"trails to tumble down"
They moved on.
The loss of the horse reduced them to carrying their own belongings. Formora's swords made up the bulk of it. They moved day and night, taking pause only when was absolutely necessary. It was in that downtime that they traded powerful secrets - glimpses of worlds beyond their own, framed entirely in killing magics. She gradually introduced him to a wider vocabulary. The ancient language came hand in hand with knowledge of physics, chemistry and biology, but the true strength was one's grammatical grasp. While remembering the words came easily enough (languages were a passion of his) it was the pronunciations that gave him difficulty.
He tried imitating Formora's impossible accent, though that only made it worse - and earned her ire in the process. By the third night since they'd crossed the Scorn hunting pack Ikharos finally found his footing. "Gath sem stenr un lam iet," he awkwardly recited, and a smooth stone flung from the edge of the road into his hand with such velocity it stung his palm. "Thrysta." It fired ahead, planting halfway in a trunk.
It still bothered him. The magic was too similar to that of a wish dragon to ever let him grow comfortable with it, but necessity won all arguments. Ikharos saved most of his concern for his own sparse offerings - anecdotes on the idea, function, and will of Stasis. His other bracer remained on Formora's arm. Every time they stopped to eat or rest they debated its philosophy. It was the first rule he insisted upon. Hypothetical before practical. He'd seen the Dark drag too many good people down into the Deep; loathe as he was to allow it to take another victim, he felt pressed to do for her what he couldn't for others.
(In the fleeting moments he closed his eyes the red-tinged voices whispered: "Jaxson. Arthur. Keres. Keres Taryche. Never forget.")
On the fifth night he reluctantly decided to move ahead with physical demonstrations. Anything to keep the Nightmares at bay.
"The Dark is a foremost an ideology," Ikharos explained. They'd already covered Stasis' physical aspects. "A universal rule - oft heeded, rarely ignored. It's survival. Life as a phenomenon is the capacity to consume energy, to convert it into further processes. This energy can come from anywhere. It can come from the sun, the stars, it can come from a planetary core, it can come from hard vacuum itself. But mostly it comes from other living things. That's where the Dark's strongest."
"Predation," Formora murmured.
He nodded. "Exactly. The bitter relationship between killer and victim. A tiny microscopic lifeform absorbs rays of sunshine. A larger blob swallows it whole. We build up from there, from single-celled organisms to the likes of water bears, to insects, to birds, to people. Humans and those like them - species at the ecological peak. The Dark likes that. It rewards those who innovate, who climb the ladder straight to the summit."
"Rewards?"
Ikharos tapped the side of his head. "Intelligence. The smarter an organism, the more adept it is at gathering food, at reproducing to pass on those intelligent genes, which in turn leads to smarter offspring. This is evolution - the slow, brutal crucible of life where a species lives and dies on how quickly, how firmly it adapts to the world around it. But intelligence inevitably passes a mark where it outgrows that world. Enter: sapience. Self-awareness, critical thinking, deep emotions. Most life waits to react to stimuli - instincts, challenging environments, other lifeforms. Sapience breaks that mold."
"You are describing philosophy. Society. Civilization."
"Not at all. That's a byproduct - a desire to not have to compete every moment of our lives. Civilization is..." Ikharos hesitated. "It's us, lounging on that throne over the animal kingdom. It can get crowded if there's too many of us, each of us pushing and scooching for room. Sapience is a little more base than that. It's a desire for more when we already have everything. That's the Dark in us. Ambition. Looking for a ladder that isn't even there."
Formora nodded slowly. "I see."
"You do?"
"Competition is everything in the living world. Forests, birds, beasts, insects - all strive to outdo the other. My people understand that, but we aren't beholden to it. Or so the common belief goes."
"You think otherwise?"
"I know it. I am a warrior first and foremost. What is war if not competition?"
"Of course. You hate the king," Ikharos pointed out. "You fear him. You want to kill him. That's competition right there. A little war of your own. Something's gotta give, and whoever's left standing wins it all."
Formora frowned. "I don't seek to replace him."
"You don't? Good. That's the Light in you. That's the enlightenment of civility. Just as intelligence attracts the Dark, so too does strong emotion let in the Light. These are the rules we live by. These are the laws that shape the living universe. It just so happens that there's power in these laws. They become roads raised above the petty realm of matter and physics. These roads have names. In the case of these-" Ikharos motioned to the Osmiomany bracers, "-it's named Stasis. The very word evokes... control. Because that's all it is."
"Control?"
