending this," Ästrith said more urgently, panic bleeding into her voice. "My spells are falling short."
"There's no handhold for our magic to grab onto," Ikharos added knowingly. "I'm the same."
She glanced over, Arahynn too, and both seemed to only just realize how screwed he was. It helped hammer the gravity of the situation home in himself a little bit better. "Your arm," Arahynn gasped.
"Yeah," Ikharos agreed.
"What-"
"Raksil cut it off," Ästrith explained, casting the Vandal a sidelong glance - and the poor ex-Scar closed his inner eyes while keening all over again.
"It's fine," Ikharos blurted, then caught himself. "Well, maybe not, but the alternative..."
"Lord, are you-"
"Alright? No, but would you be surprised if I said this isn't the first time this has happened? Not exactly as bad as this, but dismemberment isn't altogether new..."
"Five minutes," Xiān said suddenly.
Ikharos resisted the urge to snap at her - he simply didn't have the strength. "Until what?"
"Until you lose consciousness. Eight until you enter beyond-saving territory. Fifteen until death."
"Great."
"Nama," Javek rambled. "Not great." He tore his cloak off, drew Ikharos's knife despite him objecting with a gasping "Hey!" and cut a swathe of bannercloth from the length of Eliksni-weave. "Arahynn, lift arm-cover," the Splicer ordered in English. Arahynn took all of a moment to figure out what Javek wanted, then knelt down by Ikharos's side and rolled the remains of his reinforced sleeve up beyond the ugly, imperfectly-cauterized cut.
Javek tied the strip of bannercloth up around Ikharos's arm, tight enough to hurt, and then rifled through his tools. He came back with a swab dipped in what looked like liquid ether crossed with cough medicine and dabbed it around the wounded area. Ikharos couldn't feel a thing, what with the tourniquet and chill in the air, but he imagined the ether must have been freezing given the pale mist emanating from around the swab.
"What was that?" Ikharos asked.
"Antibiotic," Javek answered in Low Speak, then for the benefit of the elves, "Little-life-hunter," but it evidently made no sense to them given their baffled, borderline horrified expressions.
"Anti-infectant," Ikharos raspily explained to them. He turned his head back to Javek. "What kind?"
"Rain-soothwater. Compatible with Uluru and Zheejero and U'u'uvari peoples. I have studied this." Javek paused. "Humans are like Uluru. You will live."
"What if there is a problem?"
"Then I will apply Devil-cleansefire. Does it sting?"
"I don't know. You applied a tourniquet, remember? I'm going numb."
Javek paused, then shrugged and kept on dabbing. "Then we must hope."
Ikharos grimaced and looked away, squeamish. Javek had pulled out a needle of something, and needles were... well... "Brilliant."
"Do you feel faint?"
"Yes."
Javek glanced at the elves. "Like you need to sleep?"
"I can fight it, don't worry."
"Don't sleep."
"I know."
"I am not confident we can find a creature compatible with you to allow for a blood transfusion." Javek paused. "Elf-humans and human-humans are... too different."
"Yeah," Ikharos groaned. "I know. But there's still that-"
A barking shout stole away whatever he was going to say - Ikharos didn't honestly know what he was about to ramble about, he felt so lightheaded - and drew his attention back to the confrontation he'd only just left behind. The other Lightbearer had taken a step forward, towards him, and the gathered Uluru hadn't liked it. Not one bit. Especially since the living Light hadn't dropped his fusion rifle.
"I can help," the stranger reasoned. "I can."
"Disarm!" Neuroc snapped, flanged voice echoing. "Now!"
The Light spared her a look Ikharos could only describe as distasteful. "I don't take orders from... whatever you are."
More shouting ensued - alien and human both, with Kida silently adding to the mix by switching his rifle's safety off. Ikharos took one look at them, then at his arm (cringing, because Javek's needle was hovering just over the skin above the ragged cut) and asked, "Xiān? How long do I have?"
"You're semi-stabilized," she said, subdued; they still weren't on talking terms. All this was was necessity. "Ten minutes of consciousness, at best. Let Javek do his thing."
"I will, just..." Ikharos forced himself to his feet. "Neuroc?"
The Psion didn't so much as glance at him. "Yes?"
"Let him through- wait." Ikharos lifted his free hand, still grasping his Lumina, and aimed it at the other Light. "Which one are you? Which of the Six?" he hoarsely demanded. His tongue stung like it was on fire. The pain wasn't all that different to his hand, what with the tip of it having been bitten clean off, though with all the moving it about to form words... "Name. Now."
A pause.
"Uren. Uren Tavilo."
Uren. Urûr. Dwarven deity of air. Last free Lightbearer of Gunther's Six.
Or was he?
Ikharos took a stumbling step back, almost banging into Arahynn, but his aim never once wavered. "Take off your helmet. Show me your eyes."
Uren slowly, painstakingly, undid the clasps of his helmet and slid it off. The face beneath was dark, unshaven, with faded marks of shadowy kohl around the brown eyes. Dark hair fell out over his head in thick strands, choppily cut in some areas and left to grow in others. A few loose braids hung on the right side of his head, styled in an elvish manner. His left ear, the only one visible, boasted an earring outfitted with a small, sparkling, energy-filled opal. A torc bearing dwarven runes was clasped around his neck, tiny rubies and sapphires inlaid as eyes in the many etched serpents slithering across the neck-ring of gold. They, like the ear-ring, boasted stored energy. Ikharos could feel it even a twenty feet away, feel the tingle of power at the other Lightbearer's fingertips.
He must have been a spellcaster as well. But that, Ikharos mused, wasn't all that surprising, was it? Each and every Risen, courtesy of their base paracausal existence, had the potential to wield the Harmonic language as they saw fit - but only if they knew the words.
"That enough for you?"
