Fragile and glistening tears streamed down his pale face as he walked in solitude along a serpentined street, the daunting buildings casting lengthy and encroaching shadows.
A chill hung in the air like a heavy blanket as the sun retired behind the snowy mountains, the kind moon rising to replace its counterpart and filling the inky sky with its light, the snowflakes falling from the heavens shining like platinum orbs.
His every footfall resonated with the satisfying crunch of freshly fallen snow, marking the definitive onset of brutal winter, displacing the last vestiges of warmth left clinging to the renowned capital of the Kiehl Empire.
Pulling the swallow jacket around his frail body, he snuggled closer into the garment as his body shivered violently as the cold bit into his back.
Blinded by tears, he struggled to perceive anything beyond the watery haze, his despair and hatred being the only tether to reality as the world surrounding him dissolved into a chaotic sea of static. While a persistent ache pulsed through his leg, it resembled more a weariness of muscles than any acute pain, the storm brewing in his soul swallowing his senses and pain.
Edward Lionheart is used to pain; after all, only a few weeks after reaching the esteemed age of ten, her mother had decided that his progress in becoming the Patriarch was too slow, and her best method of improving her son 'chances' was through physicals means, after all,
the beating is broken from heaven.
He had the first row in watching as her mother lost all hope in him, her anger and bitterness only growing as he showed no talent when it came to his family mana cultivation technique, as at the ripe age of thirteen, he was only able to sense mana around him, much less use it.
He, too, had dealt with sorrow and self-hatred during the last years, but they were for very different reasons. You see, while the white flame formula wasn't of much, if any, interest to him, his inability to use magic was killing him from the inside. He loves magic like it's the most crucial aspect of existence, from the miniature light spell to the eruption created by an archwizard. It didn't matter to the boy which kind of magic it was, only that it existed, and that gave the boy the ability to keep living this horrible existence—one of the two reasons for him to keep on living beside his father.
And yet, despite his love for magic, it almost seems his love wasn't reciprocated. He could not conjure a single sphere of light despite reading nearly every book available in the Lionheart library and practicing until his finger trembled and consciousness drooped.
His goal to be a great magician or even the Patriarch had all crumbled over the years as it became apparent that besides being a good but not phenomenal sword fighter and having a quick mind, he was as useless as a log when it came to mana. And that was enough for her mother to destroy his life.
From humiliation to beating, her mother was not all that different from the demon folk she so heartily hated. For what mother, much less the wife of the Patriarch, would paint her son's body with enough scars to make him look like a war veteran? From the cicatrice that formed at his collar bones and disappeared under his shirt, each scar had a story.
Each scar a punishment engraved on his skin.
Adding insult to injury, his stef-siblings were cherished like they were the second coming of Velmouth, leaving him nothing more than a stubborn stain on the Lionheart name, giving another reason to her mother to deliver 'divine' punishment.
And the reason he was here was because of one of those punishment.
Wiping the ice that had formed on his eyelashes as he passed another empty factory, faint static begins to seep into his mind slowly.
How stupid could he have been to actually believe that his mother had an actual surprise, much less a prize for him that required them to go by horse carriage to the edge of the capital, only for the reality of his existence to set in as her beloved him push him into the cold snow and left him there?
And the reason for this punishment? Ciel had been able to use world force for a few moments. Not that he really was condemning them. He wasn't that hateful to blame his sibling for his mother's sins.
So with the self-constructed proof that Eward had failled again, Tanis
found all the reasons to go on with her plan, and who could contest her decision anyway, especially with his father away on a business trip.
"What are you doing this late outside, little boy?"
Eward abruptly halted in his tracks, his train of thought being derailed as he twisted his head to pinpoint the source of the voice. Emerging from the shadowy recesses of an alley to his left, a man materialized, his presence making the hair on his arms stand up as the static in his mind grew ever so slightly in intensity.
"You know you shouldn't be this late alone in this part of the town." As the man approached him, forcing him to step into the light, allowing the fourteen-year-old to observe that his face flushed with red as the pinching odor of alcohol stringed Eward nostrils.
Before he could stammer out a response, the man was already on him, his vice-like grip closed around Eward arm, and his other hand swiftly lifted him by the waist. Terror paralyzed him as he keenly sensed the overpowering might of his captor, the nauseatingly firm hold constricting his fragile frame, and an overwhelming panic, the kind that should never burden a child, surged through his heart.
The boy's heart hammered in his chest as his skin burned as the horrific texture of the man's hands washed across Eward senses, the unmistakable movement of mana surrounding his mouth, silencing any sound from coming out, as anesthetic gas formed in the predator's palm and flows down his throat, clogging his airpipe.
His vision flashed with static as everything stung and ached, panic clouding his mind as it became more apparent that something inside his stomach was brewing.
Something was inside him; something akin to a wave of static flooding through his digestive tract, splitting apart his bones and fusing itself with them, mutating his body through a union of darkness and static. His very fear was the seed, the hatred that had formed into his soul over his pathetic life, and the attack of the disgusted man was the catalyst for the endless spiral of decay blooming in his very soul that spread its presence through oily invisible tendril that infected all it touched.