"The Dark is radically pure. These aren't artificial systems made to suit us; we must conform to their rules. Stasis is control - always has been, always will be. With Stasis the bearer forces the universe to comply, to slow to a manageable state. It's the most aggressive paracausal element I've yet encountered."
Formora made a sound of affirmation. "How do I manipulate it?"
Ikharos raised a hand to slow her down. "We'll get there, but not without a warning. I need you to understand that Stasis truly is domination. If you can't handle it, it'll shatter - and you with it. So if something goes wrong it'll punish you. Stasis hates hesitation."
"You're saying it will try to hurt me."
"Not just hurt. The Dark is all about taking lives. In murder there's always a victor, a loser. Death is no equaliser. There's always a winner somewhere." Ikharos took in a deep breath. "To that end I'll need you to... ah, link us."
Formora gave him a quizzical look. "You mean... to join our minds?"
"Surface-level only," he clarified. "If you slip I can distract it, keep it from turning violent, but I'll need a front row seat. If you're willing."
She looked at him for a long moment. "The mind is an intimate thing," Formora said. Her expression was measured, controlled, cold. "Amongst my kind such contact is reserved for trusted kin and kith."
"You've never shied away from doing the same with me," Ikharos retorted
"As a necessity."
"And this isn't?" He paused. "I don't intend to push. I can't. Not like you can. So I'll need you to do it for me."
"Take you into my thoughts?"
"You'll be in control of the whole thing."
"You would make yourself a prisoner," Formora mused. She huffed - and a little later Ikharos realised it was a genuine laugh. He tried not to let it bother him. "Are you aware of the repercussions?"
"Only if you don't play nice."
"You will be surrendering yourself to my mercy."
"You saved me from the Scorn and worse on Vroengard twice," Ikharos pointed out. "Was that all for show or have you changed your mind about me?"
Formora simply looked at him. A moment passed before she inclined her head. "Very well. Eka weohnata néiat haina ono meyoa nosu eru saman."
The vow's meaning melted into the vague idea of I won't harm you while we are bridged together. He tried to dissect the meaning and pin each piece to a corresponding word, but it was... difficult. The language baffled his understanding. While it transferred meaning it defied comprehension, unless shared by one already fluent. It truly was a weapon, restricted to those of particular ability and education.
"Alright." Ikharos settled down onto the frozen ground beside her and pointed to a fallen tree. "We'll start with that."
Formora said nothing. He felt a prickling sensation at the base of his skull, growing stronger and stronger until the whisper of foreign thoughts brushed against the barrier of his nullscape. With immense reluctance Ikharos dropped it until he could respond with a fleeting sense of curiosity. Immediately the presence, her presence, caught ahold of his own and firmly pulled his consciousness free - like scraping an oyster from its shell. There was no pain, no struggle no matter how much he yearned to; removed from his fortress he felt exposed and fleeting. Formora was not unkind about it, but her impatience left much to be desired. It was jarring. And that feeling only intensified when she brought him into her own being.
Her thoughts were guarded, protected by a layer of maze-like projections, but they exuded an exotic feeling both identical to and yet entirely unlike a Psion. Instead of electricity Ikharos could feel... an ambient warmth of faraway places. She brought him only so far as her senses, allowing him to feel as she did. When he looked out at the world he did so through her eyes; everything was sharper, colours more contrasted, more... just more. Through Formora he could smell the forest, the earth, everything that scurried along and beneath it. He could hear them too. Hear the sea even miles away. Hear his racing heart roar in his own body several feet away, so deafeningly loud it was as if a giant was furiously stomping the ground. The world was bigger for her. There was just more in it - and that wasn't even scratching the surface.
I thought you were to help me focus, Formora drily remarked. Her voice was louder - coming from all around him. It was accompanied by a small thrill of amusement.
This is... different, Ikharos admitted. You're different.
We do not have long.
He gathered himself. I know. I'm ready. Are you?
She nodded. He felt it. "How do we begin?" Formora asked aloud - the barest whisper but near painfully loud to her own sensitive hearing.
"I need..." Ikharos trailed off. He toned down his voice and started again; it was strange, hearing himself from someone else's perspective. "I need to feel how you cast your own magic."
Formora held out her free hand. "Reisa." (Rise.) A fallen twig levitated in front of them. Ikharos mapped the way she extended her will - an outward expansion rather than a focused expulsion. Less violent, less pointed.
"Alright." He took a deep breath and the sound of it was explosive. "It's almost the same thing; think of it more like transferring your power into an object. Don't bother with words. Just... reach down through your arm to the bracer. Slowly."
