CHAPTER 61: LOCKMASTER 1/2
The dawn was breaking over the horizon when the quiet group reached the breached gates of Forelhost.
Natsu leant on the frost-covered pillar, panting from exhaustion. His legs and lungs burned after the long, tolling climb. The urgency of their task was like a scorching fire under their feet – they hadn't stopped for a second until they reached the path's end. The nearly non-existent route had zigzagged upwards among the boulders and twigs, on slippery ice and a thin crust of snow, with fresh footprints on it, to mark that they weren't the first to come here tonight.
One would think that even the most adventurous soul wouldn't want to climb this hill. All along the way, Natsu had sensed the sinister, dreadful power growing ever stronger the closer they got to the monastery – any fool who held their life dear would avoid that like plague. But Gildarts had told him that the Jarl of Riften had sent a group of warriors to Forelhost the previous morning, so those steps had to be theirs. The old man now collapsed below the broken gate, claiming that he'd be fine after a little break. Natsu doubted that.
Natsu's breath vaporized as he let out a long sigh, then he lifted his head and gazed down the wayward path they had just climbed. A crumbling pair of watchtowers framed the way, and behind them, the world was slowly turning from black to blue. In an hour, the sun would be up. Restlessness grew in their vampiric companion. Gajeel passed the gate and kept following the steps to the courtyard. Loke ran after him, short of breath as he struggled to maintain the vampire's tireless pace, but they had agreed to move in pairs to keep each other's back. A single mistake would be their last mistake.
Then, Natsu walked to Gildarts and offered him a hand, wind howling in his ears. "Get up, gramps. We gotta keep moving."
Grunting, Gildarts pulled himself up. "Yeah, before those idiots blow up the outer wards," he muttered. "Can you sense them?"
Slowly, Natsu nodded. His gaze travelled across the courtyard, where fallen pillars lay half-buried on the ground, gnawed by the tooth of time. Right near them was an oaken battering ram with a dragon's head, made from iron, left there during the siege and abandoned after the gates had burst open. Nothing but time had touched the scene during the last millennia. But still, the waves of energy that radiated from the stony building ahead certainly let him know that the place was all but abandoned.
In fact, Natsu trembled before the power, and as he looked at Gildarts, he saw that he was shivering too. His mouth was pressed into a tight line with nervous tension that came perilous close to fear.
"Yeah," Natsu answered quietly, locking his eyes on the great stone doors of the monastery. Gajeel and Loke stopped in front of them and lowered their gazes to the ground, as if they'd found something. "What is it, guys?"
The vampire kicked into that something, then shrugged, his lips turning downward. "It's dead."
Frowning, Natsu took a few steps closer to them. The high walls of the courtyard shielded him from the fiercest bite of the wind, but his fingers were still frozen numb. The numbness stretched to his chest as he reached Gajeel. At his feet lay a lifeless lump of robes and grey skin – an elven mage, now dead with no sign of external injury. Around him were more corpses, clad in steel armour, weapons scattered beside them. Before Natsu counted the dead, Gildarts followed him to the scene, pointing at the sealed doors.
"That's what happens when you don't know how to dispel wards properly," he warned. A flash of light emerged from his hand and reflected upon a layer of magicka that surrounded the monastery. "Wards like these are lost arts. All magic was reflected from the ward, multiplied in destructive energy as it was unleashed against them. Their insides simply vaporized instantly. At least they didn't have to suffer long."
Natsu hid his gulp as he noticed the faint red stains on the snow next to the faces of the dead, as if life had escaped their bodies in a single, last breath. Without a doubt, this was the group the Jarl had sent here, and that's how far they had gotten. Barely to the doorstep.
Natsu glanced at Gildarts. "Can you dispel this, then?"
Gildarts spread his hands, palms turned to the slowly brightening sky. Loke and Gajeel stared at him in silence – there was uncertainty in the old mage, one kind of that he didn't dare to utter out loud. They all knew he had no other choice than to dispel this, or die trying, killing them all.
"Get back," Gildarts commanded. "This could get ugly."
Without protests, they all gave their distance. Natsu pulled his hood over his head with shivering hands and kept it still, as the wild winds tried to push it back. He stood between Gajeel and Loke, watching how Gildarts positioned himself right at the doors and placed his hands directly atop the invisible ward. Each of them held their breaths when he began to chant.
Natsu couldn't hear the words, but it was like a prayer, something to help him concentrate on dispelling the wards. Gildarts closed his eyes and lowered his head, as if too tired to hold it up, and as the words flowed from his mouth, the ward began to change. It simmered with power. From his hands, energy seeped into the ward like blood spreading on the mirror-calm lake, angering the spell, breaking the age-old serenity.
Soon, the calm emerged into a storm. Natsu was nearly thrown back from the strength that reflected from the ward – it was no longer a waveless pond, but a raging ocean, with waves tall enough to swallow worlds whole. The ward had guarded this sanctuary for ages, grown from magic into a conscious being, and it certainly didn't want to let them pass. The waves washed over the air, the ward began to crack, and Gildarts's chant grew louder as the storm intensified. Natsu shielded his face with his elbow, turning his side to the doors.
"I command thee, open!"
Then, the spell fell apart.
Shards of magicka were thrown forward with a massive burst of energy. Natsu enveloped himself into a steadfast ward. The projectile shards broke against his spell like pieces of ice. Loke hid behind a stone pillar while Gajeel reflected the pieces with a ward of his own. The dust began to settle and amongst all that mess, stood Gildarts. He lowered his hands and lifted his eyes, basked in the sound of old iron pushing open. Upon his will, the wards had fell, and the doors to the monastery were flung ajar.
"After you, gentlemen," Gildarts said, then stepped out of the way, this voice almost a whistle. Deep lines of exhaustion were formed on his pale face – in this state, breaking the wards had been almost too much for him. How long would he be able to carry on? "A breach like this won't go unnoticed. They'll know we are here."
When Loke and Gajeel headed to the door, Natsu remained still. He stared into the darkness ahead, still sensing the dreadful power all over him, as if he was thrown into the frozen dark sea where the pressure ground his bones into meal. On their way here, Gildarts had asked if he was afraid. He was now, to the point where it was pointless to deny it, frightened to the core.
