Celica and Alm stood forty feet apart.

She had risen from the ledge, standing a few paces back from it; he was a few feet from the top of the stairway. Alm was drenched in blood, red where his armor wasn't black with soot and dust. He had lost his gauntlets during the battle in the great hall, and blood flowed off his bare right hand, far more than the other. Alm took little mind of it, as far as Celica could tell. He clutched Beloved Zofia in his left hand, pointed down at his foot, not yet in a clear guard as he caught his breath. He wiped his right hand over his face to push blood away from his mouth, but only smeared more over. His right hand seemed too small - she realized his little finger had been cut away straight through the hand to the wrist, leaving just three fingers and the thumb. It was an oddly small injury, when he had broken through some few hundred men, thick with cantors and armored knights. No natural man would have managed the feat, but even in his current state, one of some possession or accursed madness, he was nearing collapse.

Exhaustion plagued Celica as well - the outer edge of her peripheral vision was greyed and distorted, a sign she was suffering from magical overexertion. Joint pain, headache, and nausea were the others, and she felt all three, familiar from her lessons in spellcasting at Novis and the closest-run battles since. The fight would be decided in a melee, and Alm was armored across nearly his whole body, heavier, and a foot taller than her. She expected it would go just as the last had. Now Alm carried her blade, while Celica bore his. An almost amusing coincidence, but smothered by the doom overhanging them. Had he not seized Beloved Zofia it would have been any of the dozens - hundreds - of swords in the hall. It was just meaningless chance, and she had no more time to consider it. Alm growled, leaned forward, and charged.

Celica clenched her right hand, reaching and straining for magic energy, yet too little was forthcoming. She flung it, a weak bolt of lightning, before she lost what she had; Alm dove and rolled beneath the thin bolt, tumbling back up and continuing his charge without pause. Celica stepped back, lifting the longsword into a guard over her right shoulder. With Alm's fearsome pace he was upon her in seconds, no time for another spell. He leaned forward slightly while he sprinted but still towered over Celica, slowing as he neared and raised his blade.

Alm lunged forth and drove Beloved Zofia straight for Celica's throat; she slashed down and parried the blade, then jumped to her right to not let him crash straight into her. Alm was fast, yet she was quick too, quicker than any he had faced that day. Celica slashed at his head, the only exposed area of his body, and he parried, shifting into a cut at her torso she voided in a crossing step backwards. But he was on her again. Alm thrust at her chest again, and she was forced to parry, unable to sidestep - but as she drove his blade aside he shifted straight into another slash. Celica caught it dead-on with her blade, clumsily receiving the full force of his wicked strike rather than deflecting it aside. Alm's strength was twice hers, more, easily; the impact drove the royal sword nearly back against her body, Beloved Zofia coming within inches of her flesh.

Celica stumbled backwards, desperate to put distance between them, but Alm was relentless, following too close for any respite. He drew back for another slash, a heavy strike from the shoulder, down upon her head, and she raised her blade to block it, her feet too tangled to jump aside. In desperation, Celica gripped her hand tight, focusing with all her strength remaining on her mark.

When their blades met, she released a lighting bolt within her hand, arcing through their blades into Alm. They staggered apart from each other, equally stunned, blades dropping to the floor. Celica nearly fell to her right side when her foot was sluggish to take her weight, and she struggled to force herself to stand. Alm seemed none better; he leaned forward, fighting to catch his breath, just as she was. But then he rose, recovering quicker than her, beginning towards her with a growl.

"Die, fiend, die!"

Celica tried to raise her hands in a guard, but she was too weak to make any difference. His left cross slammed past her weak hands and into her face, just under her right eye. Her vision went white for a second, and under her imbalance and the blow's force she staggered back a few steps, before Alm grabbed her collar, and sank punches into her jaw, her temple, and low into her stomach. Pain flared everywhere and Celica was too stunned to resist. Alm wound up heavily and swung again, his knuckles smashing against her cheekbone, throwing her backwards, off her feet, to the ground. Stunned, she lay looking back up at Alm with unfocused eyes, dazed and feeling distant from her limbs and body. When she didn't rise to him, Alm lowered himself down and straddled her, placing his hands on her throat and squeezing.

It took a moment for Celica to clearly understand he was strangling her. She was lost, half in her mind, half on the floor, her limbs flaccid and unresponsive, stunned and nonsensical, pain everywhere from her face to her gut. But then the horrible feeling reached her, the anxiety of the inability to draw air. She opened and shut her mouth mindlessly, but for no use with her windpipe shut. The pain in her chest grew, bad at first, then unbearable, bringing her half to her senses. She groped at Alm's hands but his grip was unbreakable. She couldn't even shift his fingers.

