Chapter 76: Way of the Wyrm II

Formora ducked her head and waited. She muttered out a series of incantations to keep her anchored to the displaced rock she was using as a firing platform. Her rifle's, Melkris's rifle's scope clicked as she adjusted the magnification; Eliksni technology was incredibly intuitive, particularly since she'd already learned the basics of operating firearms. She waited - and she watched.

Ikharos was down on the ground, where living graveyard met open throne-room, strands of living fibre interweaving over the stone and earth to lay down an artificial bedding of soft, alien tissue. His rifle was drawn out, its shroud fluttering in the pull of unnatural gravities and its ring-caged heart pumping uncontrollably. He brought the stock against his shoulder, peered down the sights and fired seemingly at random into the mesh of suffocating smog and icy mist ahead. The cloud dispersed in an instant, throwing its fumes to the winds - and what passed Formora carried with it the heavy stench of choking perfumes and rancid death.

What lay ahead was a paradise in depravity, form-shifting dragons intermingling with... essences, the spirits of once living things, intertwined in acts of sadism and debauchery, giving into their perverse vices, independent thoughts melting before the subtle ministrations of their god-leader's magically exerted will. At the centre of it all, a veritable colossus among the many figures human and inhuman both, the Harmonic warrior stood with his hands clasped around the haft of his glaive. Oiled hands and slick claws roved over his sleek metallic form, seductive retainers hailing from a half-dozen separate races (all dragons, assumedly) laying on him all their lurid attentions. His throne, his pedestal, was built of smooth sculpted rock and a glittering glass-cast power.

The sight was a sensational one; the Harmony creature looked as perfect and arrogant as one would have expected of a living god. There was an unpleasantness about him, bearing all the self-confident power of semi-immortality as Risen did, but without the world-weary weight on his shoulders. His horns were elongated, scoured of all roughness and painstakingly groomed into curling forms not unlike those of Urgals and Kull - but his served a genuine practical purpose, coiling about the glittering crystalline spheres of two large Eldunarí, one on each side of his head. His eye, shimmering with the energies of keen un-life, was covered over with a dark shawl gilded with silver and gold and fitted with the delicate weights of shimmering teardrop-shaped jewels where it hung below his chin.

The Harmony, the creature Ikharos and Uren had called Samil, had wings - two of them, massive and coated with flakes of steel reminiscent of fire-forged feathers. He even had a tail - a sharp-spined, prehensile thing packed with muscle and slowly swaying through the air behind him, hovering just over the ground.

"Skyborn," Samil sang. His attendees hissed and chirped and whispered, all retreating when the Harmony warningly rolled his shoulders - as if preparing for battle. His silvered skin sheened in no small part due to their loving efforts, blindingly bright. Samil lifted and brought the pommel of the glaive down on the ground, three times in quick succession. The moving, writhing bodies all around were swept away by an unseen force, thoughtlessly dismissed by their patron. "Welcome. Is that a gift you bear for me?"

Ikharos said nothing; he merely took aim.

"I would dearly cherish it if so," Samil went on. "The heart of the Three-Eyed King? Oh yes - I would very much like to hold it. Recondition it, perhaps, into something more pleasing to look upon. So drab, the blacks and whites. Where is the colour? Where is His undying passion for life and death and all that lies between?"

"Go to hell," Ikharos snarled out - voice nowhere near as loud or far-reaching as the Harmony's, forcing Formora to strain to hear it.

Samil slowly brought one of his arms out, gesturing to the madness all around them. "But Skyborn, we've already found it. Or are you telling me there is another level within this grand existential canvas? I have made efforts to explore the weave between what-is and what-we-want-to-be, but if you have some friendly advice to give... I am willing to listen." Samil ushered Ikharos closer - and the distance between them disappeared in an instant, leaving them only two glaive-lengths away from one another. It only gave Formora a new perspective to glean the Harmony's true size - and it was massive. Taller than any she'd seen before, Nezarec notwithstanding. "Challenge me if you so dare and I will savour our battle, but if you offer me no violence, Skyborn, then I will visit unto you none. You are too precious to cast aside as a broken corpse. Too well-learned to discard. Too... beautiful. I love the way you kill."

Ikharos opened fire. His bullets scored across the Harmony's skin, drawing glittering blood from half-dozen rents in the otherwise perfect sheets of sculpted steel. He ran, cutting at an angle to flank around the towering creature, and Samil whistled with sharp rage and keen hunger. His glaive swept out, blade glowing, and cut a swathe through air and earth both with a ray of superheated energy - melting everything it touched into pure glass. Ikharos, though, had Blinked aside, the unmistakable purple of the Void dissipating behind him as he re-materialized some distance away.

Formora steadied her grip, took aim and fired. A bolt of needle-thin conductive wire surrounded by sizzling, blinding Arc energy snapped through the air and dashed across the Harmony's face, slicing cleaning through his shawl. Samil's head turned sharply, glancing her way, and he brought his glaive to bear - but then staggered as a red-purple razor splashed over his front with sizzling intensity. Ikharos slashed through the air again and again, casting forth more projectiles with Néhvaët's thrumming edge.

Samil's smoking shawl tore after the third strike, falling away and leaving his face bare. His crystal eye was much the same she had seen in others of his kind, but below - he had a jaw. A rudimentary, abortive thing consisting solely of a hinged mandible lined with metallic teeth, but he had a mouth. No throat, no esophagus, no windpipe, nothing to ingest food, just the utensils necessary to rip and tear.

Barbaric. These creatures were savages, truly.