Lucy was somewhere out there, lost in that darkness, and he still didn't know if they had what it took to save her – if he had what it would take, if he was strong enough, for here, his mind was filled with doubt. He was walking straight into the den of monsters, but the one true weapon he could fight them was hope.
The hope of seeing the sunset with her again.
As Gildarts beckoned with haste, Natsu followed him, his heart heavy with hesitation. Despite the importance of saving Lucy, he still struggled to concentrate on the task ahead. Since they had stopped by the river, while they climbed up that mountain, Natsu's mind kept slipping back to his father – or the man he had believed to have been his father. The grumpy old man had hated him from the cradle, and now he finally knew why.
Because he wasn't his son.
That wasn't an absolute truth, merely an assumption, but it made perfect sense. It had been so obvious he should've seen it earlier. When he had looked at his brother, he had seen Willem of Dragonbridge – raven black hair, dark eyes, and broad shoulders, when Natsu had been nothing alike. Even strangers had wondered how two brothers could look so different. Natsu had always thought he had just gotten after his mother, but if he'd look at his own reflection now, he didn't know who he'd see.
Only a stranger.
From time to time, during these years, he found himself missing his mother. There were things he had wanted to ask her, like how did she make that apple pie, how to find those certain yellow mushrooms he really liked, and what had been the tale she always told to him before bed. Those had been ordinary questions Natsu often found himself wondering, pieces of everyday life, only to be followed by a wistful realization that he'd never get to ask anything from her again. And now, the greatest of questions lingered in the back of his mind.
Mom, who's my real father? He would ask if given a chance. What really happened? Why am I here?
The answer could be anything. It troubled him to think about it – probably no child wanted to think about their parents' lovemaking – but for some reason, his mother had laid with some other than her husband, and Natsu was the result. A bastard. It had been what Willem had called him so many times, yet he still never realised that he actually was a bastard. Damn it, even Cana, Gildarts's daughter, had asked if he was a bastard. Just an accident, he had answered. And maybe that was half of a truth, too. After Zeref, his mother had gone nine years without having another child. Maybe she thought she'd be fruitless, when in fact, it had been Willem whose seed had gone bad a while ago.
Then whose blood runs in my veins?
But for now, those questions had no room to exist. As they walked into the entry hall of the monastery and filled their lungs with dusty air, Natsu tried to banish those thoughts to the back of his mind. He'd bring them to daylight again, but not here, not until he'd have Lucy safe in his arms again. Whatever he had inherited from his real father, he'd use it to protect what he loved. And maybe there was solace in that. He'd always thought that he'd become a monster like Willem had been, as if that was a curse of blood, but now he knew he wouldn't.
He just hoped that the truth wouldn't be something far worse.
The door behind them closed right when the first rays of the rising sun peeked behind the mountains. Natsu squinted his eyes as Gildarts broke the darkness by casting a ball of magelight above him, painting long shadows on the walls. They all fell silent. To behold such a sight was haunting, by the very definition of the word, and more than that. Natsu had been in many Nordic ruins, but not one had been as ominous as this.
A faint sense of reminiscence occurred to him as he studied the architecture, unable to take a single step forward, too afraid to say one more word. The city of Labyrinthian had been built in the same manner. When he had been lost in the crypt there, he'd seen structures similar to this entry hall. The carvings and symbols on the walls were the same, the images of animal spirits the old Nords worshipped as gods, and the head deity of them all had been a dragon. They had arrived on a sacred ground that had eagerly drunk so much blood, yet was still thirsty for more.
But the most haunting thing was the silence.
The howls of the wind were blocked out by thick, windowless walls. Natsu could hear his own heartbeat, the sound of Loke nervously tapping his fingers to his mail, and Gildarts's ragged breathing – Gajeel was as quiet as an undead vampire ever could. Other than that, there was no sound in the hall, just eerie silence.
"Do not mistake this silence as safety. We are not alone, and we are being expected, remember that," Gildarts said, the pauses between his words long. He cleared his throat, gasped for air, and then continued. "Yet Natsu is the only one they want alive."
That's probably worse, Natsu thought, but he just nodded. "So, where do we go from here?"
Gildarts turned his gaze to the hallway ahead. "Forward."
On his lead, they followed him deeper into the darkness.
How long have I been awake?
The thought had crossed Lucy's mind very often, yet the sense of time seemed to slip right through her. Pain enveloped her into a foggy cloud, her surroundings fading into it. Only a few highlights reached her understanding – the stone altar she lay on, the chains around her ankles and wrists with sturdy locks to keep her still, and the presence of eminent power right beside her. It had been watching her, speaking to her, and waiting for her to answer.
But she didn't.
"Ful Dovahkiin, hi los mek rok. Pahlok ahrk mey. Hi qahnaar wah koraav pruzaan fah hi ahrk win jul. Fent zu'u fun nii wah hi tiid?"
So, Dragonborn, you are like him. Arrogant and foolish. She was being compared directly to Miraak for disobedience and insolence, but it told more about them – she wasn't quite in a mood to cooperate while chained down and barely conscious. She knew they didn't want to work with her, they only wanted to use her.
Lucy turned her head away from the voice. Her vision was still shrouded in darkness – there were few others in the place as well, but she could only see the outlines of the priest named Rahgot. A tall man in robes, wearing a mask from where the magic radiated. A shape of a shadowy cross was behind his back, but Lucy couldn't yet comprehend what it was. As he walked back and forth near her, his dry joints creaked along the movements. He was quiet now, still as he waited for her answer.
And again, she didn't.
"Still, you don't answer," Rahgot muttered rashly. "Must I use this… guttural language of yours?"
Lucy halted. The priest spoke with an obscure accent when he switched to the common tongue, as if he had once known it, but not spoken a word in thousands of years. Steps echoed in the hall, he closed in, stopping right next to her. She had understood every word so far, but her silence made him think he hadn't. And just to waste his time, Lucy nodded.