He grimaced at her in clouded, deluded hatred, his eyes horrible and glowing red. He would kill her this way, she knew. Her life was at its end. For so long she had wanted to be free of the world, free of all its troubles, yet in that moment she felt only dread and hideous panic.

His eyes…

Celica groped her left hand up Alm's arm, to his neck and up his cheek. His skin was pale and smooth where it was not red, still young with youth. Her thumb slid over his sharp cheekbone, she tightened her grip into his hair. She plunged her nail into his eye.

It was a hard, horrible feeling, as her thumb stabbed into his eyeball; in half a second it ended. Alm shrieked in pain, letting go and jolting away from her, reaching to cover his right eye. Celica drew a ragged, grindingly slow and painful breath, exhaled, and took another, the panic not subsiding, still choking and feeling near death. She rolled to her side, seeing their blades lying on the floor a half dozen paces away. Alm screamed again, but his voice had shifted. It was higher, raspier, the distortion gone. Almost like his voice normally had been. He whimpered, the tone almost recognizable. But Celica was undeterred. Struggling for breath, she crawled, Alm shifting and following behind her. She couldn't move faster, too tired for it, and he gained on her.

She lunged forward, getting her hand onto the royal blade, just going to turn about, when Alm's hand pressed down on top of hers. She laid her head down limp against the stone floor, resigned and defeated.

"Just finish this," Celica wheezed. She shut her eyes.

"Celica…" he murmured, between agonized gasps. Alm shut his hand, interlacing their fingers. His brand pressed against hers, and they glowed, sparking off each other. She looked over; their brands were glowing white. Celica's sight dimmed, black creeping in from the sides. But the weight in her chest lifted, the pain leaving her face, chest and stomach where Alm's blows had landed. She felt light and free, like she hadn't felt in an eternity.


Alm was standing in a stairwell. It was evening, the only illumination from the nearly-set sun and orange candlelight on dark tiles. The room and the distant sound of instruments playing were familiar - it could only have been Zofia Castle, where kings retained bands playing ancient songs of Mila and the kingdom's founding queen, so that the music never fell silent. Alm turned back towards the hall, but then looked down at himself. He wore not his court clothes, but a black gambeson, breaches, and boots. His simple under-armor clothes, worn in war and mourning. His eye had an odd pricking pain, and even though he twisted and stretched at it, his right hand felt some sort of odd cramp. He couldn't tell the source of either - neither were abnormal to his inspection, just as on an ordinary day. But it couldn't be an ordinary day - he had not been at Zoia castle for a year at least, and couldn't remember planning a visit or riding all so far south.

When was it, exactly? He couldn't recall. It was all so odd. The brand burned, hotter than ever before, but without pain, like the nerves were melted away to numbness. It had an odd pull upwards, back towards the staircase. Very odd. Alm couldn't imagine anything else to do, so he followed its guidance. He climbed the stairs first at a walk, then taking the stairs two, three at a time, and sprinting almost frantically by the time he burst out onto the balcony, clattering to a halt.

The balcony overlooked the fields west of the castle - beyond them, the sun had passed below the horizon, only the tail end of its glow still remaining in view. Most of the sky was dark blue, dusk chasing out the orange of day. In the sun's glare, there was a woman standing against the railing, in a red dress. She faced him, leaning against the railing, but with her face turned down slightly, so he couldn't see her. Her red bangs hung over her eyes, her locks running over her shoulders and covering her breast.

"Celica," Alm said. He spoke with only normal volume, not needing to raise his voice. The music was inaudible from the balcony, and the night almost silent. He heard a distant rustling of the gentle wind through the royal wood's trees, and nothing else.

She raised her head, looking up at him. Their eyes met.

"Alm," Celica said.


When he approached her, his steps were shaky. Alm didn't respond, hoping to use the few seconds to settle his thoughts and choose his words with care. He failed. Alm leaned against the parapet a few feet away, looking at her. She seemed tiny, smaller than he remembered, at least measured against himself. Celica was a foot shorter than him, no less. He had grown much in the time since he saw her last, he realized. She had not at all.

They were glancing at each other, making eye contact, then breaking it, Celica looking down, Alm looking to the side, in a sort of cycle.

"It's really you, isn't it, Celica?" he asked.

"It is," Celica said. "And you?"

"Yes."

He trusted her. Alm wasn't sure why. She had hardly earned it, yet he accepted her words without much reservation.

"Do you know where we are?" she asked.

"We…" Alm said, trailing off. "We're in Duma's Tower, killing each other," it occurred to him.

"Now, I mean."

