Slayer's Vengeance

by Jago-Dakari

A meeting between a yautja huntress and a human marine turned vengefull slayer will shake the very foundation of both races in this story of adventure, love and loss.

43. Chapter 38

Smashed the door down in a shower of splinters

HAPPY AUSTRALIA DAY!

Dusts wood dust from self

After such a stupidly long absence (floods, accidents, lockdowns and plague), I'm finally back in the game of getting Slayer's Vengeance complete. that is going to be my resolution this year, get this done even if it kills me... well, if it kills me then i technically wont be able to finish it. This was an especially difficult chapter to right as there are many revelations to be had and deciding what to and what not to reveal. And, as often happens, it gets me carried away in writing lore and background material. I'll leave you to decide on that. i had originally intended to make one enormous chapter but concluded that it would be better as two sperate entries rather then just one overly long one. i mean, some of the chapters are full blown novellas as is.

Anyway, the next chapter I hope to get done in quick time. so I can finally get Typhon to stay dead so we can proceed to what really matters. and I think some of you already know what that is. until then, please read on and I'll catch in the next one.

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Chapter 38- Nightmares and revelations.

When Alaric opened his eyes once more, he found himself standing on his feet and surrounded in a dark grey mist. Only this time it was obscuring everything. He could not see more then arm's length ahead of him in this thick smog. As far as he could tell when he patted himself, he was still clad in his armour and it was still bearing it's battle damage. He could feel every crack, every pit and every scorch that had been inflicted upon it. But he found that, aside from being caked in his own dried blood, he was in one piece. His sight had even returned to his damaged eye. He did not feel like a shattered vase clumsily held in place by tape. He felt fully healed.

Alaric quickly realised what was going on. He was back in his mind. Like what had happened back on the ice planet after Gri'nyr revealed himself after donning his armour. But this was nothing like that occasion. This was definitely a more foreboding circumstance.

Taking stock of the situation, Alaric tried to find a guide to his current predicament.

"Gri'nyr?" Alaric called out, hearing his voice echo around him. "Gri'nyr?"

A low chuckle was heard, echoing all around Alaric. A chuckle that slowly became more sinister and Alaric started looking around for the source of the mirth. But he could not pinpoint where it was emanating from. But then he recognised the voice creating that sound. It made his blood run cold.

"Your ancestor cannot help you now, my little pest." Typhon revealed, his voice echoing around in the mists. "He is separated from you. Trapped in the dilapidated tomb that you wear on your fragile body."

"Typhon?" Alaric shouted in vexed disbelief. "You're still alive? How?!"

Typhon chuckled once more at Alaric's question. The condescending laugh would be reserved for a persistent idiot who keeps running into a door instead of opening it.

"I kept reminding that you had already lost and yet you continued to defy me like a fool." Typhon reminded with a humourless chuckle. "Then again, I would have expected nothing less from you and your blood." Typhon then appeared right behind Alaric in his host form with his face hovering right next to his ear. "I am so... sick of you!" he whispered.

Alaric lashed out with his fist at Typhon to dispel this image. But his fist simply passed through the apparition of Typhon as if he was formed of condensed smoke. The Primarch laughed at his futile attempt to knock him from his mind. If anything, the motion of Alaric fist moving through his projection was just tickling him.

"You cant touch me." Typhon taunted as Alaric's fist went harmlessly through his head again. "But, I can touch you!"

And that was true as Typhon lashed out with a fist of his own and struck Alaric dead center in the chest. Alaric was sent hurtling backwards through the mist for a considerable distance as an intense burning pain erupted from deep within his chest. Slamming into the ground with a loud simulated thud, he rolled into a heap with the wind knocked out of him. It took him precious seconds to regain the autonomous function to breath. The Primarch materialised over him, hovering upside down and looking down at him, revelling in seeing Alaric twitch in pure discomfort.

"In the realm of the mind, the stronger mind will always reign over the weak." Typhon gloated. "It is the natural order of things. The superior over the inferior. And now, I have ALL the advantage."

Alaric spat blood out of his mouth as he sucked air back into his lungs. He had to wonder if he was having a stroke at this moment in the real world. A sign of neurological damage. But upon hearing Typhon make that claim on having everything in his favour again brought upon that feeling of disdain. Every time that Typhon claimed to have won, Alaric had beaten him. Back on that ice planet and just recently in the docks of Lai'kairis. Each time by Spellbreaker through the head or chest.

"Don't make me laugh." Alaric said, getting to his feet. "You're sounding like a broken record."

Typhon vanished as Alaric jabbed a fist out again. Alaric hurriedly looked all around him, anticipating the Primarch to come swooping out of the mists at him. All he got was more mocking laughter from the Primarch.

"Lash out all you want, it makes no difference. "Typhon gloated. "You should be bracing for the mind fuck of your life."

"You are nothing but a coward afraid of death." Alaric called out, pointing a finger in the approximate direction of Typhon's voice. "Stealing bodies. Desecrating hallowed dead."

There was a deathly silence before Typhon spoke again. That accusation of cowardice was not something cast lightly. For Alaric, it was the perfect word to describe the Primarch.

"Desecrating hallowed dead?" Typhon said with a hint of offence. "That spartan's corpse was nothing more then a tool to escape my prison should the worst happen. And it did. From the moment you landed on that icy rock, like your wretched ancestor before you, you have thwarted my plans of escape at every turn." his tone then softened like he had not taken offence. "But now, after too many setbacks, I have finally realised the irony of the situation. I had the perfect host standing in front of me all this time. You."

Faster then Alaric could react, Typhon appeared out of the mists ahead and lashed out at him with a taloned hand. Alaric yelled as he felt the sharp slicing of flesh in his arm as Typhon's claws raked him, tearing through the under suit of the armour with hardly any resistance. As he instinctively clutched his arm, Typhon landed behind him and held up his fingers to show Alaric's unwilling blood sample. The crimson essence gathered on the tip of Typhon's talons as the Primarch observed it. Alaric looked behind him and saw Typhon showing off his handiwork.

With such an attack, Typhon could have easily severed Alaric's arm from his shoulder. But the Primarch was taking his time. Especially since Alaric had been such a obstruction to his plans. He was going to savour every moment, every ounce of torment and misery he can inflict upon him before finally killing him. It was something that tyrants enjoyed doing to their most hated of rivals.

"What better a host could there be then one with the blood of my captors in his veins?" Typhon questioned, jealous reverence in his voice as the droplet's finally left his fingers "The blood of a Precursor."

Alaric frowned at the name as he focus on getting his arm to stop bleeding, noticing that his blood dripping from Typhon's claws vanished as if soaking into his carapace. Being in a dreamlike state, considering the current situation, it only took some literal willpower to staunch the bleeding. But the name that Typhon just mentioned rang a bell. He had used that word before in their first battle. That word meant nothing to him at the time, regarding it as merely a jab to his heritage. The Yautja were known to be a very long lived race, having lifespans that could reach past a thousand human years if they lived long enough, though such individuals were rare.

"Precursor?" he said with a scoff, checking to see that his arm had stopped bleeding. "I only just got over the fact that a yautja was my ancestor."

"Is that what you think? Is that what Gri'nyr told you?" Typhon questioned. "Ha! Then you truly know nothing. That semblance of your ancestor being a yautja was only an illusion to placate the younger races. Such power diluted by sentiment over beings not worth any consideration."

"The Precursors were living gods!" Typhon shouted in barely constrained envy. "And yet, despite their power, the Precursors refused to lord over the galaxy. They allowed the races after them to murder and raze one another. Often over the most trivial of matters, religion being a main contributor in some cases. Did you know that the Precursors themselves did not believe in gods? Why, they found the term insulting!"

"Then they were more grounded and humble." Alaric said with earnest. "Only a tyrant believes that they're a god. You're no better then your creators!"

As before, the mere mention of his makers brought the Primarch's undiluted disgust to the fore.

"My creators?" Typhon almost spat the last word. "The Ossians were the last of their kind, the pitiful remnant of a once great empire who, despite all their futile efforts, were incapable of attaining the level of transcendent power that the Precursors wielded. So they made other races to further their own gains. Millions of years wasted trying to create their 'perfect organism'. Living tools to fulfil a singular purpose. But, despite their careful planning and mastery of genetics, humans were not part of the plan. They simply sprouted up on a remote backwater without word or warning. The Ossians unintentionally sired their descendants by pure chance."

