Chapter 74: Mirror, broken
Ikharos holstered his weapons and followed. His... no. He couldn't even think about that. Melkris was dead.
Melkris was dead.
There went another one. Another... yes, a friend. Gone.
Whoever killed his friend was going to die. He was going to tear their head off.
"We have to hurry," Uren barked over his shoulder. The Hunter ran about the cavern/hideaway, gathering up weapons and ammo cells and other bits'n'bobs - some of which looked interesting, potentially useful, and others that gave away the impression of unnecessary weight. "The Eyrie lies closer to the Ezraldn Mountains than Albazad. If those... if those demons reach Tirahn and Etralheid and Vanahrus, then we've already lost. They need to live. They need to survive. We can't defeat Nezarec without them."
"Harmony," Ikharos murmured, his voice even. He had no idea how he managed it.
"Yes, Harmony." Uren glanced at him, perhaps taking note of the... no. He couldn't. Ikharos's nullscape was too effective a mask for that. Purpose-built for hiding grief - for it had been grief and rage that had dominated his mind when he'd formed it. Erianna. Wei. Vell. Gone, all of them. Eris too, for a time - and then she came back a stranger.
Grief.
All he had to his name was grief.
And a murder-won swathe of titles and boons he had no intention of availing of. A demesne he had no wish to rule.
"Harmony," Uren repeated, "not Strife. There's a difference. You'll see. You will see. I vow it."
The only thing Ikharos vowed, looking around the custom-built habitat, was death.
For good or ill, it was the only thing he was certain he could give to the world.
Uren's sanctuary wasn't all that deeply dug in the mountain, and the Hunter only had to key in the passcodes for all of three solid plasteel doors before the mountain's frigid air pelted them, before the grey sky glared down at them and promised difficult weather ahead.
Ikharos stepped out and onto the icy steps leading down towards the centre of Gorbelgond. Its dwarven denizens were outside, manning the walls and crowding the bottom of the stairs. Uren led the way, marching forth like a king, bearing a Hunter's easy grace and a veteran's scarred confidence. Ikharos stiffly trailed after him, brittle, tense, for all the world like the living embodiment of the uneasy calm before the storm. He looked around; the village was surrounded, just like Xiān had said. Two Threshers hovered high overhead, motionless, hanging on invisible wires. They were poised to dive down and strike. Three, no, four Goliaths were scattered around the hamlet, beyond the range of even the mightiest of mortal-drawn bows. Small crews of Cabal soldiers milled about, forming in the spaces between the armoured vehicles with rigid discipline.
He wondered if they were there because of him - or because they had realized that Uren was like him, and potentially just as dangerous.
Uren stopped, half-turned and said, "You are Gvîsthrun."
"So they keep telling me."
"So you keep telling them."
"It's a pretty little lie you've painted. Useful."
"I did nothing," Uren grunted irritably. "They chose this for themselves."
Ikharos refrained from scoffing. Refrained from outwardly reacting. He... was not in a good place for this conversation. Or any conversation.
"You'll see."
"You keep saying that."
"The älfya follow you."
"They follow their..." What was Formora to them, again? "Their own. They follow their own."
Uren turned fully. His expression was nigh on unreadable, betraying only slivers of interest and a strange sort of resignation. "They are the only ones who can keep up with us. They and the Harmony. You chose well, at least. With them in par-"
"Don't." Ikharos bristled. "Just... don't."
Uren frowned and peered at him. "You're different now."
"I've got a grudge to mete out."
"The wound's fresh. I can smell the blood."
Ikharos didn't deign to grace his - admittedly accurate - observation with a response. He just kept walking. There were a pair of familiar faces at the bottom, rising above the clamour of awestruck, reverent dwarves. Ästrith and Javek, both guarded - and one stricken.
"Your arm-" Ästrith began, some relief evident in her voice.
"A lie," Ikharos rasped, glancing down at the wished-limb. "A glamour. It won't last forever. Precious little does in the face of true ontological power, I'm afraid." His gaze fell on Javek. "I... I know."
Javek's eyes, all four, scrunched shut. "Melkris et di. Melkris et... Melkris et di..."
Ikharos felt the urge to... at least put a hand on Javek's arm, shoulder, if not draw him in for something approaching an embrace, but he stifled it - his Light was erratic enough as it was, all it would have taken was one slip-up for it to loose itself, to act on his grief and lash out. He couldn't chance that. Not with Javek.
"I know." He swallowed thickly, past the lump in his throat. "How? Who?"
Javek's face morphed - rage overcoming the loss. "Demons."
Hive.
They were going to die. He was going to kill them. All of them.
"What about-"
"Zeshus is coming," Javek continued miserably.
Ästrith took over. "Primus Invoctol has requested that you speak with him, dauthné, at your earliest convenience." She glanced past him, eyes widening, and bowed her head. "Uren. Thank you - for all your help."
"Ono eru astorí, Ästrith-Vira," Uren replied, pleasantly enough. Ikharos heard the Hunter's dragon purr softly. It put him on edge. The hubbub of dwarven chatter didn't help much either; he felt like he was being compressed beneath the noise and bodies vying for his attention, his affections, his blessings - but they neither deserved it nor should have begged him for it in the first place. It was... sickening, in truth. A perverse warping of what power - of what Risen - should have meant where mortals were concerned.
"We're leaving," Ikharos declared, glancing at Uren. The Hunter nodded once, a mere dip of the chin. "Right now. Where's the Amarz Amalz?"
Javek gestured east.
"They leveled the Grove," Uren explained, whispering.
"And the Exos?"
"Claimed," Javek quietly chirped. Ikharos could barely hear him over the village din. "Cabal have them."
"We'll deal with them when we arrive." Ikharos breathed in and out, forcing himself to set an even pace. So much work ahead. So much... violence. But when wasn't there? This was his lot in life; he shouldn't have expected anything else. "Let's go."
The shuttle ride to the Amarz Amalz went without a hitch. Mostly. Trouble almost loomed when Uren's apparent xenophobia resurfaced in proximity to Javek and the gathered Uluru, but Ikharos overrode him with a quick reminder that really boiled down to blurting "Hive."
It shut the Hunter up real quick.
Cabal too, but that was an unintended consequence. Not unwelcome, though. The distinct lack of warspeech and radio buzz gave him a chance to chase after the ever-elusive concept of calm. Ikharos grasped at the nullscape, seated as he was within the Harvester's hold, or rather he attempted to, but it slipped away from him time and again. The best he could manage was to channel it at surface-level, looking for all the outside world the very picture of 'calm and collected'.
Inside he was anything but.
The Amarz Amalz met them with a deep sonorous rumble, like an earthquake bearing a grudge. Through the viewport next to his head, Ikharos tried to spy the valley outside of which the Imperial Land Tank waited, to spot the remains of the Mourning Grove/Darkwoods, but all he saw in that direction was a massive tower of billowing smoke.
Leveled indeed.
