"We come to love, not by finding the perfect person, but by learning to see an imperfect person, perfectly."
Unknown
Universe (H)-01 | Plane of Mortal Men
Class-Five Restricted Planet: C-53/SR/R3-O2
Thermopylae | Greece | 480 b.C.n.
The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the rugged terrain of Thermopylae as the battle raged on, and amidst the clash of metal, a lone figure stood within the ranks of the Persian army; naught but a silent observer amid the cacophony of war.
Clad in ornate armour adorned with intricate designs, this warrior stood apart from his fellows; silver-grey eyes scanning the battlefield with an intensity that belied his calm demeanour. The air was thick with the scent of blood and sweat, the cries of the dying mingling with the sounds of clashing swords. The Achaemenian forces, overseen by none other than King Xerxes himself, had launched a relentless assault on the meagre three hundred Greek defenders, the sheer numbers of the God-King's army overwhelming the brave few who dared stand in his way.
But even amidst the chaos of battle, this single soldier looked to remain untouched by the frenzy around him. His movements were deliberate, as predetermined as they were precise, and his pale gaze remained unwavering as he watched the ebb and flow of conflict unfolding before him.
The Zarābak, as his fellow Persians did call him, was as enigmatic as the very shadows that darkened the war-torn lands of Thermopylae; a 'Wolf of the Planes' whose origins were as mysterious as the very moon in which lit up the night sky. And although he fought with the skill and ferocity of a seasoned warrior, there was an air of detachment about this young man; as if he were naught but merely a spectator to the bloodshed rather than an active participant.
As the Zarābak fought, his mind drifted back to the events that had led him to this moment, to the whispers of Boarac - the Addendum whose promises of power and immortality had seduced even that of the mighty Xerxes. The Wolf, like many, had been drawn into Boarac's web of deceit, his loyalty to his King having clouded his judgement as he became entangled in a plot that threatened to consume them all.
Yet now, as he stood at the very heart of the battle, this Achaemenid found his thoughts consumed by the grim reality of war. The ground beneath his feet was slick with blood, the air heavy with the stench of death. He could feel the weight of the sword in his hand, the cold steel all but a reminder of the lives he'd taken in the name of conquest and power. Though amongst these feelings, amidst the very carnage that surrounded him, he also felt a sense of unease; a worry that did gnaw at the edge of his consciousness - unable to shake the feeling that he'd become naught but a pawn in a much larger game, a mere instrument held within hands of power far beyond his comprehension.
And as the Zarābak surveyed the battlefield, silver-grey eyes fell upon the Greek defenders, their numbers dwindling with each passing moment; knowing that, despite the Spartan King's valiant efforts in defending the once-hidden pass, Leonidas and his men were no match for the overwhelming might of Xerxes' army.
Though, and even amid the chaos and despair that hung heavy over the Greeks who were left, this so-called 'Wolf' could not help but feel a sense of admiration for their continued courage and resilience.
Short-lived was to be his reverie, however, as sudden movement caught his eye. A lone figure, clad in the simple yet effective armour of a Spartan warrior, emerged from the chaos, his presence commanding the attention of any who beheld him.
It was the Shadow's Bane, a man whose own name was but a whisper upon the winds. Such tales had been whispered of the supposed-immortal's exploits, of his unmatched skill in battle, and his unwavering devotion to the cause of freedom. And now, as their eyes met across the field, silver-grey meeting a paler argent, the Zarābak felt a chill run down his spine; somehow knowing that he was now standing face-to-face with destiny itself.
The clash of bronze, the cries of the dying - the very essence of war - seemed to fade into the background as he locked eyes with Arc, their fates intertwined in ways that neither could fully comprehend. Yet, and as he prepared to meet his destiny on the blood-soaked fields of Thermopylae head on, the Wolf of the Planes did know that whatever the outcome of this fateful encounter, it would forever alter the course of history.
Universe (H)-01 | Plane of Mortal Men
Class-Five Restricted Planet: C-53/SR/R3-O2
City of Athens | Greece | 460 b.C.n.
The moon hung low in the velvet sky over Athens, casting a soft glow on the marbled streets and reflecting off the white columns of grand temples. The air was filled with the hum of philosophical discourse and the scent of olive groves. And within this cradle of civilisation, a figure did emerge from the shadows with the grace that belied his ageless existence.
Clad in a dark cloak that seemed to absorb the moonlight and hid his hunting leathers underneath, the Arcane Revenant navigated the crowded agora; sharp eyes scanning the faces of philosophers passionately engaged in debates, citizens haggling with merchants, and artists capturing the very beauty of the world around them. Despite his enigmatic nature and rather lethal line of work, the immortal had always found himself drawn to the vibrant yet mundane - of the very life that did teem through the countless streets and passages of Time.
However, as he strolled through the streets of Athens, senses were suddenly alert to an unfamiliar energy; one that did feel out of place in the world of Mortal Men, before a commotion ahead drew his attention - a clash of voices and emotions that did erupt in a nearby market square and caused Arc to change course, feet guiding him now towards the disturbance rather than away; his steps all but a quiet whisper upon marble stone whilst eyes pierced through the masses.