He noted Alaric's body language, that of uncertainty, after the mention of humans in the Ossian's designs and his wings twitched as an idea formed in his diabolical mind. It was clear that Alaric had some knowledge of that race but he did not know the truth about them and humanity.

"You want to see an Ossian in the flesh?" Typhon proposed. "You want to know their true identity? Then consider this a last request. Savour every second it. You won't have much else."

Typhon stepped back as his aura burned around his form. As it did, the mists thinned out around them With a wave of his hand, an image was projected before them in the form of mist. As the vapour became more tangible, Alaric saw a sight that was already known to humanity. A being that resembled a skeletal bipedal elephant. Something that he had seen many times in many a secret mission. Often as the epicentre of a xenomorph hive in the form of crumbling ruins or derelict ships. The distinctive trunk coming out of the head was unmistakable.

"The Ossians are Space Jockeys?" Alaric questioned before he scoffed. "I knew it. Got the same bony features as the ones strapped in those chairs."

But Alaric was in for a nasty surprise as Typhon was about to reveal. With a wave of the hand, the Ossian's biosuit melted away, or rotted away in a manner of speaking, and Alaric now saw an Ossian in the flesh for the first time. And his eyes widened so far that they threatened to pop out in disbelief. Underneath that skeletal suit was perhaps the most shocking twist that Alaric had yet seen. The Ossians were indeed bipedal humanoids but they were nothing like elephants as Alaric had always assumed. Skin almost white as snow. Two arms that ended in hand with five fingers and two legs that ended with feet with five toes. Their facial features were two black orbs for eyes, a nose and a mouth with two ears on the sides of their head and completely bald.

They were, for all intents and purposes, identical to humans. The resemblance was haunting to say the least.

"What the..." Alaric said, not believing what he was seeing. "They're..."

Typhon, sensing Alaric's conflicting mind, brought up an image of a typical human for comparison with this Ossian. And now, despite the Ossian having slightly blockier facial features then the human, the similarities between the two was definitively unmistakable. If anything, they looked as if they were some evolutionary point. The Primarch tilted his head as he could see Alaric's normally stoic composure crumble in front of him. The sort that usually followed a crisis of identity. Like how someone realised the truth that they were adopted and not blood related to their family.

"Oh yes." Typhon said, malice creeping into his voice. "Do you see now? Do you feel it? The Ossians may be long gone but their legacy still endures. Their blood flows within every human alive! I guess in the end, they achieved their goal of immortality out of pure irony. And all the more reason why you must all die."

Clenching his fist, the apparitions of the ossian and human vanished. The respite of Alaric's last wish was now concluded as the Primarch prepared to unleash his full wrath upon Alaric. Alaric snapped out from his bout of receiving brutal truths as he saw Typhon rearing up at him, all six wings spread out and purple flame burning all over him. But the revelation of a secret of humanity's origins had left in him a profound sense of dread.

"I have learned many ways to kill." Typhon recalled as his armour began to sheen with a menacing gleam. "Melting flesh, pulverising bones to dust. Each having their own... merits and elation. But to truly kill a man, you must destroy his spirit. Break his soul. And a soulless husk is so much easier to take over. So, why don't we start at the beginning?"

Typhon's hand's burned with purple fire before he held it towards Alaric. Alaric tried to dodge the bolt of purple flame that shot out from the Primarch's palm but, true to Typhon's word about stronger minds, was struck with paramount aim. The violet steaks of flame wrapped around his head like a flaming crown of thorns. The sensation was like having a hot branding iron applied to his scalp and not having the nerves burn away as a result. He could feel every sharp burning jolt surging right into this brain as he was held in place before being dragged before Typhon. The Primarch narrowed his eyes as he watched Alaric continue to struggle against his bindings.

Within moments, Alaric could start hearing the whispers in his head. He immediately started to focus on blocking them out. Despite focusing as hard as he could through the pain, the whispers were creeping steadily deeper. Typhon scoffed in mocking surprise as he saw Alaric's eye starting to bleed through clenched eyelids.

"Still resisting?" he called out as he restrained Alaric further. "Futile. Admirable but futile."

Then small wisps of white flame started to peel from Alaric's fiery crown. Alaric eyes opened as he could feel his mind being picked apart with tiny barbed hooks. Typhon's aura intensified from this development as Alaric could only watch. Typhon hummed to himself as his twiddled his fingers in thought. It took Alaric only a few moments to realise what Typhon had just pried from his head. Gri'nyr had done the same thing before showing Alaric the truth about his blood.

"Now, let us see what you've been hiding." Typhon pondered as the flickering wisps hovered into his free hand. "What secrets have you been keeping from those you loved. Ah, let's see what this one holds."

Typhon tapped one wisp of white flame as it erupted in a blinding firestorm. And when the flames had ceased, a war zone was revealed around them. It was in an urban centre on a human colony, the prefabricated structures all bearing the hallmarks of battle as flames and ragged holes ate at them. This marked it as a colony in the Frontier Worlds. Yells were heard as cloaked figures came rushing from the buildings, clad in long cloaks and brandishing long curved daggers resembling xenomorph tail blades. They were then cut down in a disciplined fusillade of pulse rifle fire. Those that did survive the storm of amour piercing rounds were then rushed by a marine brandishing a large axe. The figures did not last very long before they were cut down in gory streaks that painted the ground red.

Alaric's eye widened when he recognised the weapon of death. It was Spellbreaker. It was himself butchering xeno extremists in one of his past missions. A simple cell elimination after it had been uncovered. It was surreal to say the least to see himself in the midst of a Rage scenario. From the perspective of those would be in the danger zone of his wrath. But then this vision was replaced by a series of even more brutal encounters. One such image was the sight of him years ago battling a xenomorph praetorian, more animal then man when he tore it apart with his axes while roaring like some rabid beast. Another memory that spilled into view was the sight of him, covered head to toe in glowing blood after having rendered a yautja hunter into paste.

To say that is was a living hell was an optimistic understatement. Every traumatic event that Alaric had ever been through was replaying right before him. Events from the many missions he had undertaken as an Archangel to every personal demon he had. Memories that he had kept buried deep within. Images of colonies turned into hives. Dispatching unfortunate hosts too far gone to save to spare them the fate of a xenomorph birth. People he was unable to save.

But the one that really got to Alaric the most was the time that xeno extremists had infested an entire orphanage in an Outer Rim colony. Over a hundred children hived and they all had to be euthanized because it was too late to remove the parasites within them. Some had even began to burst when the squad arrived. Alaric had taken his anger out by slaughtering the entire extremist cell single handed in one of his rage scenarios. There were no prisoners taken for interrogation that day. Alaric was reliving every second of it, watching as he cut down every extremist involved like a wild animal. The higher ranking extremists, who orchestrated the entire incident, he took his time with, making their last moments the meaning of the word 'suffering'.

Typhon was revelling in what he was seeing. And every memory he was seeing revealed just how much death and suffering Alaric had witnessed, and had sown, kept bottled up within him. Alaric's psychiatric reports made no mention of him suffering from PTSD. He had the level of mental fortitude in which he could put all those things behind him so that he could fulfill his duty as a soldier. But in those rare moments when he had a conflict of thoughts, only Colonel Helborg was privy to them and these sessions were strictly confidential.

One such moment was when Alaric had lost control of his Rage during what was supposed to be an investigation into disappearances on a jungle planet. Having been captured by hardliner separatists hostile to Federation control and had been subjected to less then ethical interrogation methods which proved fruitless. Torture proved to be the straw that broke the camel's back. The instinct to survive had taken root and, like how terrorist organisations strove to destroy their enemies from within, Alaric did just that. The hideout was turned into a slaughterhouse as Alaric's Rage took him. Nothing that registered, even in the slightest, as a threat was spared. Man and animal. Prisoners and their captors. He was found by his squad sitting amongst a sea of blood and bodies, head in his hands and slowly rocking back and forth as he tried to calm himself down. He had to be sedated in order to move him and the incident was attributed to severe stress under hostile conditions.

Which was putting it lightly.

Typhon saw that this procession of traumatic events was deeply affecting Alaric. Forcing him to relive all these moments that he had rather left forgotten. But the Primarch could sense that there was an even more traumatic event that Alaric was keeping hidden from him. Buried deep within his brain. And he was going to pry it open.

"Not painful enough?" Typhon asked teasingly, watching Alaric's discomfort grow ever more prominent in watching himself as a wild rabid beast. "How about this one? Your greatest failing."