"Looks like Zofia Castle, if memory serves," Alm said. "I doubt that we're there , you know. But our… souls, maybe, are somewhere like it, or imagining or generating a place-"

"Yes, that was what I thought," Celica said, cutting him off. He always rambled when he was nervous. Or, he used to. Such nervousness had been wrung out of Alm some time ago.

"This is the last place we were together. It was almost such a happy day. It would have been the happiest of my life," Celica mused.

"It started so perfectly," Alm said.


"Will you come with me?" Alm asked.

Celica was quiet for a moment.

"What response, exactly, are you hoping me to give?" she said.

"What do you think I was hoping for?" Alm returned.

"Alm…" she sighed.

"Celica. Please, you can still give this up. It isn't too late for you to end this madness."

Madness. Hostile if not incorrect. But the wrong word to pick, he knew once it was too late.

"And why, in the goddess's name, would I do that?" she asked, sharpness creeping into her tone.

"I cannot quite tell what Jedah's plan was, the scheme you're now helping him achieve," Alm began, in a more neutral tone. "But I do know it involved kidnapping thousands of my people, to feed into some mad ritual, supposedly to resurrect the two gods, whose bodies have spent a year and a half rotting in a cell. But this… master plan , Celica, it's monstrous," he said, grown more cutting by the end. "There is no other word for it."

"Monstrous?" Celica asked, her ire now fully raised. " You are the monster, Alm. You kill anyone who stands in your way! You murdered the gods yourself! You desecrated, looted their temples, slaughtered the Duma Faithful and all their followers! You tore the Arthegnii king's head off with your bare hands and laughed! What words do you have for those acts?" she screamed.

"What tears are you crying for the Duma Faithful?" Alm scoffed, now his blood going hot. "Half are senile old fools, the other half merciless butchers, all drawing false life from human sacrifice. They preach power, strength, conquest. If they believed a word of it then I'm godlier than any of them," Alm said.

"I- How can you say that?" Celica spat. "Why did you do it? Is it all just a joke to you?"

"I can do it, Celica, because they are sick, evil, wicked creatures. I…" he stated, before he held his tongue, on the precipice of snapping. "I cannot protect every man, woman, and child from their grasp. That is what I have learned, and I despise it. The failure pains me more deeply than any other in my life. There are too many who seize power, and use it to exploit, to rape, to murder. But I can turn my blade upon them, and thin their numbers, destroy enough of them and send the others running in terror. They thirst for power, yet how they squeal when it is turned upon them," Alm laughed, a smile creeping over his face as he spoke. Many a fine memory was of victory over such men.

Celica stared up at him, in horror, he had no doubt. He expected the reaction, but it stung nonetheless. There was no other whose regard he cared for as deeply. His words were true, but he had not meant to say them. One led to another too naturally, and already Alm regretted speaking and baring the truth. He could not but feel shame at what his nature and the years had made him.


"Lima, Mila… they are almost of a name," Alm said, more quietly. "I know they were no different. Your father and his wives, Mila and her priestesses. Just objects of pleasure to each of them. You know it, too. You were chased your whole life by men like them, hungry for power and riches, willing to do anything for them."

Celica seemed shocked he would mention her father, yet more that he would speak of the late king in the same sentence as the goddess, as if slandering Her by association.

"But the only peace you knew in your life was at Novis," Alm continued, before she spoke. And it was a true peace. You were freed from terror and danger for the first time in your life. Not even Mycen and I could keep you safe, back home," Alm admitted.

"Do not pretend you know me, Albein, " Celica hissed. But her expression was vulnerable, defensive at the probing. She used his other name to make distance because his words struck a sore spot, a true one. She wanted to make distance, and push him from it and her.

"I know you better than you would think, Celica. After you died, I never could put you out of my mind, and eighteen months is a long time to stew, to fixate on someone. I know about Lima, Liprica, your birth, the fire, Novis. I know all of your pilgrimage, your friends… and their deaths. I have read every record there is, spoken or traded letters with every one of them who survived…" Alm said. He didn't want to keep speaking. Celica wasn't meeting his gaze, trembling and looking down and away from him. He despised hurting her with words nearly as much as with blows, yet he only said what he knew to be true. They were horrible words, but needed to be said.

"After you learned Mila was taken, you took your followers and marched straight into Rigel, with just a few dozen against the entire Duma Faithful. It was futile, and as clear a death march as any. By the gods, Celica, what were you doing?"

She tried to speak, but failed, looking back away from him. He felt he had won, though there came no rush of victory. Wherever they were, he doubted she could run out halfway through, as she had in their first meeting at the castle. Celica stuttered a bit, but gave up, and sunk down, sitting against the wall. She leaned forwards and covered her face with her hands. Alm sat next to her.

