2nd of the 12th Cycle
"I am the Venti of the South," the elf announced, "I have come to seek audience with the Lord of Wind, grant me entrance!"
There was a pause, a deafening silence that crawled up his skin - and then the midnight gate stirred. The black stone came to life, an undulating form emerged from the surface; an immaterial figure in the vague shape of a human, with a body formed of golden winds. It's breezy golden locks were light and airy, like willows billowing in the wind, face obscured by two golden wings wrapped around it.
His eyes throbbed from merely gazing upon the being, forcing him to look away and rub at them. He felt a wetness, and the boy withdrew his hands from his face to see blood coating his fingers.
"You have come to die," it- no, she - spoke.
"The tyrant must face his due," the elf forged onwards, "Does he not grate you as well?"
"You overstep your bounds," the abomination hissed in return.
"Look, are you going to let us through or not!?" the boy demanded, impatience growing.
He felt the elf's intangible arm fall on his shoulder, feeling it squeeze painfully even through the gambeson he had donned. The thing in the gate laughed softly, and yet he could feel his ears bleed at the otherworldly sound - like rasping, grating noise combined with the choir of a thousand winds.
"You bring the most interesting of strays, venti," she spoke, "I grant you entrance - best use that splendid voice of yours for more welcome acts, boy."
The thing melted back into the stone and the boy heard a series of latches unlock through the gate, then the vast thing yawned open like a beast. They stepped through, and found the antechamber empty, nary a soul haunting the dark depths of the Tower. The very moment he heard the gate slam shut with a resounding thud behind them, the elf turned on him.
"Never," it whispered furiously, "Never do that again."
"But- but it let us in, right?" he tried.
"Do you want your soul to join the rest in the storm wall!?"
Does he want his soul- the boy's blood ran cold. He knew the storm wall was maintained by the tyrant's servants, but not any ordinary wind spirits - the purpose was far too important to be entrusted to the likes of minor deities such as those - no, they were maintained by angels.
"That thing was an angel?" he choked.
"A fallen angel," a companion drawled - the fair archer Amos, "Once a lover of Decarabian, now cast out of grace. A seraphim, if I recall rightly."
Her face was calm - even bordering on apathy - but her prismatic eyes were sharp and cold, staring at him in distaste.
All knew of angels, they were the tyrant's authority, his will given form. They obeyed with absolute obedience, blood-drenched by a thousand wars fought with a thousand rival gods and kingdoms. There were stories, of a time from when before the storm descended - of legions of seraphims, of phalanges of ophanims, of erelims, hashmallims, cherubims.
Once, they filled the sky with divine light - raining salvation upon their allies as they rained damnation upon the enemy. Now, they commanded the storm, the great prison that made their allies into enemies. The boy felt a fresh flush of panic, but wrestled his breathing under control.
"What kind of king imprisons his own lover in stone?" Gunnhildr murmured.
"The kind of king who rules from the Tower," Regin shot back, hefting his claymore.
An uncomfortable silence fell over them, and the boy took the opportunity to glance at Amos - who was staring at the gate behind them with an impenetrable gaze. They knew she once held the same position as the angel-turned-gatekeeper, just as they knew her purposes differed from theirs. Yet, she was a good friend, and while their goals were unsimilar, they were not parallel.
He shot Gunnhildr and Regin a look, and while Gunnhildr diverted her gaze sheepishly, Regin was not so cowed.
"It is the truth," he said, "Now come, if we fail here, then everything would be for naught."
"Yes…" the elf murmured, "The people's belief in the tyrant is waning, and he grows weaker by the moment - just as I grow stronger as they continue to believe in me- us. We must crush the tyrant before his legions snuff out the revolution."
"Alright," he breathed, "Let's move on."
1st of the 1st Cycle
Aether gasped for air, feeling his knees and palms pressing against the cold stone floor.
He hacked and coughed, clearing his throat and spitting - blinking the fogginess from his eyes. Looking up, he saw his captors in much the same position. Proud knights laid lifelessly on the ground like broken dolls, and while some managed to push themselves up, Aether found that most were dead.
Bleeding from every orifice, brain matter leaking from their eyes and ears - mouths wide open in the facsimile of a horrified scream frozen in time.
He staggered to his feet, breathing heavily - and watched as the Grandmaster, Lisa, and the others rose as well. Of just over a hundred men and women, half of them were dead before they made it to the second floor.