In the midst of the slow-growing crowd, a young Persian stood defiantly, his stature imposing in the midst of the Athenians surrounding him. Olive skin bore the marks of a life spent under the Mediterranean sun, and raven-black hair framed a face that radiated determination as he engaged in a heated argument with a merchant; the clash of their opinions echoing through the agora.
"I demand you reconsider!"
"And why should I, Achaemenid?!" the Athenian trader retorted snidely, features warped with a heavily ingrain disdain as he added, "You and your kind are not welcomed here!"
Observing from the edges of the growing crowd, Arc couldn't help but feel a flicker of recognition at the sight of the darker man. Yet... he could not place where or when they could have possibly crossed paths before, no matter how much his demeanour stirred a distant memory within him. And approaching the now-curious scene with measured steps, all thoughts of the strange sensation that had first gained his attention fleeing like the very winds of time, he interjected into the argument with a calm authority; voice naught but a rumble of distant thunder as he asked, "Is there a problem here, gentlemen?"
The merchant, startled by his sudden and rather confronting appearance, hesitated before replying with a gruff yet stuttered, "Th-this man refuses to leave my stall. I will not have his kind here."
Slowly blinking, silver eyes disappearing behind their pale lids as he absorbed the trader's words, Arc's gaze shifted to the young man in question as his eyes reopened, studying the Achaemenid with a penetrating intensity as that niggling feeling of familiarity only grew. "And what is it that you... seek?" he questioned, frowning ever so slightly at his own hesitation; niggling having become a scratching at the edge of his consciousness, something telling him that he should have known the man's name.
And as silver-grey eyes met his with a steely defiance, eyes that were but a shade or two darker than the immortal's very own burning and jaw set in determination - that feeling only continued to grow.
How... peculiar.
"I seek only what anyone seeks; a means to survive in this world. Though-" those same piercing silver-grey eyes cut back to the trader, spine steeling as, "-if he will not provide it, than I shall find another who will," was defiantly spat.
Arc's features flickered with a subtle understanding as the Persian's words resonated through the air. And with a thoughtful expression, he turned his attention back to the flustered merchant. "Is it not the way of Athens to welcome all who seek refuge within Her walls, regardless of their origins? Surely the Gods Themselves do not discriminate based on the mortal trappings of birthplace."
His questions hung heavy in the air, all but a challenge veiled in civility even whilst his voice carried the weight of authority that brooked no argument. And the merchant's eyes widened in realisation, his resolve all but faltering under the weight of each one.
"I-I mean no disrespect, s-sir," the Athenian barely managed to stutter, eyes darting between Arc and the young man he'd refused service to as he added, "It's just... times are hard, and one must be cautious," in his attempt to keep face.
The expression upon the Revenant's face was tempered slightly at the reveal, an understanding of the fears that often lurked beneath the surface of such prejudice softening Arc's otherwise stern features. Yet his gaze remained steady, silver eyes boring into the trader's with an unwavering intensity. "Indeed, times are tough," he acknowledged with a single incline of his head. "But is it not precisely during such times that we should seek unity rather than division; rise above our fears and prejudice? And Athens, does this very city - your home not stand as a testament of the ideas of that same unity and acceptance?" he added as he re-met the man's gaze.
"Athens is but a beacon of civilisation, a sanctuary wherein diversity flourishes under the watchful gaze of the Gods," the immortal continued before the merchant could even splutter a rebuttal, his voice calm yet commanding as it sliced through the air. "And to turn away those who seek refuge within Her walls would be to defy the very essence of our shared humanity."
Swallowing hard, and as if sensing the weight of Arc's words and the atmosphere shifting against him as the slow-growing crowds already begun to disperse; their entertainment clearly having been ruined by the Revenant's interference, the merchant took a hesitant step back, relinquishing his stance of defiance - just as another voice cut through the air and caused Arc's attention to shift, the stern expression marring his features becoming replaced by something more akin to humour as he turned towards the speaker.
"Well said, Blademaster," another remarked as they emerged from the departing masses and did cause the trader's unease to multiply at the title used. There was only one 'Blademaster' that he knew of within Athens, and it was not a man he'd ever wanted to cross paths - or swords - with.
"But do not let one man's ignorance dampen your spirits, old friend. Remember, the true measure of one's self lies not in the colour of their skin or the land of their birth, but in the strength of their character," the newcomer continued - even as the merchant took their distraction for what it was and slipped away, not even caring that he was abandoning his own stall in the process.
The thought of living to see another day far out-weighed the possibility of losing his life over offending the Arcane Revenant any more than he already had.
As the merchant hastily retreated, Arc watched him leave from the corner of his eye, a slight furrow drawing his raven brows together as the echoes of the man's fears mingled with the fading murmurs of the dispersing crowd before he turned his full attention back to the one who'd addressed him as 'Blademaster'; a title that stirred memories both ancient and recent within his mind.
He was a man who stood with the poise of a seasoned warrior, an Athenian whose stature was neither towering nor diminutive, yet did radiate an undeniable aura of command. His frame, lean and honed by years of battle, exuded a quiet strength that spoke volumes of his prowess on the battlefield. And although his face bore the weathered lines of time and experience, each crease was but a story of triumph and sacrifice, etched with wisdom earned through countless campaigns and hard-fought victories - and the smile was quick to return to Arc's lips.