"Not Shade," Ikharos observed. And he couldn't pick up on any spell used to disguise Uren's features. There was Dark, in plenty too, but Ikharos attributed the sharp, thrumming feeling of the stuff with the forest they'd only just left - the Darkwoods, he finally decided. Better than Mourning Grove, what with the then distinct lack of mourners. He glanced the way of the Exos, but not one looked to be online. The sight of them, just splayed across the ground haphazardly, as close to dead as any living thing could get - it made him sick to his stomach.
"You've met Elkhon," Uren surmised. Ikharos looked at him in surprise. "I know about her. I was there when she was... made."
"Suppose you were," Ikharos murmured. The vision... Hezran's memories. True, then. Trap it may have been, but at least the prize left to draw him in had some credence to it. Maybe it was worth it, losing his- no. No it was not, he decided. Not in a million years.
Oh Traveler above, his hand...
"Let him through," Ikharos ordered. Neuroc begrudgingly stepped to the side, though the barrel of her rifle - and those of the Legionaries - never once swiveled away from the other Light's form. Uren stiffly marched past, fusion rifle aimed at the ground - right up until he shoved it around his side and attached it to a mechanical holster hidden beneath his cloak.
His dragonskin cloak.
The guy's very attire screamed Dragon Hunter and Ikharos couldn't have been more relieved. Finally - someone understood! At least in part; the stuff still whispered, still murmured to all within earshot.
Uren closed in, eyed Javek with what could be best described as distaste-bordering-on-revulsion, and hunkered down. "Near-clean cut," he observed. "Perfect tourniquet. Painkillers? Anesthetic?"
Javek just gave him a look. "Am doing well, Light-human," he growled, oddly territorial. And... confrontational. That wasn't the Javek Ikharos knew. Something was wrong.
"He needs shelter," Uren replied, nonplussed. "Surgery. We have to pinch off the severed blood vessels - cauterize it all over again if need be." His eyes raised up to meet Ikahros's own. "You know what's happened, don't you?"
"I do," Ikharos confirmed with a pained grunt.
"I can fix this."
"No you can't. Nothing can. What used to be is now no more."
"I can fix this by circumventing the issue." Uren stood up and pointed - westwards. "I have a place, that way. We can work there."
Ikharos didn't look around. "Gorbelgond? You were there?"
"Yes." Uren's visage hardened. "You should have stayed. None of this would have happened if you'd only stayed, you... you imbecile."
"The Vex-"
"Stop." Uren waved Javek away - who in turn let out a snarl of indignation. The former looped his arm around Ikharos, standing on the Warlock's right side, and helped him up to his feet. "We need to go, now."
Neuroc closed in, rapidly, gun still primed to open fire. "The Amarz Amalz will reach us within two local hours," she told them, more to Ikharos than Uren. "Our medbay will suffice."
"He doesn't have two hours," Uren retorted. Then he glanced at Ästrith and her own wound - which would have been superficial if not for the malignant force acting behind it. "Neither of them do."
"It'll still take too long on foot," Xiān reasoned, her voice almost shrill with worry. At least she still cared. "And we don't know if he can make the next rez. There's... too many variables here."
Uren shrugged - or tried to, and with little success too, what with Ikharos leaning on his shoulder. "That's not necessary." He splayed out his other hand, the one not wrapped around Ikharos's side, and did... something. His glove, a thing of leather outfitted with a silver-and-crystal contraption on the back of his hand, filled with a strange sort of fire - the kind Ikharos knew to instinctively shy away from. It was Solar, tinged with... a magic hailing from neither reigning philosophy, not of Dark or Light. It spat glowing shards of ethereal glass.
A silvery sheen separated the air in front of them, opening up like a cross between a Vex-timegate and a dimensional portal cast forth by an Awoken Techeun, an oval discus of refracted light and sheening power. More alarmingly, though, was how identical it was to the spatial-displacer operated by the Harmony - the one Orainthairr, the Dark-wielder, had stepped out of in Aroughs. But why would...?
Apparently the Cabal had come to the same dangerous conclusions as he had, because the tirade of shouting resumed. Neuroc had closed the distance and brought the end of her rifle against Uren's stomach, her form only just outlined by the bright, silvery whirl of ethereal energy behind her.
Uren stiffened. His Light flared up, held just at bay by Ikharos's own subconscious warning - his invisible Solar-wreathed anger keeping the explosion of foreign, indifferent Void at bay.
"Don't," Ikharos warned softly, voice weak but resolve reignited. "You're still one of theirs, aren't you?"
Uren glanced at him - was that rage on his face genuine? - and bit out, "Don't be ridiculous."
"Then what's that?"
"Glasswork."
"... What?" Ikharos tried to frown, but everything - even facial features - was getting a little difficult. He felt very lightheaded. His heart was slowing, his motions weakening; but still, he had to know. "That's their tech."
"You've been here a fraction of how long I have," Uren snapped. "And you think you know everything about this place? About its peoples?"
"Where does that portal lead?" Neuroc demanded. Her eye flashed with Intention, barely-constrained power crackling in the air around her head.
"Gorbelgond," Urur replied. "Sem er du ilumëo." (That is the truth.)
Neuroc paused, then narrowed her eye. Her Y-shaped pupil thinned and sharpened, as if to peer past the unfeeling wall of flesh and blood and bone and peer at the soul beneath - at both of their souls.
"Lord," Arahynn said suddenly, softly, uncertainly. Ikharos glanced around, head almost lolling. The elf was supporting Ästrith, who definitely looked paler than she had a minute ago. Her leg was bleeding, profusely; her magic hadn't worked, neither had Arahynn's, and both looked exhausted for having dared to try.
Psekisk, Ikharos thought. Sure, they were out of the Dark zone, and Xiān's stammering concerns aside, he might have been willing to chance a rez - because his issues with Cabal had nothing on his anger towards the Harmony, so waiting for the Imperial Land Tank to roll up was easily the more appealing option than entering a Harmony-styled portal at the behest of a strange Risen whose own finer loyalties were... well, not immediately clear.