Her consciousness shifted around him. Ikharos followed the reach of her inward intentions along to the hadium construct. The environment therein was empty and cold, framed around an active core of prickling edges.
"That's it. That's the Stasis charge. You're in the hadium now; that's as far as you need to go. I want you to touch it. Don't try to take it, enter it, anything of the sort. Just feel it out."
Formora did as he instructed. Her probes were inquisitive, though wary. Almost immediately a chorus of hushed voices joined them. She shuddered. What-
That's the Stasis, Ikharos quickly told her. It's not alive. Your mind is interpreting its signals in strange ways. Don't listen to it. Don't. You need to be in control.
I am. Formora exhaled. She brushed against the Stasis charge again. There is power here. How-
Unlimited. But it's too dangerous to unleash in a moment. The bracer is a medium, nothing more. That power has to come from you. Get a feel for it, try to understand it; emulate it as best you can and breathe it out. The Dark is a part of you. You're trying to mold yourself after it.
She pressed in. It's... beautiful.
Careful, Ikharos warned. Don't get too close.
If Formora heard him she didn't deign to respond. She prodded at the core, traced over its edges, set it to memory. Her vision began to alter - shadowed over with a faint blue tint.
Formora, back out. Slow-
She retracted from the bracer - too quick, too fleeting, turning her back on an instinctual predator. The frozen Stasis charge exploded outwards. Lines of slowing, freezing essence began to coalesce around her. Formora jolted but it pinned her in place, rendered her lethargic. It was building up to freeze her solid.
Easy. A wave of eternal stillness fell upon them but he was ready. Ikharos caught the edge of the Stasis field and drove it into retreat with a flush of furious will. Formora gasped as the crystalline cage sloughed from her body. She released him; Ikharos was flung back into his body and he rose to a knee beside her. He hesitated before softly laying his oaken hand on her narrow shoulder. "Hey."
Formora looked at him. Her face was pale. "Where did I go wrong?"
"You showed weakness."
She flinched.
"Easy," Ikharos said again. More on whim than anything else he added, "Do you know what Ikharos means?"
Formora frowned. "What?"
"Ikharos. The man I'm named for was a mythical figure. The son of Daedalus, ward of Minos; he and his father sought to escape a tyrannical king. Daedalus, a brilliant inventor, had the idea to tar bird feathers that they might fly like birds. Ikharos was a young man, bold, and freedom enticed him; flying was everything he dreamed of. Against his father's warnings he rose and rose and rose into the sky - until the sun melted his wings. He fell. He died." Ikharos paused. "It's a warning against hubris, in case it wasn't clear."
"Was that necessary?"
"You flew too close."
"I won't make the same mistake."
"I know. It'll kill you if you do."
Formora looked away. "It wants to kill me."
"Yeah."
"How do you manage it?"
Ikharos hesitated. "I died twice trying to familiarise myself," he admitted. "I treated it as Light - a partnership. But there are no equals in Darkness. Here." He lowered his nullscape to such a degree that she could peek inside. Formora's consciousness once more wrapped around his own, sinuous where his was still, fluid where he was fixed. Like she had done he allowed her to glimpse the world through his senses, feel the world with his nerves; he raised a hand and she mirrored him closely. Ikharos expended his will, whip-sharp, and forced his willpower to fill the hadium bracer to the brim - stopping just short of the Stasis core to imprint its umbral footprint and little else. It manifested as a blanket of glittering crystal. "This is control," he said, then twisted his wrist. The veneer of Stasis cast along the ground cracked and shattered. "And that's how I lose control. With purpose. Now you."
Formora retreated back to her own mind, pulling his awareness after her. She followed his example down to the wire.
Don't doubt, Ikharos told her. Doubt is hesitation. Hesitation is weakness. Weakness is death.
She heard, though gave little hint of it. Formora concentrated on the bracer, exerting her own cool spite over it. Darkness flicked from her fingertips like glowing sparks.
Don't hold it forever. Ikharos readied himself for a misfire. Don't-
A chunk of freezing energy tore from the silver mark on her palm, caught the dead tree and converted much of it into pure, perfect crystal. It was messy, it was clumsy, but the Darkness was clean. "Well," Ikharos breathed. "There you have it."
Formora stared at the Stasis patch, then to her own glowing hand. "I can... feel it."
"It's yours. The Darkness of your own soul."
She shot him a strange look.
"We all have it," Ikharos said quietly. "Don't think it's indicative of anything. Just a burden we all have to bear."