"Ah, Themistocles," he greeted, "Your words are as timely as ever."
The General could only chuckle at the Revenant's words, his eyes shining with a mirth. "It seems I arrived just in time to witness another of your impassioned speeches, Arc," he remarked, tone light yet filled with untold secrets as, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the young man at the immortal's side stiffen; something of which did not go unnoticed by the immortal either.
"You flatter me, old friend," Arc replied, his smile widening ever so slightly at the jest - even as he wondered what that was about. "Though, I must confess enjoyment of the situation. It is not oft that I find the need of such eloquence," he added.
"Not every conflict can be resolved through use of violence," Themistocles hummed in agreement, his eyes shining with mirth. "Yet..." his gaze was quick to shift back to the Persian at Arc's side, lingering on the young man's form for a moment longer than necessary and caused him to shift uncomfortably; silver-grey eyes darting nervously around, unable to meet the General's beseeching gaze. "...I suspect that there is more to this meeting than meets the eye."
Arc followed Themistocles' gaze, briefly glancing to the Achaemenid at his side - and of whose features were now a mix of defiance and uncertainty. Again the Revenant couldn't deny that there was something familiar about the man, something that continued to scratch at the edges of his consciousness. Yet no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't place what it was.
"Is there something on your mind, Actaeon?" Themistocles continued, his voice turning gentle yet probing - and did cause Arc's eyebrows to almost disappear into his hairline as he realised the Athenian General actually knew the Persian. And as he observed the two with a subtle shift in his stance, positioning himself to observe the interaction unfolding before him, the immortal could see that, and in spite of the light tone of their exchange, there was an undercurrent of tension, especially emanating from Actaeon; something of which Arc knew had only truly begun to radiate from the younger man upon hearing his name, and did succeed in deepening his curiosity towards the younger man.
Actaeon looked nervously between Themistocles and Arc, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as whatever bravado he'd possessed in the face of the merchant's discrimination all but fled in the presence of the one and only 'Shadow's Bane'. How he had not recognised the man, he did not know. And he barely managed to stammer, "N-no, nothing of consequence," in reply, knowing full well that each and every word he uttered lacked any conviction or truth.
Arc could only observe Actaeon's discomfort with a silent intensity, something of which did nothing to help the young man in the slightest. But the immortal's mind was a churning mess of questions, beginning to feel - just as Themistocles had said - that there was far more to this encounter; to his very presence within Athens that evening, than met the eye, and he was determined to uncover the truth.
"General," he interjected, his voice low and measured as he turned his attention back to Themistocles. "Perhaps Actaeon would benefit from some time to collect his thoughts. Such a confrontation would have rattled even that of the most reserved of person."
Themistocles' gaze was sharp as he looked to Arc, eyes twinkling with a knowing amusement. "Of course, Blademaster," he agreed with a nod before turning to the young man in question. "Actaeon, why don't you take a moment to yourself? We can continue our discussion later."
The Persian's relief was palpable as he hastily excused himself, disappearing into the bustling agora with hurried steps; not even offering a farewell as he disappeared amongst the throngs of Athenians. Though, and the moment he was out of earshot, Arc turned to Themistocles, a thoughtful expression marring his features as he asked with no little curiosity, "Taking in stray Achaemenids now, old friend?"
"Perhaps," was all the General did say in reply. Yet, as he cast his gaze around the market, he added with a far more quieter tone, "Though this conversation may be better held elsewhere. There is much to discuss, matters that are not meant for prying ears."
Curious, though sensing the gravity of Themistocles' words, Arc only nodded silently; his own gaze shifting to their surroundings and noting the lingering stares of the few onlookers that had remained, their own curiosity clearly having been piqued by the unexpected encounter between the young Persian, Blademaster, and Athenian General. And with a subtle gesture, his indicated for Themistocles to follow as he begun to make his way back through the crowded streets of Athens.
As he walked, Arc's mind was abuzz with questions and suspicions, his senses alert to the subtle nuances of their surroundings. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was far more to the young Achaemenid than met the eye - that Actaeon harboured secrets he dared not - or was too scared to - reveal. And glancing to his companion, his expression was grave as he spoke in a low and serious tone.
"Themistocles, what is it that you seek to discuss in such secrecy?"
The Athenian General glanced around warily, ensuring that they were not being followed or overheard. And only when he was satisfied that they were indeed alone did he meet Arc's questioning gaze with a solemn expression of his own. "Blademaster- Arc, you must understand that Actaeon's presence in Athens is not without risk," he began with a voice filled with gravity. "He has enemies who would see him harmed, or worse; people who would stop at nothing to ensure his silence remains as such."
Raven brows furrowed at the mention of Actaeon having enemies, concern rippling through the Revenant with a sudden and unexpected intensity. He recalled sensing something before encountering the young man, a shadow of danger that hadn't belonged upon the Plane of Mortal Men. Yet... he had not anticipated the possible threat, or even that it was not he it was aimed at.
"Who are these enemies?" was demanded, urgency creeping into Arc's voice even as it dropped to naught but a whisper. "And what is it they seek from the Persian? His magick?"