"What in the name of the Lord…?" Jean released a horrified whisper.
A sentiment matched by all of them.
"Did you all see… that?" Lisa asked, "It was- it was like a…"
"A memory," Aether finished for her.
thud–thud
The knights still sound of mind hastily reached for their swords as the Tower rumbled, staring at the ceiling. It sounded as if there was a giant walking above them, their footsteps shaking the entire structure.
It was quiet, too quiet. There was no sound, not the breathing of anxious men and women far out of their depth, not the howls of a raging storm, not the intermittent cracks of thunder they have gotten accustomed to. There was nothing, only-
thud–thud
"Memories, hm?" Lisa murmured, "I would say… this Tower is alive."
"How could that be?" Jean questioned, bewildered.
"There are tales of objects," Lisa explained, half musing, "So steeped in legend and myth, that they formed their own faux-consciousness, able to remember the things they have experienced."
thud–thud
"Aye," a mage interjected, "I visited Liyue once, and got my hands on a legendary sword. When I held it, it felt like a living organism - breathing, vibrating, with even its own emotions, I dare say. It rejected me, burned my hands as I gripped its handle - so I returned it to its owner."
Aether thought of Aphelion, and wondered if the sword was alive as well. Truthfully, this was the first he had ever heard of faux-conciousness. An object must've had a long and rich history to be capable of such, surely the price is higher for cosmic blades such as Aphelion - for in a mortal world, a sun-forged blade is already a legend by sheer value alone.
In the eyes of beings like him, however, Aphelion was an average blade - simply well fitted and balanced for him - it was young, and hasn't seen a fraction as many millennia as other celestial weapons had.
He doubted his sword had a consciousness, but perhaps one day it will.
"So you're saying that… right now, we are hearing the Tower's-"
thud–thud
"-heartbeat?"
"Afraid so."
"And what we saw… was what the Tower saw?"
"Afraid so."
The Grandmaster glanced around, staring at the blank, nondescript walls that held so much history in every cubit.
"But why would it reveal that to us?"
thud–thud
It was a question that could not be answered. They were living organisms, sound of mind and clear in clarity - how were they supposed to fathom the purpose of a tower that thought? Aether had a theory, that the memories were not revealed - even borne of - the Tower at all.
"Who rules this Tower?" he asked quietly.
And he was answered by silence.
But all knew the answer in their hearts - Lord Barbatos.
So why would a god reveal his darkest secrets? They had set off towards the Tower in order to track down the Dragon of the East, to dispense judgement on a blasphemous soul. And yet, now they were embroiled in forgotten histories and hidden designs of unearthly origins.
thud–thud
Aether had called the Tower the once beating heart of a forgotten kingdom.
He was mistaken.
The Tower was a sleeping giant, one just waiting to be reawakened.
Aether breathed out, and forced starlight into his arms - heating the chains around his wrists red-hot until molten iron dripped onto the stone below, sizzling in the darkness. When the chain completely disconnected, he gripped the still scorching manacles with his bare hands and ripped them free, dropping them onto the ground.
Aphelion materialised in his hands, blade shimmering brilliant gold - he raised the blade in front of him, using it as a light source. No one intervened, no - with Aphelion out in the open, he dared say they all felt much safer - the remaining mages with them even casted magelights to help illuminate the path ahead, following his lead.
thud–thud
The antechamber led into a high-ceilinged room of greasy black stone, the walls bare and devoid of any ornaments. Aether brought his glowing blade closer to a wall in order to inspect it, when suddenly the wall caught aflame. He watched, transfixed, as the flames expanded, burning away the thin layer of soot, revealing what was hidden beneath.
An array of mosaics, masterfully worked, yet strangely patterned in half a hundred different shades of blue and green. He brought his face closer, scanning the mosaics, and saw-
Aether recoiled backwards, nearly tripping over his own feet.
Lisa caught him, face half worried and yet half curious - as if she wanted to inspect the walls for herself now.
"Don't," he coughed, "Whatever magic is built into that, you don't want anything to do with it."
"Can we just carve a little piece out?"
"Do you dare to?"
The witch stared at the mosaics somewhat longingly, unconsciously inching forwards. Aether wasn't about to save her if she touched them, he was a firm believer in self-determination - let every man's face be left in their own hands. However, he did notice some of the more sensible men getting ready to pull her back if needed.
Lisa relented, jerking away from the wall, as if she just realised she was moving closer to it.