It wasn't long before the view disappeared - replaced with the scenery of the Land Tank's inbuilt aerial hangar. The Harvester clanked down, engaged docking clamps and opened up on either side - hatches loudly crashing open, allowing the glaring light of the fortress's interior to glare inside. It was tyrannical, in the most inane way imaginable. Apparently, comfort was as alien a concept to the legions as retreat. No, not even comfort - psychological wellbeing, even.
Uluru soldiers had formed on either side of the Harvester, a cross between an honour guard and armed escort, with some Psions sprinkled in. Two of them were Flayers, Ikharos instinctively knew. He could feel their minds on his own, not pressing in - but pressing close all the same. Uren flinched beside him; he must have noticed the same.
"Easy," Ikharos told him, ill at ease himself - though largely for other reasons. Not that Psions weren't contributing, however... "They're on our side." For now.
Uren said nothing. He did nothing. His dragon, Phelenos, rippled all the way down its serpentine body, feathers ruffling. A forked tongue, no, two forked tongues flicked out the not-snake's mouth to taste the sterile, heated air.
"Stay," Ikharos ordered, casting the dragon a lingering look. "I'll try to talk with them."
That an Ahamkara was present hadn't gone unnoticed. Power fluctuated around the Flayers, and the Uluru officers nearby were similarly on edge - weapons primed, eyes narrowed, fists clenched.
"They're with me," Ikharos announced in fluent Ulurant.
Neuroc, one of the Flayers, let go of her Intention and approached - cautiously. "They have a-" she began.
"I know." Ikharos craned his neck around. "He's promised me that it's under control."
"Is it?"
"I... I think so. To some degree." Ikharos pursed his lips. "If you keep him under guard, I won't take issue."
"His armour bears the bones of others. They whisper. They chant."
"Hence why I won't take issue."
Neuroc blinked, Y-shaped pupil thinning. She glanced between him and Uren. "He is... He is like you, yes?"
"Indeed. Yeah, he is."
She paused. Neuroc focused on him. "Where are the others of your kind?"
Ikharos stalled. "I... Not here. Well. Mostly not here. It's... complicated."
"The Primus deserves to know."
"The Primus will get what I give him, no more and no less."
Neuroc huffed. "We are not..." she hesitated, as if searching for a term, "mules. We are not mules."
"Never actually seen a mule, so I wouldn't know."
"Mules are the animals used by your humans for farming."
"I thought those were donkeys? And horses and oxen?"
Neuroc gave him a look. "We are not beasts of burden, to bear your weight as you see fit, human."
"No, of course not," Ikharos drawled. "But we're not equal in this either, so stuff your demands."
"Are we not?"
Ikharos snorted derisively. "You can't kill Nezarec without me. You can't survive without me. Complain all you want - in the end, you're going to help out or you're going to die out. And we both know what choice you're going to make."
Neuroc's face darkened. Anger was, perhaps, the easiest emotion to read - even on Psions. Even easier when he himself felt it so keenly. "The Primus is waiting for you," she said stiffly.
Ikharos paused. "Not yet."
"No?"
"I have to-"
"Your elven companions have already arrived, alongside Vigilant Zhonoch."
"Where?" Ikharos inquired. "Where are they now?"
"Within the hold," Neuroc explained, "tending to their kin."
"I need to check up on them. Your Primus won't be waiting long."
"To wait at all is an insult."
"To demand subservience undeserved is an insult where I come from, but you don't hear me complaining." Ikharos bristled. "I won't be long, I promise."
"Invoctol, Dominion's Triune, will not be pleased."
"He will be when I tell him we've got a guide." Ikharos indicated with a jut of his head back at Uren. "A couple of minutes - that's all I'm asking."
"No more," Neuroc finally allowed. She looked back at Uren. "The dragon remains."
"Sure, yeah, but you gotta tell him that." Ikharos glanced to the towering Centurion beside Neuroc. "Which way to the hold?"
The Uluru just... looked at him.
"Lead him there," Neuroc softly ordered. The Centurion shouldered his Bronto cannon, turned about and started marching. Ikharos followed with a mental shrug.
The ramp at the forefront of the Amarz Amalz was gaping open, lowered for the convenience of the Interceptor patrols heading in and out, and perhaps for the elves as well. Even at a glance Ikharos could pick up on their mild discomfort, and noted how while some had found some degree of relief within the heat and shelter of the hold, an equal number were visible outside, standing in the cold winds and shin-high snows. Those he was looking for, thought, were largely of the former - and they spotted him just as quickly as he did them.
Lords Bellaen and Däthedr raised their hands in greeting, Arahynn offered him a shallow bow, and Formora and Beraskes moved to meet him. The latter dropped down to one knee, swords held out in an irellis bow, but before Ikharos could tell her to stop, that he didn't deserve it, Formora reached him. She looked... impassive, but that, he saw instantly, was the merely the mask she'd appropriated. Without a word, without a moment's hesitation he drew his arms around her and pulled her close.
She stiffened, then abruptly fell into the embrace, returning it in kind. Her chin fell atop his shoulder, narrow enough to bother, but not forcibly enough to drive him to dislodge her.
"Where?" he croaked. "How?"
"Almost upon the mountains," she whispered back. Formora shook, her hands tightening around his back, fingers dragging across the material of his robes. She was wrath, incarnate. Magic soared within her, just below her skin. "We... brought him back."
Formora separated from him, slowly, and Ikharos bemoaned the loss. He turned to Beraskes, wordlessly pulled her to her feet and imparted a look he hoped she would perceive as shared grief, an understanding of the weight she bore and offer of equal footing. The Marauder stared back, inner eyes shuttering, outer eyelids twitching, and he gathered she comprehended at least some of it. Beraskes offered him a muttered, "Kirzen," then slipped past to the accompanying Javek and Ästrith.
Formora tugged his arm. Ikharos gave in and followed, drifting after her to where some of the elves and Eliksni and even some Cabal had gathered - talking, mostly, though some knelt by what looked like a body gathered up in ceremonial bannercloth.
Ikharos dropped down beside the shrouded form of the Eliksni, of his friend, and reached out with his good hand - his true hand. His fingertips and palm slid over the silken weave, over the covering to rest on the still weight of the shockshooter's chest. He could feel the soft pressure of the biosuit under it, and the plates of exoskeleton beneath that. It... was him.
It was Melkris.
Ikharos, choked, said to him in the most eloquent High Speak he could manage, "You go, now. To the House of Silence. The Great Machine has watched you, Sharp-Eyed. The Great Machine saw you. Go - go home."
"To Riis," another Eliksni murmured. Piriikse, the other magic-capable Splicer. "To Stone and Stars and Rain, all resting beneath the Ketch-roof of Silence. May your spirit-ether always run strong." Piriikse gathered up weapons laid aside, two knives which he laid by the covered head of the unmoving body, a sword over his chest, a pistol by his arms, and his wire rifle - to Formora.
Formora looked at it, at Piriikse and uttered a gasping "Nama."
Piriikse kept pushing it towards her. "Take this, noble Zeshus."