It is a song of cruelty and corrosion, a tale of degradation to the highest degree, nothing less than ruin given form through the static that degenerates matter and mocks the very concept of light and flame.
Like a rupturing tumor, a soundless melody blooms in her chest, every shadow infesting the cosmos trembling and shifting attune to the very loathing infused into his molecule by the melody that predates entropy, the churning miasma of twisting static bleeding from his silhouette and mutating into a churning Obelix of despair.
Eward screams and the first melody breaks the world.
Eward's eye snapped wide open, his body jerking upright as a cry clawed its way up his vocal cords only to be halted mid-breath as his hand clamped ruthlessly over his quivering lips with enough force to send a tremor of pain agony radiating through his lower jaw. His breathing, once an erratic rhythm, now came in shallow pants as his heart tried to rip its way out of his ribcage.
He stumbles back, blinking frantically as the factories and the horrid predator are replaced with a hollow valley, the ground beneath him nothing more than a crystalline terrain no different than a mirror.
The air is cold and dry, and the lavender sky is infested by blistering cracks like scars through which darkness spills, only to be swallowed by the surface of a star stuck in its final moments.
Everything vibrates momentarily as the denizens of the void become aware of his presence in the realm beyond creation.
Shades long like cities and tall as the night appears in the distance, crawling, flying, or running in a place where concepts like reason and fundamental biology are nothing more than a suggestion.
Creatures with too many eyes and teeth that shred through fire and light could be seen battling an undead with arms of interminable darkness, its body assembled from chitin and oxidized steel held together by rotten crystal threads.
Before he could blink the blood in his eyes, he was thrown off the ground as the 'mirrors' cracked in half like an egg, a flying deformed being of sulfur and plasma breaking through the surface, spreading hundreds of ashen wings extended from a spine of liquid gold, charging without mercy toward the dying star.
He can't even scream as he falls through the cracks formed in the ground, only to find himself high in a different starless sky, falling toward an ocean of green magma. He senses his fear skyrocket beyond the realms of logic as something moves between the surface. Still, before a gruesome death could befall him, hundreds of threads of darkness older than his world swallowed him whole, his mind forcing himself not to focus on the colorless form, no difference from a feverish nightmare that rises from the ocean, one of its maw opening wide and showcasing eternity giving form, the ultra-violet fangs covering every inch of it maw scraping one of his falling tears before the darkness took him away.
As the carriage came to a stop, the first lady of the Lionheart Family departed the golden vehicle before her servants could open her door, only to freeze in place as her eyes landed on the man waiting before the giant gate of the Lionheart Main Estate.
Gilead, the head of the family that should have been at the black lion mansion, stood right before her, his golden eyes, which gleamed like molten sunbeams, staring at her with warmth, their color contrasting the cascading mane of long, silvery-gray hair that flowed like a shimmering waterfall.
Right beside him, only a step out of tune with the Patriarch, stood Lovellian Sophis, a small smile spread across his face, a complete opposite compared to the frown sprawled across Tatis's face.
"Darling, y-you are back." Tanis exclaimed, a wrinkle of tension forming on her forehead as Gilead walked toward her. The snow crunched under his boots, but despite the pleasant sound, the body of Taniel was ... by tension.
"The meeting at the Black Lion Mansion concluded surprisingly quickly. In fact, I thought it would be a perfect opportunity to surprise the family, so I invited my old friend Lovelian to help us with the Blood ceremony coming in the two years." Gilead smiled brightly, chuckling softly under his breath.
"My surprise must have been too good since right after arriving at the main estate, the maids had quickly informed me that you and my dear Eward had left the estate." The man explained sheepishly, his gaze trailing the inside of the carriage in search of the boy.
Confusion briefly flashed across the man's face, surprised by the absence of his first son, even after every servant residing in the carriage had already exited.
Speaking about, where i-'"
Only to be interrupted as reality weep.
Initiating as a simple scream, the call of the end mutated into a chorus of howling screams that bloat like a mist, filling every listener with the notion of the end of the world. It is a grating noise that speaks of eternity and its limitation, a sound that echoes of endless tributes and slaughter beyond imagination done by rotting gods and unborn ones in servitude to something so much more than them.
The manic cry tore through Gilead's head like fire, grating against his eardrums, forcing him to place his hand tightly against his head and bite his tongue until it drew blood, despite his power being unable to catch Tanis'sTanis's body as she collapsed to the ground.
He could feel the people around squirm on the ground or lie motionless on the icy floor. The sound was worse than any wound inflicted by the beast in the Uklas mountains, worse than dying over and over in the Dark room, for a tiny iota of his being whispered to him that death would be a better faith than continuing listening.
And then he makes the worst mistake of his life and looks up.
Every star flickered and perished in succession, each brilliant and swirling orb of magnificence flashing their last light, their incoherent form almost judging him, holding him accountable for their 'race' extinction.
Then, across that moribund sky, one gaping maw grew among those dying lights, breaching into the mortal realm like an endless calamity of death and turmoil.
