Not much to say this time. Did well at uni, is loving Geology, all that jazz.
Have a happy new year, everyone. Many thanks to Emmy, who review so diligently. Send me some love, people!! I NEEEED IIIIIT.
Oh, and it's another half chapter; for those that still haven't figured it out, this means it's gonna be from a PoV of someone other than Celadon, which is the main narrator. Just thought I'd say that, because it's apparently more obscure than I thought.
Disclaimer: Blizzard owns Diablo. I don't seem to own even my brain.
Chapter 32.5
Unrepentant
Humans have the freedom of choice, he said.
Freewill – sometimes I wonder if that really exists, or if it's just another aspect of divine make-believe. Do we really choose how we think and act, or are our minds the product of worldly conditioning over the years?
I stopped believing in divine intervention some time ago. It's just easier to understand how things come to be that way. The world as the result of human-demon interaction is something that I can accept. It fits.
A skeletal demon closes in on me from my right, dressed incongruously in a suit of grandiose armour. I squint as I pivot and spin around to face it, trying to gauge the distance between us. The monster hurls a ball of blue light towards me, the crackling ball of energy advancing with unexpected speed; I barely avoid it, my cheek and the side of my neck stinging sharply as it flies past.
I slide my dagger back into its sheath at my side and feel for the lethargic presence of dead body parts, gathering mana in my free left hand and exposing it to their ghostly responses.
The mana coursing through my hand's conduits resonates shrilly. This place is screaming with existences that had passed on. "City of the Damned", it's named; appropriately so.
At my command, the bone fragments within the ground directly beneath the armoured skeleton coalesce and shoot out of the earth, imprisoning the foe in giant claws of bone. The corner of my eye catches the glinting sphere of power in another fellow monster's hand, but the missile is halted as a similar cage materialises and holds the demon at bay.
I sweep my eyes across the battlefield – Oread's at a distance, combating a hoard of demons herself. She's out of range; this shouldn't affect her, but… it's the first time I've ever used this in battle. Better be careful.
I close my eyes. Turning my energy inward, I focus my aura – the thin layer of mana immediately outside of my body – and begin to break down the air around me. I can feel the very constituents of the atmosphere split and recombine. Harmless elements turn noxious; light, drifting particles become heavy and stagnant. Alchemy at its worst, the epitome of my people's practice of it.
My eyes snap open and I allow my aura to expand. Large globules of mana aglow with the corrosive colour of acid-green explode from me in a nova of poison, trailing thin tails of light behind them as they progress upon their onslaught, infecting its targets with deadly venom.
The sweet sounds of convulsive gagging and gurgling fill my ears as the monsters drown in their own contaminated fluids. They stop soon enough.
I glance over to my partner and can hear it as her arrows first snap-freezes a group of horned, beast-like monster, then cracking the frozen figures with the subsequent shots, before finally shattering the entire lot. I consider for a moment what colour the melt would be, but then I remember the bones of those that I've disturbed from their rest.
My left hand is still shivering, longing for more action, the mana there crying to be purged upon another monster, but my other hand is steady.
I close my eyes and raise it to my forehead, touching it with the knuckle of my index finger. "I lament the suffering you have endured in life." my brain recalls the old prayer, my lips forming the words in my mother tongue of Carrhandi.
My hand drops down and presses a fist to my chest. "I esteem the service you are offering in passing."
"I await the serenity you will receive in death." The hand rises again, this time to my lips, and I kiss it softly. For most people, this would be the hand that had taken from the dead in the first place; perhaps that's why I don't seem to appreciate the depth of this gesture.
When I open my eyes again, I'm greeted with Oread's scrutinising stare. It makes me start and retreat half a pace.
"D'you do that every time you've used a corpse?" She asks, crooking one pale brow.
"Yes, it's expected moral conduct." I reply, and then remembered something and my chest tightens just a little, an annoying sort of nag that I quickly shove aside, but Oread must have seen something, however obscure it was.
"You've done that to every single time you've used a body." It isn't a question; it's a cue for me to spill. I look into her eyes, and something tough and cold melts inside me. "Every –"
"There was once." The words tumble out, much quicker than I'd anticipated. My throat feels dry; my voice seems to be on the edge of faltering. Stealing a glance at her, I add, "That was the only time I really didn't care."
Oread's eyes narrow, hiding the lighter green of her irises, making her eyes darken in effect with the deeper brown. She knows… that it wasn't a careless mistake.
"Who was it?"
I swallow audibly; I'm not afraid of being reminded of it, just of how she may react…
"My father."
Just like that, the memories, the pictures, the sounds, the smells flood back, like they do every once in a while during the quieter nights; except dreams are but short-term reminders. This time, the memories come to the forefront of my mind from the core of my brain, where I disposed of it long ago, caged it, strapped it down, locked it up…
Oread just freed it. The look in her eyes continues to coax it out of me, tugging at the thoughts that are swelling into the forefront of my mind.
And I look back and see the woman I love; the woman for whom I can never become my father for.
So I tell her. In perfect chronological order. From my first memory of Father…
The unworthy monster of a man.