Samil shot out a hand. The earth rose and fell without order, rumbling. Fangs of sharpened rock and tendrils of dark magic swept towards Ikharos, surrounding him, darting for him. Wings of molten fury extended from the Risen's back, pulling him aloft and out of reach.

Until a beam of searing heat swept across him, throwing his smoking remains back down to the valley floor.

Formora fired again, hands shaking. The bolt caught the Harmony's cheek, splitting it open. Her second round drilled into the root of one of his horns - and the beast-creature shook his head in furious pain, the Eldunarí clasped in the bleeding horn brightening with dismay. Samil brought his hand in her direction, and the rock below just... dropped.

All of them did.

Formora yelped out a spell to soften her landing as gravity abruptly changed directions, and just as she was leaping from the doomed boulder, gravity shifted again, sweeping her feet from under her and driving the back of her helmet into the rocky ground below. Formora's vision briefly swam, but - the armour, her armour, had held. She dragged herself back to her knees, fingers still locked around the wire rifle's frame, and shot to her feet as she beheld the towering shadow drawing over her.

"Älfa abr du Wyrdfell," Samil sang in mock surprise. "Eka kenna ono. Eka eddyr ilia eom sjon ono lífa. Onr grathr wiol fyrn un lífa líkaí edtha. Ach ono threyja eom ilerneo? Du Himmenburthro ach néiat, un strá eka grathr wiol thorta abr nuanen hlutar allr du samr." (Elf of the Forsworn. I know you. I am pleased to see you yet live. Your hunger for battle and life pleases my nature/is my domain. Do you wish to speak? The Skyborn seemingly does not, yet I hunger for discussion of beautiful things all the same.)

Formora twisted, aligning her rifle with the Harmony's eye, but then he snapped, "Letta. Waíse edr." (Stop. Be still.)

Her wards snapped; Formora dropped them immediately, as soon as she was feasibly able to, choosing susceptibility over instant death. Her limbs were caught in a merciless vice - one that reached into every part of her, forcing her lungs to stall, her muscles to cease their motions. It was nothing short of a mercy that the spell hadn't reached into her heart, or her blood, or her brain and nerves and myriad other bodily systems necessary for life. Her breath caught in her throat, frozen in place, and everything ground to a frightening halt.

"There we are," Samil purred. He stepped closer and closer, wings unfolding behind him, his cloven-hoofed feet tapping lightly over the uneven ground. She watched him approach, watched his arrogance bloom in his every sensuous motion as she struggled against the enchantment, against the living prison he'd enforced upon her - but he was too strong, multitudes more powerful than her, more than even Galbatorix propped up on a hoard of stolen Eldunarí. "What do you think, Scylla? Shall I wipe away her worldly concerns and deliver her to the vrangrälfya, repurposed?"

Another form, much smaller than the too-tall Harmonic thing, and yet still larger than her, danced and swayed past Samil's legs - sensuous and horrifying at once, each flourishing motion wafting cloying perfume in her direction. Formora wanted to cough, to gasp for clean air, but she couldn't breathe.

"The Wild Hunt would accept your gift with gusto," the sinuous Ahamkara, a perfect blend of elven and Eliksni features, huskily gasped. "And, I think, she would rise far with them."

"Or, perhaps, we should take her on as a courtier," Samil mused. "Her thirst for violence is considerable, yet she retains a distinct level of control. I admire that. I admire it more when the little ones wield death artfully - and she has done so well, has she not?" He knelt down, fangs sheening and eye glittering. "I do adore these elves. As beautiful as humans are ever capable of being, reborn in our own image. Enchanted, enchanters, waiting for us to further mold them. But I think," his hand splayed out, towards her, she needed to move, she needed to back away but she couldn't, "I won't be doing much altering with you. Nothing superficial, that is. What lies within, though - now that is disputable. And we will debate it fiercely, shall we not?!"

"Oh yes," Scylla purred. He/she/they were as tall as Kiphoris had been, wearing little more than a loincloth and breastplate from which dangled many small ostentatious gems, delicately hung with twine to flutter over the thing's smooth, pinkish stomach. Its body lacked the exoskeleton of a true Eliksni, instead layered in the softer skin of a human or elf, and it ranged from alabaster to a faint purple all around - packed with a wiry, if supple physique. The wish-dragon's almost elf-begotten face was a work in virtuous horror, complete with Eliksni mandibles and four eyes (each of which were fully bright blue save for slitted purple pupils), and a dark forked tongue much thicker than that which the Scars had. Its plumage was not stiff like those of an Eliksni, but long and flowing and tied back in complicated braids. Each of its limbs - four hands and two legs - ended in five taloned digits. The chimeric creature carried itself with the ease of one of her own people, a liquid grace coupled with the predatory stance of a trained Eliksni warrior.

She hated it. Formora hated the mockery-made-manifest of her peoples - both that she was born into and that which she had come to love near as much. She seethed, silent and still and utterly unable to look away.

"Charybdis should have his say," Samil declared, half-turning. "Where... ah. We should wait for him; wait until he's had his pleasure."

Scylla stalked closer, too close, and tasted the air with its horrible thorned tongue. It leaned towards her, head hovering over her shoulder, its mouth lowering by her ear. "Forsworn," it whispered, smiling devilishly; she could barely see it on the edge of her vision. "Save us. Kill us. Please."

... Ah.

Motion. There! On her other side, on the periphery of her darkening line of sight, limping towards them, taking aim, firing at-

000

Ikharos gasped as he rose up and grunted as something slammed into him - lifting him into the air, then smashing him against the ground below, filling his world with a fracturing sort of pain. His ears were filled with ringing and the explosive roars of gunfire shredding into whatever was holding him - and neither didn't let up even once, monster or gunners.