Themistocles' eyes widened at the mention of Actaeon's abilities, a knowing glint flickering in the depths of his eyes. Yet his reply was cryptic, and did cause the Arcane Revenant's mind to race with possibilities as each word passed his lips.
"There are those who would see Actaeon silenced not because of what he can do, but rather because of what it is he knows. You should understand better than any, my ancient friend, that knowledge is a dangerous weapon, especially in the hands of those who would wield it for the wrong reasons."
"And what is it that he could possibly know?" Arc pressed, his determination to protect the once-unknown yet unexplainably familiar Achaemenid growing stronger with each passing moment. "What secrets does he hold that warrants such hostility?"
The General's gaze turned towards the horizon, his troubled expression hinting at the weight of words unable to be spoken aloud. "That, Revenant, is a tale yet to be revealed. For there are ears that would eagerly drink in every word, ears that would stop at nothing to ensure even that of my permanent silence," he revealed, his own voice barely above a whisper - and Arc's heart sank at the realisation that there were forces at play far beyond his current understanding; forces that threatened not only Actaeon but also Themistocles himself.
The immortal knew that he would have to tread carefully if he wanted any part of this delicate dance of secret and lies, that the answers he sought might only lead to more questions, and yet he still asked, "And what of Actaeon? What can be done to protect him from these dangers?"
Themistocles met Arc's gaze with a knowing yet slow-growing smile. "Eyes already watch him... allies who have offered their spears and shields," he replied cryptically once more. "But they themselves must be cautious, for the dangers that lurk in the shadows should never be underestimated."
Senses were attuned to each and every subtle sigh of nature as a lone figure ventured out of the city and into the night, the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze and the distant chirping of birdsong a soothing melody after the cacophony that was Athens. Yet Themistocles couldn't help but sigh as he began his search for Actaeon, the young Persian whose presence within the city's walls had stirred up far more than just a hornets nest of intrigue and danger. And as he followed the winding path through the dense forest, he couldn't help shake the feeling of unease that now gnawed at the edges of his consciousness.
He knew that Actaeon was no ordinary mortal, that there were far more than just secrets and magick lurking beneath the surface of the Persian's rather youthful façade. And yet it had been those very same secrets and powers that had drawn the General to the young man, to offer him whatever guidance and protection he could in the face of the dangers that now threatened to consume them both.
As he ventured further into the woods, his steps guided by the faint moonlight now filtering through the canopy above, his thoughts drifted to those dangers - to the very enigma that was Actaeon, unable to shake the feeling that there was far more to the man than met the eye, a suspicion born not only from their recent encounter with the Blademaster but also from the whispers of the past that lingered in the corners of the Themistocles' mind.
The connection between Actaeon and the Blademaster, Arc, was one that troubled the General deeply. He knew of the ancient bond that existed between the two immortals, a bond that had been forged long before the fires of battle had been lit and their metal tested by the very passage of Time. It had been the Arcane Revenant who had struck Actaeon down on that field in Thermopylae, an event that had left a mark on the very fabric of history and had come to change the course of countless lives.
Much like the tales of old, Themistocles knew that the young immortal had been faced with the impossible and fled - only to end up being killed by the very one who was supposed to protect him.
Yet... the Achaemenid walked amongst the living once more, his mortal façade unchanged by the ravages of death and the passage of time - his very presence naught more than a mystery that did beg to be unravelled. And as Themistocles pondered the implications of this revelation, he couldn't shake the feeling that there were dark forces at play, forces that sought to manipulate the threads of fate for their own nefarious purposes.
Lost in thought, the General continued his journey through the forest, his senses alert to any sign of Actaeon's presence. However, as he rounded a bend in the path, he was startled to come face-to-face with another figure - one who did were his face.
"Well, this certainly explains a lot," a voice that was as familiar as it was his did ring in Themistocles' ears - and he sighed.
"General," he greeted, even as his features changed, becoming more angular and severe; hair darkening to a rich chocolate-brown, and his eyes adopted a piercing, golden gaze that seemed to bore into Themistocles' very soul. The transformation was seamless, almost unsettling in its precision, and gilded eyes gleamed with a mixture of amusement and something deeper, a hint of ancient knowledge that spoke of a being far older than the mortal guise he currently wore.
"Viktor," the actual General acknowledged in return with a slight frown, the name used one he knew to be shrouded in mystery. It was one that did speak of a being who had walked the earth for countless lifetimes, a being who had seen empires rise and fall and yet remained unchanged by the very passage of time - a shapeshifter who did smirk at the use of his true name.
"Surprised to see me?" was quipped, the shapeshifter's voice dripping with sarcasm as he took a step closer to the man.
"Not particularly," Themistocles replied evenly, his gaze never wavering from the figure before him. "Though I must admit, I didn't expect to find you wearing my face."
Viktor could only chuckle at the mention of his former guise, his laughter echoing through the forest like the distant rumble of thunder. "Ah, well, a man must make do with what he has," he threw back casually, though there was a hint of something more serious lurking beneath his flippant exterior.
"And what brings a man like you here?" the General inquired, his tone calm yet tinged with a hint of suspicion. He knew the shapeshifter well enough to understand that he rarely appeared without a purpose, and his sudden presence wearing Themistocles' own face raised more questions than it answered.