Ästrith didn't have that option, though.
"How long?" he asked.
Xiān gave the elf a cursory glance, then realizing oh shit, that's bad, she scanned Ästrith up and down with a brief ray of blue light. Both elves - and Neuroc, Ikharos noted out of the corner of his eye - flinched. "Uh... little longer than you, but... this could get bad."
"Two hours?"
"I... I don't know about that. OR if the Cabal have equipment and supplies compatible with human biology - let alone that of the elves. There's too many loops to jump through."
"Shit... Fine, ask Uren."
"Ask him what?"
"Ask him if he can really help." Ikharos gasped for breath. "Can't get enough air to-"
"Right." Xiān did just that, her own voice wavering just slightly. Uren looked at Ästrith with an unreadable expression, but not with the same disdain he openly displayed where the Cabal and Eliksni (especially the Eliksni, much to Ikharos's dismay) were concerned.
"I can treat wood elves," he said at length, his explanation unsurprisingly giving way to more questions than answers. "But not if they're dead, so hurry up," he said, glaring at Neuroc all over again, "and make your decision. Let me help or let them die."
"We have to," Xiān murmured. She flew to Ikharos's shoulder, floating by the left side of his head. "Ike's... in a bad way, we have to-"
"Swear it," Ikharos tiredly pressed, aimed at Uren. His words only slurred a little, too. The other Light grimaced.
"I already did," he responded. Ikharos heard him sigh not a moment later, "look, fine but..."
And Ikharos started to figure his five minutes, possibly extended thanks to Javek's timely intervention, were up because everything bar his own lazy, roaring heartbeat started to get quieter... and quieter... and quieter...
Until there was only the pounding of a rapidly dwindling blood supply.
Which, too, escaped his focus because focus involved conscious thought processes, and he was already halfway in the grasp of falling unconscious.
It didn't take long for 'halfway' to become 'all the way'.
000
Formora snarled, "Issa, verda hvass," and watched with some satisfaction as a number of ice-spikes tore out of the ground to lance into the shins of the cornered, slowly retreating Acolyte. The Hive beast cried out and collapsed - and it gave her the opportunity to leap towards it and draw Vaeta across its descending neck, tearing through chitin and flesh and vessels choked with green blood. Fire and dust spurted out of the wound, defying all physical laws, but she stepped out of range, dropped onto the dying creature's back as it hit the snow, dug her knees into its abdomen and thrust Vaeta into where she imagined its stomach was located.
She heard another cry, softer and more shrill, and half-thought it had been her imagination.
A Thrall tried to pounce at her, but Formora was faster than it; she danced around the clumsy attack and brought her sabre down across its exposed back at an angle, bisecting the thin Hive-morph from shoulder to hip. Its top half fell off, but its legs limped on for all of three shambling paces before falling into death's cold embrace.
Formora straightened up and flicked the blood from Vaeta's blade, glancing around. The Knights were dead and the rest had quickly followed suit. A nearby Uluru had his wrist-blade lodged deep within the torso of another Hive creature and tore it out with a spectacular display of flung alien viscera. Once, perhaps, it would have disturbed her; her, the warrior, the militant, even the Forsworn. Now? No more.
No more.
They deserved to die. She would give them no quarter. Never - never for all eternity. Formora swore it under her breath, in the ancient language: all the Hive on Kepler would die. All of them.
Another form approached her. Formora twirled around, magic twisting through her fingers, Vaeta pointed, but the figure had glowing eyes of comforting blue, not horrific green. Beraskes.
"They are dead," the Marauder told her.
Formora looked around; she was right, unfortunately. Nothing else to take her anger out on. Her grief.
Her grief.
Formora trembled. She lowered Vaeta to the ground, leaned on it as the enormity of what had happened hit her. "Melkris..."
Beraskes tensed.
"Melkris is dead," Formora bitterly finished. There were no tears in her eyes; those would come later. All she had now was anger. He hadn't been Ilthorvo or Kíalandi, but his loss... it hadn't been right. He was her friend. Her friend. Gone - like so many others. Because the Hive were hungry. Because they... they thought themselves the righteous in a philosophical debate that did not matter. Because they wanted to be gods.
It was disgusting. Disgusting.
"I... I caught his scent, Zeshus. The scent of his lifeblood." Then Beraskes took in the sight of her, drenched in blood green, blue, and slivers of red, and she tentatively reached out. "Mine-lady, are... are you wounded?"
Formora looked herself over. "No, I..." Her ankle had twisted, sprained, but a muttered spell had taken care of that. The tightening, twisting, aching sensation around her neck - where the monster had tried to strangle her - remained. She could almost feel the beast's grip still there, blunted claws garbed in chitinous-gauntlets cutting into her skin, around her throat, cutting off her air supply. Gingerly, Formora reached up - and found the place still stung with every touch, ever sensation. Only the chill of the north managed to rein it in, keep it from overwhelming her. "I'm fine," she lied.
Beraskes gave a worried look, or at least with what concern managed to sneak past the visage of haunted grief. "Where-?"
Formora pointed. "There, I... I couldn't... save him."
Beraskes whined wordlessly and stumbled in the direction of Melkris's corpse, hidden beneath the gentle rise of the rolling snow dune. Formora quietly, numbly followed. He was just as she left him; motionless, dark-eyed, hands folded over his chest... and his throat a mess.
Formora looked away, looked for Hive, but there were none. Only Uluru and Psions and elves. Elves who were approaching slowly, cautiously, glancing about the now still battlefield with trepidation, led by a Psion with a wounded arm tucked against his chest, accompanied by two Uluru bearing shields and doing their best to cover everyone from where the Hive had originated from.