"We want you back, even so. There's a way, if you will only take it.


Celica did not know which of her friends survived the pilgrimage. Jedah trapped them in the bowels of the Tower and set a horde of terrors upon them - some must have made it, if Conrad was king and Sonya a witch, but the fates of most seemed grim. She had set it out of her mind, or else she never could have kept the focus to continue their plan - then once it was complete she'd hardly gotten the opportunity to ask Jedah, as little as she wanted to hear it from his mouth, how riddled it would be of condescension, lies, and fault. After she finished with him, he was in no state to answer queries, and she had hoped never to be burdened with knowing.

When Celica set foot in Rigel, she had not done it with much belief she would return alive with Mila. She had pretended, if just to fool the others, and perhaps fooled herself along with them. She had not forced any to come with her - she had said it would be a dangerous task. Yet they had all come, in some deluded view that the fellowship of a few could triumph against the Faithful. Some lived to see they were wrong. Did the cause they died for give them any solace?

In a grander sense the gods lent order and purpose to the Valentian people. But it went deeper for Celica. Her stay at the quiet priory of Novis had been the one time of her life out of the grasp of the corrupting touch of man's lust for power. To see Alm, the boy she dreamed of saving from it, dressed in armor and eagerly heading off to war with the Rigelians spat upon all she wanted, as little as she could admit it then. She went along with Jedah to raise the gods both for the larger reason, and for the petty cause of restoring the few years of peace she had in her life, or at least not to have to live in a world without it. Both motives mattered, but she feared the latter held greater weight in her heart.

Now there she sat, her dream in tatters and her hands stained with blood. But Alm remained, still reaching out for her. He had grown so tall, hard and broken after the wicked years.

Celica gracelessly inched over to Alm on the concrete floor, taking his hand in hers. In surprise, it took him a second to shut it around hers, but his grip was firm and enveloping. She leaned her head on his shoulder.


"Do you believe in the prophecy?" Celica asked.

"That we're two heroes, born with the brands of each of our Gods, destined to bring them to an end and begin the age of men?" Alm asked, listing off every constituent part.

Celica nodded, her head rubbing on his shoulder. "I… I didn't want to."

"I think it's real," Alm said. "I've felt it for some time, that Their day is past and They must be ended. But… heroes? No. Neither of us is any sort of hero," he concluded, bluntly.

"We can only be what we are, and hope it is enough," Celica agreed.

"We have to try, as poorly as it may go," Alm agreed. "Heroes or not, too much responsibility rests on our shoulders for us to ignore. We have to bear it as best we can, for all our flaws. I cannot manage it without you any longer," he said.

Celica raised her head and looked up at him, nodding gently. She smiled faintly, squeezing his hand, turning her body towards him and resting a hand on his left thigh. Celica inclined her head, putting her mouth slightly forward. Alm read her meaning. He put his right hand on the side of her jaw, and gently put his lips against hers.


They drew apart after their quiet moment.

Alm felt a gnawing, lustful sort of hunger, suppressed by a different sort of relief. A feeling of lightness in his chest and heart, a small elation and giddiness. They were distant feelings, so old he had nearly forgotten them. Celica smiled at him, warm and hopeful. He couldn't truly know, but he suspected she shared much of the sentiment.

Alm felt a throbbing pain in his eye, and in the small finger of his right hand, and he grimaced. Concern flashed across Celica's face, and she put a hand on her throat, rubbing it as if sore. Reality was making its voice heard.

"We'll have to go back," he said. "Are… are you with me?"

"Yes," Celica said. "Of course I am, whatever comes."

He smiled at the confirmation. "Should we… make a plan, I guess, for when we get back?"

"I think we'll know what to do," Celica said.

Their brands were sparking. They raised their hands between them, lacing their fingers tight together. Alm looked into her red eyes, their path becoming one at last, as light crept in from his peripheral vision until everything was white.


Piercing pain in Alm's right eye caught him as he came to. He yelped and covered it with his hands, the blunt pressure dulling the pain some small amount. His hands were coated in blood - everywhere on his armor and body was, in fact - and it dripped through his fingers, more flowing off the end of his right hand. The pain there caught him a moment later, with a dozen aches throughout his body, and the weight of fatigue from the day's fighting.

"Alm! Take your hand off it, I can help," Celica shouted to him.

He withdrew his hands, realizing after the delay that his little finger and the part of the palm beneath it was gone from his right hand, so that it was cut short almost to the wrist. Celica put her marked hand over his eye, roughly pressing against it, before channeling a healing spell directly into the eyeball. The pain roared, the organ knitting back together with a shock, and his sight restored in the right eye, but for a sliver on the far right of his peripheral vision.