Alaric yelled out in pain as he felt his mind tear again as another wisp of white flame was pulled from this incendiary crown. This one was more stubborn to extract then the others, confirming that this was an especially painful memory. Typhon knew this when he felt Alaric resist his intrusions harder then before. This show of resistance would not do. Typhon held up a hand towards Alaric and within a split second of thought, Alaric was restrained as spectral chains whipped around his limbs. Crackling with painful arcs of static malice, Alaric was held in place and was unable to move. But still he continued to resist with every ounce of will he could muster. Just as he did in the real world.

And Typhon was losing his patience.

"Don't fight. It makes ripping it out harder!" Typhon scolded as he pulled his hand back as if he was pulling a rope. "Give it to me!"

With a final tug and a shower of white embers like a fire being kicked, that buried memory was ripped from Alaric's mind and he gave out a loud piercing scream of pain. His binding vanished and he tumbled to the ground as the chains slackened, clutching his head as blood seeped from his hair and down his face. Like the memory that had been plucked had actually torn through his scalp. This flame soon grew by Typhon's machinations before another scene played out in front of Alaric.

No, Alaric thought. Not again!

It was that night. The night that Alaric would try so hard to forget but could never wipe it from his mind. It had been permanently burned in like a branding iron upon flesh. The screaming was the first thing he heard. The screams of his wife Sam and son Aries. And what filled his vision was the events just before he arrived home.

He remembered the location of where it happened. In the attic of their home.

There were the five yautja responsible for this entire conflict. Mal'kah was there, watching the door from a hidden position and waiting with his back to the horrors being committed behind him. He had both his eyes as evidenced by his lack of an eye plate. The hulking brute Qul'dan was watching with interest as he saw Sil'cais having his way with Alaric's wife. No doubt he was waiting for his turn or he had just finished his turn. Alaric could see every detail. Every second of agony on Sam's face as she was ravaged by those yautja. Restrained as he was, Alaric could do nothing as he was forced to relive that night over and over again.

Half chained, half nailed to the wall was his three year old son Aries. His half naked body was riddled with cuts and incisions that were highly arranged by nature. The two yautja torturing him were by comparison of higher stock then the rest. Hinting at more nobility then the masses by how refined their clothing were. And one of them was a female. Cold and methodical was what could be best described about her as she set about slicing open the human child with small surgical blades.

It looked like she was harvesting tissue samples from him which were then deposited in glass vials for some unknown use. Alaric had never noticed this before on that day, not that he had any time to with being nearly killed. He could only surmise that that this memory projection included not only his interpretation but also everything that happened around him that he failed to take notice of before.

The male beside her, more slim in build then a typical hulking male, was wearing a distinctly odd looking mask. It was more slimmer then the traditional mask. His clothing were more militaristic then the female's, with armour plating in the form of a form fitting suit. The kind of armour that was normally associated with the profession of assassination and this was reinforced by the appearance of daggers and compact throwing weapons. He was holding a large medical needle apparatus in hand. The kind that was used to extract blood.

This yautja however, in contrast to his fellows, looked highly reluctant to use the needle on an infant. With what could only be described as hostile insistence by the female, the male relented. Approaching the child, he stuck the needle into his neck and started to extract a blood sample. Alaric noted that he was treating him with far more care then the female.

What they wanted with this vial of his son's blood and samples of his flesh, Alaric did not know. Nor did he even have the time to even consider the question. For his part in this event had come.

The door opened and Alaric saw himself hastily come through, in casual clothing having just arrived home. Within a second, Mal'kah struck from his ambush position as his wristblades shot from his gauntlet. Alaric felt it as his counterpart was struck in the chest with those blades. A sharp tearing pain that had almost cleft his heart. Not only was Typhon making him relive this event but he was also making him feel every impact and the pain that came with it. Alaric watched as he fell to the floor, clutching his chest as his blood, tinged with the glowing orange hue from that pain serum, seeped out from him. And within his chest he was feeling that horrific burning sensation that spread through out every inch of his body by his bloodstream.

Fighting through the pain, Alaric watched as his memory self pulled the blades from his chest, got to his knees and haphazardly threw them back at Mal'kah just as the yautja turned back to face him. No doubt to check if Alaric was dead or merely incapacitated. The first blade whizzed past his head but the second scored a direct hit through his left eye. A flash of green blood trailed with the now tumbling blade as the veteran hunter grabbed his face in pain as half his vision was robbed. Alaric, through all the pain, felt a hint of satisfaction now that he saw how much damage his blind throw had done.

But that was just the prelude for the beating of his life as the vengeful yautja gave the order to break him. An order that the other yautja complied with varying levels of enthusiasm. Though the one who had taken the blood from his son seemed just as reluctant. He did not get involved and simply stood to the side watching. The female on the other hand was using her blades to slice him up in certain areas. In a manner akin to taking samples like she did to Aries. And her actions showed a mild level of contempt towards the male.

Alaric felt every blow and every tear in his flesh that was inflicted upon him. These manifested on him as well as blood began to seep from the undersuit's joins and he could feel the sensation of bones breaking. And after that was done, he watched as he was tossed out of the window to fall three storeys outside. Alaric felt the impact of that drop as sharply as he had the first time. Feeling the sensation of his bones shudder and crack within him again. He had blacked out as he had before, the sounds of his family's screams echoing deafeningly.

But the respite of unconsciousness was over as quick as it begun as Alaric was roused back into consciousness. He found himself, as a child once more, hiding in that tree hollow under a thermal blocking blanket. The sounds of death echoing around him as the squad that was his adoptive family were being slaughtered. But that was amplified by the visions of their deaths playing out in front of him. Razeal getting blasted by a plasma bolt. Mikhail burning on that stake. Mills being impaled through the heart. Vidette's neck being snapped. Lucien cut down in a hail of spear darts. And Hendrix vanishing on that yautja ship to an unknown fate.

This symbolic as he was reaching the end of his life and the end of his will to resist as the cycle began again and again. Each event playing back and bestowing fresh and increasing agony upon Alaric. Typhon was revelling in watching the descendant of his nemesis begin to crack under the strain. Especially as he now started to fill images of his own. Images of his conquests to come. Lai'kairis becoming a massive mobile hive. It's inhabitants transformed into his new swarm, focusing especially on those closest to him. Worlds falling one by one as they had during that dark age.

Alaric was close to begging Typhon to stop. And stop it did.

"That is enough." a voice sternly commanded, loudly echoing over the madness.

And just like that, the sounds, the visions and the agony simply stopped as if flash frozen in a blizzard. Alaric opened his weeping eyes, looking around at the horrors around him. Everything was frozen in place and slowly losing colour into a dull and muddled grey. Blinking the blood from his eyes, he watched as the visions became more muted and he saw that Typhon was frozen in place. The Primarch was now looking something slightly comical in the position that he was in, arms held up high like an old movie vampire stalking a victim.

He felt the buzzing of the chains fade as if their batteries had suddenly died. They then lost all tautness and dropped to the ground, shattering like a sand sculpture upon contact.

"What?" Alaric said, looking around as the sights around him crumbled away like a brittle rock against a hurricane. "Who's there?" he tentatively called out, wiping the blood from his eyes as everything returned to grey mist.

"Just us." the voice calmly assured.

Alaric blinked again when he heard those words. That voice sounded familiar though Alaric was not sure who that voice belonged to. There was something... comforting about it. Like a voice he had not heard in quite a while.

"Gri'nyr?" Alaric called out. "Is that you?"

"He is safe." the voice assured. "But, he cannot help you here. This matter is beyond him now."

If this was not Gri'nyr, who was it?

"Who are you?" Alaric asked. "What are you? What do you want?"

"Someone with your best interests in mind." the voice revealed. "And what I want is the same thing."

A dim glow emanated behind Alaric. Feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end in response, he turned around to see what this new intruder in his head was. It was a dark humanoid figure enveloped in a white aura tinged with blue walking from the mists. As it got closer, it's form became more bright as if stepping into a light shining from above. Alaric first caught sight of boots that was then followed by armoured greaves of human make. Camouflage fatigues could be seen before body armour was shown. Illuminated, Alaric's eyes widened when he recognised who it was.

It was Razeal.

Clad in his full marine gear on that fateful day and not missing his arm or sporting a huge hole in his torso. If anything he was looking in his prime. For a figment of Alaric's subconscious. He was not wearing his helmet, revealing his black hair trimmed into a faux mohawk that was a popular hairstyle in the marines.

But the most unworldly aspect about him now was the fact that his eyes were glowing with a faint white light. A grey light to put it simply.

"...I want justice." Razeal finished as he stood within a foot of Alaric.