"Let's… let's move on. Does anyone know the way up?"
thud–thud
2nd of the 12th Cycle
The next level was accessed by two sets of spiralling stairs winding around each other.
As they climbed, the boy noticed that the smooth railing guarding them was carved into the likeness of a snake. Immediately, he snatched his hand away from the railing as if it was scalding hot. Given how their march up the Tower has gone so far, he half expected the stone snake to come to life and devour anyone who bothered it.
When they crested the final step, Amos paused. Turning around, she glanced backwards at them.
"Steel your nerves," she warned, "This part is, well… see for yourself."
Without waiting for a response, she forged ahead briskly - stepping through the archway to the next chamber.
Three humans shared an anxious look, while the elf flew underneath the cover of Gunnhildr's cloak. Taking a deep breath, they stepped through the entrance, resolving to stay cool and collected in face of whatever was beyond the archway. After all, they had each other to boost their confidence.
That resolve lasted no more than a dozen heartbeats.
The long corridor awaiting them was filled with malformed corpses - of humans, of angels, of beasts and monsters and daemons. They hung from the ceiling by ethereal ropes, they were nailed and chained to the walls in such a close manner that they formed a curtain of mutilated flesh covering the entire facade of course stone.
That alone was enough to fill his nightmares for the coming moons, the boy thought - but then it got worse.
Their heads swivelled in unison to face them the moment they stepped in. A thousand maws opened and they began groaning, yelling, and pleading, words shouted in half a dozen different tongues drowning each other out until all that could be heard was one deafening cacophony of misery and fury.
The boy flinched back when he saw the nearest ones laughing at him, leering, and calling out sentences he couldn't understand. Slamming his palms onto his ears, he attempted to block out the noise - but it only grew louder, until it began to overwhelm his senses.
When he saw a snake-like creature with feet and wings wriggling in its place above him, mouth wide open and ready to devour him even when it was chained in place, the boy snapped.
The bard shoved a hand into his sack and pulled out his lyre, strumming a frantic, delirious tune in a desperate effort to drown out the screams. He shut his eyes and kept playing, nimble fingers dancing upon the strings like Windblumes in the breeze.
He kept playing and playing, until he felt someone touch his shoulder.
He stopped, and slowly, cautiously, opened his eyes. The corpses were still, their eyes wide open and their mouths sealed shut. There was no more noise in the hall, none save for his gasping breaths. Swivelling his head around, the bard saw that it was Regin who had placed his hand on his shoulder.
Not saying - not daring - to utter a word, they hastily strode forwards, trying to ignore the weight of a thousand stares laid upon them.
In a matter of moments, they were out the other end - to see Amos waiting for them, an amused smile dancing upon her lips.
"Nice song."
"What in seven hells was that!?" Regin demanded, voicing all of their thoughts.
"The gallery, you like it?"
"What kind of gallery-!?"
"The kind owned by kings who rule from the Tower," Amos fed his words back to him, before nodding at the archway, "They were all past gatekeepers, kept in a state of perpetual undeath by the Ophanim."
"Well isn't this a place full of horrifying surprises," Regin growled, "Couldn't you have, I don't know - warned us!?"
"Regin!" Gunnhildr raised her voice, "I'm sure she has her reasons, maybe there was a trap-"
"It's because I wanted to see your reactions," Amos admitted shamelessly, "Now quit whining and let's get a move on."
"Amos," the boy tried, "Why must you-"
"Because I am your guide, nothing more."
Within a matter of mere moments, they were making their way up another flight of stairs. After the rather nightmarish experiences they were met with below, the boy half expected to see some horrid sight that would leave him waking up screaming for nights to come - but contrary to his expectations the chamber was surprisingly mundane.
Similar to the floors below, the entire level was carved into a single massive room. There were no actual walls in the circular chamber, just empty spaces between large sculpted archways that directly into oversized balconies. Colossal granite columns held up the upper floors, spaced at regular intervals between the arches, carved into them scenes of heaven and angels.
For the first time since they had entered the tower, the boy finally saw other people around. Well, not people, but beings.
Dressed in dull metal plate with masks over their faces, the Ishim stood as silent sentinels under the arches leading into the balconies. They were the lowest of the angels, and were shaped the most similar to humans, but with one great difference - the pair of dark, feathery wings extending from their shoulder blades.
They made no sound or movement even as the band approached, continuing to stand in unnerving silence.