"They failed," Neirim reported, then noticed Melkris's corpse. "But they-"
"Does the Primus know?" Formora asked, quickly. "Has this befallen the others?"
Neirim paused. She didn't like it. "Not upon Zhonoch's battlegroup."
"What about-"
"We have lost contact with the battlegroup led by Flayer Neuroc." Neirim hesitated - again. "Their last transmission was a request for bombardment of a nearby sector, reasons unknown."
Ikharos. Javek. Raksil. Arahynn and Ästrith. They were at risk.
"Are there more Hive coming this way?" Formora asked.
Neirim shrugged; the human motion ill-fitted him. "Our sensors were unable to pick up on these ambushers. If more await us, then we do not know it. The Primus has ordered us to halt - we must take stock of our losses and coordinate a path through the mountains." He looked northwards. "It is likely the Darkblade's brood came this way, and that the pass ahead of us is the very road they took."
"We can't wait. The others-"
"Have their orders."
"I don't." Formora scowled. She ached - Melkris was dead, Melkris was dead. But the others...
She couldn't lose more - of her people, her friends, of Ik-
Neirim's eye fell on Melkris once more. Formora felt the sudden desire to step in the Psion's way; he had no right. But then he said, "I understand Eliksni practice different death rites to those exercised in the legions. What is to be done?"
Formora... drew a blank. But - no, she knew this. Alkris's funeral in Farthen Dûr. Paltis's mate; Kiphoris's friend. Cremation, before members of his own crew, as well as what little family remained behind.
"Kin," Formora whispered. "He needs to be taken before his kin."
Melkris has joked about brothers before. Brothers who envied him, who were jealous of his possessions and rank and skills. Would they miss him? Had any followed him into exile?
Beraskes fell by Melkris's side, helmet removed - and she chittered wildly, mandibles clicking without any meaning, just... making noise. Grieving. Weeping. For a friend. A comrade. A crewmate.
Formora wanted to do the same. She wanted nothing more than to give in. But...
But they didn't have that luxury.
"I need to bring him back to his kin," Formora choked out. "He... was my responsibility. He needs... to be returned to them."
Neirim looked at her and Formora was afraid he was going to refuse her, deny her the chance, to which she would have threatened him with magic and worse, but no. He said, "The Primus has called for cessation of all advancement efforts, to reinforce our current positions and consolidate a new plan of action. We have picked up the Hive's trail; we have found success. Harvesters are en route to our location to deliver reinforcements. You may take one back to the Amarz Amalz if you see fit, Commander."
Formora, surprised, took a moment to blink and realize yes, he's agreed, he's offered help, we will find them, and then motioned to her retinue - Eílifa, Nalstré and Eierín, and Beraskes, the last Eliksni present - and said, "They are coming with me."
Neirim tilted his head. "They are your warriors," he bluntly said, as if to tell her: Of course they are, they aren't Cabal, they aren't mine. What did you think was going to happen? "We must ready an after-battle report for the Primus."
"I don't think..." But the alternative was to mourn, again, like so many times before. "Yes. Yes, as you say."
Neirim was... merciless. Not cruel, no, but cold. Formora was beginning to see where Ikharos's distaste of Cabal came from - or at least in part. They... didn't feel. Or rather, they refused to allow themselves to feel. It was... antithetical to her; there was a huge, marked difference between momentarily suppressing emotions and actually purging them. She was älfa; she was an elf. Feeling, sensation - it was everything to her. Everything to her people. They felt, and strongly at that. Sometimes too much - enough to warrant blocking off parts of their lives, long enough to reorder their minds and emotions into something approaching controllable.
The Cabal didn't. Elven discipline was legendary, it was ingrained in their very culture, but in Cabal - Psion and Uluru both - it ran bone-deep.
Neirim counted out the losses they had endured - many more than there should have been, and with Melkris included it added up to a hefty eleven dead - and openly stated, "This is a victory."
Formora was... shocked. Beyond that, furious. That, too, was something she was trying to suppress, to keep at bay just like her grief, but together they were unstable. Unstoppable. At least insofar as forcing her to blurt, "You are a fool if you consider this a 'victory'."
Neirim looked at her - and with genuine surprise too. She could tell that much. "We were not defeated. Thus - a victory."
"Pyrrhic," Formora coldly reprimanded. "A costly victory is no victory at all."
"Then you do not understand war," Neirim replied.
Formora blinked. Didn't understand- "I understand in plenty - more than you could ever know, even. What I don't understand is you." She breathed out, slowly. Her hands had balled into fists by her side; it took considerable effort to flatten them out. "Give me the message you wish to give to your Primus. It will find its way to him."
"Eleven dead," Neirim repeated. "Victory. Purpose fulfilled. We have done as the Dominion's Triune decreed. We await further orders. Glory to him. Glory to Worldbreaker. Glory to Soulrazer. Glory to the Empire."
Formora inclined her head to indicate she heard, then made to leave. What she needed was... not Cabal. Her own people, perhaps. Kind words and sympathetic gestures. Maybe; but it gave rise to a bitter feeling. Where had they been when Ilthorvo had fallen? Kialandí and his dragon? Hidden away, cursing her every-
No. No, no. They were not to blame for this - for Melkris. The fault lay at the feet of the Hive, and they would all die for it. So she decreed, whether the Primus, the Queen, even Ikharos agreed or not.
For now, though, she needed to do something. Anything. Melkris-
The wound was raw, bleeding, and would surely scar over. But to bother it, harry the first steps to scabbing over? That was asking for infection to set in. She...
There was no shame in mourning. What she feared was the pain. Formora drew in a shaking, trembling breath and decided: his body would return to his people. And she... needed to ferry it to them. That was her purpose, her duty. It was the very least she could do.
And Ikharos's group...
They needed to be reached. They needed to hear.