Alaric was flabbergasted to say the least. Standing before him was the man whom he considered the closest thing to a father he ever had. He was not sure whether it was him or some figment of his traumatised imagination. Or even Typhon trying to break him further.

"Razeal?" he said, his mind having trouble believing what was in front of him. "Is this... is it really you?"

"You could call me that." the apparition of Razeal said. "Or rather, I have taken the form of a representation of the term 'Father'. Your representation."

Alaric, still not not certain about the sudden change of events, looked back at Typhon who was still frozen in place. Locked in his pose of domination and completely oblivious to what was going on around him.

"What did you do to him?" Alaric asked, walking up to the primarch. "How did you make the bastard stop?"

"I didn't. He is merely trapped in the perfect prison." Razeal revealed with an different shrug, illustratively tapping his head. "His own mind. What he is seeing on his end is what he wants to see. Illusions of victory are always the most difficult to break from. But, sooner or later he will realise he's been had. But, that will be some time. Long enough to turn the tables on him."

Alaric waved a hand across Typhon's gloating face, even snapping his fingers a few times. He had a smirk slowly creep upon his face when he saw that Typhon's apparition showed no signs of activity. No signs of noticing what was going one in front of his figurative nose. And that game him a perfect opportunity for some desired revenge.

"So he has no clue what is going on, right now?" Alaric surmised, rubbing his hands together in glee. "Brilliant."

And with that, Alaric gave Typhon a roundhouse kick right in head and was satisfied when he heard the thump of his boot connecting to his head. Typhon's head was smacked to the side before it slowly righted itself like a tree caught in a sudden gust. Alaric then gave him a series of blows, using his head like a boxer's punching bag as Alaric took his pent aggression out on him. Razeal watched on with a frown.

"Is this necessary?" Razeal asked after a full minute went by in Alaric's improvised fitness session.

Alaric gave Typhon's face a final jackhammer of a punch before turning to Razeal, shaking his hands as he did. Typhon's head bobbled around slightly before standing still. In truth he could have kept going longer but his bloodied knuckles, despite being entirely a mental construct, urged him otherwise.

"No, but it felt felt good anyway." Alaric said with a shrug, cracking his knuckles with audible snaps. "Good stress relief."

Razeal shook his head with good humour before waving his hand. Typhon then vanished from sight, leaving the two of them completely alone for the time being.

"You have come a long way since that scared little boy surviving in the woods." Razeal commended. "You have become a true warrior, like your ancestors before you."

Alaric frowned at the mention of that point in his life.

"How would you know about that?" he questioned. "You're obviously not Razeal as you admitted."

"No. But, I have been watching you for a long time since that day. Keeping you out of harm's reach when needed." Razeal revealed.

Alaric paused at the mention of protection. The memories came back to him again. Of his encounter with the yautja that wiped out Razeal's squad and the week he had to spend surviving in the wilds. And of the strange occurrence he had witnessed. It was something about his ordeal as a child that he had never spoken of to anyone. Not to his squad, not to Colonel Helborg. Not even to Ja'anya. It was something that would have been attributed to the traumatic imagination of a frightened child.

But it was anything but that.

It was the third day of surviving in the forest. Three days since his adopted family were brutally slain and three days since Alaric had buried them. What supplies remained from the massacre were now gone and Alaric had to resort to living off the land. A harsh reality for a seven year old boy to endure. But he was not going to let what he was taught in survival skills go to waste.

Water could be found in a nearby stream and then boiled over the fire. food was simply a matter of trail and error. There were a few things documented as edible on this planet and many things that were not. And a mistake in identification could end his life in a most painful demise. He could hunt the native animals for food, he had his axe for that. It was difficult with more failures then success. But hunger, determination and luck allowed him to continue to survive in the face of malnutrition and exposure to the elements.

And every night he would sleep at Razeal's grave for comfort. But that night, his life was in danger again.

Alaric was walking back to camp with a bundle of firewood in his arms, along with a pouch full of foraged berries. His axe was slung on his back, flecks of sap and chips of wood crusting the blade. It was just as capable in cutting down trees as it was cutting up yautja and their hounds. And speaking of which, as he approached the tree line, Alaric saw that his camp had some uninvited guests in the form of native fauna.

These beasts looked something reminiscent to wolves. Wolves that looked as if they had been spliced with insects as the chitinous hides would suggest, though a rabid carnivorous armadillo might be a more accurate description. These creatures were scavengers. Carrion eaters. And one of them was starting to dig up one of the graves. Looking for an easy meal of flesh from something already killed. And extra crispy in regards that it was Lucien's grave they were investigating.

Incensed by this, Alaric rushed out from the bushes, dumping his firewood and dinner while holding his axe high above his head in a show of force, yelling off the top of his lungs. This startled the beasts away from the graves as the boy moved in front of the squad's resting place. But the beasts, seeing that it was a human child, started to cautiously approach. Alaric swung his axe at them to keep them back, the weapon's larger size making him over-swing from the momentum. The beasts now realised that they had an easy target, growling with interest as they began to speed up their approach.

Alaric realised this change behaviour and hastily moved back into the woods as the beasts gave chase, growling loudly at him. Every time one of them made a rush towards him, he swung out with his axe. One he managed to land a strike on the muzzle of one but it was a poorly aimed swing that merely glanced off it's armoured hide. This served only to annoy the beast as it lashed out with it's own claws, almost striking Alaric as the boy hurriedly darted back until his back hit a tree. The pack were now closing in for the kill when they saw he had nowhere else to go.

But that moment, a soft hum was heard in the air. The beasts flinched at the sound whereas Alaric only looked around, unaffected by the supersonic pitch. Then he felt a gust of wind behind him that blew fallen leaves all around him. The beasts crouched low in a defensive posture in reaction to this unnatural phenomena. Then Alaric suddenly had the feeling that he was being watched. And this was reinforced by the fact that a dim light started to light up his surroundings. From behind him.

The beasts, sensing something approaching, began to growl in fear. Then, to Alaric's surprise, they all suddenly bolted with a frightened yelp. The boy was left pondering why they fled, axe lowered in bewilderment. That was when he saw the light getting brighter. Or rather it was not getting brighter but closer. Alaric's eye widened as he saw a light coming from within the forest. A light generated by an open flame like a torch. Alaric cautiously moved away from it, hurriedly getting back to his camp. With his attention focused solely on the hovering light, he failed to notice an exposed root, tripping over and tumbling onto his back.

Scrambling back onto his feet, Alaric had his back to the tree whose root belonged to a the light got closer. And his eyes widened when he saw the source come out from a copse of trees. It was a figure. A figure composed entirely of blue flame. Just watching him from a distance, out of reach. And just as quickly as it had appeared, it faded into the darkness. Leaving Alaric to ponder the night away, wondering what he had just seen. But since that night, wild animals did not come after him again.

"That was you in that forest?" Alaric realised. "And all those times I had my back to the wall, you were there?"

"Yes." Razeal's apparition confirmed. "It was Razeal's demise that alerted me to your plight. He was one of my...watchers as it were, watching over your bloodline. I made sure that you would survive until rescue came. Unbound as I am, I have been keeping an eye on you ever since."

Unbound? Alaric thought. Like Korrina?

That would explain how Razeal had effortlessly subverted Typhon's torturing of him. Korrina had mentioned to him that she could operate upon a higher plane of existence. Somewhere that Typhon would never be able to reach. And if Razeal, or the being taking his form, was an Unbound, he had to be far more powerful then her to have reach him in this state. Where ever they resided.

This now brought forth a question. An important one. One that was entirely relevant to what Alaric had been through. Twice now.

"If that's so, why were you not there when my family were in danger." Alaric questioned, keeping his emotions in check. "Why did you not help me drive those yautja off and save them at least? Why did you just leave them to die?!"

Razeal sighed in relation to that delicate issue. His body language hinted that it was not a decision that he had made lightly and was one of pragmatic survival.

"Unfortunately, there are limitations that even I must abide by." Razeal admitted. "We seek to guide, not rule. And, as much as I regret not being there, I could not afford to betray my presence. Not when the Betrayer is still actively seeking our blood. He had almost caught me once before and would certainly try to again, should he discover my presence again. But I kept you alive long enough for help to arrive."

Alaric paused after hearing that explanation. It had brought up more unpleasant thoughts of that night. Of when he just barely survived that encounter with Mal'kah and his bad blood lackeys.