Glancing over the angels' shoulders, the boy could see the lights of distant stars shrouded by the great storm. Despite this, the night was not dark, for the city below was lit with a thousand fires as the revolution burned. Even from so high above, the boy thought he could hear the faint cries and shouts of the raging war down below.
"So… what do we do?"
Amos did not reply, starting for one of the archways on the right. The boy could faintly discern the numbers two, zero and five carved into the top of the arch in Reitz numerals, masked within the pattern adorning the stone.
"Ishim!" Amos called, "Let us pass!"
The sole ishim standing underneath the arch moved, fluidly spinning its long spear into a guard position - its great tower shield resting on the ground, and the spear laying on its top edge. The angel's wings flared, blocking the entire entrance.
Amos backed away, "Come now, we owe no grave injury to the king. Let us pass, and we can put all of this behind us."
"Is… is she really trying to negotiate with an angel?" Gunnhildr murmured softly.
"Lord Decarabia will miss your presence," the angel growled, it's voice grating - like a thousand swords shattering together, "Alas, your betrayal will not go unpunished!"
"Betrayal? I have betrayed none!" Amos insisted, "I have come to place sense into the king, as I have for years!"
The fair archer gestured behind the angel, at the storm wall, at the war being fought.
"What happened to the king's fair reign so many centuries ago, can you see how far he has fallen?"
"Lord Decarabia always had our best interests in mind, for he is our king."
"Not anymore," Amos contradicted, "You used to be able to fly free on the thousand winds, you used to be able to see the stars and Sky! Look at us now, look at you now! Decarabian- Decarabia has lost his way, we must have him be brought back to his senses!"
The ishim shifted in its place, but did not speak. Seeing this as a sign to continue, Amos forged ahead.
"When this is over, the storm will fall," she told it, "You will no longer have to be trapped in this cage with us, you will no longer have to maintain it. You will be- we will be free!"
"Freedom…" it rasped.
"Freedom," Amos agreed.
The ishim slowly untensed, bringing its spear and shield back to its sides - before moving out of the way, magnificent wings retracting.
"We shall trust your word," the Ishim spoke as one, and the Tower shivered as a thousand angels joined in choir, "Make haste, Lady Amos - you know the way ahead."
"Thank you."
"That's step two," the elf emerged from underneath Gunnhildr's cloak.
"Step two?"
"A god must have authority, something to rule over," the elf related, "What is a god without anything to lord over?"
Regin's eyes widened, "Then there would be no god at all."
2nd of the 1st Cycle
Aether stepped onto the balcony.
It was a large, semi-circular platform of solid stone jutting out of the Tower's main body, fitted snugly into a groove cut into the side of the outer wall. In the centre of the balcony was a small pedestal with a thin opening in the top. Aether leaned over the edge, as there was no guardrails at all.
He felt the mountain winds brush pass him, feeling his hair and cloak flutter in the cool breeze. In the not-so-far distance, the storm churned, roiling black clouds sometimes illuminated by streaks of lightning. Aether watched as the Sun crested the horizon, its dazzling glow visible even through the tempest veil.
Below were the ruins of a city kept in semi-stasis for half a millennia, the storm winds blocking the entrance or exit of anything - until now. When Decarabian, or Decarabia - Aether was no longer quite sure which was correct - fell, the storm fell with him as the spirits maintaining the great barrier broke free of his authority.
It stayed that way for millennia, until a great war was fought and lost - and the Dragon of the East revived the storm with Barbatos' authority, using the Tower as its new roost. Or so was what Lisa theorised, in any case.
Looking down, Aether saw that as expected - despite being in the midst of winter - there was not a speck of snow on the ground, none getting through the great shield that is the tempest.
Jean, Lisa, the single remaining bishop - whose name was Johann, he'd learnt - and a handful of knights stepped out onto the platform after him. Tearing his gaze away from the magnificent view, Aether turned around and watched as the Grandmaster addressed the knights left in the chamber.
"Set up camp, and wait for our return," she ordered, "If we do not appear in three days, return back to the ground."
"Understood, Grandmaster."
Jean stepped back and looked around, before drawing her blade and stabbing it into the pedestal. There was a click, but nothing happened.
"Try imbuing some Anemo," he suggested.
The Grandmaster clenched her hands around the grip, and her Vision glowed. Streams of Anemo emanated out of her body, spiralling down the blade of her sword and into the pedestal.