She nodded slowly and turned back to it. After a moment's consideration she closed her hand into a fist. The tree cracked in two. Ikharos released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. A part of him (most of him) had hoped she wouldn't have been capable in the first place. More fool him.
"It doesn't drain me," Formora whispered. She sounded surprised. "I feel no different."
"There are limits," Ikharos said, "but the Dark won't demand self-sacrifice. That's not its domain."
She looked at him. "What now?"
Ikharos stood up. Stasis gathered in his hands. "Practice. Refinement. Darkness can only take, but Stasis reshapes. Try it. See what comes naturally."
Formora splayed out her hands. Visible power coalesced around her, bathing her silhouette in ethereal deep blue. She took aim at the forest floor and a mass of Stasis began to slowly build up, tapering into a jagged point. The crystal was narrow, veined with haunting red, and the forest floor beneath crackled with a growing paracausal footprint.
"Don't exert yourself," he said.
Formora let go. The crystal melted away.
"We'll continue this another time," Ikharos decided. He released the Dark and sat back against a birch tree. "When we're fresh and ready."
"Wandering minds invite disaster," Formora replied. "And you've hardly closed your eyes since."
He needed no reminder what since meant. "I'd prefer not to."
She looked at him a moment longer before nodding curtly. "As you will." Formora set out her bedroll and settled down for the remainder of the night. He kept watch until the regret and guilt caught back up with him, so he busied himself with charting the false-stars above.
It wasn't any use.
On the next day they found a village just east of an sheltered cove. A few figures scuttled down the streets - human, not Scorn, but nowhere near enough to speak of a healthy population. The place was bereft of any sign of attack, yet equally devoid of its population.
"Abandoned," Formora deduced. "They must have received news of the attacks elsewhere."
"Will they have gone to Teirm?" Ikharos was hesitant to leave the treeline. The pair of them lingered by the forest's edge out of habit more than anything else. He hated feeling so powerless, so exposed.
"There's nowhere else. Not with their means." She glanced at him. "We're close. We'll keep going."
Ikharos watched a while longer. "Those down there - they're robbing the place blind."
"Certainly. Are you of mind to administer justice?"
"No." Ikharos warily glanced the way of the sea. "But the Scorn'll catch them out if they linger any longer."
"And us. Looting is a serious crime in the Broddring Empire. One punishable by death."
"I've no confidence in the Empire's laws."
"The Broddring Kingdom before it adhered to that same law. These humans aren't like Destris. They're little better than bandits. They made their choice. The moment you approach they'll flee or strike you down." Formora paused. "And that would force my hand."
"You really think the worst of them, don't you?"
"Humans embody desperation. It's their nature."
"If their choice is you or the Scorn we'd still be doing them a favour." He made to leave the forest behind. Formora snatched his wrist, stopping him in his tracks.
"Don't," she warned. "It won't be worth it."
"Elf-"
"They will die no matter what we do. Best they do so far from us. I do not think you could stomach it."
He flashed her a warning look. "Don't presume."
"I'm not. I could give you a dozen more reasons why we should carry on. Shall I list them for you?"
Ikharos pulled his arm free, but he remained where he was. "You don't trust anyone."
"I don't trust humans," Formora hotly retorted.
"Destris-"
"Saw what you are. If we take them with us we can't use our magic, lest they inform the king's soldiers when we arrive."
"I don't fear soldiers."
"Neither do I, but I do fear what follows. You should too."
Ikharos stared at the village a little while longer. "Damn you," he whispered. "Damn you."
"I don't take any joy in this." Formora moved back into the forest. If the Scorn are attracted to collective conscious thought, then their sparse numbers may aid them in avoiding detection.
He turned and followed her - and oh Traveler above it felt so wrong.
They took to the roads once more. Gradually they began to see signs of other travelers - grooves in the earth left by wagons, hoofprints, the craggy fields of mud kicked up by the passage of many people. Formora reported that she could sense them miles ahead and marching away, but they'd soon catch up.
Both of them agreed not to interact with anyone unless necessary.
With Teirm so close they settled down for one last lesson on Stasis, given its overt volatility, and Ikharos set about showing Formora how to refine the process. "It's not like other paracausal forces," he said - and immediately regretted it. "Well, no, that's not true. It's just more... specialised. Stasis likes to be still. It likes to assume a shape and thus lends itself well to... constructs."
"What kinds?" Formora inquired.
"Many. Too many. Usually it conforms to your own preferences and expectations, but there are refined methods. Consider the bracer's single claw. Your index finger is a brush, the world a canvas, and your will the paint - for want of a better analogy."