From what he had overheard during his stay in the hospital, whenever he momentarily lapsed back into consciousness for a brief moment, the doctors did not expect him to have survived with those wounds when he was brought to the emergency theatre. Especially nearly getting stabbed through the heart, beaten to near death and plummeting over thirty feet into the ground. The fall, in any regards to a normal person, would have finished him off. The fact that he was even alive when the emergency services arrived was astonishing. That said, he overhead the doctors telling their orderlies to get a body bag ready.

But in truth Alaric could feel that he was dying that day. Despite possessing that stubbornness and tenacity to survive in his will, his broken body was failing when he was sprawled on the ground and being stitched up on the operating table. Several times he felt his heart about to give out, rocked with spasms as it's rapid beat was interrupted by the both physical and mental trauma. Just about to cross that line between life and death. But every time, he felt something akin to a gentle waft of air blowing life into the embers of a dying fire. Buying precious time for the flame to continue burning.

But, not wanting to continue talking about that day any further, Alaric focused on one of the more pressing thoughts in his head. Whether what Typhon had revealed to him about the Ossians was a brutal truth or an insidious lie to sow doubt to make stealing his body easier.

"You have a burning question?" Razeal guessed. "I can feel your apprehension to ask it."

Aalric inhaled deeply as he asked that dreaded question.

"Was what Typhon said about humanity true?" Alaric asked hesitantly, like he knew the answer but desperately wanted to be proved wrong. "We're descendants of... aliens?"

A single nod from Razeal was all the confirmation that was needed.

"Humans are indeed the Ossian's descendants."Razeal confirmed. "Albeit, unintended and seen as illegitimate. Hence the 'Bastard' designation Typhon is so fond of using. But, it is that unique unpredictability that makes humanity have an... intriguing history. Unfortunately in the end, like the titan Cronos, the Ossians feared their children and tried to eliminated them. But it would not serve them to merely exterminate humanity. That would be a waste. Instead, they would use them as a test subject for their newest creations. Their true descendants as it turned out."

"The Xenomorphs." Alaric concluded.

"Precisely." Razeal confirmed. "However, the Ossians were not always like they were. In the beginning, they looked very much like ordinary humans. Many cultures and many ideologies. Until the misguided lust for perfection overtook reason. Because, you see, the Ossians were a fractured race, much in the same way humans are, with different factions vying for power before they became a unified people. And it was from that, did the obsession for a perfect world took root."

Razeal then shook his head as he continued with the history of this race. For him, it felt like a whole farcical comedy.

"The Ossians ruling caste took the ethos of 'One People' to heart in their drive for perfection." he continued, with a subtle hint of disgust. "There could be no differences so that there would never be a reason to fight amongst themselves ever again. Which in a way was a noble goal but wrongly executed. And they did that through cold science. Thousands of years of selective breeding, genetic manipulation and eugenics ensured that their race were of one appearance, one culture and one mindset. There was no deviation allowed and any who did not conform were 'removed' from the equation."

He then gave a laugh that was just riddled it black humour.

"To their credit, it made them physically and mentally stronger, and far more long-lived then many other races." Rzaeal commended with a touch of pathos. "But ironically, they also became homogenised and stagnant. In all respects, they had hit their evolutionary dead end. From that moment, they were a race in a slow, ever gradual decline. Their empire, their perfect world, crumbling away piece by piece. And it took them a considerable amount of time to recognise that fact. The others races of the galaxy were becoming far more then mere vassals to be ruled over. They were becoming independent civilisations in their own right. Filling the ever growing void that the Ossians were leaving behind, becoming rivals to their power. And the Ossians' pride would not allow that."

"So, to regain and maintain their dominion, outnumbered as they were by 'lesser' beings, the Ossians needed a perfect organism. The perfect slave that would carry them out from redundancy and become the force they once were. Seeding planets with biomass harvested from 'volunteers', tampering with the evolving lifeforms for their ideal purpose and wiping the slate clean if the results were not to their liking. Indeed, for millions of years, they had come to regards themselves as self proclaimed gods to the races they created. And your homeworld, a remote backwater planet far from any inhabited system, was a perfect laboratory on which to commenced their ill fated endeavours."

"They created races using their own DNA. God created man in his image." Alaric said, reciting a common line from the bible.

"In this circumstance, yes." Razeal tersely pointed out. "While they used their own DNA to serve as a measure of control on a genetic level, it was never meant to recreate themselves entirely. Especially in a form that they considered inferior. It reminded them of a time when their people were 'less pure'. But, try they did to bring humanity under their control under the guise of gods. The only problem was humans were far too unpredictable. Too fractious and too difficult to control. What was needed was a race that could be controlled by a central force. A Hive Mind. A nest of obedient ants in a manner of speaking."

"And the Xenomorphs?" Alaric asked. "Gri'nyr had hinted that they were to replace 'us'."

"And that is true. The Primarchs were the pinnacle of the Ossians' creations and the Xenomorphs their descendants. All connected by the omniscient Hive Mind. The Ossians had intended the xenomorphs to become the premier tool of conquest and control. They would infest the planet, wiping out all forms of life that would prove to be a threat to the Ossians or did not meet up to their expectations. Often as was the case by stealth and once the infestation took hold, there was no stopping it. Those races who resisted in any way would be wiped from the face of existence, consumed by the Primarchs. And once their purpose was complete and all opposition had been destroyed, the Ossians would use a countermeasure pathogen to eliminate the xenomorphs and their hives while leaving the rest of the planet intact for recolonisation or a clean slate for their experiments."

The usage of an implied weapon against the Pimarchs caught Alaric's attention.

"A countermeasure pathogen?" Alaric said with interest. "You mean there's a weapon made against the bugs?"

Finding ways to exterminate the xenomorphs during an infestation was always a high priority to the UEF. Not just in saving lives but also limiting the damage that always occurs when battling xenomorphs. Guns and explosives always had a tendency to damage or destroy vital areas such as atmospheric processors, as well as the xenomorph's acid blood when spilt by said weapons. When an infestation reached critical levels and the cost of reclamation too high, the only resort was to nuke the entire site from orbit. The only way to ensure nothing survives. The premise of a weapon that would only eradicate xenomorphs and nothing else was the chance of a lifetime. But at the same time, a pathogen would also have inherent risks for the users.

But on the other side of the coin, there was always the possibility of a containment breach when dealing in the field of bio-weaponry. Attempts to use a virus or pathogen as a weapon could easily backfire when mishandled. One such attempt in the past with Anxthrax caused an entire island to be contaminated for decades afterwards. Weyland-Yutani infamously had a history of it whenever containing xenomorphs was involved and the Infestation of Earth was the epitome of such a breach by the defunct Bio-National Corp. As a now common lesson taught in schools goes: The best time to stop an infestation is at the beginning.

"Yes and it was a secret that followed it's creators to the grave." Razeal flatly informed to Alaric's disappointment. "Why would they let the secret of a countermeasure against their creations be common knowledge? And why would the Primarchs let such a weapon exist? The Ossians did not know that they had a uprising brewing right under their noses. For millennia, the Primarchs plotted against the Ossians, playing the part of obedient slaves and waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The Ossians, while they intentionally made the xenomorphs to be highly adaptable, had grossly underestimated their survival instinct. An instinct unclouded by conscience, remorse and the many shades of morality. Only after did they achieve their purpose in crushing the Ossian's most hated rivals, leaving only the younger races that they intended to rule over as was intended, that the creations turned on their creators. The uprising was swift and merciless, entire worlds fells within hours of the Primarchs touching upon their surface before the Ossians even knew what hit them. Their home systems were the first to fall, the seat of their fading empire, before they could mobilise to counter the uprising. Abandoning those races that they were 'cultivating' to fend for themselves. Even with use of the countermeasure pathogen, it was not even stemming the tide as it spread out from the centre of their domain like a cancer. For while it did eliminate their swarms as intended, it did not eliminate the ones controlling them."

"The Primarchs cheating death." Alaric surmised. "The bastard has definitely being showing that off."

Razeal gave a humourless laugh in recognition to that fact.

"Indeed. The Hive Mind became more then just a means of control over the swarms as originally intended. It inadvertently became a gateway to immortality." Razeal revealed. "The Primarchs had discovered that, just as the Hive Mind links them to their underlings, they could also transfer their consciousness to a new host body. By this method, they had evaded death innumerable times, slipping through the ever tightening noose. Which is why it was imperative to eliminate every single xenomorph of that swarm. Just as the Ossians were on the cusp cutting the head off the snake, the Primarchs had departed their current hosts and entered a new one far from the battle and out of the Ossians' reach, resuming the fight once more. And in this way, in a perfect example of futility and exploiting their inability to adapt, it was a war that the Ossians just could not win. It had taken nearly a thousand years of war trying to contain them, to stop them from spreading like cancer spreading through a body. But eventually, the Ossians and their dominion collapsed all together, replaced by the xenomorphs. And with them defeated and nothing standing in the Primarchs' path, the galaxy was plunged into a Dark Age the likes of which had never been seen or even dreamed."