"So, we shall start from the beginning. The Order has finally caught you, Dragonborn. We knew this day would come. Alduin and Dragonborn return at once, such was prophesied long ago," Rahgot told. "All these years, I've waited for the promised day and kept the Order breathing. And now, across this land, my… subordinates are searching the sealed crypts where my brethren lay, waiting to be awakened. It's a synergy. Just as Alduin resurrects his fallen kin, so do we. It's a sacred symbiosis between dragon and men that shall not be disturbed. And you, Dragonborn… you are the very crown of this union."
All this she already knew. What Miraak hadn't already revealed to her, Milmurnir's memories had filled in the gaps. She let the words echo empty in the hall without her answer. She just nodded again, and the pain of the small movement was enough to blind her for a moment. Just as Miraak had said, she was grievously hurt. She couldn't locate her wounds, as if her whole body had been pushed through the mangler and then someone had collected the scraps and sown her together. If she had bled, it had been stopped, but no effort was made to further heal her wounds.
'Will they let me slip to the verge of death?' Lucy wondered. It seemed more likely each moment, as her lifeforce kept weakening. They knew they couldn't force them to their side if she had strength left to resist – now they waited for the time to come, for the lights of her soul to dim out, so that they could bind her into eternal darkness.
"Because Alduin, he shall eradicate this world and create a new one from the ashes of the old, and you shall help him. That is your destiny, Dragonborn. To wield Alduin's power as yours when the day comes, to shatter the skies and free us from this mortal prison of Nirn. And that day… that's long postponed, but now it approaches faster than any storm. The final day of darkness, before it all turns to light – it's our honour and duty as the Order to lead mankind to the new world. Do you understand what I am saying to you?"
Rahgot walked around the altar, crouched beside her, his mask half a feet away from her face. From this close, she could see it clearly. Forged from some ancient green ore, heavy with strange enchantments that did not originate from any common magic. That was dragonblood. The Order formed that covenant between dragons and mankind, and it was sealed in blood, forged in these masks, and when Lucy concentrated on the energy and connected it to Milmurnir's memories, she could recognize the certain dragon whose power Rahgot shared.
Agnoslok.
Yet once, Rahgot had not been the leader of the Order. He was made a priest for his unmatched physical strength, but there had been others – just as Lucy could now recall the names of the First Eight, she knew their mortal servants as well. Most of them had been laid to rest during the Dragon War, but as long as they wore those masks, they shared the longevity and immortality of their dragons. Some were sleeping in their crypts, but not all. She could see glimpses of memories – one priest guarding a great portal atop a mountain, one haunting the halls of a forgotten castle, yet the details slipped from her grasp.
"Answer me, Dragonborn," the priest whispered calmly, as if staring right into Lucy's eyes through his mask. When her lips stayed sealed, a wave of energy rushed forward from the priest – a wave of demanding rage, brutal force, to make her speak. "Answer me."
It was a rage she had known before.
Shivering, Lucy closed her eyes. "I… I understand," she whispered, her tongue heavy as she tried to form the words, as if paralyzing poison had been poured down her throat. Then, the stream of her thoughts came to an abrupt halt.
Paralyzing poison, she repeated in her mind.
His answer resembled a dry chuckle. "Good. But do you… oppose the plan, as your predecessor did? Will you try to rebel against it out of your selfishness, for fondness of this pitiful world, or will you seek for the greater good with the rest of the Order?" He paused for a brief moment. "Are you with us, or are you against us, Dragonborn?"
Carefully, Lucy tried to move her toes. Nothing happened. When she tried to curl her fingers into a wrist, her hands remained still and dead. The pain had torn her focus, but now she could taste the bitterness in her mouth. The poison must've paralyzed her from the neck down, to make sure she wouldn't break from her chains. Rahgot's question had only one right answer: she'd be with them, or they'd force her to be. And even if she'd agree, they'd still force her, just to be sure.
Yet there, they had fatally underestimated her.
No chains would ever hold a Dragonborn in place.
She thought for a moment, knowing the priest's patience wouldn't last forever. She had no strength to shout or cast spells. The streams of magicka within her felt frozen and blocked, as if the alchemy in the poison had been strong enough to restrain her soul as well. But those only worked for her body – if she'd reach out to the strength of the dragons within her, she could break through the paralyze, break free and fight them, probably escape if she was lucky.
But until then, she had to pretend she'd be with them, even if they'd both know it was a lie.
She nodded slowly.
Then Rahgot continued his monologue about the world's end, the great plans about the dragons shouting the sky apart and shattering whole Aetherius, swallowing the planes of Oblivion, until nothing but the Void was left. As she had already heard this story, Lucy's vision shifted to the memory, the shards of knowledge she had obtained. Just as Miraak had told her, Milmurnir was a great victory, and now she knew why.
Milmurnir, the loyal son of Odahviing, had never died.
Soon after Alduin's defeat, most dragons fell as well. The armies of men had grown in number and strength, and now they hunted down the Eight and their underlings in bloody and long battles. In a place where Riften was later built, Odahviing met his fate in the hands of the old Tongues, brought down by the terrifying weapon they had manufactured. Knowing the defeat was unavoidable, Odahviing had told Milmurnir to leave, and not return until he'd be called again.
So, Milmurnir had secluded far into Jerall mountains and waited there for thousands of years. He knew the fates his brethren had met, yet he had been far from the scenes where the techniques were unleashed – had he been there, he would've been killed as well. But now, all the knowledge Milmurnir gathered during the thousands of years belonged to Lucy.
Once in the past, the World-Eater created eight dragons from his own soul, giving each a fragment of his own power. They were the first. From them, the entire dragon race had grown, generation by generation, yet ever weakening – those dragons hatched now were merely shadows of their predecessors. The names of the First Eight were Vulthyruol, Durnehviir, twin dragons Voslaarum and Naaslaarum, Odahviing, Numinex, Paathurnax, and Agnoslok. That much Lucy could recall clearly, as Milmurnir had known them – she could see flashes of memories, the eight flying by Alduin's side, wreaking destruction upon his command, yet then, the visions grew cloudy.
But for certain, the power radiating from the green mask of Rahgot could be connected directly to Agnoslok – a fierce dragon who the old Nords had called Acnologia, the prophet of the end, the ender of eras.