"The message is clear."
Ikharos shrugged. "Whatever works. A simple construct could be a brace of crystals or a freezing dome - a glacier and a duskfield. A step up from those are Bleak Watchers. Watch. Feel." He opened his mind and she quickly slithered inside. The sensation was... not unlike the joining of a Psion concert but lacking all those familiar quirks. With a flourish Ikharos cast a duskfield and allowed it to grow, bubbling up into a cloud of freezing essence. The ground at its base crackled as a blanket of dewy crystals formed over it. With a flick of his fingers it collapsed once more into a Stasis fragment, only to rise and hook into local space, solidifying as a fractal eye through which he could gaze - a Shrieker of his own making.
"But before all that," he continued, reabsorbing the Bleak Watcher's existence, "is what comes to you naturally. When you take your will in hand, what shape does it take? I've known some who forge swords, kamas, imitations of power gauntlets; I myself lend a preference towards staves."
Formora summoned her own Darkness. It grew and grew between her fingers, folding into shape. In the end she was left with a growing lance of glittering crystal. Vapour drifted from its haft and the jagged leaf-shaped blade at the end pulsed with umbral power. By the time it settled it was almost twice as tall as she was - a jousting weapon more than a conventional tool of war. She held it for a few moments before it cracked apart and disintegrated on the spot.
"Is that what comes easiest?" Ikharos asked.
Formora nodded. "Yes," she said quietly. "It is."
"I see. We'll move onto duskfields."
He slept uneasily that night. The exhaustion had caught up with him again; Ikharos forced himself to take a nap but he couldn't have closed his eyes for longer than an hour before the red-hued shapes spooked him awake He sat up quickly, heaving for air, and shivered against the winter chill. The full moon shone directly overhead. Ikharos heard the faintest rustle and glanced at Formora. She was but a few metres away, sat with her back to a tree and gazing up at the sky - following the trail of twinkling constellations. He looked away but her voice followed him - even into the shell of his fortified mind.
It wasn't your fault.
He grimaced and refused to respond. Ikharos pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. Len used to call it his "dead crane-fly position", given the shape of him, but rather than a smile the mere thought of her made his heart ache that much harder. Her Nightmare was watching. It knew his resolve was wearing thin.
Ikharos.
"I heard you," he snapped.
But you don't heed me.
"'Course I don't." Ikharos breathed in deeply. He felt bone-tired; all he wanted to do was reach out, cup Xiān (wherever she was) and tuck her beneath his chin. To let his psyche mesh with her own. To feel her love, her support, her warmth and to cherish her for what she was - the first and last good thing in his life.
He missed her so much it hurt.
"I can't," he admitted at length. Ikharos paused. "You're wrong."
"In what regard?"
"You presumed I've had children." He met her inquisitive gaze. "No. But I've... I've had something close. There were those I've... taken beneath my wing, so to say."
"Students," Formora deduced
"More than that. Protégés."
Formora watched him. "Where are they now?"
"Dead, most of them." He could still hear some of their voices, seized by crimson torments. They were growing louder now that he'd invoked their memory. Ikharos wasn't sure what drove him to speak about them, but he couldn't stop. Not for anything. It all just came tumbling out. "Inevitability. One we can't escape. Death's a jealous bitch; she won't be robbed of her due."
A tense, nerve-wracking moment passed. "Were there many?"
"A few." Ikharos paused. "A dozen altogether, but never at once."
Formora's brow furrowed. "And those who live... will they come for you?"
"Here?" He considered it. "That depends."
"On?"
"How fondly they remember me." Ikharos took a breath. "And you?"
"And I?"
"It seems only fair. You got anyone?"
"I have no children," Formora said brusquely, as if offended he would even ask. "Nor a spouse if you are so curious."
"Never?"
"No."
Ikharos nodded and tried closing his eyes. Bloody faces surfaced in the darkness. They chased him back to the real world.
"What of you?" Formora asked - more a retort than anything else. "Have you any kin?"
"Not in the way you're thinking."
"You say you live longer than humans - mortals. How old are you?"
He had to take a second to think about it. Usually with Xiān by his side he'd leave the answer to her. "Four hundred and... thirty-five. I think." Ikharos opened his eyes to watch her reaction.
A subtle, unreadable change crossed over her face. "You are old."
"Nice," he muttered dryly. "Thanks."
"I did not mean-" Formora trailed off. She shot him an exasperated look. "I meant no offence."
"None taken." Ikharos yawned. "How old are you?"