"But his brothers-"
"Dead."
"What?" she asked, too sharply.
"Taksa was executed by Krinok for refusing to go to war against humans. Muervas fell to Harmony-fire. Viineks perished beneath the fangs of Wish-beasts, enslaved by the Maw. Their sires are dead - slain by Hive many Riis-years ago. Their line is ended." Piriikse tossed the rifle. Formora caught it, cradled it. "Melkris has no kin. Only crew."
"Ketch is kin," Ikharos murmured.
Piriikse glanced at him. "Eia, just so, Kirzen."
"What does that mean?" Formora asked, voice muted and strained.
"We were all the family he had left," Ikharos said, straightening up. He held out a hand. Xiān manifested, to the surprise of the watching Uluru, and flew to Melkris. Her shell widened, her eye cast rays of soft blue light over what used to be Melkris and she... floated down onto his chest, just over his collarbone. She said nothing, did nothing, just... perched there. In silence.
They had been friends, too.
Javek and Beraskes joined them not long after, Ästrith trailing only a single pace behind. The Splicer and Marauder fell beside the motionless shockshooter and chittered, softly. Saying their goodbyes, farewells, we'll always always always miss you.
"How?" Ikharos repeated.
Formora leaned against him - and him against her, supporting one another, both liable to fall if one pulled away. "Hive."
"Neirim's debriefing," Zhonoch began, sympathetically toning down his voice where volume was concerned - or trying to, anyways, "matches that of an Adherent, of abnormally large proportions. The physical description and behavioural stratagem is identical with that of a recorded Auryuul persona, a sibling of the Darkblade. One-"
"Cheirrlok," Ikharos croaked.
He could feel Zhonoch's sudden curious gaze. Formora's tensing too. "Indeed," the Uluru Vigilant rumbled. "How-"
"I fought him in the catacombs beneath the Magnus Vae," Ikharos explained, voice low - only a note or two off from becoming a fullblown growl. "I... I killed him."
"Are you certain?"
"I cut his fucking head off," Ikharos snapped - subdued, trying his best not to bother the mourners. "Yes, I'm sure."
Zhonoch scowled. "Then he must be Ascendant."
"Or he found another way to evade death. Bloody Hive..." His false-hand, his glamour-limb - it curled into a fist against his will. Rage coursed through it, through him. "I'll finish him proper next time. He'll die for this, die for good."
The ensuing silence was unpleasant. Tense. Prickly - full of too many grudges, not enough room left to share the grief. Ikharos grimaced and announced, pointedly looking at those it concerned, "Invoctol's expecting a report, I believe. We're wanted."
Zhonoch said nothing, just dipped his massive head, shouldered his rifle and took off at a brisk march. Formora, though, was the complete opposite; she bristled and whispered heatedly, "We only returned - we've only come back, we've only just started with... with Melkris."
Ikharos bowed his head. "I know. I know... but the Hive won't wait."
"They'll die. Soon. That is all Invoctol needs to know."
"There's more."
"I don't care!" Formora snapped. She shuddered. "I don't... care."
Ikharos sighed. "We have to. I know-"
"Don't..." she warned.
"I..." Ikharos closed his eyes and nodded. "Alright."
For a moment they stood there, watching as Piriikse and Javek tended to Melkris - gathering low-grade ether, fetching the Servitor for final rites, weaving small talismans and tokens with cloth ripped from their own tattered cloaks. Beraskes stood guard, stood by Melkris's top, swords bared and mandibles flaring. Her place was more for symbolism than anything else; a compatriot guarding the fresh, untreated corpse of a fallen comrade, showing that they once had a crew, that they were loved, that they were going to be missed - that they had value.
Formora pulled away and took after Zhonoch, marching in line. Ikharos inhaled, turned to follow and caught up.
"It's not fair," she whispered, eyes hard and staring forward. Her entire demeanour was one great mask - of dispassionate haughtiness. "He's not even giving us time to mourn."
"He isn't," Ikharos agreed, "and it's not right, but we're pressed for time. Uren-"
"Uren?" Formora's head snapped around. "So it's true? Morgan's-"
"Brother, yeah." Ikharos hesitated. "I... found him. Or he found us - me. Helped us out; we were in a bind, trapped by a living forest, and he got us out of there."
"Where is-"
"Here."
"Another Risen." Formora's voice took on a thoughtful, wonderous note. Then her gaze sharpened, and the look she gave him pinned him in place. "I heard you were in trouble, but when I arrived, the Cabal assured me you were alive and in the care of... dwarves?"
"Yeah."
"I..." Formora shook her head. "I'm sorry. I didn't think-... Melkris was-... I couldn't-"
Ikharos tipped a finger under her chin, drew her up and kissed her - chastely, mostly, to remind her that he was here, alive, and she was there, also alive. "I'm in one piece. Mostly."
"Mostly?" Formora echoed worriedly. To that, Ikharos held up his hand. The false one. Formora frowned at him, gingerly reached out to grasp at his fingers and muttered, "There is magic around this."
"Dragon-magic."
"Of which kind?"
Ikharos made a face. "The wishing kind."
Formora glanced up. "Ahamkara?"
"Uren has one. Or... lots, actually, but one of them is alive. And... he's bonded with it."
"... Bonded? As in-"
"A Dragon Rider bond. He has..." Ikharos grasped at Formora's own hand and slowly peeled her glove back, upturning the limb so the silvery mark on her palm was clear to see. "One of these, full of fire."
Formora blinked. "He's bonded... to an Ahamkara?"
"Yeah."
"Wh-... how... what does his Ghost think of it?"
Ikharos shook his head - slowly. "They don't. Taken by the Strife Cult, Uren says. A hostage - to make sure he behaves."
Formora winced. "Then he is already lost."
"Can't help us fight the Harmony, yeah. But he's agreed to lead us through the mountains."
"And you trust him?" Formora cautiously inquired.
Ikharos shrugged. "He's no Elkhon. I mean, I'm in no rush to put my life and the lives of everyone else in the hands of a Hunter I don't know, but... we haven't much choice and he's given me little reason not to at least hear him out."
"Another Risen..." Formora trailed off. "To think we feared you and Elkhon to be the only ones. Are there others?"
"Dead," Ikharos grimly reported. "And only Sindral stands a chance of being rezzed, Uren said. Her Ghost was taken too."
"So we must rescue them."
"No. Well, yeah, if possible - but Harmony should be the aim." Ikharos exhaled. "Albazad's important to them. We hit it, it'll hurt 'em."
"And then we move onto the rest of their foundations," Formora continued. "Galbatorix."
"Yeah." Ikharos hesitated. "But we have to move carefully. If we wake Nezarec up prematurely, odds are we won't stand a chance. We need to be... careful. Godslaying is an art of precision and resourcefulness, not savagery."
"So I've gathered." Formora brusquely continued on. Ikharos dutifully followed.