"Unhh," Alm groaned, the pain dying fast and unnaturally. Celica used more energy to shut the flesh on his hand. The wound closed, but the finger would never be coming back. She rubbed at her throat, red and bruised from Alm's grasp, but still seemed able to breathe fully without healing. He felt some guilt, seeing how nearly he had killed her for the second time, but pushed back on it. It was time for action. Alm stood, helping Celica up just after, and they bolted together to the ledge. Bodies littered the lower platform - the monster was rearing up on its hind legs, roaring at the few who still stood. Alm could make out the witches and a small few of his knights standing, whom he couldn't tell apart. He didn't want to see one more fall.

"We need to go, now," Alm said, about to break for the stairs.

"No, this way!" Celica shouted, pulling him the other way, to the room beyond their platform. The ritual , he remembered. They had to halt it or the beast would heal any injury they dealt it. They sprinted to the door, the smell of fire growing as they neared it, and Alm flung the door open. A dozen or more blackened thrones stood in the middle of the room, everything flammable turned to ash or still aflame in places, and a handful of burned bodies lay scattered at the far end.

Jedah?

It must have been - it seemed some sort of arcane room, and the Archbishop must have been needed to supply enough power. Near, at the room's front overlooking the chamber, was an artifact of some sort built into the ground; it was made of black stone, like obsidian, with a glowing brand at its top.

"This will stop it!" Celica said. She dashed to it, and pressed her marked hand onto it.

The podium flashed, the lights atop each throne going a blazing red - and down on the platform the artefacts beaming white energy into the monster sputtered and died. The lights below faded on the ritual platform then drawing back, as if reversing, down into the pits, and back up the walls of the chamber to the room Alm and Celica stood in. The ritual's whirring sound faded from a roar, lowering in tone and volume to just a hum from the thrones.

The dragon had been in the midst of readying the beam from its Duma-side mouth when the ritual collapsed - the sudden disconnection of the healing light shocked it, making it tumble left onto a broken leg, erratically discharging its beam in a wide arc around the side of the chamber near them, passing by just below their room. Alm jumped back in fright, tugging Celica with him. The floor and lower wall before them glowed orange with the heat, but didn't buckle.

"We need to get down there, fast," Alm said. "Shall we run?"

"Wait," Celica said. "I can warp us, as the witches do. I know I can figure it out," she said, with a semblance of confidence. In agreeing to help, Celica had placed her trust in him. He had to trust her, as well.

"Alright," he said.

Celica took his hand in hers, putting her left against his pauldron to rest the hand on his neck; Alm put his spare hand on her hip. She shut her eyes, muttered a hymn, and they were away.


They landed a half-foot above the platform floor, dropping suddenly to the ground a second after appearing.

The dragon was struggling to right itself, a back leg broken to uselessness and dragging behind, approximately half the platform away. Lukas was kneeling nearby without the Lance, coughing out bits of the dragon's sludgy flesh, Sonya having warped him back from it just recently. Hestia fought on further forward, a handful of remaining knights continuing nearby her.

"Get back, all of you! I'll finish this!" Alm shouted, beginning forward. The others needed little convincing, Lukas and Sonya dashing back as Hestia warped elsewhere, Tobin and the few standing knights limping past them in retreat. Celica alone stayed.

"Go," Alm hissed.

"No, you need me," Celica said.

Alm realized only then he was unarmed - their swords were left up top, and even his rondel was lost in the hall battle.

'Fine," he allowed, "help me recover the Kingsfang. Then go."

They crept forward - the dragon was dormant, and he hoped if they reached it slowly and quietly it would stay down. Even with the noise of the ritual ended, the clapping of Alm's steel plates didn't sound over the dragon's groans and breaths, and the remaining buzzing of the platform artifacts. They were sixty feet away when it jolted up with a roar - a fearful, defensive cry, but deafening nonetheless. It reared up, gathering energy in its two mouths, red in its left, green in its right - Alm was about to lean forward to charge when Celica threw herself in front, blue light crackling in her hands.

"Wait!" she cried, kneeling and putting her hands together, a blue hemisphere appearing before them - Alm knelt to get his head beneath its peak.

A second later, the beam bore into Celica's barrier while the wind whirred over its surface. Celica strained, grunting with exertion, as the assault continued. Alm put his hand on her shoulder to steady her, for what little it could do. He was almost certain she would fail, when the wind died and the beam sputtered as suddenly as it had begun, leaving them standing behind Celica's wavering shield, shrouded by smoke and dust thrown up from the platform.

"I'm going," Alm said, charging forward through the cloud.