To Alaric, this had answered a burning question that had plagued the academics of humanity in the aftermath of the Infestation of Earth. That of the Xenomorph Homeworlds. Aside from an expedition from the Grant Corporation in the early 23rd century, virtually nothing was known about where the xenomorphs had originated from, other then the fact that the expedition found some of the oldest known hives in existence. Even witnessing and participating in a 'war' between two rival hives. Between black and red xenomorphs.

Could that planet had belonged to one of the races that the Primarchs had consumed? Was it a world of the Ossians or merely an outpost? But whatever the case, it was a dream for humanity to nuke those planets from the face of existence. Vengeance for the infestation of their homeworld. But their locations had yet to be uncovered. And if anyone did find them, it was a sure bet that the xenomorphs would make sure that none would live to divulge that information.

"And are any of the Ossians still around or are they nothing but ruptured husks?" Alaric questioned, subtly referring to the 'mutagenic' aspect of the Primarch's kin.

"In truth, if there were any survivors of this purge, they are far too few now to continue the species." Razeal speculated. "But, if any are left, they would be on some isolated world in the darkest corners of space. Hoping that their children would ignore them in favour of more populous worlds to consume. But the Primarchs were nothing if not thorough. And thorough they were. Entire populations of planets consumed, swelling their numbers into the billions. Perhaps in a parody of their creator's own methods, those proved to be of great value; charismatic leaders, powerful warriors, knowledgeable scientists, were assimilated and those not up to exacting standards were slaughtered. The Primarchs were always searching for individuals to further their own power and lessen their enemy's potential to resist. For it is better to fight a familiar foe then a foreign one."

This explained, or rather confirmed, what Alaric had suspected when Aegis led him to that chamber in the temple-turned-hive. The image of all those missing colonists was something he had trouble trying to forget. The sight of hived humans transforming into bugs, all in varying stages of losing their humanity. And most were all the most important people in the colony with lesser individuals purely for need of numbers. The colonial administrator, the captain of the marine garrison, miners and engineers. Through them, the Primarch had an understanding of the layout of the mines, the colony complex and where all vital systems were. Allowing his minions to hit the survivors where it hurt most.

It would make sense that, just like human armies battling each other throughout history, intelligence of the enemy's positions and strengths were of tremendous importance. Often, it was one vital piece of information that determined whether the oncoming battle were to be won or lost. An example would be the battle of Thermopylae, where knowledge of a path that came out behind the defending Greeks ensured a Persian victory. And another question surfaced in Alaric mind.

"Typhon mentioned that 'It hungers for him' every time he comes back." Alaric recalled. "What did he mean by that?"

"An ingrained fear of death. You see, there is balance to all things." Razeal began. "Everything is born and everything dies. Two opposites that make up the whole. And to break that union courts damnation. Despite the Hive-Mind granting immortality, it has it's price. Every time the Primarchs returned in a new body, a part of their essence; their souls, is lost. Chipped away like waves battering a cliff. Death is always after it's due and Death does not like to be cheated by such methods. The process of returning gets more difficult with every death, requiring incrementally greater sacrifice to pull themselves back to this plane. The further the distance they have to travel to gain a new body, the greater the toll upon them and the longer it would take for them to recover after resurrection. Hence, if there is no host connected to the Hive-Mind, the Primarchs have no way of returning. They would simply fade out of existence, a 'god' that was nothing more then a forgotten whisper in the wind. Though, given their design, they had thought of ways to counter such an occurrence. Being the last of the Primarchs to be imprisoned, Typhon had learned much from observing the failures of his kin."

Alaric put the pieces together and slowly realised what Razeal meant. He could never forget the spectral image of Typhon looming above him. A titanic mass comprised entirely of faces. Faces both human and alien. The last remnants of the races that he had consumed thousands of years ago.

"That's what Typhon was doing before he got into my head?" Alaric asked. "Cheating death without the Hive Mind?"

"In a manner of speaking. He was using the souls that he had consumed to form a surrogate body, a temporary housing for his own soul with which to find a more suitable host. Sacrificing them so that he could live. Held together by pure hatred for you. And with emotions as strong as that, the dead do not rest easy."

It was a common theme when it comes to the paranormal. Spirits that are too angry or vengeful to pass on often haunt the places where they died. Many tales from the many different cultures of humanity had their own interpretations of ghosts and spirits. Malicious killers or omens of ill fortune being the more common stories but there were those who were considered silent sentinels. Guarding sacred places and watching over their living descendants.

Razeal looked to Alaric with an inquiring frown. The sort that followed suspicions of withheld information.

"Tell me. You have heard it have you not?" he questioned. "The Hive Mind?"

"Heard it?" Alaric said incredulously, pointing to his eyes "Had blood dripping from my eyes every time. Those whispers almost turned my brain to mush."

"Were they?" Razeal inquired, walking towards Alaric. "Do they intend to drive those who hear them to madness? Or, are they saying something different entirely?" Razeal then held out a hand towards Alaric, reaching for his head. "Let us listen to them more clearly." he proposed, clasping Alaric on the forehead with his thumb and middle finger on his temples. "Now, open your mind and focus." he ordered calmly as his eyes glowed into a brighter hue of white.

Almost instantly, Alaric listened to the whispers even as his eyes began to hurt from the strain. But now that Razeal was supporting him this time, Alaric was now noticing a stark difference. The jumble of incoherent voices were slowly becoming less jumbled and more organised. In the same way that static can be cleared up to produced a coherent signal on a radio, Razeal was focusing Alaric's mind to filter out the deafening whispers.

"Do you hear it now?" Razeal asked as his eyes took on a more unified glimmer like glass in the sun. "Can you hear the message?"

The whispers were now clear and Alaric blinked when he heard it. It was not a malicious chorus bent on sowing madness to those who listen. Rather, it was a unified call.

Help us. Free us. Help us. Free us.

Alaric understood now. Many voices, many tongues, all calling for help.

"I hear it." he said, gasping in realisation. "I can hear... people. A lot of people. Billions. All calling. Calling for help."

"Now you see what those whispers truly are. A collective call for salvation." Razeal revealed. "Nothing more and nothing less. A call that Typhon could not hear nor care if he did."

He removed his hand from Alaric's head and instantly the calling had stopped in Alaric's mind. Alaric rubbed his eyes, doubly relieved that there was no blood this time. Before he could asked how Razeal had performed this feat, he got his answer the moment his fingers left his eyes.

"For those who are not of the right mindset, it is merely deafening static." Razeal explained, guessing the next question. "But for one who is correctly attuned, a clear message can be heard. All those souls of countless races consumed by him, begging for release. Begging for the one to free them from the prison that the Hive Mind is." he then pointed to Alaric. "And that one is you."

Alaric blinked at him, almost shocked by the suggestion. He had justifiable reason to doubt whether he was even up to the task, considering his track record when it came to making Typhon stay dead.

"But, how can I kill him?" Alaric asked. "Is it even possible? I threw everything at him and more every time. I almost died the last time were it not for the armour. And, it was nothing! The bastard just kept coming back and now he wants my body!"

Razeal, much to Alaric's uneasiness, looked unimpressed by his rant. He then scoffed in false fear.

"Then that just highlights how utterly desperate he is." Razeal flatly reminded. "Desperation can cloud one's judgement. Makes a fatal mistake much easier to make. And he has."

He then sighed as he revealed as to why Typhon had survived all those previous assassination attempts. As if the answer was so simple that even a child would have understood it.

"The reason you have not been able to truly kill Typhon is simply because you did not have the will." Razeal explained. "To kill a physical body is as easy as breathing or snapping your fingers but killing a soul is another thing entirely. Remember what Gri'nyr said? To kill a soul, you must drive all compassion from your own soul. Rip your own soul apart and become soulless in a manner of speaking. And unfortunately, it is a sacrifice that you are not willing, subconsciously, to make. Not that anyone could be forced to make it even if they had too."

Razeal shook his head at the thought, hinting some personnel experience in the process.