Invoctol's summons led them not to the bridge, but to a chamber Ikharos could only see as some meagre imitation of a royal court - with the Primus at the end of the massive war table, ivory armour and golden cloak immaculately polished. The fused Flayer's head was bare, orange eye flickering with a grim sort of determination and sharpened power. On either side of him stood Valus Shu'av and Zhonoch, with Neuroc beside the Colossus. Other officers, mostly Vals, raucously bellowed at one another across the holotable, pointing and gesturing towards the raised image of the mountain range with sweeping, direct motions.
The din, however, subsided as Ikharos entered, the gathered Uluru glaring at him with contempt and blame. No one said a thing, however. Not as he and Formora approached the end of the table opposite Invoctol. Not as the minutes trickled by and they were eventually joined by another pair of Cabal lieutenants. Not even when the hologram zoned in on the place where Uren had found them, where the nightmarish pretense of living trees had attacked them, had tried to end them.
Not until Ikharos said, "I've found a way through."
The Cabal erupted with shouting, bellowing noise - a cacophony of accusations and dismissals and worse yet, even a couple of thinly-veiled death threats slipped in. It lasted for a few long moments, longer than it should have been, before Invoctol raised a hand and cut through the noise with a crackle of psionic power - whips of psychokinetic energy writhing around his limb. "Enough," he ordered.
The Cabal fell silent.
Invoctol's fierce eye fell on Ikharos. "You brought a dragon aboard."
Ikharos reluctantly nodded. "I did."
"You are aware of the threat they pose?"
"Oh, I am."
"And yet you brought it aboard all the same."
"I... yes, I did."
"Why?"
"Because... Uren seemed rather protective."
"Uren?" Invoctol questioned. "This... human interloper you picked up?"
"He's like me," Ikharos announced. "Powerful. Neuroc saw."
The aforementioned Psion slowly nodded. "I did. I witnessed the human clearing a path through the vegetative ambush, with abilities I can only describe as physically illegal - non-causal."
"Paracausal," Ikharos corrected.
"Paracausal," Neuroc repeated. "Like yourself."
"He's Risen. I'm Risen. Sure, like myself."
"And you have recruited him?" Invotcol dubiously inquired.
Ikharos winced. "I... no. He can't fight the Harmony for us."
"Then why have you brought him aboard my-"
"Because he's agreed to guide us through the mountains." Ikharos raised his head; most everyone present towered over him. Honestly, it was ridiculous. Why were humans so small in comparison to almost every other sentient species? Plain unfair, really. "Uren claimed there were dragons within. Ahamkara, under Nezarec's control. Numbering in the hundreds, maybe."
The fear of dragons, it turned out, was universal. The noise of before gave way to dreaded silence. Invoctol quickly responded, "Then we will circumvent the mountains."
"We don't have time."
"The smallman is right," Zhonoch rumbled. "We do not, sir. The Hive are enacting a deathmarch - they are making haste. If we do not catch them within the next few solar cycles, then our chance for exacting retribution will be lost to us."
"Braving the den of dragons," Invoctol murmured, voice cutting through all other noise. "At the behest of a creature bearing their fangs, bearing a living Wyrm atop his shoulders as if a trophied mantle of war."
"You forget, Primus," Formora suddenly interjected, "that my people can extract the truth from all things. I need only speak with this Uren, interview him, and find his true intent."
The gathered Cabal shuffled, turning to glance at her. Invoctol's eye narrowed as he peered down at Formora, evidently unconvinced. "And if the truth you wring from him is not for our benefit?"
"You also forget that I can kill with but a word."
Shu'av snorted. He muttered something to Zhonoch in grumbling Ulurant, that sounded remarkably to Ikharos to be, "I like these little ones."
Invoctol straightened up. He glanced at Neuroc, who offered him an almost imperceptible nod. "So be it," the Primus decided. "See to this... Risen, elf. Flayer Neuroc will accompany you as witness to these proceedings, to ensure transparency. No deception."
"No deception," Formora agreed. She briefly glanced at Ikharos, touched his hand and left. Neuroc wove through the sparse ranks of Uluru officers and filed after her.
"Now," Invoctol sighed, as if drained by the proceedings. "Now we must discuss your other... actions."
"'My' actions?" Ikharos questioned.
"You found traces of Vex resistance, yes?"
"I did. You leveled the place?"
"Nothing remains," Shu'av reported. "Nothing."
"But that does little to relieve me," Invoctol complained. "Surely this is not a contained incident."
"I've traveled all around Alagaësia," Ikharos began, "and not once did I find even a sign, not even a trace, to betray the presence of Vex superstructures."
"They may have driven down into the planet's subterranean bodies."
"But they don't. You know as well as I do that Vex begin with the surface - where they can farm for solar energy before excavating."
"They also make use of hydro-power," Zhonoch pointed out. "They could have begun their planetary conversion beneath the oceans of this world."
"You probably also know as well as I that there's no small amount of coastal settlements," Ikharos pointed out. "All it takes is a single misplaced radiolarian cell to turn a living organism into a Vex construct. There've been no reports of anything like that - not in the eight thousand years humans have lived here. These Vex haven't been building."
"Then why," barked a burly Centurion bearing a Val's medallion, "are they here?"
Ikharos shrugged. "I don't know. I... inquired after the same to Uren. He explained that they 'bled down from Albazad.'"
"The Harmony," Invoctol surmised. "They drew the Vex here."
"Maybe. We can't know for sure. Not until we reach them."
"This is unnatural," the Psion hummed. "Vex deserve annihilation - nothing more."
"Harmony are curious," Ikharos noted. "They've adopted the Hive's ways. Could be they're studying the other powers of our universe, trying to emulate the abilities of the Vex as well."
"If they grasp at the powers of time and space..." Shu'av grunted, his beady eyes widening. "If they find a way to step through the boundaries of reality-"
"War everywhere," Ikharos finished. A sinking feeling settled in his stomach. "The Harmony are strong enough as is, but with that reach..."
"We need to destroy them," Zhonoch announced. "Utterly. Without mercy. Raze their homesteads to the ground. Stamp out their magic, their worship until nothing remains."
"Humans did the same," Invoctol observed. Ikharos flinched. "Dabbled in powers beyond their control. The mechanical units you recovered within the Vex-held pass - they bear curious functions."
"They're Exos," Ikharos said quickly. "Not Vex. Just people. Nothing to worry about."
"They are not even cyborgs. Purely synthetic. How have your people managed this?"
"I don't know." Ikharos's expression hardened, fixing the Primus with a meaningful look. "They're under my protection. They're my people."
"Then see to them. Quickly," Invoctol flippantly ordered. "Our facilities are not yours to use so freely. Our hospitality and patience has its limits."
"Where are-"
"Holding cells. Unharmed, Merida, of that you can be assured. We are not savages."
Just brutes, Ikharos thought darkly.
Judging from the dangerous flicker crossing Invoctol's eye, he imagined the Primus heard it loud and clear.
000
"What are these... Risen?"
Formora glanced at Neuroc, not a little surprised. They had almost reached the upper hangar - and though she ached to return to the hold, to grieve, duty and cold pragmatism forced her elsewhere. What to say, though? What kind of question was it anyways?