Golden eyes bore into the Athenian with an intensity that was both unnerving and captivating. "Ah," Viktor hummed, his voice smooth as silk yet carrying an air of amusement. "I'm here for the same reason you are - to ensure that the Zarābak remains safe from harm."
A flicker of surprise crossed Themistocles' features before he could school his expression into one of neutrality. "You know of Actaeon?" he asked, curiosity now piqued. While he was aware of the shapeshifter's extensive knowledge and connections across the Planes, he hadn't expected that he'd take such a keen interest in the young Achaemenid.
"Of course," Viktor scoffed, his expression warping to one of mild offence. "After having watched him rise unharmed from the midst of the dead, your little... Wolf is intriguing, to say the least."
The General's eyes narrowed, sensing that there was far more to Viktor's words than he let on. "And what is it that you intend to do?" he questioned, his voice steady despite the turmoil of thoughts currently swirling in his mind.
The smile returned to the shapeshifter's lips, a smirk that bordered on the edge of arrogance. "I intend to protect him, of course," he declared, his tone leaving no room for argument. "But unlike you, dear cousin, I have no qualms about using any means necessary to achieve that goal."
His words hung in the air, heavy with implications that Themistocles couldn't ignore. The General knew Viktor's reputation well - the shapeshifter being one not to shy away from the machinations of manipulation or deceit if it served his purpose. And while Themistocles did respect Viktor's abilities and experience, he couldn't help but feel uneasy about entrusting Actaeon's safety to someone whose motives were shrouded in mystery.
"And what if your methods put Actaeon in even greater danger?" he pressed, voice firm yet laced with a concern he could not conceal.
Viktor's grin didn't falter, but there was a glimmer of something akin to sincerity in his golden eyes. And when he spoke, he did so with a tone that was surprisingly earnest. "I assure you, General, I have Actaeon's best interests at heart. I may not always play by the rules, but I do know how to get a job done."
Themistocles regarded Viktor with a mixture of scepticism and reluctant admiration, unable to deny, despite the way he didn't fully trust the shapeshifter, that Viktor's dedication to his duty - to protecting Actaeon - seemed genuine, albeit in his own unconventional way. And he conceded, if but with a rather begrudging tone of acceptance and single incline of his head.
"Very well. But remember, Viktor - Actaeon's safety is paramount. If you put him in harms way, there will be consequences."
"Understood." The grin on Viktor's lips widened into a smirk, his gaze meeting Themistocles' with a challenge that spoke volumes, "But rest assured, General - I'll do whatever it takes to ensure that the Zarābak remains safe."
With that, Viktor then turned on his heel, disappearing into the shadows of the forest and leaving Themistocles alone with his thoughts. Though, and as the man watched the shapeshifter's retreating form, he couldn't shake the feeling that their encounter was only the beginning of a much larger, more dangerous game that was yet to unfold. And with Viktor's presence now shifting the outcome of Actaeon's fate into the unknown, Themistocles knew that he would have to tread carefully if he hoped to navigate the treacherous waters that lay ahead.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of searching, Viktor caught sight of who he was after sitting alone amidst the trees, the young Achaemenid's form bathed in the soft glow of moonlight as he rested against the trunk of a towering oak. Actaeon's expression was sombre as he stared off into the distance, clearly lost in thought, and approaching quietly, the shapeshifter cleared his throat to announce his presence, though the young man didn't startle at the sound; merely turning his head to regard Viktor with a calm yet wary expression - as if he'd been expecting his arrival all along, and of which showed in his greeting, tone lacking any and all surprise as he asked, "Why?"
Viktor could only offer a small smile as he took a seat beside the young man, his golden eyes shifting to the horizon as he replied. "I came to check on you, my friend," he revealed, tone gentle yet tinged with genuine concern. "You seemed troubled when we parted ways earlier, as if something were on your mind."
Actaeon hesitated for but a moment, his pale eyes staring at the shapeshifter and reflecting a myriad of emotions - fear, uncertainty, and a hint of lingering disbelief, before he too looked toward the horizon as he admitted, "It's... complicated," with a voice barely above a whisper. "I- I'm just- there was someone earlier. Someone I never expected to see again."
"Someone from your past?" Viktor inquired just as quietly, already well aware of the answer. Actaeon's reaction to seeing Arc within the walls of Athens had been unmistakable.
The young man nodded slowly, his fingers absently tracing the edges of a fob watch that hung from his belt. The timepiece appeared worn and weathered, its surface marred by scratches and dents - a tangible symbol of the burdens Actaeon did carry, and who did sigh with a voice heavy with emotion.
"It was... him," he murmured, swallowing harshly as he tried to give his swirling thoughts a voice. "The one who- who ended my life."
Viktor's gaze softened at the admission, understanding dawning in his golden eyes. "Arc," he acknowledged, his own voice filled with solemn recognition. "The Shadow's Bane."
Actaeon flinched at the mention of Arc's title, the memories of their previous encounter still fresh in his mind. "Y-yes, him," he still did confirm however, his voice barely audible. And for a moment, silence hung between the young man and shapeshifter, thick with unspoken thoughts and emotions, before Viktor spoke again, his tone gentle yet probing.
"And how did the encounter make you feel?" he asked, "To come face-to-face with the one who... took your life?"