000
It was his hearing that returned first, constricted as it was - like being submerged in deep water, where echoes rebounded through the abyss and took on strange, alien notes, warbling to forces beyond comprehension. Soon enough, though, he realized it was just the sound of electrical systems - like the humming of what may have been a water-cooler or fridge, warped into something maybe-malicious because one ear was pressed against a soft, cozy surface and the other still ached with the memory of the screaming not-trees.
Oh yeah. Those.
Ikharos's eyes snapped open, his hands instinctively darted - one up to drag his Light forth in a defensive ward, the second to tug his cannon out of its holster. Not there - his gun was absent and his Light was... muted. Tired, but something else. Nervous. Hiding from another suffocating presence.
Something wasn't right. And other things were too right. There wasn't so much a scrap of pain, of exhaustion, of ache of any sort. He felt... comfortable. The surface below his back wasn't hard steel; he'd been moved in the meanwhile.
"Don't move."
"Too late." Ikharos pushed himself up. He was on... a couch of some sort. Nothing extravagant or fancy; just something with soft cloth and some wool shoved in to keep the wooden boarding beneath from getting painful. His clothes were casual too, the elven lámarae he'd received in Cirrane. He looked around. "Where-?"
"Uren's out."
"Out doing what?"
"Out," Xiān said, all too vaguely. Her tone was... strained. They were back to having issues again, then. Great.
"Have you contacted Javek? Raksil? Neuroc?"
"Yeah. They've got Gorgrelgel-whatsit locked down."
"What?"
"Uren's not allowing them inside. They decided to respond by not letting anyone OUTSIDE. I had to talk them out of burning everything down to get back to you..."
Ikharos made a face. "Well," he murmured aloud, "at least they're loyal." He swung his legs over the edge of the couch, steadying himself by grabbing hold of the couch's armrest's with his... his hand.
His hand.
He stared and lifted the limb. "Um..."
"No."
"What?"
"It's... Uren will tell you."
"How did he-"
"He didn't," Xiān muttered. "It's not... true. It's not true."
The hand tingled. Magic was afoot. Dragon-magic.
Oh, no.
...
What had Uren done?
"If you think that's bad, don't look to your right."
Ikharos glanced right. A badger stared back with four beady black eyes, perched on the other armrest. It... smiled, too widely, with a mouth full of jagged teeth. Four tusks interlocked, two on the upper jaw and two on the lower. Then, in an instant, it became a fluttering hummingbird a size too big than was naturally accepted and flew to the coffee table just a few feet away.
"Awake!" it squeaked.
Ikharos's hand - his good one, the one not doused in the hollowed-reality of the Anthem Anathema - shot to his hip to draw his cannon, but the gun wasn't there. Holster neither. He went for his knife - but it wasn't in its sheath. Had it been taken from him? No time - nullscape, now!
The badger kept grinning, remaining in place. It abruptly shifted into a stork with four wings and a serpent's tail, head boasting two shark-black eyes. It pushed away from the armrest and flew to the low coffee table in front of the couch, the one set up on a cozy red-and-yellow rug. A jug of clear water had been left on the table, along with two cups that must have been carved from pure, pale crystal, along with a small silvery packet of... something. The stork picked up the packet and tossed it at Ikharos - who flinched as it slapped against his chest and fell onto his lap.
"He will return shortly," the monstrous bird informed him. "Do you want anything else, o wandering Light mine? Wish for more food, more water? I can fetch it for you - all you need do is express your desire."
"Letta," Ikharos snapped. (Stop.)
The stork's beak snapped shut.
Ikharos exhaled - slowly. "That's better."
From the look the stork spared him, he gathered it did not agree.
"You don't get a say." He stood up, wobbling only a little - he felt drained, so drained - and glared down at the errant shapeshifter. "If it were up to me, your kind would be wiped from the face of reality completely. You have no place here, in this existence - no place at all."
The two black eyes narrowed, angry but at the same time trying to tell him something, to point out a weakness or flaw in his sweeping claim.
"Yes, even her," Ikharos said, more quietly. "Even Arke."
The stork gradually folded its legs underneath it, perching down on the far edge of the table. It still watched him, but with a distasteful sort of hunger as opposed to its earlier leering.
"Please release my dragon."
IKharos gave a start, twirling around. Uren was there, having arrived without a sound, and stood by the end of the couch with his arms crossed and a scowl etched across his face. "Your... dragon?"
"Yes," Uren curtly replied, stressing the word. "My dragon. Release him."
Ikharos begrudgingly dropped the spell, all the while raising his nullscape as high as he could manage.
"Phelenos, come." Uren uncrossed his arms and held out one. The stork flew to him and then transformed into a feathered serpent in midair, catching on the proffered limb, coiling around it, slithering up to the Lightbearer's shoulders to drape around his neck. Uren didn't look bothered, not in the slightest - as if there weren't an Ahamkara in a perfect place to strangle him to death.
Uren turned around, grabbed a simple wooden stool - the whole chamber was full of cozy furniture Ikharos would have otherwise envisioned coming out of a pre-Golden Age cottage - and dragged it over to sit opposite Ikharos. He picked up the jug and poured water into the twin crystal mugs. "Thirsty?"
Ikharos cautiously sat back down. "A little," he admitted at length. "Where's Ästrith? Is she alive?"
"And well." Uren's eyes darted over to him. "Are you going to eat that? They're a finite treat; please don't let it go to waste."
"Eat wha-" Ikharos glanced down at the packet. Something in the back of his mind gave way to a vague sort of recognition, a spark of familiarity, but... He opened it up, warily, and looked within. "Biscuits? Wait - no..."
Uren snorted. "Golden Age rations."
"Rations are bland and awful," Ikharos whispered. "These aren't rations."
"Rations for the wealthy, I suppose. For those given to lives of luxury. So yeah, maybe not proper rations, but... Are you going to waste 'em?"
