Another Eternity
Ozma was losing.
It was perhaps unsurprising, he considered, only distantly saddened by the knowledge. Young Miss Fall had the full power of the maiden, already had experience using magic, and was in the prime of her youth. Ozma, on the other hand, was almost entirely depleted of magic (not that he'd had much to begin with in the last couple centuries), exhausted, and old.
It didn't matter that he was enormously more skilled than her. That advantage only lasted as long as his stamina did - since she was too powerful for him to just kill outright, he was forced to play the endurance game against her.
A poor match for him, given that his body had recently ticked past seventy just last year. Keeping the active lifestyle of a huntsman helped of course, but even that could only do so much to stave off the inevitable weakness and death brought by the wear of years.
On some level, Ozma realised that he should probably be outraged that he was going to die this way, but he was far past being bothered by that sort of thing.
Ozma had, after all, died many times before.
A long time ago Ozma raged and rallied against death, trying desperately to fulfill his mission and save the world. In those days, Ozma counted each and every life he lived, swearing to the hosts he eventually destroyed that he would remember their names and sacrifices.
…Ozma didn't do that anymore.
These days, Ozma was Ozpin, but Ozpin was just some poor fool that was unlucky enough to become host to Ozma after his last death. Ozpin resisted for a little while, eventually came to terms with it, even lauded Ozma for his dedication to this mission… and then Ozpin died. One morning he simply wasn't there anymore - it was just Ozma.
That would happen again soon.
Cinder Fall was strong, certainly, but Ozma knew that if he was in a body that was in its prime then he'd destroy her. But then that wasn't really a fair comparison, since Miss Fall couldn't be older than twenty-one or twenty-two at the eldest, whereas Ozma was approaching three or four thousand by his reckoning.
It just wasn't a fair comparison.
The fight raged on as Ozma considered these things. His opponent certainly was skilled for her age, and ultimately Ozma didn't feel particularly bitter about his impending murder at her hands. Though, he did seriously have to wonder if the girl even knew why she was doing all this.
Power? Fickle and fading, especially since Salem wouldn't suffer the presence of a minion that got ideas above their station. Control? An illusion. No minion of Salem controlled their fate, not once she branded them. Greed? An empty emotion. Whatever fulfillment gained was transient and amounted to nothing in the end.
Ozma slammed his cane forwards like a rapier, narrowly missing stabbing his foe in the eye as she parried the blow.
Cinder seemed surprised that Ozma didn't flinch or cry out when she twirled under his arm and sliced him from shoulder to hip. She was even more surprised when Ozma's left hand whipped out and punched her in the face hard enough to crack bone, her whole body staggering backward for a moment as she sought to regain her balance.
Really… Ozma was going to die here.
The cut she dealt him wasn't fatal, not with his aura protecting him - but it was certainly too much for his old body to bear for much longer. And, Ozma noted with dark amusement, it had ruined his suit.
How annoying.
Ozma stepped forward to press his advantage, but immediately he knew he'd made a mistake. The ground beneath his foot hissed for a moment, his eyes having but a single moment to widen before he was engulfed by an explosion that sent him flying backward.
Really, even when this girl murdered him it would achieve nothing. Ozpin had died decades ago, and Ozma would simply move on and be forced into a new body. Another young and impressionable soul that he would destroy with his mere presence, and eventually lead their body to an equally meaningless destruction a few years down the line.
Because that's all it was: Meaningless.
What Cinder didn't realise, is that even in killing him here nothing actually changes. Even if Salem acquired all the Relics, destroyed the four Kingdoms and installed herself as a God - or whatever - it didn't really matter. It wouldn't even be the first time it had happened. Neither Ozma or Salem were interested in bringing the Gods back into the world, not with how apocalyptically petty they were, and thus nothing would ever change.
Ozma wanted the world his way, and Salem wanted it her way.
All Ozma ever did these days was send children and ill-informed adults on quests to delay Salem. There was categorically nothing he could ever do to stop, kill, defeat, imprison or overwhelm her, so why bother?
Cinder may think she's making a difference, or that she's actively a player in this game, but she's not.
She, like everyone else, was just a piece.
That's why Ozma didn't hate her. That's why he didn't feel anger or hatred for all the lives she's ended. There was no pity either, just the cool realisation that this was indeed the woman who would end his current life.
Ozma staggered to his feet, dully taking note of the fact that Miss Fall was charging a rather large fire attack. With his aura as low as it was, it would most likely incinerate him in short order unless he managed to reach her before she release it.
Of course, Ozma knew there was no point either way. Even if he somehow killed her here, he'd still probably die of his injuries or from the exertion. But the show must go on, and Ozma was willing to humour Miss Fall and let her think that she was the one in control of this little game.
So Ozma rushed forward, cane in hand ready to either die and take one last blow against his murderer.
…he didn't make it.
Cinder smirked victoriously as she released her massive attack, and Ozma could do little more than sigh as the physical wall of fire and heat slammed into his body.
Clothes and flesh burned away instantly, scorched bones only seconds behind as Ozma withstood the assault. Most people would probably scream, he realised idly, but then he wasn't most people.
Ozma died without so much as a whimper.
Darkness…
The blessed touch of sleep, and then…
Ozma looked through eyes that weren't quite his yet, and paddock and field greeting him. Clearly he was reborn into a farmer or something, the boy still unaware of the curse that had befallen him. Ozma merely sighed from within the recesses of the boy's mind, here he was, alive yet again.
As he always would be.
I took some liberties with the fight, but since we only got to see about thirty seconds of it in the show I feel I can be forgiven. The result is the same regardless: one pile of Ozpin ashes staining the floor for the janitor to clean up.
Like the way I write? Why not take a look at my actual published works then! Just google Even Dead Gods Dream by Andy Patmore (that's me!) and you'll find my written works. I have two books already out and the third is currently in the hands of the publishers and should be available for purchase soon. I'd put a link here to some of the different retailers, but this site won't let me.