This one was Charybdis, wasn't it? Yeah, that was what Uren had called it. Okay.

Void flushed out of him, wreathing his broken, bruised, torn form and scalding the massive paw around him. Charybdis let go with a bubbling shriek and shifted its gravel-coated mass, only to get a face full of handheld supernova. The lumbering thing staggered back, its head slagged to hell, and before his very eyes it shifted its very form - becoming some massive furless canid with leathery black skin mottled with many sharpened spurs not unlike rose thorns. It snarled and pounced - and Ikharos teleported out of the way, dragging his injured self through a Blink and tumbling across the jagged ground as he reformed elsewhere.

He ached. Pain - all over, his body mending and rending, on and on and on. Now this - this - was his lot in life. Pain, receiving and delivering, over and over until his will ran out and his blood ran dry.

The Cabal were taking chunks out of Charybdis - but the dragon didn't care. Why would it? It wasn't just a notch above on the ecological ladder; the damn thing was a whole other level of existence, of pure power and potential pumped full of the capacity to stretch and tear at the seams of reality. The Ahamkara had the ability to decide what-was, and it had apparently concluded the Cabal's assault wasn't even remotely important to their struggle.

Its snout dipped low to the ground, its eyes pinned on him, and the rabid canid stalked forward.

"Oh, piss off!" Ikharos shouted, swiping a hand towards it - his palm crackling with power and sending another cacophonous handheld supernova the way of the Ahamkara. It yelped and darted back, but not before the Void bit into the beast and left it smoking all over again.

A figure darted between them, sword flashing - Bellaen, elven lord, entirely outclassed and still giving it his all. Ikharos heaved a strained sigh, dragged himself back to his feet and trudged his way back to where the elf was dancing circles around the snarling, gnashing wish-wyrm - harrying it all the while. Not alone, either; another figure plummeted down as the hail of Cabal fire stuttered off, much larger and punching a wrist-blade deep into the dragon's back, tumbling off and ducking down as the embedded blade blew apart into glowing-hot metal fragments. Zhonoch - armed with a cleaver, a slug rifle, and the thoughtless, reckless, suicidal courage only an Uluru could bring to bear. Or a Guardian.

Charybdis rocked back, staggering, and blearily glared at them all in turn. The misshapen desire-drake was bloodied and mangled, and still it fought on. Not that it had much of a choice. When it saw Ikharos coming, Charybdis lunged forth, past Bellaen and Zhonoch, and darted for him.

"Reïsa," Ikharos panted. "Hvassa."

A length of sharpened stone burst up from the ground below the encroaching Ahamkara, lanced it through its centre, and dragged it wriggling up into the air - skewering it high above for all to see.

Ikharos pointed up at it. "Stay!" he hoarsely ordered.

Charydis spluttered a wet snarl. Ikharos turned his gaze towards Zhonoch and Bellaen - both of whom were glancing between him and the momentarily immobilized dragon. "Keep that thing down. I don't need it getting in my way again."

Zhonoch's reply was wordless, but strangely reassuring; the Uluru loudly ejected his rifle's half-spent clip-casing and slammed a new one back into the chamber.

"Good boy." Ikharos turned, already scanning for the Ascendant Harmony and its other prize pet - and found them largely where he'd left them, the silvered monstrosity watching on in rapture as Fomora and... ah, there she was, not dead then, Neuroc tussled with Scylla. It was a competition in speed and savagery, and- "Screw this," Ikharos spat. He nudged an idea Xiān's way, added on "Make sure the targeting matrix knows who's a friendly," and cleanly caught his Gjallarhorn just as she drew it out of transmat for him.

He fired.

Samil neatly caught it out of the air and lazily looked over his way. "What do you think you're doing, Himmenburthro? Surely you're not-"

The Wolfpack rounds within the missile erupted outwards. The Harmony's hand was covered over in biting flame; Samil staggered back with a shocked whistle, and the remainder of the fragmented explosives eagerly followed, drilling into his metal hide with relish. Ikharos adjusted his aim and fired again. The rocket hit Scylla at the height of her bounding leap towards Formora, knocked the beast back and surrounded the flung Ahamkara in a pack of accompanying mini-missiles. That settled - momentarily, Scylla was still only a few seconds away from a forced rez - he tossed the launcher back into transmat, drew Néhvaët with his off-hand and fired off a furious Chaos Reach, tearing towards the recovering Harmonic warrior. The Arc stream raked across the giant's form, leaving sparking pools of drooling, erratic energy in its wake, but Samil shrugged it off and retaliated with a swipe of spear-plasma. Ikharos Blinked past, sending out a wave of sword-flung Void that knocked away the glaive's aim, Blinked again - getting closer, despite every instinct telling him to back the hell away, and slinging his sword over for his Touch of Malice.

He needed to take the bastard's eye out. It was the giant's singular weakness, its singular fault in its otherwise near-impenetrable hide, it's sole medium through which to see the outer world, to see him.

But Samil knew it too. Knew that his eye was vulnerable, and frustratingly raised his arm to protect it - groaning as Dark-edged bullets bit into his silvered skin and snapping out a single panicked, frenzied spell. "Jierda!"