The monster was shocked, if he read its expression, to see him emerge. It backed away in retreat, swiping out with a half-grown wing at him - Alm reached his left arm up and took the impact on his vambrace, the wingbone shattering on impact, most of the appendage slapping against him ineffectually. He continued, the dragon reaching the edge of the platform and unable to fly away, and jumped forward, placing his hands on the Kingsfang in its chest. He shoved in, eliciting a pained cry from it and loosening the blade, before placing a foot against the dragon and tugging out with all his strength, dragging out the blade and a rush of bile and slime with it. The blade shined bright orange even through the filth, feeling as warm as a fire.

The dragon cried out and plunged its Duma-side head towards Alm, but he slashed out and met it square in the jaw, cutting a foot in and sending the head jolting back in pain. Its remaining wing came down, and Alm made a rising cut, meeting it and shearing off the limb, leaving just a bony stub out of its torso. Then Alm took on the attack.

Alm stepped to his left and raised the blade up from the guard at his left shoulder, then down into its front left leg, cutting the limb clean off, bringing the blade about to his right side, turning and stepping left, slashing down now into the right leg. In one second it lost both front limbs, and collapsed to the floor with a screech - Alm awkwardly shifted the blade back to his left upper guard, poorly, in a way that would have earned him a tongue-lashing from Mycen, and sliced down into its right-side neck, biting through the spine and halfway through, eliciting a gurgling noise from the head. Alm tugged the blade out, and cut again, lopping the head off. The dragon ceased to move with any means of aggression, its remaining Duma head laying limp on the floor - just its eye turned about to Alm, scrutinizing him weakly. He stepped over the other neck, readied, and with one strike severed its last neck.

The beast was slain, for all it was worth - but he wasn't finished. Alm's brand still pulsed, pulling him towards its core, at the center of its torso. He slashed into its chest, once, twice, a third time, careful cuts opening it fully on the fourth. Inside lay a black orb in place of its organs, pulsing, beating as its heart.

"Alm," he heard, from Celica standing behind him.

He looked back over at her. In the rush of battle he had forgotten her. She breathed heavily from magical exertion, but was otherwise unharmed. He knew he ought to have paid her more mind.

"I have to finish this," he said.

Celica looked at the beast's fallen form for a moment. "Yes, you must. Do it."

Alm turned back to the carcass.

He steadied his stance, as an executioner making ready on the block, and with a few seconds careful measure, sliced down. The blade struck the orb and snapped through the brittle surface, cutting through the thick, gelatinous interior a foot deep, lodging directly inside at its centre. The dragon's flesh flaked away, drying and shriveling to dust, only its bones remaining at first, before they too disintegrated, leaving behind just the skulls of the Gods. Suddenly the Kingsfang glowed pure white, visible even through the black orb's mass, the light driving out all else.


Alm's skin shimmered, the nerves tingling. He could make out only the general outline of his form, the blinding red light emanating from his body obscuring any further detail. He turned around. Everything, everyone, was pinned in time and place. All but Celica, a small green form matching him.

Their power… it's in us, now.

It was as equally a thought in Alm's mind, words in his mouth, sound in his ears. He could not tell whether he or Celica had uttered it.

I feel myself burning.

Yes, as do I. We can become gods ourselves, if we keep it.

We can.

We shouldn't. Not us.

No. We've done enough damage as mortals.

I don't want to go mad as they did.

We won't fix anything just with more power. We will change.

Yes, and for the worse.

So what can we do?

We can give it back.

Almost as if none of this had happened at all.

Almost.

Almost.

She was at his side. They each placed a hand on the glowing Kingsfang. The feeling dulled, fading out from their bodies and draining into the blade, melting through the orb and flowing into the platform. The runes lit in reverse order, the power transferring back out of them returning down into the pits below.

The light, timelessness, and feeling of power faded by the second. Celica's glow dimmed to match. Alm saw every moment of his life, and of hers, every thought and feeling all at once. Then the border separating them became apparent, stronger, then as the light dimmed, absolute. Alm realized if he didn't let go of the blade, all of his soul would leave him. He tore his hand away at the same instant as did Celica, all sound and movement in the chamber restoring to normal.

Alm looked Celica in the eye, feeling some sort of deeper understanding. But one far short of perfect. Her memories were already fading, her every thought and emotion too much for a mortal mind to absorb so abruptly. They were each their own. None could know another like oneself. But they could have peace, together. Alm smiled at her, and she returned it. They held hands, to walk back to the others, but as they passed the God's skulls, Celica stopped and turned, and Alm stopped with her. She looked on Them silently, distraught and exhausted, but she did not cry.