She exhaled fitfully. For a moment he suspected she wouldn't answer him at all. "I will be five hundred and eleven a tenday before the next winter solstice."
"Oh, but I'm old."
"Ikharos-"
"I know. I'm just grouching." Ikharos looked up at the sky. "Solstice can't be far."
"No." Formora gave him a strange look. "It's not."
The awkwardness was killing him. He would have willingly suffered a dozen deaths for some music, a portable vid-player, anything. "Good talk."
After another three days of hard marching they finally glimpsed Teirm on the horizon. The city's high stone walls pinned it against the sea. A nest of spires rising from its core peaked above the ramparts, dominated by a white lighthouse and a grim citadel. Two dozen ships, from lowly fishing boats to full galleys lay scattered across the waves, converging on or leaving the ports behind. The area around it was relatively flat and clear of debris; the roads wrapped around to its southern side, bustling with so many people. Human people.
It was nothing like the bastion he'd been imagining. His personal compound from the dark old days had been twice as defensible even halfway bombed out. Ikharos was already mapping out areas he would've ordered demolished or reconstructed if he were in charge. The surrounding area was perfect for a minefield, and the archer's gaps in the walls would have been better suited for automated turret emplacements. The lack of aerial defences was his greatest concern. A couple of makeshift flak cannons and SOLSECCENT EM phasers would have sufficed. A downgrade in size was warranted too; the majority of the civilian population could make do with reinforced subterranean bunkers. The coastal location just made it worse. For all the provisions it provided, he wouldn't have been caught dead in a shoreside fortress. The weathering erosion alone was reason enough to move on.
Formora noticed his focus, having finished burying the rest of her swords. "Is something the matter?" she pressed, a quizzical eyebrow raised.
Ikharos breathed out. "They're idiots."
"Who?"
"Fucking everyone." He walked ahead.
The pair of them took to the roads and mingled with the foot traffic. Formora kept to the edges; Ikharos imagined the smell of so many unwashed bodies was too much for her sharp senses. Their appearances drew some strange looks but otherwise no one bothered them. The south-facing gate to the city was where the queues grew thickest. An iron portcullis had been levered up while a squadron of petty soldiers bearing the regalia of the Broddring Empire slowly ushered people in and out, while a yellow pendant bearing a lion and a mailed hand closed around a lily fluttered overhead. The local crest, Ikharos assumed. He used to know Warlords with their own coat of arms. Tossers, the lot of them.
They slipped into the line. A rough-looking man urgently tapped Ikharos's shoulder. He turned and rested his hand on Múspel's hilt. "Problem?" he said, feigning a Bristol accent.
The man paled. "No. No sir."
"Then don't make it one, there's a good lad." Ikharos faced forward. He caught a look from Formora. "Wha'?"
"Nothing," she murmured. Her own accent was gone, replaced by something... not quite local. Something reminiscent of South Yorkshire, he thought. It sounded strange on her.
It took another hour or so before the line shrank and they finally stood before the gate. A pair of bored-looking soldiers glanced at them - and glanced again at the sight of them. One lowered his pike to bar their way. "Names?" another demanded.
Formora stepped forward. "Syvonus Mareldsdaughter."
"Uhuh. An' you?" The soldier nodded to Ikharos.
"Barrett," he replied.
"Barrett what?"
"Barret Eamorsson."
"And what're ya here for?"
"Contract."
"Whose?"
Ikharos shrugged. "Whoever's payin', love."
The soldier frowned unhappily. "Wha' did you call me?"
"Hm? Oh, didn' mean nothing."
"... Right. Where're you stayin'?"
"Wherever there's board. And drink." Ikharos made a show of peering past them. "Got anything to recommend?"
"We've been on the road for some time," Formora added. She smiled - a cold, hollow thing, but the soldiers were none the wiser. "We're tired, sirs, and aching for rest."
The soldiers looked at them another moment and then at each other. "Fine," the leader gruffly said. "You can go on through, but no trouble. You got that?"
"Indeed we do."
"Good. Wait." The soldier held up a hand. "You seen any trouble on the roads?"
Formora hesitated.
"Some strange sounds at night," Ikharos supplied. "Little more than tha'."
"Where're you from?"
"Kuasta region," Formora explained.
The soldiers seemed to accept that. "Alright. You two hurry on. If you want ale there's the Fox'n'Quill by the north side. If you want beds, though, you'll have t' be quick."
"Like lightning, darlin'." Ikharos quickly walked past. "Thanking yous."
They made their way along the street beyond the wall. The moment they turned out of view Formora twirled around. "What are you doing?" she demanded, whispering.