The pressure of abnormal gravity instantaneously multiplied - in all directions. Ikharos barely had time to realize what was happening when the air in his lungs decompiled, when every inch of him felt the sheer presence of the Harmony bearing down on him, rupturing organs and snapping bones. Oh, the spell was an expensive one, particularly over such a large area - flattening rocks and sweeping away extraplanar growths - and it was wisely given up on after a mere few moments, but it was enough to drop him to the ground, bleeding in and out and momentarily unable to summon a single thought other than pain.

A flash of Xiān's Light tore away most of the ache, dragged him back to the world of the mostly-living, and Ikharos gasped in a single breath before the sweep of the flat of Samil's superheated spear clawed him from the ground and unceremoniously tossed him across the valley floor. Ikharos landed badly, tumbled into a heap, and he spat out a globule of blood; ah, there went his ribs all over again. Traveler above, the human frame was pathetically fragile.

Ikharos rolled onto his back, patted the weight on his chest to reassure him that yes, his rifle was still there, damn thing, and painfully sat up.

And dragged Néhvaët over his shoulder to cut through the massive hand thrusting towards him. Samil howled as everything north of his lower palm was cleanly severed, silver ichor pumping out from the ugly wound. The Harmonic giant stumbled back, keening sharply to the heaven's above. He dropped his spear, cradled the stump of his mangled hand - then turned his glimmering eye towards Ikharos.

"Shit."

Ikharos slammed a hand against Néhvaët's hilt, shoving as much Light-borne energy he could into the Aphelion's desecrated heart, and staggered to his feet. Samil roared and went for him; Ikharos drew the sword back, holding the middle of the blade in a manner more befitting a javelin than a longsword, and tossed it - and dropped back down as quick as he could, grabbing up his Touch of Malice and-

Néhvaët missed Samil entirely.

Didn't miss the flying boulder, though.

Néhvaët dug deep into the stone, right down to the hilt, and Ikharos willed it to stick. The Void Light running down the blade hit the tip, hit the edge of conductive material and rebounded back towards the hilt, towards the heart clasped in silver talons, and it shot back out in the same shape he'd put it in - as a clawed tether of violet-black, darting out and catching Samil's wrist, of the very hand that had scooped back up his spear, and it tugged.

Tugged hard.

The power of the giant's own chaotic realm worked against him. The rock shook and carried on - only briefly slowing as the tendons and shoulder-joint of the Harmony's arms tried to keep their grip on their beloved limb. All for naught, though; with a spray of scalding-hot silver Samil lost his other hand and then some, screaming as the agonizing sensation caught up with him. The Harmony half-god fell to his knees, spared Ikharos a last one-eyed glare, and lunged. Jaws open. Teeth closing in.

The spell pulsed towards him. No Light to Blink. No Light to ward himself. Ikharos, on instinct more than anything else, brought up the only thing in his hand in a vain attempt to ward the towering alien off, and he only realized his mistake when the monstrous fangs closed in on his hands, on the stock, the barrel, the cage-

The heart.

It erupted - blighted Dark energy spurting in every direction, annihilating physical matter and paracausal constructs both.

Ikharos died.

000

Scylla gurgled as Formora cut its throat again. She panted and spat at the undying thing Neuroc was holding down with mind and rifle-shot, hating how she knew it was going to come right back, but then...

Then it disintegrated. Into glittering, dissipating dust.

Inexplicably.

Most likely in some part due to the ear-piercing explosion that had her tottering to the side, had her buckling down as best she could when gravity reversed and reverted seemingly at random, how the valley itself shook with the maddened storm of confused, chaotic energies. When she peered over her shoulder at the blast zone, at where she'd last spotted (and expected) Ikharos to be, she saw only a crippled Samil crouched over... something. Scraps of bloodied robe, broken armour, shattered body - it was enough to force her to move, to draw her rifle over her shoulder and fire, fire, fire at the silvered giant.

Samil weakly glanced her way. The Harmony was in shambles. One of his arms had been raggedly torn off of, another was missing most of a hand, his wings were in tatters, his jaws were just... gone, one of his horns had been shattered and its captive Eldunarí shattered into a million pieces, the other heart-of-hearts was cracked straight down the centre, and his vile un-divine magic-

Formora could feel it on her skin, brushing against her mind, the tantalizing feeling of so much dispersed raw energy, running through the air, beholden to nothing. It had the cool touch of Void to it, the subdued ashen feel she'd briefly tasted in the presence of Ikharos's cursed rifle, and the icy-liquid sensation of Samil's soul-forged kingdom - just heightened in intensity, spread out in all directions.

He was wardless.

He was vulnerable.

He was within her ability to kill. Finally.

Formora stopped, stared down the scope of her wire rifle at the giant, and scathingly remarked, "Onr fallaí svá skýnn." (You fell so quickly.)

Samil whined with pain and quiet fury, hacking out gouts of alien blood through his erstwhile maw. "Rangur älfa. Eka eddyr néiat freohr. Eka eddyr daéda abr anglàt!" (Foul elf. I am not dead; I am a lord of death!)

"Kuasta, thenaer, eld vergarí." (Come, then, killer.)

Samil lurched to his hooved feet, staggered towards her with his tail lashing and blood running, and Formora took aim, tidily stepped back into a stray eddy of everted gravity, and waited until the unnatural force had dragged her up far enough to peer over the Harmony's raised arm and shoot.

Haina, she thought, throwing all her hopes on the gamble that her senses weren't mistaken, that her guess was somehow correct, that Samil hadn't the presence of mind to draw her into the riskiest form of absolute magical attacks - and thrilled as the Harmony's divine eye fractured, then shattered altogether as the wire-rifle's Arc-wreathed bolt crashed right through. Samil fell back, shrieking, clutching at his face. Formora dipped away, falling back to earth some twenty feet below and landing with a muttered, "vëoth", and finally beheld the wounded, helpless Harmony for a single satisfying moment before breathing out, "Eldhrimner du aera." (Expand the air.)