Formerly one of the top tacticians of my people, he apparently suffered a mental breakdown after the Amazonian-Necromantic War of his generation; but as far as I can remember, he was always a ruthless oppressor.
Naturally, then, my first impression of Mother was that she's oppressed. She's a person who could not defend herself; love had stripped her of power and sight. She failed to see that my father was not that man that she fell in love with, that the man my father apparently had been was long dead.
Sometimes I wondered if she had suffered a breakdown, too.
She was one who needed someone else's protection. At first I tried to be that someone, but I was weak, and she ended up protecting me, and Father's wrath for me exploded upon her, as well.
So I soon learnt to stay out of the way; but I watched. I watched him as he cursed her; put her through mental torment far more agonising than the bruises that he rendered violet-crimson on her frail body, the gore that he freed from beneath her alabaster skin into a stream of thick red, the screams and cries that erupted from her tattered throat.
I watched as he attacked from the other side of the room, Mother defenceless. She'd try to get up and go towards him, beg him to stop, but she never reached him. She never touched him.
Just as I never hid from the truth and fact of reality. I watched to learn, to understand, to predict and prepare, hoping that knowledge would eventually grant me the power to keep Mother safe.
I swore never to become who Father was. He's a renowned master in summoning and, witnessing the attacks that he used on mother, I refused to practice summoning and curses – though I learned them nevertheless – and opposed the usual style of felling the opponent from afar that's common amongst my clan. I gave up the customary staff and other occult devices, and took up studying the use of blades.
There's once when emotions overpowered tact and I tried to intercept Father before he got to Mother for the nightly abuse. It earned me three weeks away from home with the physicians.
I was about twelve then, and I usually helped Mother at home after my lessons with Tiden; so one thing that resulted from the incident was Brother's return from the citadel. He'd said that he always wanted to come back, but he's in a high position, and couldn't leave so easily.
Mother's out when I arrived home from the infirmary, and I talked for hours with Brother. That's the first time I'd cried about what was happening. Brother just listened, and he nodded in understanding.
"He's been coming home late; it's like he doesn't want to meet me." Brother explained. "Mother, on the other hand, seems to have become happier. I've got my ideas about this, and you've just confirmed them."
He took my spectacles off with one hand, and wiped the tears off my face with the other. The calloused fingers were hard and rough upon my eyelids. He was older than me by eight years, and his seniority had always assured me that… somehow, he could set things right for me. It's a weak thought, but it's comforting nevertheless.
I gazed into his eyes – blue and grey, much like mine, but years of witnessing conflict and the ugliness of humanity had worn and dulled the brightness of the blue.
"Tell you what, I was meant to be leaving today, but I'll stay for a while. If it gets bad, I'll talk to him. I might even see what I can do with the elders." He smiled. "Don't cry, all right, Nyhl? It makes him think he's won."
I was annoyed by this, and I told him that I'd never cried in front of Father. He scuffed my hair, and grinned as I tried to shove his large, strong hand off my head.
But I could see the angry determination in Brother's eyes.
When Father came home that night, Mother was cleaning up after dinner.
"You're still here, Rien." Father's voice was cold. "I thought you were to have left by noon today."
"Isn't it all right for me to catch up a little with my baby brother?" He glanced at me, seeking the pout that I'd normally return him if he'd called me that; but I comprehended no humour in the situation. "Or do you want to just get rid of me so you can go back to abusing my family? Who have you been beating up to compensate for your cravings these few weeks? Or rather…"
He got up closer to Father, and I tensed up. He leaned into Father's face – Brother's taller than Father by about an inch – and inhaled. "You've been quenching your belligerence with spirits. That's smart; this time you can blame it on the drinks."
"You have no right to talk to your father like this, Rien!" Father slammed a hand onto the table, and I could smell the wood, scorched by violent magical energy. "You're my son, this is my wife," he pointed a finger at Mother, and she reacted as if it's a physical jab. "And this is my family! I'm the head of the house!"
"You're not worth this family." Brother's as short-tempered as Father. They were almost nose-to-nose, now, their light, straw-coloured hair and identical eyes giving the scene the odd appearance of a mirror-image. I really should have known that it's not possible for him to talk to him peacefully…
"You either stop this, or I'll report it to the elders."
"Stop this! Rien, please don't…" Mother urged, but her voice was lost in Father's bellow.
"You would dare to betray your own father?" Father's energy's filling up the room with its aggression. I was alert but not scared – at least not for myself.
"You betrayed us first. You betrayed your own role as a husband and a father."
"Rien!" Mother's cry coincided with a Bone Spear splintering after stabbing into the wall behind brother.
Brother's aura exploded. The fight began.
Tears were streaming down Mother's face, and she looked to be paralysed with fear. Suddenly she straightened up and buried me in her arms. I tried to free myself; that's when I felt the precedence of a chilling shockwave from Father.
I broke free, stood in front of Mother and tried to absorb as much as the curse as I could, tried to set aside my instinctive resistance.