Out of the First Eight, he had been the most dreaded one.
The literal meaning of his name was Burn, Strike, Skies, as his flames had poured down from the bloodred sky to desolate the worlds below. The depiction of Alduin's rage, his wrath incarnate, a flame that Lucy knew so well in her heart. Acnologia had been the one who survived for the longest. Legends told that he was wounded in the same battle where Numinex was caught, and then he had disappeared for centuries. But in frequent intervals of time, he appeared around Tamriel to remind humans that the dragons were all but gone.
It had been the end of the First Era, almost three thousand years after Alduin's fall, when the mysterious Tsaesci folk from the continent of Akavir invaded Tamriel and brought their unknown magic with them. History was long and complicated, but eventually, they became known as the Dragonguard under the command of a Dragonborn Emperor, Reman Cyrodiil. They built the Sky Haven Temple, the one Lucy was now seeking, and they were the ones who finally managed to defeat Acnologia and end the menace that had carried on for centuries.
And according to Milmurnir's knowledge, the Dragonguard didn't just kill Acnologia. They devised a plan to secure that he'd never return to the skies – they buried his remains, yet with their magic, they separated the essence of his flame from his soul, and hid it away for centuries. It had been supposed to be lost forever, but perhaps by a chance of fate, the flame was brought back to daylight, to be used as a weapon against the dragonkind.
Because now, Natsu carried that fire within him.
She'd felt that in Riften, when he had unleashed the dragonfire – never before had she known the strength he had carried all this time, but now she did. When Lucy had been lost in the desolate planes within her, she had been searching for him, drawn to his flame. It was a relief to realise that she remembered his name now, remembered his face, yet she didn't know where he was. He was alive, she was sure of it, but somewhere else, away from her, yet still the distance between them felt so small. He'd search for her, find her, and then the whole Order would regret ever separating them.
Because compared to him, this priest was nothing but a shadow of a dragon.
Silence fell again, and Lucy glanced at the masked man. She hadn't heard a word he had said in a while. It mattered very little to her. She already knew what he wanted: to turn her into a herald of apocalypse, as Miraak was once supposed to be. Strip her from her heroic soul and noble fate, corrupting her with a darkness that would bleed through her, and cover the world in one final shadow.
And with all strength she had left, she would stop that from happening.
Suddenly, a burst of energy swept across the hall – as if a magical shield nearby had collapsed with a fierce explosion. Silence fell as the energy dissolved. Rahgot turned his gaze to where it had been, but made no reaction, as if he had been expecting that to happen. Lucy held her breath. Whatever time she had to regain her power had just run out.
"But I know you are not ready," Rahgot said then. "How could you be? We raised him since he was just a boy, and he still wasn't ready, he still turned against us with that wicked rebellion of his. It's in your nature, as Akatosh created you to fulfil what he had left undone. You've grown into deception and adoration of this world, it's become a part of you... and we shall not make the same mistake again." He stopped next to her, and Lucy turned her gaze to the priest. "Instead of giving you the illusion of free choice, I'm taking the liberty of choosing for you."
Then he turned, gesturing towards his three generals, who'd stood in the back of the chamber. They were nearly as old as Rahgot, sharing fractures of the high priest's power. As she sensed them approach, Lucy closed her eyes. Four hands were lifted above her, and when sinister magic began to pour down, she slipped to her own world, taking refuge from the desolate realms within her soul. There, no harm could ever reach her, or so she thought.
Hold on, she whispered as she entered the dome of dead dragons, this time upon her own will. Hold on for just a moment longer.
As they proceeded deeper into the monastery, Natsu was more and more certain that they weren't alone in these dim halls.
He walked behind Gildarts, half-blinded by the brightness of his magelight. Loke came after him with Gajeel taking the group's rear. So far, they hadn't encountered a single ghost or Draugr – they had passed the entry chambers, avoided a few traps, and chosen a path that led to the eastern wing. As they went, Natsu sensed an ominous presence creeping closer, prickling his skin like ice. Ancient wrath, a tragedy that occurred here long ago still haunting these walls, and when they found the first corpses, Natsu swore he could feel them stir awake.
They arrived in a large chamber that seemed to have been the living quarters of the cultists. Beds were lined up against the wall, windows had been closed with wooden panels, yet everything was in perfect order, as if the place was cleaned for the last time before the enemy had breached the gates. In each bed, there lay a mummified body. Moths had eaten holes in their robes, rats had gnawed their flesh, but most of them were frighteningly well preserved in the dry and cold air. Yet still, the stench of death lingered here, a stench that Natsu had grown familiar with during the last passing months – and he wished he never did.
Gildarts cast a spell of detecting the undead. Light flashed in the hall, but it faded away without resonating from the corpses – except on Gajeel, who was briefly surrounded in a faint green gleam. The vampire frowned in annoyance. "No draugrs, all are just dead," Gildarts declared then, grinning at Gajeel. "We can tread safely here."
As Natsu walked them by, he could see their dried faces, braided hairs turned white, wrinkled fingers curved around the hilts of their daggers. Blood had mapped rusty seas to the linen sheets, and next to the unbloodied beds stood empty vials of poison. Natsu had heard the story of what happened here, but to witness it with his own eyes… it wrenched his heart. The siege had raged at the walls for weeks when they had come to this desperate decision, to fulfil this plan of pure madness.
But when he saw a cradle, where lay the remains of an infant barely older than Lyra had been, Natsu froze completely.
Not a single soul had been spared from that insane massacre.
Gildarts guided the way through the sleeping quarters, but he halted at the door to the next chamber and looked over his shoulder. Loke and Gajeel proceeded past Natsu, who still stared at the cradle. The child had been covered with a thin wool blanket, yet the sight was enough to nearly make him weep. There was a small toy beside the crib, a horse carved from pinewood, the red paint had flaked away in time. Natsu's gaze stayed on it for a while, but then Gildarts urged them to continue.
Natsu went after them. He couldn't afford to be distracted by his emotions now. But as he reached the door, he was sure that heard something behind him, a piece of wood dropped to the ground. He glanced back, and everything was as it had just been. Must've been nothing, he convinced himself, and hurried to the others.