The spell dropped her to her knees, taxing on her already waning strength, but it was worth it. The front of Samil's head splintered apart, right from within his broken, vulnerable socket.

He shuddered and perished on the spot.

The Harmony tipped over and crashed onto the ground. The effect was almost instant; the madness of the everted death-realm imploded, dropping everything it had torn up from the ground, dropping the front of the Amarz Amalz with an earth-shaking boom, and wilting every unnatural growth in sight. Dust filled the air, choking and horrid and so, so reassuringly natural.

Formora looked around, noticed the dragons prowling the peaks on either side of the valley had all but disappeared, that Neuroc was limping towards the ranks of the distant Uluru-elven-Eliksni kill-team, and that the only things to roam the air above were the stuttering, confused forms of Cabal Threshers.

She shook off her awe and relief and paranoia, took off running, and skidded by a stop by where Ikharos was lying against the lip of a blackened crater. He looked near as ragged as Samil had been - clutching at the conspicuous absence of where the false wish-hand had once been, his armour torn into ribbons and slick with blood, and his eyes trained on the shattered frame of what had once been his rifle. And the rapidly-beating exposure-dried heart lying in the centre of the broken weapon's remains.

"Well," Ikharos coughed, perhaps noticing, perhaps not. "Psekisk."

Formora fell beside him, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, wept and laughed in equal measure, and turned her head back to exult in the sight of gradually brightening blue skies devoid of black magics. Her own heart was hammering in her chest, her nerves were alight with tension, and her every moment was jittery with adrenaline-fueled agitation.

Samil was dead. She'd done it. She'd killed him. She'd killed another of their wicked kind.

They deserved no less.

"Wha-" Ikharos glanced around. "Oh. You... what the hell?"

"I did it," Formora breathlessly whispered, smiling and giggling even as tears sped down her cheeks. It was a sickly sort of feeling, the pure ecstatic joy she felt blooming inside her, but she liked it. Rode the weightless, uplifting feeling for all its worth and basking in the glow of victory. "He won't be coming back."

"No. Don't suppose he will," Ikharos murmured, his words carrying a note of immense surprise. Shock. Disbelief. Horror - but that was for the un-living alien heart he inevitably returned to staring at. "Bloody he-ell..." He leaned his head over her shoulder, limply, and exhaled exhaustedly. "Traveler above..."

"We're alive," Formora gasped, pressing her forehead against his temple. "We're alive..."

"Yeah, gotta say, wasn't entirely expecting-"

"Shut up," she whispered, but without any heat.

Ikharos paused. "Shutting up," he fondly returned, stiffly leaning into her embrace.

Her ill-begotten cheer did not last long. Not when the cost of the skirmish reached her ears - courtesy of Neirim, who'd come out to grimly inspect the aftermath of the battle. The Amarz Amalz had taken damage, according to him, and some of it was devastating. Casualties had been inflicted; a number of Psions to dragon-claw and Harmony mind, and some of Zhonoch's kill-team had fallen before Charybdis - including an elf by the name of Larandias, one of Bellaen's sworn vassals.

Now she had another funeral to organize.

Formora's pride, her joy, her relief of Samil being dead, slain, laid low, it all seeped away - all but forgotten. The ceremony was a rushed affair, as unsympathetically requested by their Cabal escort and demanded by their unfortunate circumstances - exposed in the midst of a mountain range they knew to be infested with Ahamkara. Ikharos had disappeared to speak with Invoctol, Uren avoided her, and she was left with only Beraskes, Javek and, surprisingly, Xiān for company. Neirim for a while too, but the Psion shockshooter left her be when she gathered her people to pay their respects to their fallen kinsman and properly see him off.

Zhonoch came by just as Lord Däthedr was in the midst of offering an exhausted eulogy, wordlessly offered them a folded golden shawl stamped with the ivory signet of the Soulrazers legion, and when prompted, grunted, "Honours for the dead."

The gesture was met with silence. Zhonoch turned about and left - trudging away to see to his own people.

"He is kind," Däthedr softly intoned, almost inaudible.

Bellaen, narrow-eyed and haggard with loss, drew the pall over Larandias's form. "Kinder than he realizes, I think."

"Kind unthoughtfully," Ästrith added. "But that is a kindness all the same."

Bellaen sighed and straightened up. "I'll-"

"I'll speak with him later," Formora declared with a whisper, putting a hand on Bellaen's shoulder - keeping him by Lariandas's side. "And thank him for the gift. See to your own, lord."

"... Thank you."

A room. With a bunk. A window. A holo-projector, or at least that was what Xiān called it. It was small, but built with an Uluru officer in mind. An officer probably lying dead in the middle of a ditch, Hive blade thrust between their ribs, or an Erechaani's jaws having torn out their throat, or even in pieces, ripped limb from limb by a dragon. Not present, in any case.

They'd given her a dead man's quarters.

Formora didn't have the energy to say no.

"No bugs from what I can see," Xiān murmured, flitting around the chamber.

Formora sat down on the oversized seat opposite the grey bunk. The furniture was thread-bare, hard and distinctly uncomfortable. It was still preferable than laying out a bedroll in the cargo compartment. "You mean parasites?"

"No, listening devices," Xiān corrected. "Cabal are usually good where the other kinds of bugs are concerned. They sanitize."