From what I could feel, the curse that father cast was Weaken. I wasn't yet fully recovered from what happened three weeks before; and with even the most basic, reflexive defence down, the curse seeped through to the core of my innards, throttling my entire body with its force.
Regardless, I wasn't going to let this happen again. I cast Bone Armour – with noticeably a lot more effort, but I only thought it as the temporary effects of the curse – around the two of us. It'd do nothing against magic, but it's the best I could do then.
The sound of splitting flesh, breaking bones and breathing indicative of torn organs filled my home, but only Mother's sobs really resonated in my head. I watched; I tried to take everything in, tried to see if I could brace myself for what might happen next.
I watched as Brother left an opening for Father to deliver the killing blow. I kept watching as Brother sent Teeth towards Father before he lied still. His aim's off, but there were nine missiles, and four struck their target.
Mother's trembling and moaning softly but shrilly as father hit the floor. She's holding herself in a tight huddle, with me standing in front of her.
I searched for motion with my eyes, tuned my perceptions to the hums of Brother and Father's energies from memory. There's a tiny quivering, but it'd be gone shortly.
I relaxed and my insides seized up; I doubled over, choking on the blood that gushed into my mouth. Covering my mouth with my hand, I tried to keep it in, to swallow it, but there was so much of it that I ended up coughing it onto the floor.
Mother wailed and threw her arms around me; she was shaking all over and her hands felt icy. "Oh… dear gods, Nyhl. Dear gods…" She sobbed on, the rest of her sentence no more than a senseless spluttering of guttural sounds.
I took a few deep breaths after the blood stopped coming, and steadied myself. "Mother, please come with me to alert the elders." My voice was calm; I was surprised that I felt nothing. I was numb; perhaps it was my mind's instinctive response for self-preservation, rejecting the emotions to save my body and my sanity. My body felt cool, but not uncomfortably so – like a breeze in a summer's night, I remember thinking.
I helped Mother out of the house before I went back to close the door and windows that led into the marshes beyond our yard – it'd be messy if animals were to find their way to the slaughter scene.
Before I left I knelt down beside Brother, and was glad that his eyes were closed. He almost looked like he was only asleep, if not for the pool of blood beneath his body that had stopped spreading a few minutes ago and started to clot.
I tried not to look at Father, but as I walked past him, his hand closed around the hem of my loose, oversized trousers. I realised that my feet were bare, and made a mental note to get boots from the front later.
I still didn't look at him.
"Nyhl…" Father's voice. It stirred a little something warm inside me, but it's drowned out by the overwhelming coolness. I kicked my leg forward and freed it from his grasp.
I strode out of the room, and turned back as I pulled the door close. Father's head's lifted and tilted towards me; under the silver lighting of the half-moon, his eyes were darkened by the dying flames of the lamps that illuminated the crimson on the walls.
I squinted my left eye closed, and lifted my head so that the largest speck of blood on my spectacles' right lens covered his head and most of his torso.
Now he's one with the bloody room.
"Ny–" His voice was cut off as the door clicked shut.
There was nothing to it. Mother told them what happened as it happened, I told them what happened in a way that complemented what Mother said had happened; and that's all there was.
When I talked with Tiden about the incident, that was when we realised what Father's curse had done to my body. Not only did I lose a large part of my ability to withhold magical energy, my stamina had plummeted. My general resistance to metaphysical attacks had greatly weakened. It's almost like the curse had stayed inside me.
Such was the price of protecting Mother from more hurt and torment. It was worth it.
There're tears during the funeral, but not mine. I was more angered than saddened that Brother and Father would rest beside one another.
When everyone else left, I asked Mother go ahead, to return to Grandmother's home for some rest.
The dying sun washed the pristine marble of the mausoleum with arterial red that looked livid, like blood seeping and running down bleeding walls, puddling on the floor. The two caskets were side-by-side before me. No doubt the bodies inside would also be of identical posture.
Wrath burned. Father didn't deserve this. This ritual would mean that for a long time to come, Brother would be known as the other man's son as he lay cold in the ground.
The muscles in my chest and left arm tightened. Had I known then that Nadya was watching me… nah, I probably would've done it anyway.
My mana circulation was upset, and Tiden had warned me of the drastic effects on my organs if I stressed it too much; but this… I was sure that I could control it well enough; I went up, and put my hand on the side of Father's casket.
A sharp throb from my organs came first, but I dismissed my body's warning shriek and pushed on. What followed were from the casket – a series of dull, liquid rumbles, then a splashy sound of a fine equilibrium somewhere between pop and bang, resonating inside the wooden box, ricocheting off the inside walls for a brief moment before silence took over again.
Enchanted music to my ears. The casket didn't move at all.
Left hand found its way into my empty pocket; right hand rose reflexively, lips parted to speak for the soul of the dead as they had before, and will do so for many more times to come; but this time I stopped them. My hand never touched my forehead; my voice never escaped my throat.
Over the continuous drip drip drip through the thick wood came a wet shlop as some larger chunk of tissue slid off the inside wall of the casket.
My hand fell by my side. I walked off.