"I have seen the result first hand." he recalled. " Individuals who had made that sacrifice when no other option was available. Watched as their souls were torn apart and pieced together afterwards. Cold and devoid of emotion. A hollow husk, no better then a machine. They could kill an entire city and not feel a mere inkling of remorse. For such individuals, a swift death after fulfilling their purpose was the more preferable option then to living a half life."

He then perked up.

"However, that is not the case for this occasion. The surefire way to kill Typhon is to have an item of great power that is capable of truly capable killing him." Razeal revealed with a hint of hope. "Not just killing the body but also capable of permanently severing him from the Hive Mind, and this plane of existence. Once severed, he can never return."

"The Scythe and the Stone?" Alaric said, recalling what he remembered in Gri'nyr's memory.

He replayed what he had seen in that moment of Gri'nyr's life. How the Scythe in Gri'nyr's hands virtually slew all who were struck by it with no resistance of any kind. And, more horrifically, how the Stone had ripped the souls out of Xel'khalos' victims to feed his own extended life. Either one of those would have been a great boon to him in the first fight against Typhon. Alaric could have torn him to shreds from the inside out while in his monstrous host form.

"Yes." Razeal agreed before he changed tone. "But unfortunately, the Scythe is out of your reach. Safe in the hidden place that Gri'nyr sent it. And the Stone has long fallen into the Betrayer's hands. But there is one other way. And that is through the Progenitor himself. A being more powerful then the Primarch could ever hope to be be and the only force that can truly kill him. A force that is present within all of bearers of the blood."

Bearers of the blood. That got Alaric thinking. Thinking about the events that led up to this moment. Events that he should have died but did not. Getting the life beaten out of him by that sadistic Qul'dan and almost getting crushed against the dock's ceiling by Typhon. How every time he prevailed against them after being reinvigorated by an unknown source. Accompanied by literal voices in his head urging him on.

"I... I have felt something happen to me during this ordeal." Alaric mentioned. "Something that wasn't just anger building up in me."

"Oh?" Razeal inquired. "And what was that?"

Alaric juggled his hands as he tried to think of the most simple way of explaining. But where could he start? Perhaps, with what he first heard that something odd was happening to him.

"I heard voices, voice speaking in my family's tongue." Alaric explained. "It happened when I was having the daylights being beaten out of me by a sadistic drug fuelled yautja. I don't know how to explain it but... it felt like I had been energised. Wounds meant nothing, everything slowed down and I was hitting harder and faster. I went from being nearly at death's door to winning over him. He was nothing more then a bug getting crushed under my boot. And I felt it too in the last fight against Typhon. Just before I drove Spellbreaker right through his chest. It felt like I could do anything but afterwards I felt drained. Like I had lost a lot of blood. " he then frowned and sighed in humour. "Though I think that's partly the reason the second time round." he half admitted.

Razeal cupped his chin and stood silent for a long moment as he took in what Alaric had revealed. A nod then confirmed that this was a good sign.

"I see." he said. "This is fortunate indeed. You had managed, however briefly, to 'tap' into a mere inkling of that power. A subconscious reaction to your struggles you could say. So this may work after all." he lowered his hand."Tell me. You have seen it, have you not? Your Shard?" he inquired.

"Yes." Alaric answered. "Gri'nyr showed me how to see it."

"Summon it." Razeal requested.

Alaric sighed as he shut his eyes and concentrated, holding his hands in front of him. Focusing his mind and remembering what Gri'nyr had taught him, feeling that distinctive tingling in his fingers, Alaric summoned the Shard in a growing mass of embers that swiftly solidified into a shimmering crystal of flame. Opening his eyes, Alaric saw that the Shard was now notably bigger in size then when he had last seen it. Instead of one hand to hold it, it now filled both hands. Alaric could only guess that since bonding further with the armour that he was able to increase it's size.

"Excellent. Now, look at it." Razeal said, gesturing Alaric to do so. "What do you see?

Alaric held the Shard in his hands, watching as the flames licked around his fingers. Following Razeal's order, he started to examine it. Going over every side of it and every edge in it's crystalline surface. But he failed to see what Razeal was implying.

"Just a flaming crystal." he sardonically pointed out with a shake of his head.

Razeal shook his head at Alaric's more then obvious answer which was of course not the correct answer.

"No. Look harder." Razeal emphasised. "Do you see it's many faces?"

"Yeah, I can see it's faces." Alaric pointed out. "It's a crystal for god..."

The shard began to brighten as the many faces on it's crystalline surface lit up in a vague sequence. As as each one did, Alaric saw that it wasn't faces of a crystal in a literal sense. But the faces of people. People who all had similar features to him, the most important being black spikes for hair and ruby red eyes. Men and women. Clad in garbs of all the eras of human history.

These were the faces of his whole family line looking up at him. And indeed he even saw Gri'nyr amongst them. And he could see that some of his line had more distinctive features then the others. Aside from the red eyes and spiked hair, he could see prominent brows and cheekbones. And their skin was showing what appeared to be darker tan complexion that was complimented with strange marks. And these were becoming more prominent the further down the line he went. These were persisting for at least ten generations.

Then he saw what must be Gri'nyr's surviving son. The first example of a yautja human hybrid that Alaric had ever seen or thought possible. Overall, he looked more or less human in overall shape and proportions. However, hinting the other side of his heritage, he bore yautja dreadlocks that were a fraction thinner then normal, the colouration of a yautja and the prominent brow and cheekbones. The cheekbones were no doubt a vestigial development of yautja mandibles. His eyes were ruby red and his dreadlocks were long and in the same style as Alaric's spiked hair.

"Know this. All those times when all seemed hopeless, you are not alone. You were never alone." "The Ancestors live on through their descendants. Your Shard, and all the Shards to come, is made up from fragments of those who came before. And all shards originate from a small fragment left by the Progenitor. The seed of your family tree. And it is your key to unlocking a great power within your blood. If you know where to find it's destined lock."

However, Alaric was noting that there was one face that he could not see in his Shard. And that was his father. Looking on all the faces, he could not see one that matched the one on his photograph. If these were all of his ancestors, then did that mean his father was not amongst them?

"My father is not here." he pointed, looking all over the Shard. "I don't see him anywhere."

"That is because your father is very much alive. But for the time being, he is beyond your reach." Razeal said. "For now, we must focus on the task ahead. Killing the Primarch and avenging those slain by the Ossian's folly."

This piece of information about his father was more then anything fragmentary that Alaric had been unable to uncover. It confirmed what he had always believed. His father was alive and was somewhere in the galaxy. But the search, as Razeal informed, had to wait. Alaric looked up at the apparition, clasping the Shard in hand.

"Show me this lock." Alaric decided.

As if on cue as Razeals eyes glowed brighter once more, the mist began to drop in wafts like dust in the air. Light grew as a sun became present and a grey sky could be seen that rapidly turned to a pristine blue.

Alaric found himself and Razeal atop a staggeringly massive mountain. A mountain that stood taller then any mountain that Alaric had seen or heard of. The clouds laid below as a perpetual sea of coalescing white and gray. The warm sun was bright above and a cool breeze could be felt. Nothing like the frigid, air starved peaks of mountains in real life.

This location looked like a tomb. Not unlike the one where Alaric had recovered Gri'nyr's armour. But this was different. Firstly, It was not located in a typical artificial structure but was actually carved into the living rock of the mountain itself. And on top of the mountain was a truly gargantuan oak tree. It was so massive that, if you cut a cross section out of it to count the rings, it had to be hundreds of thousands of years old. Even more then that.

Alaric had never seen such a sight before. The sight of a literal world tree of old mythology.

There had to be a reason why he was brought here or at least under the notion of being here. But while he was pondering the significance of it all, there was slight rumble of thunder as a clap of lightning erupted from beneath the cloud ocean. Signalling the early signs of a storm. A signal of his subconsciousness of the situation happening in real time. Whether it was a signal that Typhon was noticing something was amiss or he was increasing the pain on an illusory Alaric. Either way, it was a sign that time was running short.

"Come." Razeal urged, walking in the direction of the great tree. "We have little time. Typhon will try to stop us if he figures the ruse out."

Alaric, still wondering whether he had just lapsed into lucid dreaming brought upon by failing synapses, followed after him. After taking a long flight of steps that too were carved into the mountain, they approached a large set of stone doors. These doors, in contrast to the ones Alaric had seen previously, had only one symbol upon it's face and that was the symbol of his bloodline. The double-headed scythe with the lambda in the middle. And this stone door had a network of roots covering it's surface. Roots that belonged to the great tree looming above.