"I..." Ikharos trailed off, pulling a biscuit out and holding it up for a closer look. The foodstuff consisted of two stylized chocolate wafers cut in disc-shapes, forming a sandwich-like shape over a middle section of what may have been some creamy ingredient. Cake icing, maybe? It smelled divine all the same; sugary and luxurious and rich. "I know these. I... I've seen these. On old advertisements."
"Oreos," Uren grunted. "They're oreos. And not poisoned either - so stop playing around with them. If I'd wanted you dead, I'd have left you behind..."
Ikharos tested it with a nibble. Then a small bite. And another, bigger. And then the biscuit was gone and he was left with the ecstatic aftertaste of something truly wonderful - as well as the lamenting realization that it was a relic of a bygone age, something that would never be again, that would never come back. Humanity hadn't the infrastructure nor the freedom to chase a dream as trivial as... processing age-old cookie recipes on a factory-wide level. Never again.
"We're an endangered species," Ikharos said suddenly. Uren flinched. Their eyes met. "Humans at large, maybe, but us too. Our kind. Risen."
"Risen," Uren grimly repeated. "Haven't heard that in a while."
"You left Earth."
"Yeah." The other Lightbearer frowned. "How old are you?"
Ikharos grimaced. "Old enough to understand why you tried to escape."
"... Do you?" Uren challenged. "When I saw you back there, in the Grove, you were walking, running with one of the reasons my family and I left."
"You mean-
"-the four-arms."
"Eliksni," Ikharos confirmed. "They're Eliksni - that's what they call themselves."
"I don't care," Uren growled under his breath.
"You should. They're here now, they have a part to play in all this."
"I really don't care."
Ikharos eyed Phelenos suspiciously. "But you'd welcome dragons with open arms?"
Uren sipped from his cup. "Dragons are everything here," he said, looking down at the table - avoiding Ikharos. "Or almost everything. Without them, there is no magic, no Harmony, no world." He cleared his throat and finally sent Ikharos a questioning look. "Where's yours?"
"My... dragon?"
"I know you have one. You picked her up from the Inapashunna."
"Arke," Ikharos murmured. "She's not mine."
"You restrained her. You chose her. She didn't choose you?"
"Choose?"
Uren fiddled with one of his fang-bearing bracers and unstrapped his glove, pulling it off. On the back of his hand a whorl-shaped mark burned with a smokeless fire, like Solar energy woven in under the skin as a tattoo. It took Ikharos a moment to realize he'd seen the mark before - but silvered, the fire gone out, unburning - on three others: Oromis, Eragon and Formora, always on their palm. It was a Gedwëy ignasia.
"Morgan had one like this," Ikharos commented.
Uren tensed. "You found him, didn't you?"
"I saw how he ended. His Ghost had... memories. His last memories."
"Did he... suffer?"
Ikharos hesitated. "Not... overly much. It was a quick end - or as quick as our people could ever hope."
Uren took it in stride. "That's a relief." Then, subdued, he added, "Thank you." After a brief pause, he asked, "What of the creature? The hound?"
"The Aphelion?" Ikharos questioned. "It's dead."
"It left its mark on you," Uren observed.
Ikharos resisted the urge to trace his fingers over where the beast's claws had raked along the side of his head. "Yeah. It attacked you too, didn't it?"
"You saw the battle?" Uren asked, surprised. He lifted a hand to his collar, pulling it down to reveal the glowing teeth-marks embedded in the place where neck met shoulder. Phelenos slithered out of the way to allow Ikharos a clear view of the unnatural scar tissue. "I underestimated it. Or overestimated my own prowess." He grimaced. "I haven't made that mistake since."
"Why was it there? In the tomb?"
"To finish its hunt and desecrate what remained of Morgan's memory. The Harmony hated him. Never felt much for the rest of us, but they loathed him. And... I suppose to kill me if I broke my vows." Uren breathed in, deeply. "I think they were scared I was going to pull some dark magic out of my Light, bring him back, but you and I know that's not possible."
Ikharos deigned not to mention that true necromancy was indeed possible. Or maybe not anymore; last he checked, Nokris was dead-dead and Xol was gone. Although, if anyone was going to take a page out of Taniks' book, then his money was certainly on the heretic son of the Taken King following the Scarred's example...
"Morgan made a wish to get this sort of connection with his own dragon," he noted.
"Morgan paved the way," Uren replied. "His wish reached the dragons at large."
"What did it do?"
"Changed them. Gave them a way to survive."
"By becoming mortal," Ikharos finished with a note of uncertainty. Like Saphira. Like Glaedr. Like Galbatorix's Shruikan.
Like Formora's Ilthorvo, oak-scaled and warm and wild.
Uren snorted. "To be immortal does not mean to be everlasting."
"Don't I know it," Ikharos muttered. "So the dragons - the lesser kind, the ones Galbatorix hunted to near-extinction - are Ahamkara?"
"One of many half-born children," Uren replied with a shrug. "You'll have to ask them yourself. Or their siblings. Or their mothers and fathers themselves - if you can find any the Prince hasn't stolen away."
"I thought you were the guy with the answers," Ikharos bit out.
"Nah. I'm the guy who's been planning to overthrow Nezarec for eight thousand years," Uren deadpanned. "Draconic anthropology helps me none."
Ikharos cursed under his breath, sighing. "And here I thought I was finally going to get some light shed on all these bloody riddles."
"Just the important ones."
Ikharos raised an eyebrow. "Ahamkara changing their base existences from ontopathic conceptual-predators into baser organic lifeforms dependent on material consumption isn't important?"
"Not to our fight." Uren exhaled, seemingly exhausted. Silence overtook them, unpleasant and bitter - and not a little tense.
Ikharos raised his not-hand, shaking only a little. "Right, 'k then. But... what the hell is this?"
"Wish-glamour." Uren shrugged.
"You pulled a wish on me?"
Uren inclined his head. "It will last you as far as-"
"You had no right."
