Chaotic belongs to TCDigital.
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Act III: Danian
Oath
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My name is Michael, and I've had one hell of a morning. In the past few hours, I've been molested and raped, faked an ambush, killed a man, basically kidnapped a woman, and dug through miles of dirt and solid stone to escape. You probably know all of this already, though. If you didn't, then why are you starting on chapter twenty?
I'm getting off-topic. Basically, life sucked for a while. It's getting better, though. I've finally managed to meet up with an ally of mine. An UnderWorlder by the name of Atrapol.
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I lean closer to the fire and pull the rough towel tighter around me. Hanging on a makeshift drying rack of sticks and stones are my jeans and underwear. In the fire, among the burning branches, is my poor gray t-shirt. There wasn't any saving that thing.
"At least I still have the real one," I say as I glance past the fire.
Atrapol sits on the other side of the flames. He glances up from what had been distracting me, then glances sideways at the makeshift shower erected nearby. "You should take more care in what you say with innocent ears nearby."
I look over as well. Hidden by a hanging sheet is the third member of our little group, an OverWorlder I call Pepper. I took her with me during my escape, but otherwise, we have no connection.
"She shouldn't be able to hear me," I argue briefly. "Yeah, you're right."
Atrapol doesn't answer. His attention is back on the pile in front of him. The firelight reflects in his eyes, shimmering with the flicker of the flames, as well as something else.
I stand up and walk around the fire to sit next to him. "It's up to you, Atrapol."
Piled at Atrapol's feet, between him and the fire, is his armor. The armor of the Gothos Phalanx, the symbol of his oath to Lord Van Bloot. The face carved into the armor snarls up at us, the shadows from the firelight almost making it appear alive at times.
Atrapol leans down and picks his helmet up. He rotates it around so that the visor is facing him, and he rests the metal in his lap and stares where the wearer's eyes would be. "I despise him," he mutters. "All that he's done in lifetimes past, he is a vile, disgusting man. A monster."
I press my lips together. "Er, just checking, you're talking about Bloot, right? Not yourself?"
Atrapol blinks, and a grin spreads across his face. "Ah, yes. I can see how that could be interpreted that way." He shakes his head and looks back down at the helmet. "He knows, Michael."
I nod. It's the third time he's said that. I don't say anything, though.
Atrapol's eyes harden. "He knows, and I cannot even just say that maybe it will be different this time. He has always worked against you, against us. Betrays the UnderWorld, betrays Perim, betrays my Red Hand." His hands are shaking, fingers tightening on the helmet.
There is a long silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the nearby splash of water from the shower. "So," I say after a while, "what are you going to do?"
Atrapol's hands stop shaking. A drop of water splashes on the helmet. A tear.
"I cannot go back to Gothos Tower after delivering you from the UnderWorld." Atrapol squeezes his eyes shut and rubs them with his wrist. "I cannot pretend to be on his side, not when he knows. I cannot bring my brothers with me." He turns his head and looks into my eyes. "This will be the first time I have done what comes next without them."
"You can wait," I offer. "Until you get them back, once they're ready."
Atrapol looks back down at his helmet. "...No." He stands up. "I will not wait. I have worn the colors of my sworn foe for too long already. We do this now."
I nod. "Okay then." I stand up and face Atrapol, and he faces me.
Atrapol has always been one for ritual, a trait he shares with the rest of the Red Hand. For me, it is enough that I know that Atrapol has sworn his allegiance to me, but for him, it is an oath he must make with every new lifetime. An oath to me, and an oath against his former master.
I slide the towel off my shoulders, then take one of the tunics Atrapol got from Mount Pillar and slide it over my head. Hardly the garb of a lord, but it's the best I have right now. I straighten the cloth on my body, then fold my arms and look back at Atrapol. "I'm ready."
Atrapol does not get dressed, instead standing naked. He doesn't have anything else to wear, and even if he did, he would not wear it for this. Instead, he holds the helmet out toward me.
"This armor I made as an oath to the family Van Bloot, the house of Gothos. With this armor, I swore that, as long as their line was the rightful ruler of the UnderWorld, I would serve them with even my dying breath."
Atrapol brings the helmet to his chest and places his palms on either side of it, wrapping his fingers around until almost all of it was concealed by his hands, save for its large horns.
"Lord Van Bloot, last of the house of Gothos, has broken his oath. He is not worthy of the throne. The line of Bloot is broken. I am sworn to them no more."
Atrapol squeezes his hands, and the metal of the helmet collapses in his grip. He holds the mangled hunk of metal over the fire and drops it. It twists further, melting away as though the flames were many times hotter than they really were.
Atrapol picks up his breastplate, its snarling face facing me. "I shaped this metal with the hands that would work performing the will of the family Van Bloot, the house of Gothos. With this metal, I swore that, as long as their words were true and their might pure, I would serve them with even my last drop of blood."
He starts pulling his arms away from each other, and the metal of the armor groans. "Lord Van Bloot, survivor of the house of Gothos, speaks lies with every breath. His heart is not pure. The word of Bloot is broken. I am beholden no longer."
Atrapol tears the metal like it was paper and tosses it into the fire, where it curls up and crumbles like a dying spider.
He picks up his loincloth, a pentagon of thick fabric embroidered with an intricate border and symbol. "This symbol is the crest of the family Van Bloot, house of Gothos. With each stitch, I swore that, just as they would increase their might to encompass and rule all of Perim, I would serve them until even the end of time."
Atrapol bundles up the cloth and squeezes it in his hands. "Lord Van Bloot, defiler of the house of Gothos, bent his knee to an enemy of all Perim. He has betrayed the people he sought to rule. His will is weak. I serve no more."
He twists his hands, and the fabric frays and tears until it is in two pieces. He tosses it into the flames, where it ignites and vanishes as fast as burning silk.
Atrapol drops to one knee, puts one hand on the ground near it, and the other hand on his other raised knee. He bows his head and swears, "I, Atrapol of the Red Hand, do swear my every breath to you, Michael, Highest of the Humans. I, Atrapol of Blackstone Desert, do swear my lifeblood to you, Michael, The Undying One."
He lifts his head and looks me in the eye, and I sigh. I've long ago given up on him omitting his personal addition to his oath, one he swears in private, away from the rest of the Red Hand.
"I, Atrapol the Dream, do swear my soul to you, Michael, The Dreamer, God of Perim."
I bow my head to Atrapol and extend a hand to him. "Rise, Atrapol, Son of Perim."
A third voice calls out, "Sorry, God of WHAT?"
Atrapol's head jerks over to the shower, while I groan and close my eyes for a moment before looking myself. Pepper's head is poking out from behind the privacy sheet, water dripping from her large ears and white fur. Her eyes are wide and her whiskers are twitching.
"You should take more care in what you say with innocent ears nearby," I mutter.
Atrapol lifts his hand up, places it on my chest, and pushes me so that I trip and land on my butt.
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Chaotic belongs to TCDigital.