A better aesthetic sight then the hive webbing of a xenomorph hive.

Razeal stood by the door as Alaric approached, running a hand along one of the roots. Like he was looking for the right root to open the door or just in reverence to the great tree casting it's shadow over them.

"The Shard." Razeal hinted, gesturing to the door.

Alaric held his hands out as he focused his mind. Again, embers coalesced between his hands before the Shard flared into being. And as the flaming crystal manifested itself, the doors registered it's presence. Just as with the temple prison on the ice planet recognizing his hand, or rather his blood. The symbol carved into the stone glowed a vibrant blue before the light spread throughout the edifice. The doors slowly rumbled open, the roots coating it slithered away like snakes disturbed from a shaken bush.

Razeal walked through the moment the doors opened wide enough, his aura momentarily lighting up the darkened interior. Alaric followed after him and after he passed through, the door slowly sealed shut behind them as they entered what was beyond.

This tomb was not enclosed in the slightest. There were no walls of any description, just open space. There were but four massive pillars holding up the mountain's peak where the great tree resided. There was no sign of digging that could be seen on these pillars, giving the suggestion that they had been naturally formed as the result of centuries of erosion or having grew from the ceiling like stalactites. But they were too symmetrical to be a natural formation. Unless they had been deliberately grown in this manner.

It gave the impression of a rotunda where the gods of Olympus could watch over the world of mortals below from their domain on top of their mountain.

There were no murals in any fashion here, not that there were any walls to carve them on and there was nothing carved on the floor or ceiling. The only thing of interest was a throne in place of a sarcophagus in the center of this elevated crypt. A towering throne atop a flight of steps that was almost completely entombed with a network of tree roots that snaked from the ceiling. And sitting on this throne, hidden under these roots, was a figure. A figure clad in armour. Black armour. Armour that did not look like it was of human, yautja or dwarf make. Armour, that looked even more ancient and advanced then what Alaric was wearing, clad in majestic robes of a material so dark that they looked to have been woven from the blackness of space itself. And in the light, it glittered as if stars had been woven into it's fabric.

It looked almost angelic.

It was now apparent as to how symbolic this location was. In a spiritual sense, the tomb on the mountain represented a higher plane and the armour in this enveloped throne represented this great power buried within Alaric as hinted by the roots of the great tree above.

In fact, Alaric could feel something familial stir in his heart. The feeling that one would get when there were meeting the remains of an ancestor, gazing upon their family's history first hand.

"Here he is." Razeal presented, holding his hand out towards the throne. "Metaphorically at least, this is the Progenitor. A being older then the Ossians themselves. And more powerful then the Primarch could ever hope to achieve."

Alaric could only stare at the figure on the throne as he tried to piece together what he was seeing. He could not help but imagine, since his armour was able, wings sprouting from the back of this suit. In fact some of the roots that were shrouding the armour at the back looked like wings. Eight of them in fact. All reaching upwards. Like an angel that would often be seen in a church's stained glass window.

"An angel?" he said, not sure if what he was seeing was relevant or a product of subconscious expectations based on what he knew. "Gri'nyr's ancestor... my ultimate ancestor, is an angel?"

"Possibly. Or just a form that he chose when conversing with the younger races." Razeal postulated "It was always a wiser choice to appear as something more benevolent then frightening. A Custodian as they preferred to be called."

Alaric looked at Razeal.

"Custodian?" he questioned

"Of the races that came after them." Razeal elaborated. "Yautja, Khazdryn and even humans. Though, understandably, because of their power they sought to never interfere in the affairs of others. The consequences could be catastrophic. No, rather they would influence them from the shadows, unseen and unnoticed. Giving them a little nudge in the right direction should they need it. But there were always those among them who got more directly involved."

Alaric could not help but notice the way Razeal said the last two words. Saying them as if it was a sensitive and potentially scandalous subject. But Alaric would not have time question it. The sound of rumbling thunder could be heard erupting outside. Then as if to emphasize the sheer power of that crack, the mountain trembled within moments of hearing it. A gust of wind blew a chilling gale into the tomb. A deathly cold that Alaric was able to feel, the kind that was associated with death. Razeal looked around as if expecting the mountain to suddenly implode upon itself and bury them alive.

It was a sign that the time for explanations and revelations was over. And Alaric felt like he had more then enough of them for one occasion. He would need time to process all that he had been told. If he lived to do so that is.

"I am sorry. There is no more time. You must leave now and do what must be done." Razeal said, pointing towards the armour. "Bear in mind, I am only be able to help you unlock this power once. It will be up to you harness it again. But only when you are ready."

Alaric, with determination and a sense of renewed purpose, began to step towards the throne. But he only made one step before Razeal stopped him. Keeping him back with one hand, Razeal stepped before Alaric. Serious concern was the prime emotion Alaric could sense coming from him. Concern for his very being as one would have if they had to brave a burning building or a flooding cave to rescue a trapped survivor.

Self-sacrifice that often trailed closely behind heroism.

"Tread carefully. I cannot guarantee whether you will survive this." Razeal sternly warned. "This power is not something that can be readily controlled by the uninitiated and even by the initiated. Even Gri'nyr and his brothers for all their skill knew there was a limit to what they could endure. You could very well be consumed by it before you have even slain Typhon. For a flame that burns twice as bright will burn for half as long."

Alaric looked to Razeal and then looked down at the Shard burning in his hands. He glimpsed at all the faces of his ancestors reflecting up at him as if seeking their counsel on this matter. He then nodded as he made his choice as he looked up to Razeal once more.

"To become Death, one must embrace their own." Alaric recited, holding the Shard tightly in hand. "The Tyrant must have a Slayer."

Razeal nodded when he heard those phrases and relinquished his hold on Alaric, stepping aside and gesturing his hand towards the armour on the throne.

"Then take upon the mantle of Cetanu." he proclaimed. "And embrace your destiny as a descendant of Precursors. Custodian of Death."

Alaric proceeded to the throne, his footfalls seemingly amplified in his head as he took those fateful steps towards the throne. Another rumble of thunder was heard and the tomb quivered once again. This time it was more forceful and the resulting gust blew leaves of the tree into the tomb itself. Razeal looked around as faint cracks could be seen snaking along the stone above as tree roots slithered through to brace the ceiling. Razeal looked around as another rumble of thunder was heard.

Alaric stopped within arms reach of the armour, seemingly hesitant to step any further. He could feel the Shard resonate in his hands this close to the armour. So many thoughts were now running in his head His thoughts turned to Ja'anya. That ray of light in the darkness that had recently overtaken his life. His thoughts turned to what could have been a content life with her.

It was now apparent that he would have to break that promise.

"Ja'anya, I am sorry." he whispered. "I could not save my family but I can save you. May you one day forgive me."

Taking a deep breath, Alaric held the Shard up to the armour on the throne. The flames covering it burned more intensely in proximity with the ancient plating. Then the Shard left his hands on it's own accord, hovering just inches from the cuirass. Alaric took a step back from this spectacle, watching as the Shard hovered around the armour. It then pointed itself towards the cuirass and plunged hard into it with a shrill crystalline screech and eruption of embers and flame. Alaric was taken aback by this sight, watching as the shard forced it's way into the armour until it was half buried.

This was just like the moment when he had tore that shard of Typhon's soul out from that colonist. Only this time, his Shard was doing the opposite. It was taking root in the armour which then began to agitate with a soft metallic buzzing as the Shard turned into a sparking mass of embers before erupting all over the amour like a swarm of fireflies.

A rumbling could be heard as suddenly the roots covering the armour began to quiver under its fiery cloak. The tree above was reacting to the power surge being felt at it's roots. They began to unravel their bindings as the embers were absorbed into the armour, being sucked into the metal like water into soil. Then the plating began to glow like the stars themselves, glittering brightly the sun shining through a crystal prism. Then, as if taking on a life of it's own, the armour moved on it's own accord. Sitting up straight with eerie life-like movements and looking right at Alaric in a calculating and inquisitive manner.

"Razeal?" Alaric asked, concern creeping into him. "Razeal?"

Razeal, or the entity that assumed his form, had vanished from sight. It was now apparent to Alaric that he was now truly on his own from this point. He would have no further guidance and everything was now in his hands.

The sound of surging power could be heard as the armour began to open. Seamlessly as if the metal had become liquid. And housed within this armour, illuminated with a blinding light that filled up everything in the tomb, was a sight that was both assuring and also terrifying. Alaric could not believe what he saw just as the light enveloped him .

It was himself upon this throne.