One she'd often asked, she told herself. So why not channel the same answer Ikharos had given her? All Formora did was give it a tweak to soften its impact. "Self-designated living weapons," she lowly replied.
"Human?" Neuroc continued. "The physical resemblance to the native-"
"In part," Formora interjected, already exhausted with the conversation. "Superficially similar, but in truth vastly different. You've met humans - and you've met Ikharos. You already know the difference."
Neuroc hummed in acknowledgement. At last they arrived, stepped out from the moving platform - an elevator, the Cabal and Eliksni and Ikharos called it, and source of mild unease - and into the hangar where the Cabal aerial vessels docked. Even at a glance Formora knew where the other Risen had been confined, given the ranks of Uluru concentrated around one Harvester in particular. Paranoid, perhaps - or perhaps not, she reasoned in retrospect. Ceunon was surely still on their minds, knowing that the last time they'd crossed a Risen it had cost them dearly.
She hoped the second would prove less prone to immediately opening hostilities.
The Uluru linesmen, both Legionaries and scatterings of the rarer shield-bearing Phalanx, parted before her and Psion at a murmured word - rifles lowering and heads bowing. To the Flayer, Formora was sure. She hadn't yet done much to deserve-
"You crossed blades with Hive," Neuroc whispered to her. Formora gave a start and glanced at the creature. "With a leader of the Auryuul and beat it into submission - into fleeing through the veil of death. Your glory is universal."
Formora pressed her lips together and locked down her mind, to prevent further thought processes from sneaking out. Neuroc spared her a knowing look and continued on.
Ahead of them, sat at the edge of the docked Harvester's open hold, sat a human man wearing form-fitting armour, a cloak and a cracked-visored helmet held between his hands, bracers resplendent with ivory teeth strapped over the leather and uniquely-forged chainmail. Beside him perched an eagle with soft red feathers, a white-and-blue belly, darker tailfeathers and a hooked beak hiding small sharp teeth - which she only noticed as it yawned at their approach. Two whiskery quills ending in glittering little crests drew into the air from the back of its head, beginning at the rear of each brow. Both looked at her, curiously, as she closed in.
Formora knew it was Uren, everything else notwithstanding. Or, at least, that the man was Risen. It wasn't his base appearance that gave it away, though the incredible quality of his armour along with its juxtaposing dire condition (burned, scratched, tattered, dented, paint falling away) was in many ways evidence enough. No, what caught her off-guard was how, even simply sitting there, similar in bearing Uren was to Ikharos. Beyond the ferocity with which he looked at everything, the critical eye he spared for her, even the way his hands never strayed too far from where his knives and pistol were sheathed - he bore the same subdued, quiet confidence (arrogance, even) Ikharos carried. Fearlessness she might have once called it, but no, time and experience had told her otherwise. It was a refusal to listen to fear, wherein the mind triumphed over the body's animal instincts.
The Risen's eyes first settled on her hip, where her sidearm was holstered, and then up - noticing her body-armour, and finally her face and ears. The last visibly gave him pause. Uren frowned for a split-second, then raised his fingers to his lips in a traditional elven greeting - forgoing the words in exchange for gesture alone. Formora echoed it, following his example with some approval and answering with her own greeting, but then-
Then Uren raised his hand and crossed a finger over his right eye - and looked back at her, expectantly.
What?
Her confusion must have manifested in some outward capacity, because Uren nodded to himself and said to her, "Ah. You are Alagaësian."
"Excuse me?"
"I've spent too long in Alalëa," Uren mused aloud. Did he say... Alalëa? Alalëa?! "I sometimes forget - wood elves are not grey elves, nor wild elves."
Formora blinked. "What are you... you've been to Alalëa?"
He looked at her again, pensively. "Eka vardaí älfya eldhrimner. Eka kenna allr landar."
She blinked, again, out of sheer surprise. Formora inwardly berated herself; of course he could speak the ancient language, he fought with the Harmony of old! It had not taken even Ikharos all that long to learn the majority of rules and terms of the language, so why would a Risen with thousands of years to practice his speech be any different?
Uren's pitch was perfect, his voice sound, his pronunciations smooth and his grasp of the ancient language fluent.
Formora duly ignored the eagle's unnatural leering and pressed forth. "Eka eddyr hérna eom bedhr onr wiol du ilumëo. Weohnata onr thorta du ilumëo wiol edtha?" (I am here to ask you for the truth. Will you speak truly for me?)
Uren grimaced, looked past her and actively glared at Neuroc. The nearby Uluru too. Everything but his dragon - and her. "Maerr kona-älfa, kenna sem eka ach néiat ástar theirr." (Noble she-elf, know that I do not trust them.)
Formora nodded, slowly. This she understood - at least in part. It was something she was feeling all too keenly as of that moment. "Ikharos ach néiat ástar theirr. Eka ach néiat ástar theirr. Mar thornessa er néiat uma ástar. Älf er uma lífa. Älf er uma faedhír wiol du gipta lífa, néiat wiol hata un aíran hata." (Ikharos does not trust them. I do not trust them. But this is not about trust. It is about life. It is about fighting for the sake of life, not for hate and only hate.)
Her claim wasn't entirely true, but neither was it false. In theory, yes, she was fighting for life - but with the added benefit of sating a desire for vengeance new and old along the way.
"Ikharos. Is that really his name?" Uren turned his tired gaze on her. "Your... friend, is he? Compatriot? Ally of convenience?"
"Mate," Formora guardedly replied. A part of her wanted to build some rapport with him - he was Risen, and beyond being an invaluable ally (his soulbond taken hostage notwithstanding), he was Ikharos's kind. Another part, though, saw the man, looked him up and down, saw the bracer snd cloak and the dangerous glint in his eyes and knew he was a dragon hunter - a man capable of immense violence, with his own burgeoning problems to tackle. She didn't want to be dragged down with him.
One dragon-hating immortal was enough for her.
"Mate," Uren said slowly. He nodded after a moment, the corners of his lips twitching. "I suppose it's possible with your people. Not easy, but possible. Not that it's ever easy..."
"What were you going to say about him?"
"He ruined your fight," Uren spat out with sudden vehemence. The nearby Legionaries bristled at the sharp tone, fingers tightening around weapons.
At a loss, Formora waited for a response. When none was forthcoming, she glanced at the small Ahamakara and asked, "What is it's name?"
Uren snorted; he saw the change in subject for what it was, but mercifully went along with it. "Phelenos. And he's a him." He gave her a curious look. "What of yours?"
"Mine?" Formora asked.
"Yes. I can feel the magic around you. What is your dragon's name?"
"Was," Formora corrected. Uren's budding smile disappeared. She dragged off her glove to reveal her gedwëy ignasia. "Her name was Ilthorvo."
"How-"
"Madness."
"Madness?" Uren frowned. "What's your name?"
"Formora," she answered, cautiously. "Láerdhon, of House Rílvenar."