In a blink of a human eye, the entire abyss beyond the wall of light vanishes. Pantheons of deities, leviathans from the end of time, and endless worlds of tribute are extinguished in a blast of horrid melody, the very sky of his world shattering like porcelain, shards of broken space falling to the ground and creating untold massacre, their figurative mass reducing empires to rubble and humans to dust.
"SAVE US, FATHER"
It does not speak, yet the nightmare exclamation is louder than the roars of dragons and sharper than the edge of the holy sword.
And Gilead is dead.
Then, just like it came, the song of finality ceases, and the paradox crumbles.
Silence, like the most precious gift from the gods, befalls the world.
The end Gilead had just witnessed and his death averted as the world reverted to a superficial semblance of normality.
Gilead's heartbeat echoed behind his temples, his heart pulsating in unison with the six cores orbiting around it. In the background, he could sense his friend's magic covering them all as the ringing in his ear subsided, yet the idea that he was here, alive, almost made him collapse.
He should be dead, him along with his world, consumed by the nightmare that will sing life asunder. And yet, instead of the gaping hole left by It, stood the sky in its twilight hour blend of soft lavender and pale rose, as if the heavens themselves are blushing in response to winter's cold embrace.
For a second, a tiny insignificant moment, he fantasized about it being a simple hallucination caused by his age, but that would be nothing more than a beautiful dream.
Its last words, its only statement, had been carved and etched into his muscles and bones and engraved into his chest, the command of the creature that had shattered his world only with its future intent.
Like the crash of thunder and the clamorous rumble of an earthquake, his six cores explode in white flame, the ground beneath him cracking ever so slightly as he gingerly picks his wife up, who was all but unharmed beside being unconscious, and places her in his friend arms, silently thanking him before blasting off into the sky like a rocket not offering the magician the possibility of a respond.
If his blood and bones hadn't been urging him on, maybe Gilead would have gathered his entire family and left for the emperor's castle, preparing for what could have been an attack coming from another nation or, worse, Helmuth.
But every iota of his being confirmed that it was neither.
Reaching the edge of the capital, he stops right as the road disappears, his leather boots tearing into the ground and stopping his descent.
Gilead's breath ceased in its tracks before forcing its way down his air pipe, hiding between his ribs, anxious and heavy. A shiver travels down his spine the longer he looks at the devastation. A crater or, more accurately, a newly formed valley stretched out, a landscape marred by a miles-long gouge, the ruin greeting him like an old friend.
The factory that provided for the capital had been reduced to less than dust. The trees and animals left over the night were long gone alongside the street and anything in an oddly circular shape. Not even the clouds, which were pregnant with the weight of the brutal winter, did not even approach the location, the ruined land untouched by the white blanket that covered the Empire.
Nothing remains but a hollow expanse.
Nothing remains but his son.
Descending into the grating, it took a minute for him to reach the bottom, and although he could have jumped to the center, the shadows didn't react all that welcoming when he made abrupt movements.
Typically, he would not be intimidated by regular shadows; he was a Lionheart, after all, but 'regular' shades usually don't mold into complex structures or whisper ancient tales of wars eternal wrought by the god flame and the sole monarch of the dark bellow.
With little effort, he weaved through the shifting strands, arriving at what could only be ground zero.
Rising in the center of the newly formed valley was an obelisk constructed from an interplay of strands and cords of darkness that writhe like serpents in everlasting torment.
The obelisk mimics the movement of fluid, its ever-shifting shape pushing the very laws of geometry. At one moment, it may loom tall and imposing, piercing the sky and beyond it, and in the next, it appears to collapse upon itself, its proportions distorting into grotesque dimensions.
Embedded within the nightmarish tangle of dark cords are pulsating crystals formed from the ichor of plasma and ash, each one casting visions of futures filled with debauchery and songs, where the flesh and bones of men were arranged in runes to awake slumbering abominations, the oceans turning to purple by abysmal fire.
The darkness that composes this structure is not merely the absence of light but a tangible, suffocating presence, its design being nothing more than an ever-evolving nightmare, a mockery of the natural world.
But thankfully, benefiting Gilead's mental health, he sees none of it, only catching gazes of the madness, the structure blurred to his eyes, his ears unable to hear the shadows whisper, and his mouth unable to commune with the rotting shards.
Then, the orchestra of madness melts away in a symphony of decomposing flesh and bones locked in a dissonant note, leaving behind his son's body.
Gilead was already beside him before his frail body could smash against the ground, falling to his knees as he caught Eward mid-falling. Placing his palm against his chest, the tension clinging to his muscles dissipates as he feels his son's soft heartbeat, his chest falling and rising rhythmically.
Rising to his feet, he pulls the heavy coat from his body, the left sleeves tearing from the force, before wrapping Eward in the comfy attire, smiling to himself despite what a shitshow of the day it had been so far, not turning around even as he heard the White Lion troops and White Dragon order, naively unaware that if they had arrived less than a minute ago, they would have been slaughter in a sea of shadows and madness.
Notes: I hope you enjoy this madness and be ready for a long road. (Inspired by The Dark Bellow writen by DarthPeezy)