"This place looks like a storage of sorts," Gildarts said as he glanced around in the room they arrived in. "Let's search through quickly. If there's some poison left, I can try to analyze it and transfer a few bottles into antidotes. One can never be too careful."
Loke and Gajeel nodded to the old mage and began to browse through the shelves, chests, and barrels. Natsu remained at the doorstep, unable to cast the dead child away from his sight. The cultists had truly thought that it was better to put blades on their children's throats than let them fall to the hands of the besiegers, yet he couldn't stop thinking of how those parents must have felt then, and how the child, who couldn't understand anything yet, had felt then. Gildarts paid him a worried glare, but he didn't say anything. He ought to be aware that getting poisoned was the least of Natsu's concerns right now.
Natsu wiped the dust from his face and leaned to the arched doorframe. The silence had grown louder in his head. No parent could've done that to their own child unless ordered to do so, forced by someone else with a sword at their neck, someone more powerful than them. If priest Rahgot had done this to his own cult, murdered every man and woman and child just to hinder the intruders, what could he do to Lucy?
Then, he heard a knocking sound behind him. A steady, low thumping of wood on stone. It was real this time. He flinched and glanced at his companions. Gildarts searched through the urns, Loke crouched by a chest he was picking open, Gajeel reached for the bottles on the highest shelves, all too focused to hear the tiny noise. Natsu remained still, waiting for the sound to die, but it didn't. It paused for a heartbeat, then continued. Holding his breath, Natsu looked over his shoulder, back to the sleeping quarters.
Right beside the cradle, the wooden horse was lifted to the air, then brought back down, lifted again and moved forward. As if a child was playing with it, galloping across the hall, ever closer to him.
Then Natsu saw the ghost.
Formed from dust and moonlight, it lingered there in the shape of a small child. The outlines kept fluttering – the energy of that lost soul was an unsteady flow, flickering in and out of existence, yet still there. An iron chain of grief wrapped around his chest. He didn't dare to speak a word. The silver dagger was sheathed on his belt. Just to be sure, he caught the hilt, but let his hand rest there, and observed in silence.
If he'd just be there, not showing a sign of hostility, maybe it wouldn't do anything. It was just a child, after all.
He had never seen a ghost like this – he knew conjured familiars, who were spirits passed from the realms of Oblivion upon a conjurer's command, he'd seen how Lucy took a spectral form with her Thu'um, he had even encountered a wispmother once, but this was different. There was no necromancer to summon this spirit back to Nirn, it seemed like the soul had refused to pass to Aetherius to begin with. Its anger and wrath kept it bound here, haunting the ground of its brutal murder, eternally seeking vengeance and redemption, forever waiting for someone to come – and shed that unlucky someone's blood.
Suddenly, Gildarts cursed when some bottles fell from the shelf and shattered on the ground. Natsu cringed at the noise, then the wooden horse halted. Kept tight in the child's ghostly hand, it stayed in the air, flakes of red paint falling to the floor. The child stood, locked his ethereal, hollow gaze with Natsu, and hurled the horse towards him.
Natsu dodged as the toy flew past his head. His eyes widened, he stared at the child whose peaceful presence turned bloody violent. They were intruders in this crypt, as good as the besiegers, and now their wrath lay upon them. Natsu turned his head. Gildarts and the others fell quiet behind him, the old man's eyes found the horse. From the strength of the impact, the toy had broken in half. A moment passed on in agonizing silence, until it was shattered by the most otherworldly screech.
Upon the child's call, the ghosts awakened.
Gildarts hurried past him to the sleeping chamber and drew his silver dagger. He mumbled a curse, called for Gajeel and Loke, and told them to get ready for battle. Natsu saw how the vengeful spirits rose from the dust, condensed from the tainted magic that flowed in the air, and picked up their swords and daggers that rested behind their beds. Despite being ethereal creatures, they could still affect the physical world through their telekinetic magic. One ghost caught the blade in his corpse's arm, the same he had taken his own life with, and then charged towards them.
Gajeel stepped up front, crossed his enormous arms in front of his body, and summoned a sturdy ward that repelled the bitter energy that radiated from the ghosts. It merely brought them some time, as there were mages among the dozens of awakened spirits, who joined the fray with their counter spell. Ancient sorcery blasted in the hall. Gajeel's ward shattered upon the impact, yet he had already prepared the next step of his strategy. A grin flashed on his lips, he brought his hands up, then stroked them down sending a wave of energy onwards.
And from that energy, an army of soldiers emerged.
Awestruck, Natsu watched as the magic turned into visions so real he could've mistaken them for old Nordic warriors in flesh and blood. As if recognizing an old enemy, the ghosts turned their hollow gazes at them and snarled.
"That should keep them busy for a moment," Gajeel whispered and pushed Loke and Natsu back to the storage chamber, Gildarts following after him. "Better seal this door tight!"
Gildarts nodded, pulled closed the stone door, and cast a sturdy shield over it. He wasted no time on placing destructive runes on it, for then they gathered themselves and began running. Gildarts led them to the tunnel ahead as the sounds of a battle emerged behind them. Whatever wards had been placed on the walls, they wouldn't hold them for long.
From the storage, they arrived at another hall, where several pathways met. Ahead lay the remains of a collapsed stairway – they had arrived approximately to the centre, the same route as Skjor Snow-Strider's forces had come. Some of their equipment was still left there, helmets and swords and shields from ancient times. Yet most intriguing was the stairway ahead of them, buried under rubble and stone. Gildarts glanced at it with an ambitious look in his eyes, but Gajeel shook his head.
"Don't even think about moving these rocks aside or blowing a way through with magic," the vampire said. "That might be the fastest way to the refectory, but you already exhausted yourself by breaching the main wards. The well that connects these halls has to be somewhere around here. Let's just follow the trails of the dead."
Gildarts agreed with a faint nod. Ahead of them, the tunnel lead into darkness, but his magelight sparkled on the pieces of steel that lined the path. Grunting, he seated down on a stone bench and took a deep breath. Sweat dripped down his forehead. "Getting old doesn't come alone, it seems."