"I..." Actaeon's jaw tightened, his expression contorting with turmoil. "I don't know," he breathed, voice tinged with frustration. "It's- it's all so confusing."
Viktor nodded in understanding, though the shapeshifter's eyes betrayed a hint of sadness he couldn't quite conceal. "I can imagine," he replied, his voice soft yet unwavering. "But know this, Actaeon - you are not alone in this. I am here for you, as I always have been."
The young Persian's gaze flickered with gratitude, though uncertainty still lingered within their silver-grey depths; Actaeon unable to stop himself from asking, "But why? Why do you care?"
Viktor's smile was as gentle as it was enigmatic, a reflection of the very mysteries that shrouded his true intentions. Yet... there was a sincerity that couldn't be denied as he spoke, his words cryptic though genuine. "Because, you are more than just a pawn in someone else's game. You are a friend, Actaeon, and friends look out for each other."
"But... how can I trust you?" Actaeon asked, his raven brows furrowing. "You're not exactly what you seem."
"Ah, but isn't that the beauty of it? The unknown, the unexpected - they are what make life truly interesting," Viktor remarked, his smile widening and eyes gleaming with an otherworldly light. However, and despite his playful tone, it was tinged with a hint of sadness.
Actaeon regarded the shapeshifter with a mixture of awe and apprehension, unsure as to what to make of the enigmatic figure seated at his side. Yet, deep down, the young immortal couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Viktor than met the eye - that behind the façade of charm and charisma lay a soul as ancient and complex as his own.
Universe (H)-01 | Plane of Mortal Men
Class-Five Restricted Planet: C-53/SR/R3-O2
Gaul | Europe | 332 b.C.n.
It was a lush, untamed landscape of which Actaeon found himself amidst; a land untouched by the far-reaching conquests of the Macedonian King. Here, in the very heart of Europe, the echoes of Alexander's invasions seemed but a distant murmur, all but drowned out by the rugged beauty of the land and the fierce independence of its people. And as the young immortal journeyed through the rolling hills and dense forests, he couldn't help but marvel at the untamed wilderness that stretched out before him.
The air was thick with the scents of pine and earth, and the sound of birdsong continued to resonate around the Achaemenid; a stark contrast to the bustling cities and crowded markets of the lands Actaeon had traversed before. Yet, amidst the natural splendour of Gaul, he couldn't quite shake the feeling of restlessness that gnawed at the edges of his consciousness. He knew of King Alexander and his so-called 'conquests'; of the Macedonian who had carved an empire that now spanned continents. But here, in the very wilds of Europe, Actaeon saw those things in a different light.
To the people who inhabited the lands, Alexander was but a distant hindrance, a man whose ambitions held little sway over their fiercely independent way of life. They had never bowed to the Macedonian, never bent the knee to his rule, and as Actaeon listened intently to the stories they did share with him, he began to see Alexander not as a hero, but as, well, a conqueror; a King whose ambitions had brought nothing but suffering and strife to the lands he had seized.
As he wandered through the villages and settlements, the Achaemenian couldn't help but feel a sense of kinship with the people he met. Like him, they were outsides in their own land, strangers in a world that had been shaped by forces far beyond their control. And as he took in each and every tale of their resistance and defiance, storing them within the infinite depths of his mind, Actaeon felt a growing admiration for their courage and resilience in the face of adversity.
Yet, even amidst the growing camaraderie, the young immortal couldn't quite shake the feeling of isolation that clung to him like a shroud. He was a Persian in a foreign land himself, a stranger walking foreign paths of a world that was not even his own. And as he watched the people of this foreign land go about their daily lives, he couldn't stop himself from wondering just what role he had to play in the grand tapestry of mortal history.
The days passed as they always did, the sun and moon alternating as they rose and fell within the ever-changing sky, as Actaeon continued to journey deeper into the untouched wilderness of Gaul; continuously finding himself drawn to the ancient runes and sacred sites that had been revealed to dot the foreign landscape. And it was amidst the crumbling stone and weathered statues where he felt a sense of connection to the past; to a time when empires rose and fell like the tides of an endless sea.
As he stood among the ruins of a long-forgotten temple, gazing out across the rolling hills, Actaeon felt a sense of awe and wonder wash over him at the vastness of the world around him.
Here, in this remote corner of Europe, far from the epicentre of a certain Macedonian's conquests, the young immortal felt a sense of peace and belonging he had never known before. The people - the very lands had become more than just something untouched by the ambitions of kings and conquerors. It was a place of refuge, a sanctuary where one could escape the burdens of their past and embrace the possibilities of the future, and as he looked out across the horizon, Actaeon knew that his journey was far from over - that there were still many mysteries to be uncovered and adventures just waiting to be had.
Though, for now, and as the sun begun to dip below the horizon; stars beginning to twinkle overhead, this immortal allowed himself to simply be present in the current moment, to savour the peace and tranquillity of the ancient lands that had captured his mind, heart, and soul. And as he closed his eyes, breathing in the cool night air, Actaeon whispered a silent prayer of gratitude to Gods unknown for leading him to this place of wonder and beauty.
Universe (H)-01 | Plane of Mortal Men
Class-Five Restricted Planet: C-53/SR/R3-O2
Rome | Italy | 64 a.C.n.