Thin veins of blue trailed out of the pedestal and into the platform, travelling towards the Tower in winding yet sharp ninety degree turns. Once the veins contacted the wall, they dispersed - before two massive luminous bands of light shone on either side of the groove extending upwards, revealing the true purpose of the balcony.
The platform rumbled, and began to ascend.
Clearly, the elevator hasn't been used in some time - likely in several millennia now - as the ride was rugged at best. Several times over, the lift hit some snatch or uneven surface in the wall and shook violently, throwing them off balance. This led to them huddling near the centre of the platform out of fear of tumbling off the edge.
The only exception was Lisa, who was standing near the wall and watching as the surface travelled past them. Aether could faintly hear her muttering to herself about runes and other thaumaturgical terms he was not quite familiar with.
Several eternities later, the elevator shuddered to a halt.
Aether was the first to step off, and regal the new level they found themselves on. They had arrived on what appeared to be a larger, more opulent parody of the balcony down below - the lift having been hit cosily into a hole in the centre of the balcony.
He heard the sound of boots stepping off the lift as his companions followed his lead, boots tapping against the polished marble that the balcony was made from. Opulent indeed, for the outer edges of the platform were coated in gold, albeit crumbling away as well.
Directly above them were the dark, wreathing storm clouds that crowned the Tower, obscuring the very top. Lightning arced overhead, sometimes mere cubits away from their heads, and the thunder that followed like distant explosions.
Turning inwards, they walked under a massive archway that led to a smaller antechamber with a handful of crumbling stone couches bordered in gold and heavily encrusted with all manner of precious jewels. It must be a terrible and uncomfortable experience to sit on them, so Aether did not try.
There were also massive tapestries hanging from the walls, all depicting Decarabian in various ways and forms. Sometimes the god was a man, sometimes a woman, sometimes inarticulate objects that evoked a sense of dread even through a medium such as wool. In all cases, he sat upon his throne, looking over the realm beneath him.
At the end of the chamber was a set of massive studded bronze doors, intricately forged to contain countless subtle patterns and designs.
Jean strode forwards, and put a hand against one of the doors - attempting to push it open. It didn't budge an inch. Backing away, the Grandmaster's Vision gleamed brilliantly - before she thrusted her blade forwards, a gale forming at the hilt and shot through the blade.
The force impacted the doors with a thump - and then a loud rumbling, creaking noise was heard. The bronze door groaned as it was tipped over, screaming as it fell and slamming against the floor with a great crash - sending dust flying into the air.
When the dust settled, Jean took a deep breath and climbed over the fallen gate, entering the hall - and they all followed in silence.
thud–thud
3rd of the 12th Cycle
It should be impossible for the throne room to actually fit inside the Tower, he thought.
And yet it was, and the boy did not know whether it be through some divine sorcery or merely the result of his own mortal perceptions. The chamber was far too broad, seemingly many times the width of the Tower. The column-raised ceiling was far too high, so far up that he half-expected to be able to see clouds drift above him.
The Tower's stone, cavernous walls were unpainted and unadorned - instead a hundred drapes in a hundred hues of green, blue and grey cascaded down like cloth pillars, weaved of a strange feathery textile he had never seen before.
And the entire floor was a massive mosaic depicting a hundred different scenes. The boy laid witness on the destruction of Cecilia Garden, on a dozen different battles with a dozen different gods at the gates of the city. He saw the flying legions of the Seraphim raining golden death on the enemy.
But the scene that caught his eye was the same one directly in front of him - it depicted five people climbing a tower as the world burned below them. Two males, two females, and a single venti - and in the next scene, only three of them were yet alive, standing before a broken tower.
thud–thud
The boy tore his gaze away from the decor, and up at the throne. At the tyrant who started it all. He barely even glanced at the throne itself, though it was a thing of legend - crafted of storm clouds in solid form embellished with pinioned sapphires made to look like raindrops.
No, his gaze was affixed on the god who sat on it.
Decarabian had taken the form of a young man. He was tall, even sitting on his seat he could tell that much - but there was more. The god looked the carved statue, all his proportions were perfect - too perfect - so perfect that it made him uncomfortable just staring upon him, as if human eyes were never meant to gaze upon the manner of such. His hair billowed down his back, white and feathery, and so long it that it pooled at the base of the throne. His eyes were a stormy grey that seemed to pierce their souls.
"Amos," the old god greeted, "It seems you have brought… friends."
The fair archer strode forwards, confident in her step.
"Decarabia, please!" she pleaded, "Stop this madness at once!"