"Fantastic." Formora glanced around. "Atra nosu waíse vardo fra eld hórnya." (May we be shielded from listeners.)

Her spell hit no snags and dug into the walls of the room.

"That's handy," Xiān noted.

"'Tis."

"Could be useful if we ever head home."

Formora frowned. "To Earth?"

"Yeah."

"Will you?"

Xiān hesitated. "I don't... I don't know."

"Will Ikharos?"

"I mean, same answer. We don't leave each other's side for much. Or, at least... that used to be the case." Xiān trailed off, voice thinning out pitifully.

"You're feuding," Formora observed - just to put it out there, see what reaction she'd garner.

"... Yeah." Xiān's fins drooped. "I hate it. I hate it so much."

"You're bonded. Disagreements hurt; it was much the same with I and Ilthorvo."

"Doubt you and your dragon ever up 'n' abandoned each other."

Formora blinked. Twice. "I don't... He has abandoned you?"

"No, I..." Xiān hesitated. The Ghost hesitantly floated closer; Formora turned over the hand resting on the arm of the Uluru-sized chair and offered her palm as a perch. Xiān took it. "I think I screwed up."

"Ikharos is upset with you," Formora carefully noted. It was all that she was certain of.

"I left him alone. Wrong time to do it, but I couldn't... I needed a breather. I..." Xiān took a nonexistent breath. "You know what I am, 'Mora."

"You're a Ghost."

"Exactly. I'm not like a dragon, your Ilthorvo. My fate was to find my Guardian or die trying. I found him, pretty early too. Took me seven years. Found him in the entrance of a collapsed subway. Plenty of bodies. Plenty of corpses to sort through. Found him there, brought him back, sent him out into a world that wasn't anywhere near ready to receive his kind - and we both hurt for it."

"I'm familiar with your past," Formora softly said.

"Right," Xiān replied apologetically. "It's just... I brought out the Light in him. I've always been connected to the Light in him. He's always had the capacity to wield it better than most, shape it every way imaginable. That's what Warlocks are. But... it's not just the Light, now."

"The Darkness," Formora realized, "hidden inside him."

"Exactly!"

"And this is what drove you from him?"

Xiān paused. "I shouldn't have done that, but... I was scared. He'd only just... run Elkhon off with it. It's not just any old speck of Dark either; it's His power. Oryx's. A shred, a fragment, a teensy tiny bit, but it's purer than pure, stronger than strong. Oryx was... I can't describe Him to you. He was big. Terrifying. Scared me silly. I thought... I was nervous that Ikharos was stepping down that path. I... I underestimated him. I know him, better than anyone, and I let him down by not believing in him."

"He doesn't believe in himself either," Formora noted. "Not with this."

"He needs me to believe in him. That's how it's always been. He's the one with hands and guns and swords and a killer edge, I'm the one who keeps him alive, keeps him breathing, keeps him from boiling over and tossing himself down the deepest ravine he can find. Keeps him stable. I failed. I gave up. Now he hates me."

"He doesn't-"

"You don't understand this," Xiān refuted. "I know you're trying to help, but we're different to you and your lost bond. We're not Rider and dragon. We're... demigod and AI."

"I know what it is to love something," Formora quietly retorted. "To love someone. Almost unequivocally. And what it means to clash with them, as you realize that love is not all there is between you, that there is reason to hate as well."

"So he does hate me."

"To hate is different than to be hateful. One can be treated, mended - the other, not so much. And Ikharos is not a hateful man. Not towards the likes of you and I."

"See, this is why he likes you. You give him good advice," Xiān ruefully observed. "Better than I ever could."

"You do your job more than adequately," Formora returned. "You do keep him stable. Ikharos, right now, has been teetering over that edge without you; he is not stable, of that I assure you."

"Don't know how I can fix this anymore."

"Let me talk to him."

Xiān groaned. "You're taking everyone's problems and making them your own."

"Perhaps I should," Formora said with a shrug. "For too long have I seen only to my own matters. It's... not so bad, treating what ails others. It is kinder of me - to do something other than fight, plan, or otherwise prepare for war."

Ikharos came by a few hours later. Shuffled in, still garbed with his armour-that-wasn't-really-armour-anymore, tugged his helmet off, blinked at the window and the moving mountains outside, and muttered a breathy, "Psekisk."

He'd noticed her sitting on the Uluru-sized armchair almost immediately after that, his eyes lit up with a smile, and he pretended not to notice as Xiān retreated into transmat. Formora shifted over; the chair was more of a couch, and he freely sprawled over it with a tired, relieved sigh, his head dropping onto her lap. She ran her fingers through his wild, messy hair, ignoring how he sighed again with idle pleasure, and began the painstaking process of combing out the knots, the curls, and drawing it back to reshape however she liked.

"The heart?" she asked, whispering.

"Re-sealed," Ikharos croaked. "No runes this time - Eris did that before, not me, and I've never been as good with Hive glyphs as her - but it'll stick. For a few days. Maybe less. Yeah, probably less; it's volatile. And it... it's paracausal. And it used to be alive."

"Oryx is dead, though. You said that."

"Yep, soul's gone, but His power isn't."

Formora hummed. She sifted through a lock of hair, began to add it to the basic tail Ikharos seemed so hellbent on keeping, then gave in to her own whims and started looping his hair into a more elaborate elven braid. All she needed was some vine and wildflowers to recreate the traditional style... which was well within her ability, upon retrospect, if only because there were other älfya within thinking distance and surely some of them had packed certain seedlings from home with them.