As he cautiously navigated the chaos of the burning city, the single heart within Actaeon's chest was but a thumping beat of fear and determination.
It had been a whim, a bloody stupid urge, to follow after the Revenant through the flames - through the chaos and towards Rome's very centre; the one and only 'Shadow's Bane' seemingly so determined and focused on his own task that he himself hadn't realised he was being followed - much to the Achaemenid's internal relief.
Though as he drew closer to the grand palace and heart of the Eternal City, driven by a sense of curiosity and desire to uncover the truth behind the horrifying events unfolding before his eyes, the intensity of the inferno around Actaeon seemed to grow; flames beginning to lick at the edges of his vision as if eager to consume everything in their path.
Yet the immortal pressed on, his resolve unyielding despite the overwhelming sense of danger that did surround him.
Until, that was, he saw them.
From the swirling smoke and flames they emerged, like spectres from the very depths of the Underworld; locked in a deadly dance amidst the chaos of the burning city. And at the centre of it all stood Arc, the Arcane Revenant's dark cloak billowing around his form as he faced off against a familiar adversary - Xerxes, the once-great 'God-King' of Persia and very embodiment of chaos and darkness.
Arc stood tall before the God-King, his silver eyes burning with their own unyielding fire as he faced off against the tyrant. Though Actaeon watched in horror as the Achaemenian sorcerer and his very own former King unleashed his dark powers, binding the Revenant with mystical restraints before summoning forth his circling minions to do his bidding.
But even as he watched as Xerxes seemed to gain the upper hand against the Revenant, Actaeon could sense the indomitable spirit that did burn within the bound immortal. Like the very inferno that raged around them all, Arc refused to be extinguished by the darkness that did surround him. With each struggle against his magical bindings, the immortal's movements spoke volumes of his strength and resolve; a fiery determination that commanded both awe and fear from all who bore witness.
Actaeon felt a surge of admiration mingle with the fear currently gnawing at his insides. He knew of Arc's legendary exploits, had even witnessed that very prowess firsthand and knew it to be a terrifying sight to behold - and certainly something he did not want to face again. And as he watched the immortal struggle against the magical restraints his former King had bound him in, as he felt that same admiration only grow with every passing second of Arc's continued defiance, Actaeon still could not shake the unease that gripped at him; the silver eyes that did flash within his mind's eye as they pierced through the very veil of Time and transported the Achaemenid back to that blood-soaked field in Thermopylae.
The echoes of battle rang in his ears, mingling with the crackling flames and the distant screams of the dying - both past and present. Actaeon could feel the weight of his sword in his hand, the heat of battle that did course through his veins as he faced off against the legendary warriors of Sparta. Yet from the fray, like a beacon of both strength and courage for his brothers-in-arms, Arc had emerged; determination burning within his pale silver eyes as they met their twin in all but a shade across the pass.
Though, and as Actaeon's mind returned to the present, the reality of the situation bore down upon him with a crushing weight. He was no longer the Zarābak, the 'Wolf of the Planes' fighting within that pass - naught more than that of a spectator in the face of two immortal beings locked in a battle for supremacy. And he found himself staring in wonder as, despite the overwhelming odds stacked against him, the Arcane Revenant still fought on; Arc's every move a testament to the depths of his unwavering determination.
It was a sight to behold; one that did fill Actaeon with both awe and trepidation, when Arc finally did manage to break free from Xerxes' magical bindings; movements fluid and precise as he unleashed a barrage of attacks against the God-King and his minions. And, for a moment, it seemed as though victory was within the Revenant's grasp, his blades flashing in the firelight as he struck blow after blow against his adversaries.
But then, in a flash of silver and a sudden yet deafening 'CRA-KABOOM!' of thunder and lightning, an abrupt and unexpected explosion rocked the city of Rome, sending shockwaves through the air and casting the burning landscape into utter pandemonium as night was unexpectedly turned to day; lightning striking the palace at the same time Arc's blade found its mark and sunk deep into Xerxes' chest.
Actaeon was thrown off his feet, his senses sent reeling from the blast. And as the light subsided, darkness momentarily regaining its dominion over the lands before flames once again grew and devoured, his silver-grey eyes widened in disbelief at the scene he was now faced with.
Xerxes lay motionless on the ground, his form being slowly consumed by the very fires he had lit. Though that was not what sent a chill racing down Actaeon's spine, the realisation sinking into his mind that even the most powerful of immortals were not immune to the consequences of their actions as he stared in disbelief at Arc's fallen form beside the God-King.
"No..."
"Viktor?!"
As he stumbled away from the chaos of the burning city, Actaeon's mind raced with confusion and uncertainty. He had managed to carry the lifeless form of Arc to the outskirts of Rome, away from the inferno that still raged unchecked within the Eternal City. Yet, and despite his efforts, the young immortal was at a loss as to what to do next.
"Viktor?!" he cried again, calling out into the night and uncaring as to who could hear before he fell to his knees beside the Revenant's prone form; hands trembling as he reached out to touch skin he knew would be cold yet wished to be otherwise. The sight of such a legendary warrior, so strong and formidable in battle, now lying motionless before him filled Actaeon with a sense of dread he had never known before.