Gajeel chuckled. "Try becoming a vampire. It makes ageing much easier."
Natsu turned away to hide his grin. This wasn't about getting old, Natsu knew. Gildarts was stronger than this – far stronger – but losing a leg in Riften had taken its toll on him. He took a potion from the small bag on his back and drank it, while Natsu listened closely to the echoes from the sleeping quarters. The fight was still raging. They couldn't stop for long.
"Everyone okay?" Gajeel asked, his gaze scanning through all of them. "Let's give a moment of rest to our grandpa, then we'll keep moving. If you need to drink or eat, do it now. That illusion won't last forever, so keep your weapons close. We won't run away next time."
They agreed silently. Gildarts wasn't the only one in a weakened state. The destruction of Riften and the loss of his brother haunted Loke – that could be seen from his eyes, pools of bottomless grief. Natsu was well aware of his own condition as well: too distracted by a million thoughts to focus on what was truly important, and his recovery from Odahviing's Thu'um was only half complete. His body felt heavy as lead, each step hurting as if blades were twisted in his guts.
Yet the heaviest burden was the damned doubt. How could he pull this through? How could any one of them make it? Couldn't they see the doom that awaited them in the darkness? His hope was slowly flickering out.
After taking a long drink from his waterskin, Loke gave two bottles to Gildarts, those he had found from the chest. "This the same poison they used, I assume."
Gildarts tossed away the potion he had just drunk and took the poison from Loke's hand. Dark liquid ran in them as he turned them around, opened the corks and smelled carefully. He coughed, cleared his throat, and quickly closed them again. "Deathbell for sure," he said, and then, Natsu could smell it too. The bitter aroma had spread from the bottle like a cloud. "Possibly nightshade as well. Jarrin root, maybe, but that would be nearly impossible to grow in this environment… Whatever it is, it's certainly deadly."
"Isn't that obvious?" Loke scoffed. "They killed themselves with that."
"They did, but now we can use this to not die ourselves. Their weapons and traps will be coated in this. The water, too. It had been magically preserved to last for eras. But with a little trick…" Gildarts knit his brows, closed the bottles into his palms, and light flashed in the darkness. "… we've got an antidote."
Loke's eyes widened. "Just like that?"
Gildarts gave one bottle to him and kept the other. "You've got about ten seconds to drink that if you get poisoned. That should be enough to counterfeit the unpleasant effects, like death."
Loke put the bottle to his pocket and glanced at Gajeel and Natsu, who was sipping some water. "Don't you guys need it?"
"I don't need to worry about poisons, lad. I'm already dead," Gajeel answered with a grin, then gestured at the fire mage. "This one, well… he's dead on the inside, which is almost the same thing."
"Thanks a lot," Natsu muttered and closed his waterskin, securing it back to his belt. "Any idea which way to go next?"
Before Gajeel answered, a burst of ominous energy flooded from the upper level of the monastery. It pierced through walls, staining them with a deadly touch – words were chanted in the distance, words in the language of the dragons. The magic passed in their wake, swept across these halls. It remained on Natsu for a heartbeat, as if studying him, then it was gone.
"Wo meyz wah dii vul junaar? Nivahriin muz fen siiv nid aaz het."
Each of them turned their gazes towards the stairway. The magic had come from the other side, somewhere in the upper halls of the monastery, and that didn't belong to any lesser ghost. That had to be the power of a dragon priest. That's where Lucy was, right in the hands of the monsters.
Then, they heard growing noise around them like a fast-approaching horde of beasts.
Through the walls, the ghosts came, swarming masses of ancient wrath – as if the words had awakened them everywhere at once, and no wards would ever hold them back. The ghosts picked up weapons left behind by the besiegers. At that moment, silver daggers were drawn, and the group stepped into a formation, back to back, with weapons pointed toward the ghosts.
This time, they'd fight.
Natsu stood between Gajeel and Loke, Gildarts directly opposite to him, bracing himself for the battle. From the living quarters came the ghosts of the cultists, fierce warriors and wicked wizards, shouting curses that echoed through his body. Natsu's heart began to race, fear flowing through his veins like fire. He was frightened. So fucking frightened, yet he swallowed it, forcing himself to be brave.
"Alright, time to send these bitches back to Oblivion," Gildarts shouted. "Fight well, brothers! We'll push through and proceed to the path ahead!"
Right before the ghostly frontline reached them, Natsu enveloped himself into an aura of protective magic, the best he could muster – alteration spells were never his preference, but now he knew he had no chance to survive without magearmor. Oakflesh, as he'd seen Lucy perform this spell, to repel an enemy attack and leave his body unscathed. Gildarts had told him that no fire, ice, or lightning could work against these ghosts – they had no physical body those elements could harm. Here in Forelhost, everything he had been warned about became true.
Quickly, he summoned a bound dagger to his right hand, so wielding blades in both arms he charged into battle when the ghosts came, faster than whispers in the wind. An ethereal shape of a man swung his sword at him, he dodged, rolled to the side and slashed the ghost with the silver blade. It screeched, but as the weapon sliced through it, it dissolved into the air. The old iron sword fell when the bounds of telekinesis were cut, clanking as it hit the ground.
The battle had commenced.
The surreal sight froze him for half a heartbeat, but then he sensed a presence behind him, swirled around and cut through the ghosts like mist with his ethereal dagger. It worked as well as silver. Again, the spirits were banished to Oblivion – a sense of relief flowed in their wake, as if they'd finally found peace, been brought to rest. May the gods make sure that they'd never have to return either, but Natsu had no time for prayers now. They were surrounded, ghosts swarming around them like the densest fog on the lake.
The fear within him began to melt away. He crouched as a sword swept past his head, and struck a blade forward, killing another ghost. Though they were overnumbered, the spirits disappeared with ease, and the doubts in his heart began to vanish. A blade scratched his arm, but the damage was reflected by Oakflesh, leaving him unharmed. The others fought beside him, the mass of ghosts shrinking as they moved across the hall. Obscure screeches echoed in the darkness, weapons clinking against each other, the movements of the ghosts howling like wind.