"Madness?" the mad god laughed, "What madness? No, this is fate, all that I have foreseen."
"Foreseen?" Amos croaked, "Then why… why have you not-"
"I am the Lord of Wind!" he laughed, "Heir of Astaroth, King of the Tower! I see it all with a thousand eyes upon a thousand winds - nothing escapes my sight."
Amos looked about ready to burst, before she sucked in a deep breath and shakily relaxed her shoulder. From the corner of his eyes, the boy noticed Regin pass a spear of yew over to the elf.
"You've gone mad," she spoke, as if it were fact, "Don't worry, we will drag you out of it."
"I've waited," the god spoke softly, "So very long."
Amos leapt backwards and into the air - inhumanly high, blessed as she was by the god. In a split moment, she drew her bow and unleashed a storm of glowing arrows. Regin and Gunnhildr rushed forwards as one, blades in hand and primed to strike at the heart of the god.
Decarabia rose leisurely, and extended his eight wings. He brought three wings in front of himself to knock away Amos' barrage, fast enough to intercept them, yet slow enough to make the action seem effortless. A spear of shining gold materialised in the god's hand, which he used to parry both Regin and Gunnhildr's strikes simultaneously, before knocking both of them back.
As Amos landed and the two warriors regrouped, Decarabia casually strode down the steps leading to his throne.
thud–thud
The bard pulled out his lyre, and strummed a tune.
The fight continued, with Amos, Regin and Gunnhildr constantly engaging the god to keep him occupied while the bard continued to play his lyte, invigorating his comrades with strength and stamina. With every blow and parry, the hall shook and shuddered - with every twang of a drawn bowstring loosed, the Tower weeped.
He watched as Gunnhildr dove for a strike, thrusting her silver blade forwards - and extending too far. Decarabia spun his spear around, knocking the sword out of her hands. Gunnhildr lost her footing, stumbling right into the god's range - and the bard could only look on helplessly as Decarabia brought down his golden point.
"No!" Regin roared, diving forwards.
The red-haired man's claymore knocked the spearpoint out alignment just as he tried to push Gunnhildr away. Except, the golden spear was double pointed, and the god used the momentum to spin the haft around before bringing the second point down on Regin.
"GyaaAAGH!"
Regin had successfully pushed Gunnhildr out of the way and tried to kick himself out of range, but it was too late - he now had a golden lance piercing through his upper thigh. Decarabia bent down, his wings curled to block another wave of arrows, seizing Regin by the scruff of his neck and lifting the man into the air.
The god wrenched his spear out of the flesh - prompting a yell of agony - before tossing the man to the side as if he were a doll. Regin crashed against a pillar and slumped, head bowed.
Cursing, the bard drew his shortsword.
"You can't!" Gunnhildr yelled at him, "You're no fighter!"
"We don't have a choice," the bard rebuked, "We must buy time, no matter what it costs!"
Gunnhildr closed her eyes and exhaled, before opening them and nodding firmly. Together, they rushed the god, ducking under another hail of arrows. The exchange of blows that followed was something the bard could hardly keep track of, relying on his instinct alone to keep himself alive. He weaved between swings of the golden spear, creating openings for Gunnhildr to purchase a jab or two.
It was even going well, he dared say, they were working together fluidly and smoothly. At this pace, the elf would be able to-
schlick
The boy felt something cold deep in his gut. He looked down numbly, and saw a golden haft - the spear had pieced his stomach and came out the back. He coughed, spittle and blood dripping from his mouth.
He heard a scream.
The bard dropped his sword, and looked up at the god with bloodshot eyes - and offered a bloody smile.
"Do you know how to kill a god, Decarabia?"
The god's eyes furrowed in a surprisingly human way, his eight wings bristling at the insinuation. Then, he twisted the spear and wrenched it out of the bard violently, making him keel over in agony. The bard hastily covered his stomach, desperately trying to keep his innards inside his body.
The god spoke, "You cannot kill a-"
schlick
The bard gave a bloody grin. The god choked, coughing golden blood, and looked down. The elf had silenced its steps and snuck around, stabbing the god in the back with the spear of yew - the point piercing through the heart and out the chest.
"So you have 'killed' me," he mused, as if he did not have a spear through his heart, "But I will not die, and I will return. Mayhaps in a thousand years, but I will return."
"No, you will not," the elf denied.