"Your recklessness cost you a limb."
Ikharos winced. "I could have fixed that on my own," he argued.
"No, you couldn't have."
"Says who?"
"Me."
"You're no Warlock; you don't understand ontological matters or paracausal procedures like I do."
"Maybe, maybe not. Suppose I'm just the man with the plan." Uren paused. His voice fell to an accusing whisper, rasping with a distinct tone of stifled rage. "I had a plan. I had a plan. You... shattered it into a thousand incompatible pieces. You've ruined everything."
"What plan?" Ikharos challenged, growing angry.
"To kill Nezarec."
"Yeah, yeah - but what plan? How come he's still alive? I saw him, in the Grey City-"
"Mierodrewn."
"What?" Ikharos frowned.
"The city. It's Mierodrewn, not the Grey City."
"Whatever." Ikharos shook his head. "Nezarec's alive. He's been alive for eight thousand years. He's been growing, feeding, and you're just letting all chance of an easier victory run away from you."
"I've been gathering strength," Uren murmured. "Chipping away at Harmonic powerbases, uncovering weaknesses, gathering allies and support, influence, weapons - and now you're here, riling the Harmony up. They're going to retaliate. They're going to reaffirm themselves, stamp out all resistance - because of you."
"I've just been doing my best," Ikharos replied, "to help people and kill bastards."
"Three entire cities have been destroyed. Three. Not enough of those bastards died."
"... I know. That's why I'm here." Ikharos gestured to the room around them - which, he noted, was rather well-furnished for a mountain cave - to indicate their general area, to the very world around them. "What have you done?"
"I've planned-"
"Oh, yeah, that's all well and good, but what have you done?" Ikharos swept his arm out in a (hopefully) southern direction. "The Harmony have this death-violence-hate engine set up. It's a fucking mess. At least I'm trying to fix things! What have you- No." Ikharos dropped his head into his hands. "Fuck. I'm sorry, I..." He glanced at the little dragon perched on Uren's shoulders. "That thing is making me nervous. Can you-"
"No," Uren firmly said. "Phelenos stays."
"But-"
"He stays. I trust him more than I trust you."
Ikharos flinched. He looked at Uren, shocked. It took him a few precious moments to gather himself. "I... don't understand anymore," he admitted. "Used to be I did understand, or... or could understand, but not this. Not... not dragons."
"You don't like them," Uren coolly observed.
"I hate them," Ikharos hissed with sudden vehemence. "I hate them. I..." He stood up, sighing heavily. "Look, I am... so, so glad you are alive. Truly. It means so much to me I'm not the only Lightbearer here. The only one..."
"Not a Shade," Uren finished.
Ikharos hesitated. "Are... there any other-"
"No. Elkhon's alone. I'm..." Uren scowled. "I'm alone."
"... What happened to the others?"
Uren frowned at him. "They died. You saw Morgan. You saw Hezran."
"But Gunther and Sindral-"
"Nezarec killed Gunther personally. He's gone - for good. And Sindral..." Uren shook his head. "Assassinated by one of her own, but neither the urgals nor the elves know who. They've just blamed each other. Her tomb's a warzone. But hey - at least that means it's well-guarded."
"Urgals and elves?" Ikharos echoed. "The elves know about her?"
Uren gave him a sharp look, then said, "Not your compatriots. The wood elves left that behind."
"Wood... I'm sorry, what?"
"I'm talking about Alalëan elves. Not Alagaësian."
"Alalëa? As in, where the elves came from?"
Uren scoffed. "The elves came from vats and growth-tubes, created by Harmony flesh-sculptors and Exodus Prime genetic engineers."
"But-"
"Fine, yes, I suppose you're not wrong, the forest-walkers migrated here, but-"
"That's not what I'm getting at," Ikharos impatiently replied. "I mean - you've been to Alalëa?"
Uren nodded. Once.
"What's it like over there?"
The Hunter breathed in deeply. Ikharos was not assured. "Almost as bad. If you and... those things traveling with you hadn't come along, then I would've said 'worse.'"
Ikharos sat down. "Well... fuck."
"Yeah. See? Now I have to fix things here while trying to keep over there from erupting all over again."
"So Alalëa and Alagaësian-"
"And Parzanon."
"Parzanon?" Ikharos repeated
Uren waved flippantly, as if to say yes, that's what I said, please keep up. "Third continent."
"Who lives there?"
"Humans. Ra'zac. Lethrblaka. Changelings."
"Changeling?" Ikharos blinked. "Wait, now, you're going to have to slow down. The hell is-"
Uren grunted and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His hands came together, fingers interlocking. "Changelings. Progeny born from the coupling of..." Uren jutted a thumb towards Phelenos, "and humans. Or elves. Or urgals or dwarves. Sometimes. Sometimes they have different types of spawn."
Ikharos opened his mouth to ask something along the lines of what the actual fuck, but Uren cut him off with a decisive "Not now. They come later."
"I'm... I'm sorry?"
"Albazad is our priority."
"But..." Ikharos weakly gestured to him. "Ahamkara and... what?"
"Later," Uren said, rolling his eyes. "Albazad. That's why you've come, yes?"
"I..." Ikharos cycled air in and out, eyes scrunching shut. He felt like screaming - because of course the universe decided to toss him a few more hurdles of the dragon-kind. "Yes. And Hive. We're here to kill the Hive and attack Albazad. Then we can move on dismantling Nezarec's other powerbases, what with garrison gone and his troops dead or displaced."
Uren's frown deepened. "That's... simple."
"That's all we've got."
"Well, it lacks sophistication."
"You can help, you know?" Ikharos looked at him, suddenly exhausted, and said, "Really. Please. I... I need your help. I can't do this alone. I can't be the only Light to fight."
Uren stared right back and - yes, there was the anger, the frustration, so much of which Ikharos felt in himself, but... pity too. "I can't."