Uren exhaled sharply, eyes darting away.
"You know me?"
"I know all the names of those damned to oblivion. I thought you'd-" he trailed off.
"Thought I'd what?" Formora pressed.
Uren said nothing. Another gap of silence passed between them. Finally, fed up and impatient and wanting nothing more than to return to the hold because Melkris's body was being interred, she said, "I must ask you some questions, for the benefit of all present."
"Ask away," Uren grunted.
"Eru onr vaet fjandí?" Formora inquired. (Are you our enemy?)
"Né, eka eddyr néiat." (No, I am not.)
"Eru onr hérna eom komoa nosu?" (Are you here to help us?)
He nodded, slightly. "Já, eka eddyr." (Yes, I am.)
"Weohnata onr yfir nosu all du fells?" (Will you guide us through the mountains?)
"Já, eka weohnata." (Yes, I will.)
Encouraging. But not everything. She had to know... "Weohnata onr faedhír du eyddrkyn?" (Will you fight the Harmony?)
He shook his head. "Né. Néiat til onr losna Lupa." (No. Not until you release Lupa)
"Your Ghost?" Formora guessed.
Uren paused. "My Ghost," he confirmed at length.
With one last wary look at Phelenos, Formora stepped back. "Thank you, Uren. If that is all-"
"This universe," he murmured, glancing back at her, "has a tendency to humble a man in the most surprising ways possible."
Formora curiously tilted her head. "What do you mean?"
"You. The plan. The... our plan. The plan to kill Nezarec. The plan your… mate destroyed." Uren grimaced and straightened up - looking directly at her, his expression... apologetic? "If all had gone to plan, you wouldn't be here."
Formora's blood chilled. A shiver ran down her spine. "Where," she slowly asked, "would I be?"
"Dead. You would be dead."
000
He swore it felt like their lifeless grey optics were watching him, staring at him, accusing him for the worst of their worldly woes - all of them. Or, at least those laid out with their heads turned towards the pen's entrance. Dozens of dead metal husks, tossed in atop one another. It was a mass grave, of sorts - one filled with the living dead. Some still carried the sparks of life in their synthetic hearts. Some still had a chance to return to who they were.
The others, though... the only chance they had was to begin anew.
"I know some warriors who like having cybernetics," Shu'av grunted. Ikharos could barely hear him past the roaring of his own tumultuous thoughts. "Zhonoch only just stands them, but there are others who truly appreciate them. This, though... I can't understand why you humans would replace everything."
"Because we don't want to die," Ikharos croaked.
"Death is nothing to be ashamed of," Shu'av scoffed. "Fear it, yes, of course, the end is oblivion and nothing less, but if you have lived an honourable life then death is no disgrace."
"But what if you can stretch that honourable existence into eternity?" Ikharos challenged. "That was the mindset of those who started the Exo-programme. There was nothing honourable about the bastard behind it, in truth, but... It's terror. The Exos are the end result of mortal terror - and still, they might just be the best of us."
"How do you figure that, smallman?"
"They've been given second chances. A way to set things right - things they couldn't in their first lives." Ikharos was disgusted. Everything about what had befallen people in front of him... it was simply inhumane. "I can't help but relate." He looked up at the Colossus standing beside him. "I like that, though."
"Like what?" Shu'av asked, voice steady, unusually softened to a pitch that wasn't outright shouting.
"Death is no disgrace."
"It isn't. The Hive don't seem to understand that. Weakness is not weakness. It is an obstacle, not shame. If a Hive warrior takes injury in combat, they are killed for weakness. If a Cabal warrior takes injury in war, they are treated to fight again." Shu'av rolled his massive shoulders. "That is why we win, human. We understand that."
"You, maybe. Are you so sure about me?"
"You care about the elves," Shu'av noted. "You care about the Eliksi. Not my people, maybe, but you have that troubling little thing called... what was it? Morality? Ethics? Your principles restrain you, smallman."
"It's called integrity, actually. And yeah, I'm sympathetic," Ikharos admitted. "I always side with the underdog..."
"Under-dog?"
"Human idiom."
"Ah," Shu'av grunted. He paused, then motioned towards the bodies. "They're gone anyways. What do you need them for?"
"Experience."
"In fighting their kind?"
"No, I've already got that down. I mean asking them for advice on what to expect where the Harmony are concerned."
"They're not alive anymore," Shu'av deadpanned. "Are you saying you can speak with the slain?"
"They're not dead either; just drifting in the space between. Give me time, I'll-" Ikharos sensed another approaching, someone with a familiar presence and potent power roused to the forefront, and he twirled around. "'Mora? What's-"
"He's telling the truth," Formora told him, voice drained. She stopped a few paces away, not even looking at Shu'av, only briefly glancing at the Exos with her eyes narrowing inquisitively - and then back to him, blank and guarded. "About everything he promised you - he's telling the truth."
That was good. Her tone was not. "What happened?" Ikharos questioned. "What did he say?" He stepped forward. Formora stepped back.
It startled him.
"I have to..." She gave him an exhausted, meaningful looked, one that said: please, just give me time. "I have to see to Melkris. I'm sorry."
She disappeared as suddenly as she'd arrived. Ikharos found himself entirely at a loss - for words, for action, for... just about everything. What-
"If she were Cabal," Shu'av coughed - no, chuckled, "I believe she would have gored you."
Ikharos spared him an exasperated look. "Isn't there something horrible for you to be doing? Bullying elves into joining your Empire? Aggravating Eliksni scouts? Beating up the newest recruits?"
"That comes later. This is my break, see?" the Colossus helpfully supplied. "I thought I'd accompany you, smallman."
"Charmed," Ikharos drawled. He sighed. "Does Invoctol trust me so little?"
"Oh yes, but this isn't it."
"What is this, then?"
"You killed Val Brutis." Shu'av dropped to a single knee, still somehow looming over Ikharos. "In Ceunon. You personally drove your sword through her neck."
Ikharos looked up at him. He said nothing.
"She lived an honourable life. You gave her a good death."
"You want revenge?"
"No. Why would I want that?"
"As you said, I killed comrades of yours."
"Yes. You killed them - honourably. In open battle. With noble intentions where your own people were concerned. This is the true face of war. This is the reality we accept."
"I'm lost," Ikharos admitted. "What do you want?"
Shu'av shrugged. "You slaughtered us in Ceunon. Then you slaughtered the Hive for us in the Magnus Vae. I'm lost too."
"... I don't have the energy for this..." Ikharos sighed. He glanced longingly in the direction Formora had disappeared, then helplessly towards the dead Exos on the other side of the energy-shielded pen. "These people are assets. Tell your Primus that. They have to stay until I can figure out how to help them."
"Not now?" Shu'av gathered. "Why?"
"Because the Hive are escaping us," Ikharos huffed. "Because Uren's offering to bring us through the Ezraldn Mountains. Because I'm going to have my hands full keeping the dragons scattered throughout from getting inside your Land Tank. You should rally your Psions, Valus. You're going to need them - and soon."