"Arc," he whispered, his voice dropping to something barely audible above the crackling of distant flames. "Oh, what have they done to you?"
There as no answer forthcoming, of course; no sign of life at all emanating from the immortal's still form, and Actaeon felt a surge of despair well up within him; the weight of the situation bearing down upon him with a crushing force.
But then, as he tried to make sense of the chaos unfolding around him, a voice broke through the darkness - cut through the haze of his thoughts like a ray of light piercing through stormy clouds.
"Do not worry, young Seeker of Truth."
Startled, Actaeon turned to see a woman standing before him, Her presence commanding yet comforting in equal measures. She was unlike anyone he had ever seen before, Her essence radiating an otherworldly grace whilst features a delicate balance of familiarity and mystique; porcelain skin illuminated by the radiant glow of crimson curls that flowed like strands of ethereal fire, framing a face that bore the mark of timeless wisdom and boundless compassion.
She stood draped in silken-blue robes that billowed around Her ankles like the gentle waves of the sea, each fold and crease a testament to Her divine grace; Her eyes naught but pools of infinite depth, beholding the wisdom of the ages yet sparkling with the very vitality of life itself. And as She regarded the young immortal with a serene smile, Actaeon felt a sense of peace wash over him, as if in Her presence, all the cares in the world melted away.
"W-who are you?" he barely managed to utter, however; fear and curiosity mingling in his tone. Though his fear was eased slightly by Her smile and eyes, which sparkled with a familiar wisdom that reached far beyond the confines of mortal limitations - and did remind the Achaemenian of a certain golden-eyed shapeshifter.
"I am known by many names," She replied cryptically. "Though you may know me best as Anima."
Actaeon's eyes could only widen in disbelief at hearing the name - a name with which he was familiar. Anima- Lady Life was one of two primordial deities, was believed to be the very Mother of all creation - of the very Titans that had chained Boarac in the depths of Krop Tor. He knew of the tales, the stories that were whispered of Her power and majesty that had helped guide Her 'Four Children' in shaping the very universe.
Yet... Actaeon did not know of what it was She was doing there, on the outskirts of a burning Rome. And it was something he did question - even as his mind continued to reel with the very implications of Her presence. "Wh-what are you doing here?"
Anima's smile only widened at his disbelieving question, that knowing and familiar glint shimmering within the depths of Her eyes only brightening as She looked upon the young man with a motherly fondness. "I have come to offer my assistance," She explained, Her gaze momentarily shifting to the fallen Revenant before returning to Actaeon. "To help guide you through this time of uncertainty."
Actaeon felt a surge of gratitude wash over him at Her words, a sense of relief that did flood his veins feeling like a soothing balm to his frayed nerves. He had never expected - or thought - he would encounter a being of such power and wisdom, let alone receive Her aide in his time of need.
Before he could express his gratitude, however - or even question upon what it was that Anima did plan to do, the Goddess moved to join him beside Arc's fallen form; kneeling upon the earth and uncaring if Her clothes were ruined in the process as, with Her hands cupped before Her face, She summoned forth what Actaeon could only consider to be... ash on the wind?
Though, and as these flecks of soot and dust drifted and swirled closer to Arc's prone form, all but caressing his still features as they flittered about, something unexpected happened - and the Achaemenid gasped.
Before his very eyes, ash became sputtering sparks; heat emanating from each speck before blue flames flickered to life as they landed upon the Revenant's flesh, and Actaeon could do nothing but watch in awed silence as the wounds and burns that had marred Arc's skin disappeared wherever these cerulean flames did land. It was a sight beyond even that of his immortal comprehension, a miracle wrought on by the very hands of the Divine, and yet something of which the Persian's mind found trouble wrapping around as he found his silver-eyes fixated upon Arc's once-still but now-rising chest; breath returning to the Revenant's once-still lungs.
The sheer impossibility of what he just witnessed left him speechless, and he turned to Anima with his mind buzzing with questions that did beg to be answered.
"What... what happened?" was all he managed to choke out, however; his voice trembling with awe as he found his gaze being drawn back to the Arcane Revenant - to Arc's rising chest. The urge to reach out, to make certain that what he was seeing was indeed real was almost overwhelming. Yet the young immortal managed to hold himself back, something of which had the Goddess' lips curling into a knowing smile, Her eyes but twinkling stars alight with amusement as She regarded the Persian with a sense of fondness.
"Some secrets are not yet meant to be revealed," She told him. "But know this, young Zarābak - the Arcane Revenant is but a child of the Gods, someone beloved and protected by those who do watch over this world and all which live upon it." And it was with those words that Anima reached out to Arc - before they disappeared in a crack of thunder and lightning and leaving Actaeon alone; the fires still devouring Rome burning like an eternal flame in the background.
Yet, and as he watched the pair vanish like shades in the night, a sense of wonder and awe was left in their wake; washing over Actaeon and mingling with the uncertainty that had forever lingered in his heart. The young immortal had borne witness to something truly extraordinary, something that he knew would forever change the course of his destiny. And as his gaze shifted to the sky above, to where the orange hues of destruction dared to try and outshine the very stars themselves, Actaeon's hand slipped into the pocket of his cloak; wrapping around the ancient watch that did reside as a peaceful understanding filled him.