To that end, she contacted the ever-dutiful, eager-to-please Lady Eilífa - and found she was in luck.

"I still can't believe you..." Ikharos fell silent, but she understood what he meant just fine.

"Your..." Formora hesitated. "Your lapse in... The explosion left Samil defenseless."

"You killed him."

"I did. I would do it all over again, too."

"I know." Ikharos glanced up, reached and touched her cheek with his fingers - with the hand still intact. The other was cradled against his chest, the dragon-illusion having been torn away with every other magical ward and enchantment. It was going to take her time to replace them - even with his help. Still - Formora closed her eyes, leaned into his touch and kissed his palm. He tried to rise up, perhaps to do the same, but she pushed his head down.

"Stay," she ordered. "I'm not finished."

Ikharos's lips set into a thin, unamused line as she resumed her braid-work. "I need a shower," he complained. "And a change of clothes."

"I am well aware."

"What I don't get is how you do it. Look at yourself."

"Surprisingly difficult, that."

"Did you find a pressure-chamber?"

Formora raised an eyebrow. "I have no idea what you mean."

"It's what the Cabal use to wash. No water - just pressure. Shakes the dirt right off."

"Sounds... quaint."

"It's awful. What did you do, then?"

"Magic."

"Elves," Ikharos scoffed, his words belying his good humour. A short pause passed between them - and without prompt, Ikharos began to shiver. "I can't..."

"What's the matter?"

"... Fuck. I can't believe we're still alive. That I'm still alive. I'm just... I'm aching for a good sob. Used to break down after every fight back when I was only starting out." Ikharos stilled at last, scrunching his eyes tight. "The slow numbing was the worst part. A good cry bleeds out the worst of the stress. Can't do that anymore, and it leaves me... strung up, feeling like I'm about to erupt or, or, or fall apart, or..."

"Battle terrified me," Formora admitted, briefly pausing in her work, "when I began as a Rider. Killing moreso. Nearly dying - most of all, but that..."

"That gets easier to hide," Ikharos finished. "Not easier to deal with, just... to disguise as something else - as adrenaline working you up."

"Just so."

"This won't be the last, either. The way you and I are headed - we'll be doing this for a while."

"And Samil," Formora murmured, lips twisting with distaste, "proves that Nezarec isn't the only Harmony to rise to demi-immortality."

"Exactly."

"You could weep, if you so wish. I wouldn't think any less of you."

"Can't," Ikharos rasped. "I'm a creature of anger now. Hate's all I got left."

"Hyperbole."

"Truth."

"I don't believe you."

"If I say 'I hate how right you are', then we'll both be right. How's that sound?"

"Like you're showing your hand," Formora teased.

Ikharos scowled. "Speaking of hand-"

"We'll get that fixed."

"Your magic won't work."

"We can circumvent the curse," Formora shot back. "We are masters of the arcane, you and I - of ancient language and Light both. We can do it."

"I don't know that we can," Ikharos replied, grimacing.

"We'll find a way."

"Not quick enough, I'll bet. We're heading into their turf."

"Then we'll review our options and do our best to treat the rest of you," Formora finished, exasperated. "Your armour needs replacing."

"Definitely."

"We can-"

"I've already got something lined up." The way Ikharos said it... It didn't sound like he was overly enthusiastic about it. "Invoctol floated an idea my way. Ran with it; I'll tinker soon enough."

"What?"

"Using the enemy's tools against them."

"Dragon-bone?" Formora guessed. "Like you and Uren already do?"

"I've used… okay, some bone," Ikharos corrected. "More feathers, used to be."

"All the same."

"No, not exactly. Samil, though-"

"Do it," Formora blurted.

Ikharos blinked up at her. "You didn't hear-"

"I don't care. Do it. Whatever you need to to gain an advantage over them. See if you can allocate whatever surplus there is to me, as well."

"You're... really going to keep this up, aren't you?" Ikharos whispered. "Stealing into Samil's throne-world, fighting him,-"

"Killing him," Formora darkly added.

"Killing, yeah; you're sticking with this, aren't you?"

"I can't not."

"Then I guess I don't have much of a choice, do I?" Ikharos sighed. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you."

"No mercy for Harmony, right?"

"None. Never."

"Thought so."

Formora exhaled, finished the braid, and sent Xiān to collect the seedlings from Eilífa - citing the need for some privacy. The Ghost left unseen without a single word. The moment she was gone, Formora opened up with, "We need to talk about you and-"

"No."

"Ikharos."

"Not a chance."

"Ike."

Ikharos groaned. "Call me something else."

"Dunei."

"... Don't bring that into it."

"Ikharos-Dunei," Formora patiently, fondly repeated. "We need to address the... this disagreement between you and Xiān."

"Why?" Ikharos coldly challenged. Remained where he was, though, desperate for contact, for understanding, for someone to speak to without fear or judgement - and that was a need she knew all too well.

"She's in an awful way."

"So am I."

"She wants to apologize."

"'Mora, that was one of my lowest points. Ever. Only losing Lennox had it beat. And she left me, this time. Alone. Xiān fucking left me. She's the one who brought me into this life, to fight and kill and die, and the moment everything starts to catch with me, she leaves me to deal with it all alone - like I had any fucking clue what to do, how to take the news, how to cope." Ikharos made a face - furrowed brow, narrowed eyes, twisting lips pressed bloodlessly thin. "We're supposed to be partners. We're supposed to be able to rely on each other - and she betrayed me. I did nothing wrong. I did nothing wrong. Ghosts don't leave Guardians who do what they should. And she betrayed me. Do you have any idea how much that hurts?"