There was a shift- a warping as the world tilted a little. A great deafening roar of thunder reverberated throughout the hall, and what followed was silence. Absolute silence, so silent in fact, that he could hear-
thud–thud
"No," Decarabia whispered, "No, no, no! What have you done!?"
"Decarabia!?" the bard heard Amos shout even as he fell to the ground.
Gunnhildr rushed to his side, desperately wrapping his wound with cloth to stem the bleeding - but he knew it was already too late.
Through hazy eyes, the bard watched as the elf wrested the spear free of divine flesh before plunging its arm into the cavity. He watched as the elf pulled free not a heart, but a single seed of dandelion - a godhead, the source of Decarabia's apotheosis.
The elf stared at the seed in its hands, and plunged it into its own chest.
Decarabia fell to the ground, and a newborn god rose in his place.
"You… YOU!" Amos screamed hoarsely, "That wasn't what we agreed upon, what have you done!?"
"What I had to," the elf replied, "To ensure a new age where all men live free."
Amos howled in rage, drawing a pair of hunting knives and lunging at the newborn god.
It was useless. The elf plucked her out of the air with a hand of wind, before hurling the wooden spear at her.
Amos coughed weakly, clawing at the stake in her chest, trying to pull it out. She was unceremoniously dropped out of the air, and crumpled to the ground. Unfaltering, the fair archer staggered to her feet, finally pulling the spear out of her chest and tossing it aside.
She limped forwards, but her legs betrayed her will, dropping her to her knees.
"No…"
Through the haze of pain, the bard's eyes widened. Decarabia was still alive.
The dead god stood, employing his golden spear as a crutch, even as he decayed and rotted and disintegrated away.
"What are you doing, tyrant?"
The elf picked up Decarabia with a hand of wind, tugging the god away from his lover even as he struggled and raged. In a last act of desperation, the dead god raised his arm and hurled his spear-
And it struck true, piercing Amos' heart and killing her instantly.
Then, the god went slack, rotting flesh dripping onto the ground. The elf stared in confusion, and in distaste, before dropping the corpse.
The elf strode over to the bard's dying person, and Gunnhildr immediately rose to her feet - sword bared in defiance, but the newborn god raised a hand in surrender.
"I mean no harm, my lady."
Slowly, the female warrior brought down her blade, and the god came to his side and picked him up in a bridal carry. The bard flickered in and out of consciousness as he was brought to the exit, the heavy bronze doors opening before the elf's presence as if it was natural.
Walking out onto the balcony, the god set him down gently.
"W-Where's…"
"Gunnhildr is assisting Regin," the elf chuckled, "He likely needs healing, as he always seem to need."
"Can't- can't you heal me?" he rasped.
The god shook his head, "I am unable to. Decarabia's spear was cursed with some kind of ancient magic I cannot discern. I'm afraid I can only prolong your suffering."
He breathed, "Then just let me die."
"No, I want you to look at this."
"Look at what…?" the bard trailed off as he set his tired eyes on the most incredible sight he had ever laid witness upon.
The city had stopped burning, the storm walls had fallen. The bard could see the dawning Sun cresting the horizon, washing the Sky in a dozen hues of oranges and reds. He could see the mountains, and the verdant plains beyond them. He could see a great shimmering blue lake too, far far in the distance.
Just as he could see tens of thousands of angels flying, those that looked like man, those that were as eldritch as the gods themselves. He could faintly discern the millions of wind spirits that breezed around, the zephyrs, the ventis, the aurai.
He could hear the rapturous, jubilant cheering of a kingdom set free from its shackles.
"I wish…" the god uttered, "I wish you could see the world we would have built together."
The bard closed his eyes, a faint smile dancing upon his lips.
He heard the thunderous choir of all the once-subjects of Decarabia call for their new god, of the angels' otherworldly chants, of the spirits' breezy voices, of human lungs howling at the top of their lungs.
"Hail Barbatos, Lord of Wind, God of Freedom! Hail Barbatos, King of the Tower, Protector of his People! Hail Barbatos, may he reign for a thousand years, and reign a thousand more!"
How do you kill a god?
You take their belief, their authority, their godhead - and you usurp their divinity. You kill a god by replacing them with another one - and leave them nowhere else to go, nowhere but oblivion.
"There's no need to wish, Barbatos," the bard whispered to the wind, "For I've already seen it."
And the bard died, feeling the light and warmth of the Sun against his face for the first time in his life.
Rewritten on 11/6/2022