The day's fatigue dawned upon Alm, heavy soreness filling most of his body, and hers too, he suspected, from the exertions of sorcery. They sat before the skulls, Celica leaning sideways against Alm, him running an arm around her body to clutch her close.

Alm and Celica silently looked over the remnants of Duma and Mila, considering all they had seen and done.


In the hallway, Lukas sat perched on four dead knights' bodies, heaped over one another, hoping not to unsteady the pile and fall into the line of fire from the main platform. He was surprised to have lived so long, in the battle that had seen the Emperor's guard whittled from thirty down to a half-dozen. To die at that point would have been a pathetic thing. Blood flowed, from the men they lay on down the stairs, pooling in the abattoir the doorway had become, filled by men Alm hacked down in his fury. The scene was revolting, the only grace that they hadn't yet begun to rot, and that Lukas had already vomited up his gut's contents when he inhaled a half-mouthful of the beast's sludgy flesh. He shut his eyes, only worry keeping him awake.

But the battle had ended quickly, and by the unmistakable tone of the dragon's screeches, in their favor. He was last out of the chamber and nearest the door - once it had gone silent for a few seconds, he peeked around the corner. There was a bright light at the platform's center - or rather three, one white, one green, one red. They were static for a moment, then joined together, all draining away into energy flowing into the platform. The shimmer was burned into his sight even after it subsided, and the two emerged, then sat by the skulls.

"It is done," Lukas said. He clambered down off the knights, and walked through the inch-deep blood-pool in the doorway out into the chamber. A commotion was rising in the pits below, uncountable screams and cries rising out. Lukas' stomach twisted, in fear of the worst, and he dashed to the edge.

But it was not the horror of earlier that greeted him. The dark liquid was gone, and now the people fed into the ritual sat and stood, crying out in confusion and terror. In normal tones, frightened and uncertain but not driven mad by the ordeal. Relief sunk into Lukas, the day's worst atrocity undone. At day's end, nearly thirty of theirs were lost, buying the final destruction of the remaining Duma Faithful, who were now never to trouble the continent again. In cold terms it was a worthy trade, in the dispassionate way Lukas understood the world.

In the captured clothing - a gift of their still-mysterious benefactor - that disguised them as Faithful knights, Lukas couldn't tell between the men still alive. They walked across the floor checking the fallen, separating the Rigelian from the true Faithful, and of the former, the dead from those still clinging to life. Tobin took a cloak and laid it over Gray's body. Lukas felt some guilt for the boy's death, being he who took Gray off to war, with just a promise of pay and vague agreement to the prospect of women.

Lukas knelt by a dead knight, shifting at his helmet, revealing shiny green hair beneath.

The dispassionate calculation faded. A year and a half before it was Python, burned to nothing by a stray gaze of Duma's beam. Now Forsyth was killed, in the chaotic minutes just before the end.

Sir Forsyth, the most eager of us. I'm sorry, friend-

"Sir Lukas, breathe!" screamed a man to Lukas' rear. He whipped around, finding Forsyth behind him, thrashing at a fallen man.

"Calm! Calm, man, I'm here!" Lukas shouted. Forsyth looked up, tears forming in his eyes. Then he pulled up the dead man's visor, finding blue flesh beneath, a certain sign he was Faithful. His sallet and breastplate matched Lukas', which must have caused the confusion.

"Oh," Forsyth said.

Lukas checked his man. A blueskin, as well, meaning Faithful. No sense crying for those.

"I am glad you made it, friend," Lukas said.

The jolt of despair and relief came as a shock. Knowing his fears were false, he almost appreciated the forced distancing from the cold view, pushing him a bit towards humanity.

The rest of the comb was only somber. One fallen man still lived, but he was heavily bled out and unconscious, and Sonya whispered to Lukas there was nothing she could do to halt his passing. She and Hestia were dour, even more than he thought possible for witches, finding their sister laying dead with one of Tobin's arrows through her. It struck in the back of her neck and pointed out beneath her mouth - she had not the chance to turn before it struck, no opportunity to break free of Duma's grasp. When the sweep was finished, the two sat by her, to remove the arrow and lay a cloak over her body.


Alm and Celica sat together at the skulls, too deep in their world to be of any help in the search, though it was only a short minute or two. Lukas could allow that they had been through much, but then, they all had. They were the two figures of a prophecy, the play's leads. It allowed them a selfishness that none of their supporting cast could afford.

"Alm," Lukas said from beside them, not bothering with formalities.

They turned.

"...Yes, Lukas?" Alm asked, his tone slightly dazed. Perhaps the odd business with the glowing light had been something of a shock, Lukas could allow.