"What?"
"You know what I mean."
"It worked at Narda, didn't it?" Ikharos breathed in. He cast a discreet look around to make sure no one was listening in. "I was checking something."
"What?"
"I think you know the answer to that."
Formora regarded him disapprovingly. "There's a time and place and this is neither."
"Does it really matter? We're through. You heard him - we have to be quick-"
"We're not going to the Fox'n'Quill."
"Then where?"
Formora exhaled softly. It sounded like a sigh. "If it still stands, the Briar's Heart will suit our needs. It's closer to the port. To my memory the fare there is... decent."
"This is your show." Ikharos gestured down the street. "Lead on."
She looked at him a moment longer before walking ahead.
The interior city, at least, had some defensible merit. The buildings closest to the walls were shorter, stockier, while they gradually built up at its core. It provided vantage points for defenders - only, if it reached that point it would mean the walls had been breached. A curious eventuality; when it came to a siege he much preferred to take the fight to the enemy, to better preserve the defenses at his back. A well-placed sortie was all one needed to break an army. Though, he supposed, that wasn't a viable option for Lightless mortals.
A bustling air had taken the city - not the choking traffic of an economic capital but the push and shove of a teeming refuge threatening to spill over. While it certainly helped their anonymity, Ikharos could tell from Formora's tense posture that the press of the crowds similarly bothered her. The sea of bodies eventually began to grow sparser the closer they neared the docks, where the properties were nicer and the armed guards in ever greater numbers. The Briar's Heart was a three-storey building set along the road to the shipyards. A trio of sailors lingered outside, smoking from pipes, and glanced at them as they filed past. Formora opened the door, smoothly moved out of the way as a drunken man sprawled out onto the muddy road and slipped inside. Ikharos stepped over him.
The interior was packed. The very air shook with the sheer noise of it all. Ikharos struggled to follow Formora; she moved through the forest of people with near effortless ease. He emerged on the other side of the room to find her having commandeered a booth from a pair of confused labourmen.
"Leave," she commanded
One of them reddened about the face. "Oi there, miss-"
Ikharos closed a firm hand on the man's shoulder and turned him around. "Hey," he said. "Fuck off."
"C'mon Nellin," the other man tugged at his friend's arm. "Let's go." The pair of them retreated into the crowd. They'd left flagons behind them. Ikharos sat down, inspected one of the cups and pushed it away. Cheap ale wasn't his thing.
"Well," he said, leaning back in the seat. "What now?"
Formora glanced towards the bar. "I'll secure a room," she said and left him behind. Ikharos checked the other cup but found it to be more of the same. He set it aside and listened to the overpowering babble - the roar of gossip all around him. Nothing immediately stood out; all he gleaned from it was the inane chatter of mortals preoccupied with meaningless obscuritie - inheritances, animals, trade, some scandal between a lordling's son and a washerwoman.
Then he felt a... a flicker. Not in any true sense of the word, but whatever it was it pushed him to turn his head. A woman stood by the booth, offering him a sly half-smile. She was dressed in the local style; her complexion struck him as something Mediterranean, Turkish if she'd been on Earth and Martian if not, while her eyes were a curious shade of blue. Her dark hair was tied back with a strip of dark cloth. He didn't recognize her, but something still struck him as faintly off.
"Evening, sir," she said. Her inflections sounded local as far as he could tell. "Can I get you anything?"
Ikharos frowned. "You serve?"
"Yes sir. Are you hungry? Thirsty?"
"The latter." He squinted suspiciously. "What's your name, lass?"
"Agnes." She flashed him a smile. His blood turned to ice. Ikharos breathed in slowly. One of his hands was on the table in clear view, but the other was free to close around the hilt of his knife.
"Agnes," he repeated. Ikharos forced a thin smile. "How lovely."
Something like fire glinted behind azure irises. The pupils were too small. She wasn't blinking. "I'll fetch you something," she said so sweetly. He made to rise but her arm flashed out, hand pressing over his heart. There was no warmth in her touch. "There's no need to get up. I won't be long." With a wink she disappeared into the crowd. He scanned for her with little success. Ikharos looked towards the bar, saw Formora speaking to the tavernkeeper, and though he willed her to look his way she didn't so much as throw him a glance.
Agnes returned not moments later with a glazed bottle of red wine and a pair of remarkably clean mugs. She settled into Formora's seat. "This is more to your tastes, is it not?" she said. Without waiting for an answer she uncorked it and poured each cup to the brim, before gently pushing one over to him.