Shu'av straightened up. "I will report to Invoctol immediately."
"Right, yeah, good," Ikharos replied distractedly. "Get Uren to the bridge, he'll direct you from there. Be reasonable, please. I'm pretty sure he's a xenophobe."
Shu'av snorted. "I think I will like this," he rumbled.
Ikharos rolled his eyes and wandered out of the cellblock. A Valus with a stunted sense of humour? That the big guy had one at all was a blatant miracle. The war against the Dark wasn't quite through with scouring the good from Shu'av yet, it seemed. Not that Ikharos expected it to last.
It was a pity, really. Reasonable Cabal were about as rare as sensible Hive.
They were waiting for him, down in the hold: elves, Eliksni, even a few Cabal keeping a respectable distance. Those who personally knew Melkris were closest, while those who only knew of the shockshooter kept back - which included a majority of the elves present. Most, Ikharos suspected, were there simply to witness Eliksni death rites in action, more curious than anything else. Maybe a couple suspected he'd be involved, given how his Light was all but worshipped where the four-arms were concerned, but...
He imagined only Formora among all the elves present actively knew what part he was supposed to play.
A space was cleared for him, allowing him to approach the wrapped form in peace. Ikharos stopped a few feet away, wrestled with the very concept of: this is Melkris. This is Melkris. This is my friend. He's dead. He's actually dead.
It was harder than he'd expected, but that in itself was expected. It never got easier, loss. Never. Those who said otherwise were fucking liars.
He'd even said it to some, in hopes of instilling some comfort.
But then, he was the biggest liar around, wasn't he? Deceiving himself for five years straight, pretending that everything had been just fine - that there wasn't a ticking time bomb of paracausal make lodged inside his chest.
No, it never got easier. And this was pretty far from being the easiest passing of the bunch.
"We've known each other for, I don't know, five, six, seven months," Ikharos muttered - to Melkris and Melkris only. "But I swear, I felt like I'd known you for years. You... made us smile, made me smile. I appreciated that. I appreciated all your distractions. I appreciated... you. Thank you. Really. I'm... so angry you're not with us anymore, but... thank you."
He cycled a deep breath, in and out.
"I'm not much for eulogies. That's something for fully functional people - living human people. Dead are dead, living are living, I'm torn between the two and incapable of identifying with either. Still, you didn't care. You never cared about that. You took one look at me, one look at all of us, and decided to make us laugh. Decided to make us all your friends. Even at my lowest, even at my worst, you tried to help me out - where no one else did. I can't describe to you how much I hate you for leaving us. I can put into words how much I love that you shared any time with us at all. Thank you, Melkris. I'm sorry you're dead. I'm sorry the bastard who killed you isn't - not like you are. I'll do my best to rectify that."
Ikharos pulled his Light to him, searing anger that caught alight and enveloped his form.
"Goodbye."
Wings of radiant light burst out from behind his shoulders. A blade forged from the heat of a sun took form in Ikharos's hands - both the real one and the glamour-make, both tightening around the molten hilt. He stepped forth, took to the air and slowly brought his sword to bear - sending forth a lazy sweep of fiery Solar. It caught Melkris's wrapped body and the pallet beneath, turning both to ash almost instantaneously. The cinders left in its wake drifted down onto the metal floor and slowly winked out.
Ikharos landed, let go of his Light and drew in a breath filled with smoke. It burned going down. He let it happen. Xiān hovered over his shoulder and Formora's mind touched his own, just brushed past to reassure him that she was there at least, and then both left him be - all three turning to mourn on their lonesomes.
Everything felt so wrong.
"This is going to be difficult," Uren told him. The Land Tank was already moving, eastwards along the mountain range's southern border - sniffing out the valley-pass Uren had promised them. "The moment we enter, we'll be under watch. They won't stay idle for long."
"Oh, this is going to be awful," Ikharos agreed. He had Xiān transmat his rifle away; probably not a good idea to drag the heart of a demonic god-king along to a confrontation with reality-warping dragons. It left him with his bow, his handcannon and his sword. And his Gjallarhorn, but that was mostly for emergencies. Valkyries too, but they were for when the emergencies had emergencies. "What about your drake?"
"Phelenos is under guard," Uren unhappily explained. "It was the only compromise the... what are they again? These... crea-"
"Cabal," Ikharos interjected, lest an eavesdropping Legionary take offense and unwittingly revive the Red War. "As a group, they're Cabal. The telepathic cyclopses - cyclopsi? - are Psions. The big muscle-and-steel ones are Uluru."
Uren chewed his lip. "What about the ones with tusks?"
"Female Uluru."
"Oh."
"Yeah. Invoctol's guards, right?"
"Yes."
"Yeah, those two look scary."
"They're not that big," Uren grumbled.
Ikharos huffed. "Yeah, but it's not all about size. Uluru can move fast when they want. One of them stabbed me right through with a tusk in Ceunon. Hurt like hell."
"And now you work with them."
"Now I work with them," Ikharos said, nodding. He checked that his quiver was secure, attached to his hip, and tightened the straps on his bracers. Or - bracer, singular. One of them had been destroyed along with his hand. "Like you do with a dragon."
Uren gave him a dark look. "Phelenos is the only reason I'm still alive."
"And the Cabal might just be the only thing to keep this world from going to hell," Ikharos pointed out. "So let's not get choosey about our allies until after the Dark god is dead."
"That will take time," Uren growled.
"Then I suggest you get comfortable." Ikharos's comlink buzzed. He switched it on. "Yes? Shu'av?"
"No," Zhonoch grumbled. "We're turning into your valley now, humans. The metaconcert is in place; a Psion strike force is gathering overhead. Are you going to join them or not?"
"We are," Ikharos confirmed. He looked up at the hatch above. "Moving now. Warn us if your sensors pick up on anything."
"These are dragons, human. They defy causal laws."
"Still."
"Yes," Zhonoch sighed, exasperated, "we will warn you. Now move."
Ikharos disconnected. Just as he started to climb, Uren asked, "You take orders from them?"
"I follow my own common sense," Ikharos grunted. He slammed a fist against the terminal beside the hatch. It slid open - and he got a face full of sleet, tapping routinely against the metal and cracked glass of his once-respectable helmet. "And my common sense is telling me, right now, that dragons are bad news." He pulled himself up, struggling at first to find his balance and traction on the slick roof of the trundling Land Tank.
"These ones are," Uren muttered, following him up. The Hunter was dressed for war - so no different than before, really. He had his fusion rifle at the ready, with a ridiculously curved knife crossed with a scythe strapped to his leg. When Ikharos inquired after it, Uren said, "A sacrificial sickle."
"Sacrificial?"
"Wild elves use them. Some Alalëan urgals too. Usually on each other."
Combining the term elves and sacrifice made little sense - particularly in relation to a gutting implement of all things, but Ikharos was fast coming to terms with the idea that Uren was just going to keep going, keep dropping the most ridiculous little factoids. "What's it made of?"