Gajeel blasted the ghosts with conjuration sorcery, banishing spells that forced them to leave Nirn at once – among their screams, Natsu could hear a faint 'thank you' being whispered when their bounds of wrath were cut, releasing them from thousands of years of rage. There were younglings amongst the ghosts, spirits who met their fate before reaching adulthood, and for once Natsu felt no guilt as he sent them to Aetherius.
They proceeded as they fought, pushed forth by the army of ghosts at their backs. They neared the end of the large tunnel, arriving at another chamber, and there lay armoured skeletons on the ground – the remains of Skjor Snow-Strider's army. This was where they had camped, where they had drunk poisoned water from the well, where they had laid to rest one final time. Natsu stepped over the bones, almost tangling his feet on them.
The presence of the ethereal cultists changed here, as if they mockingly disturbed the fate of the soldiers – and Natsu could sense the energy resonating from the remains, but could not focus on it. Then, another wave of powerful energy flooded through the monastery. Those were words, spoken in the manner same as before, and they caught Natsu into a grasp like a giant's fist.
" Meyz het, Deinmaar se Agnoslok yol. Vokrii los gahrot nol mu."
It froze him to the bone, like a call that was directly meant for him, yet he couldn't understand a word of it – except for Agnoslok yol, knowing it meant the flame of a dragon. They knew he was here, they were waiting for him, as if he was waltzing directly to his grave. The power resonated within him, a frequency that was familiar to his flame, yet so foreign and absurd. For just a moment, he stared up where the voice had come from, hatred filling his heart.
The fire was his, and his alone.
"Watch out!"
Suddenly, Loke leapt in front of him and slashed through the ghost that had been charging toward him. With a harrowing screech the ghost disappeared, its blade dropping to the ground, but then Natsu saw the blood. He flinched awake from the daze. It glimmered on the iron like liquid rust. Loke pressed his palm on the wound on his thigh, blood oozing between his fingers. He cringed from pain, but as another ghost came raging at him, he got back up and swung his blade again.
"Was the sword poisoned, Loke?" Natsu shouted after him, killing more spirits that charged at him from the left.
Loke shrugged and rolled down, he went through a group of ghosts that dissolved like fog when the silver struck them. "I don't know! You see, I'm a bit busy here!"
"Just drink the damn antidote then, better safe than sorry!"
"Then have my back, idiot!"
There wasn't a clearing amongst the enraged spirits, not a moment's break, and Natsu couldn't make one with his blades either. Gildarts and Gajeel had broken further from them, he could hear them nearby, but still too far. With his left arm Loke fought the ghosts while he searched for the bottle in haste with his right. Natsu glanced at the bloodied blade on the ground, parried the strike of a ghost's sword and stabbed it, rolled down, and yes, a layer of dark liquid lay before the blood.
"Yeah, it's poisoned," Natsu shouted as he sprung up, stepped in front of Loke, and swung both blades through several spirits – then tossed the daggers to the ground to free his hands. Fuck these, he thought. The ethereal one dissolved while the silver blade clanked against the stone. "Take the antidote now, I've got this."
Loke's horrified gaze shot at him as another wave of ghosts approached them. He knew not exactly what he was doing, but he summoned flame upon his palms, against everything Gildarts had warned him about. Fire wouldn't work against something that couldn't burn, that's what the old man had said, but he had been wrong. His fire could burn everything – wood, flesh, air, magic, souls – and so he did.
As if a dem was broken, he poured flames from within, surrounding them in a dome of fire that spread forward, sweeping over the masses of ghosts and setting them aflame. It entwined between the threads of magic, and Natsu stoked the fire upon his command, watching the spirits dissolve into his flame. The warmth gushed against his face – how he had missed this feeling, as if he'd been lost in a blizzard for days and only now found back to the hearth of his home, finally melting from permafrost back to life.
A thin string of blood began to flow from Loke's nose as he stared stunned at the wall of flames that grew around them. With a flinch, he carried on opening the bottle of antidote and downed it, coughing at the bitter taste, then he fell to his knees and groped at his throat. The flames kept roaring as Natsu turned to the Nord, crouching beside him. He cast a spell of healing on his wound, pulling out the remaining poison as the cut began to close. Not a second too late had Loke taken the potion, for the bleeding from his nose stopped and air ran free in his throat again.
"T-thanks," Loke muttered and attempted to stand. Natsu helped him to his feet, and then turned back to his flames. There was wonder in the Nord, something he couldn't put into words, but Natsu understood it anyway. They'd never been friends – in fact, Natsu used to loathe his mere existence, he'd hoped to kill him with his own hands, but those things were in the past now.
There were enough old grudges in Forelhost.
"Natsu, you crazy bastard!" Gildarts shouted through the flames. "What did I tell about using fire against the ghosts!?"
"Lies," Natsu answered and stoked the fire, sending another wave of flame against the spirits. They screeched as the fire devoured them, burning them out of Nirn into the Void. Natsu picked the silver blade from the ground – though casting fire felt much more natural to him than wielding a dagger, he knew he'd spare the flames for the bigger fights to come. He let the wall of flame dim down, and Gildarts's terrified face was revealed behind it. "Loke got wounded, had to make sure he could take the antidote safely."
"Yet you didn't know if your flames would even –"
There was no time to carry on the argument, for through the dying flames, emerged another ghost. It rose from the corpse of a soldier. Ethereal blue eyes stared right at Natsu, and then rose another, until they were surrounded by a second army of spirits – the forces of Skjor Snow-Strider, long-dead Imperial soldiers, to meet the cultists once again, with the group of the living pinned between them. Gildarts let out a frustrated growl and stepped closer to Natsu and Loke, with no sight of Gajeel around.
"These aren't any vampiric illusions, aren't they?" the old mage muttered and braced for battle, droplets of sweat glimmering on his forehead. He stroked down the ghost before it caught the bloodied sword from the ground. "Where's Gajeel anyway?"