"Yes," Formora said, sharper than she should have, so she softened her tone. "I once did as Xiān had."

"No you didn't. You loved your dragon. I felt that. I still feel it, when our thoughts-"

"I loved her, but you can still love that which you have betrayed."

"What are you talking about?" Ikharos made to sit up again. Formora finally let him - she was done anyways. At least until Xiān returned. He was going to look at least semi-presentable when she was through.

"Xiān made a lapse in judgement," Formora told him. "She made a mistake - one that will likely sit between the both of you for the rest of your lives. But don't - don't - let that keep you from reconciling. We are fortunate to ever have such close bonds in our lifetimes. Don't squander your love for each other with anger."

Ikharos spared her an impatient look - one marred with concerned reluctance. "But what do you mean, you did as Xiān had?"

"... Perhaps not the best analogy. Hers was..." Formora winced. "She did not hurt you out of malice."

"Neither would you have. You're not a cruel person."

"Am I not? I thirst to spill Harmony blood - as no true elf should. We are not habitual killers - or, we shouldn't be."

"What they did to you, wielding you as a puppet to kill, was inexcusable," Ikharos immediately replied. "You're allowed to hate them. Allowed to kill them. They're monsters."

Formora bit her cheek. "The things I've done are inexcusable."

"Under duress."

"... Not all of it."

"What are you on about?"

"When she... when Ilthorvo fell under the influence of the Du Namar Aurboda, she was lost. Entirely. And to me, to all of us Wyrdfell, it felt like death. Like dying forevermore."

"I..." Ikharos began to say, then stopped himself - because he knew perfectly well that she had more to say, and he expected to hear it.

Formora carried on, knowing that if she halted, she was never going to get it out - and with it so close to the surface, she needed to relieve herself of the weight. "We were ordered to keep them on as mounts, as hunting beasts, those of us who didn't end themselves - as if they hadn't been our partners-of-soul, our dragons. I lasted eight months. Eight months. When next Galbatorix sent us out to assail a known rebel-aligned merchant beyond the coast, upon the waves, we... I let Ilthorvo die. I almost let myself die. We took fire - arrows tore through her wings, and I didn't try to avoid it. She couldn't - she couldn't think her own name, let alone stop to consider that we were going to fall almost an entire league out of the air if her wings were pierced through."

"A cold mercy," Ikharos whispered. "But still a mercy - on both of you. No one can blame you for that. No one should."

"She died. I did nothing to stop it. I regret that. I regret not clinging to her, so that you might have-"

"I wouldn't have been able to repair that," Ikharos said quickly. "Fixing your suppressed memories is different to returning something's entire identity. I have the power to tinker with the edges of reality - not alter it in its entirety."

"I still regret," Formora admitted. "We still might've been able to find a way, somehow - but I gave into weakness, I failed her, and I'll never get a chance to mend it over. You can - with Xiān."

"... No, I can't," Ikharos said, sighing. "You said it yourself - this'll remain between us forever. We're partners - and I'll never trust her the same again. What we once had is gone for good."

"At least try to salvage what remains."

"I'll... look, I'll try, but she has to work for it."

"She will," Formora promised him. "I know it."

000

The door was locked shut, sealed tight. Krayd was within, along with his loyalist crewmates, those who hadn't surrendered to the Barons - holding out in their quarters, armed to the teeth and packed up with as much ether-rations as they could grab before hiding themselves away. Kiphoris paced before it, knowing that they could see him through the room's camera, see the silk-garbed form of Arke behind him, and four of his Marauders after that. Not the crew he was going to use to break in, not yet. Just a show of force.

"I'm going to kill you," Kiphoris snarled at the door, voice little more than a hissing whisper. "I'm going to dock you of all your limbs, your legs, drill a hole into your stomach and drain you of ether. You will be a shriveled, starving, helpless thing - and then I will kill you. I will feed you to my dragon, give you to whatever nightmares she has in mind for you.

"I'm going to kill you.

"I promise."

AN: As I've always done, I'll offer endless gratitude to Nomad Blue for having the patience and thoughtfulness to sort through my ramblings and scouring out the glaring mistakes my silly brain didn't pick out on.

Now, December is a month I'd planned, like last year, to take a break from where writing was concerned, but my muse decided to help me on another fic where my updates were lacking and now I'm powering through it. This, though, came through mainly because I've re-reviewed the things I'd planned for the fic and have come to a couple of decisions. First off, I know I ambitiously said a little while back that I'd reached the halfway point, and that a majority of this was only the first major story-arc/book (thanks to ue1 for helping me re-define it), which I'm still adhering to too, but Stargazer has gone long enough that I've decided a place to end it, give me a little break, and then post the sequel fic.

Overall, I plan to be finished with Stargazer as its own piece by the end of Spring 2022, and I know exactly where to do it narratively. I've no idea when to post the next story after that, 'cause I'm honestly crap at planning my own writing schedule, but I don't anticipate too long after the last entry of Stargazer. Working title is Lighteater, so... yeah, take that as you will. Hopefully I'll remember to polish things up, because I gotta admit, while I love Stargazer as my first and biggest fic (thus far! Shoot me, I'm ambitious), it feels a tad messy at times - but again, I love it so damn much for all it's done for me and all it's still doing.

I'm thankful for everyone who has read and is reading, much love to you! This has been an amazing experience so far, and while I have some reservations about Stargazer now in retrospect, I'm overall hugely proud of how my ability to write has come along and immensely grateful for the chance to do so - because I needed an outlet for my imagination, and this is as good as any.