"Brightsteel."
Ikharos nodded. "'Spose that works."
"And you have a longsword," Uren pointed out.
"I do."
"Why?"
"Because I admire the very premise of killing my opponents before they reach me and, you know, kill me instead." Ikharos spotted the Psions arrayed across the top of the Land Tank, who he figured he was going to get to know reasonably well over the course of the next few hours, and raised a hand in greeting to the closest alien. The soldier saw - and opted not to return the gesture, turning away from him.
Ikharos thought it was very rude, but then, not everyone ascribed to the common civil convention that was 'BASIC MANNERS'. "I've got something a little more personal to ask."
"Then ask," Uren tiredly told him. "So much time is spent on garnering the permission to ask questions, not enough actually offering some."
"Sure, yeah." Ikharos turned around. "So what did you say to Formora?"
Uren tensed - and slowly turned in Ikharos's direction. "That is... not your concern."
"I care for her. More than you, more than most. Most importantly, I don't entirely trust you. So spill."
"It does not conce-"
"Bull," Ikharos snapped, growing frustrated.
"You won't like it."
"I don't like a lot of things, but I do them anyways."
Uren hesitated. "I'm giving you a warning."
"Stuff your warning. Tell. Me."
For a while Ikharos thought Uren had opted to just shut up, not talk, which would've been a maybe semi-fair tactic to employ, but he wasn't in a mood to entertain it so... and then the Hunter finally, finally spoke up. "I told her about the plan."
"Oh yes," Ikharos scowled. "The one you keep telling me I ruined."
"You did," Uren shot back, just as fiercely. "Tirahn and I had everything in place. We were going to free Alagaësia, but then... you..." He looked away - at the daunting, sharpened peaks on either side of the yawning valley their moving fortress was only just beginning to roll through. "We had a plan."
"And what did this plan entail?"
"The return of the Dragon Riders."
Ikharos frowned. He waited for Uren to continue - and the Hunter took his sweet time, but he did just that. "The Harmony - Tirahn's Harmony - foresaw what was to come. Their... seers peeked through the veil of time and prophesied a beneficial development - one we had to herd into fruition, delicately, subtly. We'd been orchestrating this for centuries."
"The Dragon Riders only died out one century ago," Ikharos observed. "You were planning their return before they fell?"
Uren nodded. "They were always destined to fall. The Strife cult saw to that. But they could have been saved - we saw to that. Or... tried to. Your intervention ruined it."
"How?"
"Kuasta."
Ikharos stalled. "Kuasta? What about it?"
"It never burned." Uren gave him a grim, resigned look. "Kuasta was razed... because you drew attention to it. You helped the rebels there, who would've otherwise been hunted down and slaughtered to a man. You helped them rise. They were never meant to do that."
"So everyone died," Ikharos said slowly, bitterly, "because of me."
Uren said nothing.
"But you would've let people die anyways."
"This war we're fighting... it's more important than all the human lives on this world. If Nezarec rises, if he wins, if he reaches the heights he's dreamed of - then everything is lost. That kind of power behind the Harmony's language?" Uren shook his head. "Nothing would survive him. Nothing."
Ikharos grimaced. There was more truth in Uren's words than he cared to admit aloud - if only to avoid jinxing them. "What did this plan entail?"
"Grooming a Rider to defeat Galbatorix," Uren explained. "Someone young and impressionable, with good morals and reason to fight."
"... Eragon," Ikharos realized. "You were planning for Eragon."
"Yes."
"He's..." Ikharos rounded on the Hunter, suddenly furious. "He's a boy! A child!"
"He would've killed Galbatorix," Uren calmly retorted.
"Killed...? He shouldn't have to kill! Not at his age! Not at any age, never!"
"Taught by Brom, Oromis and Glaedr, he would have made a splendid Rider - and the next best leader of the order since Vrael in his prime. Eragon would have brought the dragons, both living and Eldunarí, to Mount Arngor and rebuilt the order. And, with their strength returning, he would have sworn himself, and his students, into my service."
"... A child," Ikharos repeated. "You want a child to win a war? To commit murder?"
"I don't want any of this!" Uren snapped. "Besides, it doesn't matter anymore. That plan is gone - dust on the wind, so to speak."
"But..." Ikharos closed his eyes. "Why was Formora so-"
"She dies."
His head snapped up, mouth dry. "What... what did you say?"
"Formora Láerdhon," Uren said patiently, thickly, with more regret than Ikharos had anticipated - and less than he'd hoped, "last of the Forsworn, dies. Or she would have died. Her role was done; other forces sought to avenge their kin."
"Who?"
Uren sighed. "The dragons. Those buried below Vroengard. Cuaroc, the Exo-dragon, to be more exact. He was fated to hunt her through the ruins of Doru Areaba and slay her in the shadow of the Rock of Kuthian - the place from whence he came."
"They... kill her?" Ikharos asked quietly. "But she's not dead."
"No. She's not. She's alive. She's powerful." Uren glanced away. "She returned to Du Weldenvarden, made peace with her people, learned the truth behind Galbatorix and has now chosen to take the fight directly to the source of all her pain."
"Nezarec."
"Yes. Nezarec."
"You would have let her die," Ikharos said, with sudden clarity. That... bastard! "You knew what had happened to her-"
"Not exactly," Uren murmured.
"-and you were going to let her die for it, for the crime of having been a slave to a monster!" Ikharos's hand shot out - his good one - and caught Uren around the neck. The Hunter gave a start, and then his ceremonial weapon - his sickle - was pressed against Ikharos's throat. Who duly ignored it. "You were going to let her die."
"Everyone dies," Uren rasped out. "And people do it every single day. She's just another victim of the Strife. What I was doing was going to stop them once and for all - not achieve some meagre, minor victory where we all fail anyways."
"She-"
"It doesn't matter anymore! The plan's gone! She's alive!"
"You were going to let her die," Ikharos repeated, fingers tightening around Uren's throat. The Hunter's weapon pressed deeper against his own - cutting through the hadron-weave with ease and even parting the skin over his larynx. "I should kill you. I should kill you."
"But you won't," Uren croaked. "Because we're the only Risen left."
"There's more on Earth. Hundreds more. Thousands, even."
"Too far. They'll never make it - even if we could send them a message."
Ikharos snarled wordlessly, pressed even closer, then huffed and threw Uren aside. The Hunter stumbled and staggered but did not fall. Ikharos glared at him. "If you talk with her again,, hurt her again, I'll string you up for the Hive to eat. That's a promise."
"Not going to swear it?" Uren angrily quipped.
Ikharos pointed at him with a single shaking finger. "I mean it. No ancient language necessary. She's got enough shit to deal with - without adding on a manipulative freak like you onto the rest of her problems."
"And what about you?" Uren challenged. "Am I barred from speaking with you too?"
"Shut up."
"I just want to-" Uren looked past him and up. "Here they are. Here they come."
Ikharos twirled around and - yes, there they were.
Dragons.
AN: Huge thanks to Nomad Blue for editing!