"Here!" sounded a voice from the distance. A tide of magic followed the voice, but it was neither a banishing spell nor a destructive one – it was another illusion, that stoked the fury in those spirits, yet left them blind to the living. In rage they charged to battle against the cult, and seeing their change had come, the living slipped past them as the fight commenced behind them. "The well's this way, follow me!"
They ran after Gajeel's voice, through the tunnel that led deeper underground, jumping over skeletons and swords until they arrived at a narrow stairway. It descended down and led them to a small chamber that smelled of old moss and moisture. Gildarts's light began to dim out, but it was enough for Natsu to see the iron cage that stood in the middle. There were no ropes or kettles here, as the drinking waters were lifted from a smaller well in a different room, but this one was the access to the groundwater tunnels. The Well that they had been searching for.
Natsu faced the stairway they had come from. No ghosts had followed them down here, but he could still hear them screeching, fighting against age-old enemies. Calmness failed to find Natsu's heart. He thought about summoning a veil of flame to keep the ghosts at bay, but then a cool hand landed on his shoulder. The invisibility spell on Gajeel expired. Thanks to it, he had managed to slip past the army and find the way to the well.
"Don't worry, they're too busy to tear each other's ethereal throats out to follow us here," the vampire said. "Preserve your power, lad. I haven't seen ghosts being banished by fire before, and though I'm impressed, keep your flames contained for a while." He brought his arms forward and sealed the chamber with magic, similar to what Gildarts had used in the storage room. "There'll be Draugr for you to immolate in the crypt, just make sure you won't set me ablaze."
As Gajeel grinned, Natsu nodded faintly. The Oakflesh spell expired and dissolved from his skin, having served its purpose. His heart still raced from the running and fighting, but the rush of the battle had melted his fear and pain. This was just a brief moment of calm before it would continue, he reminded himself as he caught his breath. Even if he felt charged with energy now, he couldn't let it be drained to waste.
Each of them spent a small moment just gathering themselves. Except for Loke, nobody had injured, which was better than they had dared to hope for. They seemed to have survived the first trial, but many were still yet to come. And the sounds of the battle upstairs faded, the atmosphere among them lightened a bit.
"So this is as far as Skjor Snow-Strider got," Gildarts said as he looked at the gate. "With most of his men poisoned to death, he and his remaining group didn't mind looking for the key. It's probably tossed to the bottom of the well anyway." He peeked down, where a wooden, circular stairway led deep into the darkness. "Gladly, we don't need one, when we've got the Lockmaster here."
Not accepting the praise, Loke stepped forward, exhausted from the battle, but his hands were as steady as ever. He crouched in front of the gate. Gildarts held a magelight above him as Loke pulled the lockpick from his pocket and a dagger from his belt, then he glanced at the lock: a large and sturdy piece of iron keeping the gate's door securely closed. He took a breath, put the blade's tip to the keyhole, following with the thin steel pick as he began to disarm the locking mechanisms.
And before Natsu could even blink, the lock was fully turned, and clicked open.
"You're welcome," Loke said as he stood up and pushed the door open. It creaked on the hinges, the sound echoing in the seemingly bottomless well. "After you, gentlemen."
Gildarts smiled and patted the lad's shoulder. "Excellent. You just saved me from the cost of exploding the gate to Oblivion. I'm already running a bit thin on magicka."
"You're just old," Gajeel sneered behind him. "But I can make you a vampire anytime you want."
"No thanks, I like having a functioning bloodflow," Gildarts answered with a dry laugh, then he placed his ghostly feet on the first step. The old wood made no sound. "Does anyone know some cheerful song for climbing down to an old well? Would make this a little less haunting."
Gajeel followed him and cleared his throat, suddenly began to sing. "Sha la la… I once fought a demon deep under the sea… things were looking rough, but he was never gonna beat me… because I sang: shooby doo bob! And –"
"Oh, stop it!" Loke's shout echoed in the narrow well as he stepped after them, burying the vampire's terrible singing. "My fucking ears!"
The vampire laughed and just raised his voice. "But suddenly, I couldn't breathe! This was the end of shooby doo bob! Then I looked up, and who did I see? The girl who came to rescue me!"
"For Kynareth's sake, shut up!"
"Come on, let him continue!" Gildarts told, his words already coming deep from the well as he climbed ever down. "I want to know who the girl is!"
Natsu stood still at the threshold of the iron gate. He gazed down into the well, where his fellows were disappearing into the darkness. Gajeel carried on with his song, yet it failed to lighten Natsu's heart. He knew not why, but the melody of Lucy's song began to replay in his mind. Haunting and distant, as it had been in his dream – would he ever hear it again outside the realm of his dreams?
He took in a deep breath, and clinging onto the belief that he would, he followed them into the well.
Finally, she reached the realm of the dead dragons – as if she'd been fighting against whirlwinds, she had pushed her way out of existence to refuge here, while the forces of the Order tried to pull her soul into the Void. She collapsed to the frigid ground, turning her gaze upwards, where her three dragons flew far above her.
She lay there moveless for a moment and watched the dragons. An echo of pain remained on her, but it seemed to fade away like an old bruise. Here, she would be safe – no power in the world could corrupt her into a herald of the apocalypse as the Order wanted her to be. They could try, they could shatter her body into pieces, but she knew her soul would be untouchable until she'd regain her strength and be back for vengeance, and defeat them herself.
Lucy closed her eyes as peace and warmth enveloped her, like loving arms wrapping her into an embrace. Quietly, she began to hum a melody, the one her mother always used to sing. It lulled her to a calming trance, to the verge of sleep – and she noticed not how serpents crawled from the ground, snaking around her limbs, their jaws unhinged and ready to strike.
The Eye opened on the sky, laying His gaze directly on her.
A/N: Hi guys, hope you enjoyed the chapter! This one was a fun, but challenging one to write. I had to write a good balance between lore, action, serious scenes, and a bit of comedy - this whole Forelhost sequence is quite dark, but thankfully we have Gajeel cheering us up. At the moment he's probably one of my personal favorites, and I just couldn't resist adding his singing there :D
So, this "Lockmaster" chapter had an outline of 7 separate scenes, and this part only had about 3 of them. The remaining scenes will be darker than this, so there's going to be major warnings in the beginning of the next update.