"We have checked for any remaining survivors from the platform. None have been found," he said.

"I see," Alm said. "I am sorry for their sacrifice."

"I cannot be certain what you remember. You recall that Princess Anthiese aided Jedah in this ritual?" Lukas ventured.

Shame flashed across her face, but hostility across Alm's. "No, she did not," he stated. "Arch-Bishop Jedah misled her about what the ritual would entail. She killed him for it. When I reached her, she was already trying to halt the spell."

Even Anthiese's eyes widened at the lie.

Blatantly false, irreconcilable with Hestia's testimony, the fireball she hurled at me, and the combat we overheard between the two. But scarcely a half dozen witnesses live who could contradict it.

"Is that how it will be told?" Lukas asked.

"Of course it is."

"Very well, Emperor Albein," Lukas conceded. And such would read the history books.


Even at that moment, the day was far from over.

The chamber gate controls were located, and the un-sacrificed first freed from the pits below, then a path into the Tower proper was found. Arms were distributed widely to them, for several dozen Faithful still lived even though their combat forces had been annihilated. Only a small part of the Tower could be judged secure, but now it was the Faithful remnant who were hiding. Some groups of heavily-armed freed men, retired veterans of the legions, ran off seeking reprisal against their captors. A part of Alm wanted to take important men prisoner to be interrogated as to the location of any lingering Faithful cells. But he doubted he could restrain the fury of the captives, and was skeptical any vital figures survived the day. They contented themselves with the grand haul of documents from Jedah's office.

Finding a route back to Rigel would have to wait for another day - Alm, Celica, and all the others were at the point of collapse. His lost finger ached and tingled, his mind still not registering its loss, a deep pain remained in his right eye, and each of his knees clicked with each step. Celica led Alm to the room she had stayed in, aiding him in keeping upright and removing his armor, then producing some cold water and rags to wipe away the worst of the accumulated gore and sludge that covered his face and exposed skin. Alm worked at it until his hands were raw, refreshing the basin of water twice as he wiped himself down, and almost clean. Celica had done the same, more dirty with ash and soot than blood. Not all was gone, but enough, and they were both satisfied.

They kissed again. Celica rose on her tiptoes, Alm leaned down. They were both uncertain, awkward, poor at it and too tired to venture any further. Alm touched his forehead to hers, and they stood together a bit longer. Celica lit a log in the fireplace, and they lay beneath the covers of her bed - it was a cold night, and the stone walls turned the room to freezing. They each shivered, almost afraid to touch.

"Can I hold you?" Alm asked, after a few long minutes.

"Yes," Celica answered without hesitation, moving over to his side.

They shifted between orientations, with some awkward chuckles, settling with Alm lying on his back, Celica on her side and resting her head on his chest. He would have thought himself too bony for comfort, but she seemed perfectly happy, and thus so was he. She fell asleep before long.

Despite his fatigue, Alm remained wide awake. His mind was spinning, struggling to make sense of the past day - or, truly, the past two years, all back to when a knight named Lukas came to Ram, and Alm left it at last. He had not yet reached acceptance of Celica's death by the time it was reversed. He would need years more to reach some fuller understanding of his journey, just as she would for hers. They were just mortals, but Alm felt they would manage to keep stumbling on in the end, always moving more or less forward. For that night, he shut his eyes. Celica's body was warm, her life returned. Beneath his arm, her back rose and fell, and she drew little breaths against his breast.


END NOTE:

So we're here. You're lucky I didn't make the ending even more Evangelion-ey

When I started writing in October 2018 I didn't really expect to finish the story, let alone to finish it almost three years later in the middle of a pandemic. Many circumstances have changed, though the end product is remarkably identical to what I plotted out way back then. The slowness of the final chapters was about half from juggling multiple viewpoints and the other half from knowing fully what was going to happen and not feeling very inspired to finish it (stories get stale when they sit in your head for a year!). The Conversation in this chapter was a nightmare on my first attempt and eventually I just restarted and scrawled this version out during a long bus ride a month or two ago.

Were I to change anything it would be an overhaul of ch2-3 where some parts are too bad to look at. Overall I'm fairly happy with where it ended up. Not bad for a first attempt at writing a complete story. I'm far from done with Alm and Celica. There will be a short epilogue soon, and I want to write some shorter things for them (there's one loose end in particular from canon that I'd like to do something with) which will be typically one-offs, and much less miserable. All will exist in a loose sort of continuity - so, for example, my three other Alm/Celica stories to date all exist in this What Lies at the End timeline - but still more or less stand alone to someone who hasn't read this whole thing.

Thank you to everyone who has read and commented. You are what has kept me writing.