"... What?" Ikharos's brow furrowed. "What do you mean? I thought you-"
"I can't assault Albazad. I can't fight them there."
"But-"
"They have my Ghost," Uren murmured.
Ikharos... froze. He couldn't find the words - any words, any words at all.
"They took him after they killed Hezran." Uren bowed his head. "After they hollowed Kelf out and replaced her with something else. I cannot raise my hand against them."
"But you said you've been-"
"Fighting against their agents. Halting their own advances. But I cannot fight them."
Ikharos looked away. "Dammit."
"But I can give you others who can."
"More Lights?" Ikharos asked bitterly. "Because that's what we need."
"No, not Lights," Uren confirmed, though not without some apparent regret. "Not until Albazad falls."
"What do you mean?"
"It's not just my Ghost they've taken," Uren quietly explained. "Gunther's gone - but if you somehow win, we can get Sindral back."
"She's dead," Ikharos pointed out. "You said it yourself.
"Not like Gunther is. Her death was their work, yes, but a spark of her Light's still there."
Ikharos breathed out. "Okay. Okay. That's... fantastic."
"You're probably going to die," Uren muttered. "But on the off-chance-"
"Fucking hell, you're a gloomy one."
Uren raised his eyes to meet Ikharos's own. "Do you know what's there? What's waiting in Albazad? Ezyrax."
"Consort of Nezarec," Ikharos affirmed. "I know."
"Do you?" Uren challenged derisively.
"If you're trying to warn me, you're doing an awful job of it."
"She's different. Harmony, yes, but she's got more soul than song, if you know what I mean."
"... Ascendant." Ikharos grimaced. "Psekisk."
"I don't know... what either of those things mean."
Ikharos gave Xiān a mental nudge; they needed to get a move on, then. "No pressure, I guess. Just another god who needs toppling." He looked back. "Is there any way you can help us? I..." Ikharos winced. "I get why you can't fight. They're..." Here he hesitated; she was listening in, he knew, and by the Traveler was he so bitter, but..., "they're our souls."
The stare he received in return was stony, cold - guarded. But Uren nodded - didn't shake his head, actually nodded. "You need to get through the Ezraldn peaks," the other Light noted. "I can help you through."
"With that portal thing?"
"Glasswork? No. The Harmony control those Glasslanes. Can't pierce through without drawing their wrath. I can guide you physically through, though."
"You… don't need to do that, just point us-"
"You'll need me." Uren's gaze sharpened. "You really have no idea where you are, do you?Or what you've done. You're at the gates to the realm; the spine of Ezraldn, the Great-Drake, the First Dragon, is the first border into their realm - and you've just woken up the guards."
Ikharos narrowed his eyes. "Woke who up, exactly?"
Uren looked, all of a sudden, like he wanted to do nothing more than drop to the ground, curl up and just let the rest of the world fall into ruin - because trying was just too hard. "The dragons who failed to escape Nezarec."
Ikharos's mouth was dry, so dry. He suppressed the urge to groan There's more?! and simply asked, "How many?"
Uren shrugged. It was not comforting. "Enough to make reaching Tirahn... difficult."
"Who?"
"Harmony."
Ikharos shook his head, bewildered. "Why would we want to reach Harmony? Is he a commander we need to kill?"
"No. But he can help you get inside Albazad."
"A Harmony? No. No, I'm not going to trust-"
"That's why you're here, isn't it?" Uren asked sharply. "To strike against Albazad?"
Ikharos faltered. "I... suppose. Eventually."
"I can't bring you to him, but I can give you a token. Tirahn's on our side - him and his people. They didn't want this anymore than the humans did."
Ikharos hesitated. "O-... Okay. Okay. Riiight... But there's others-"
"The three-eyed horde."
"Yes, those!" Ikharos perked up. "They came this way?"
Uren shrugged again. "Some time ago. They marched through Ezraldn's dorsal plates northwards."
"Wait, would the dragons-"
"Maybe, maybe not."
A thought struck Ikharos, so profound and obvious that he realized it should have been the first thing he should have asked - if not for hope and the distraction of all things dragon-related got in the way. "Uren."
"What?"
"These creatures we're hunting... do you know what they are?"
Uren shrugged for the umpteenth time. "No?"
"They're Hive."
"You say that like it means-"
"Airan."
Uren flinched. His eyes widened. "The... the Song-Breakers?"
"I... don't know," Ikharos admitted. "But they're the ones responsible for all this - in part. They drove the Harmony this way."
"And they're marching on Albazad?!" Uren suddenly bellowed. Ikharos flinched. Even the other Light's little drake was startled, almost falling from its owner's shoulders with surprise. "And you took this time to wait, to talk?! You... you fool!"
Uren turned, darted to something, tossed back an item of carved ivory and golden thorns - hey, his Lumina, and, hell, his knife, why'd he throw it like that? Almost took his eye out… - and gestured sharply for Ikharos to follow.
"We don't have time!" the Hunter snarled. Ikharos, with the utmost reluctance (because orders chafed, simple as), did so. He nudged Xiān.
"Contact-"
"The Amarz Amalz is nearby, set to burn the Grove - or Darkwoods, whatever you want to call it. Zhonoch and Formora are en route. I've... told them we met Uren."
"Fine, yes, but-"
"Ikharos."
"What?" he snapped impatiently.
Xiān hesitated. "There's... before we meet them, you should... I don't..."
"What is it?" he demanded.
Xiān cringed; he felt its ripple through their pulled-taut neural bond. "Melkris is..." She took a breath, the humanism giving her a moment to recollect herself and try again. "Melkris is dead."
AN: Thanks to Nomad Blue for editing!
This thing was plain torture. Had to rewrite it two times before I found myself even remotely satisfied with it. And I'd found some fun in writing other things in the meantime. Procrastination is a helluva thing.