He needed a radio. He needed something. Whatever Formora did to psionically connect with other minds - he needed that, desperately. Ikharos tightened his jaw and glared at her. For her part Agnes' smile faded. "Is this not what you do?" she whispered. Despite the noise he could each word clear as day, burning into the surface of his mind. He couldn't even be sure if she was speaking English; the Hive language had a way of scarring understanding in much the same way as dragonspeak.
"What," he murmured, knowing she could hear him too, "the fuck... do you want?"
Her eyes burned; her loathing was painted over with a demure little smile, pinned to a face that didn't sit right. "You bleed with anguish," Agnes whispered huskily. She raised a hand and wiggled her false-fingers. "This world of yours is pleasure cocooned in mud. I hunger - for a laugh, a cry, anything. You know hunger well, oh Dark Angel mine. Do you not?"
The fury ignited within him. It took all his resolve to keep his Light from sizzling to the surface. "That's no answer."
"And you deserve one?" Agnes tilted her head. There was something birdlike in the motion. Her expression smoothened out. "You kept us."
"Where's Elisabeth?" Ikharos grated out.
"Fate-keeper. Hope-bearer. Death-of-destiny." Agnes smiled impishly - too wide, too many teeth. "Overly ripe. She lives yet. My fangs have not broken her skin."
"Where?"
"Here. There. Somewhere. Not for you to find; not for you to steal." She gazed at him with utter abhorrence, with whetted yearning. "They cage you."
Ikharos would have liked nothing more than to reach across the table and cut her throat then and there - and knew, with utmost certainty, that the resulting squabble would level the inn and kill just about everyone inside. She knew it too.
"You are your mother's daughter," Ikharos said softly, words dripping with venom. "A meekly little scavenger, ducking your head when it comes to a real fight. Pathetic."
"You speak with fire. Is that all there is in your heart? To burn and be burned?"
He became aware of Formora's return. She stopped by the table and looking at them both questioningly. "Am I interrupting?"
"What do you want, Agnisia?" Ikharos ground out.
Formora stiffened. The air, so thick and stuffy, seemed to drop in temperature but no one else appeared to notice.
Agnes' smile fell. "You kept me," she murmured. "Like a prize. But I was not dead. That isn't right. It isn't the true way of things."
"I don't follow your rules."
"No. But you are aware of them. You do this knowing it will hurt. You cause pain. I value this sensate treasure. It is found in nerve clusters, in the death-jest, in the taunt before a foe falls upon your blade."
She wants to know. Crimson claws traced unseen up along his spine. The Nightmare, too weak to manifest beyond his own imagination, pressed against his back and laid her alien head on his shoulder. Tell her. Let her bask in truth-pain.
"I kept you," Ikharos said stiffly, "for no other reason than spite."
Agnes pointed at him. "I don't believe you. You ail, Scourge. I can taste it. You feel for other-flesh, suffer secondhand deaths. You reflect it upon me - a vessel to outpour your pain. I know this game. I have played it a hundred times before. But you are no Agonarch. Spite is not your first nature."
It is ruthlessness, Dûl Incaru purred. It is the urge to kill. To lay your worship against the shrine of nothing, to bleed existence into its bottomless craw. Your nature is to consume. You feast, you devour, you take and take until the very stars are gnawed to the bone.
His grip tightened around the knife.
"So I ask again: why?" Agnes pressed.
Ikharos shrugged with one shoulder - an overly flippant motion that did little to mask his agitation.
A cold blue light entered her eyes. "What have you done to my home? My mother?"
"Dead," he croaked, and found a perverse pleasure in the fleeting flash of pain that crossed her gaze. "Your mother is dead. I killed Her myself. Your home rots. The Scorn dismantle it as we speak. Your kind are beaten. Your brood wanes. I did this." Ikharos paused. "Eka achí thornessa."
Agnes flinched. The illusion wavered - so briefly Ikharos only caught it with aid of his ocular implants. There was nothing beneath. He released his hold on the knife and breathed in relief. "Seems I'm Agonarch enough," he murmured.
She looked at him with such loathing that, had she been there physically, he had no doubt she would have torn out his windpipe. "I can hurt you," she said lowly, voice grating. A Hive tongue wagged in place of a human one and every word it shaped lashed upon his hearing. "I will." Agnes stood and made to leave. Formora stepped forth and grabbed her arm - and the two stared at one another. Ikharos slowly rose up.
"Where is it?" Formora demanded in a hushed voice. Her fingers tightened. He heard a dull crack. "Where have you taken it?"
Agnes simply smiled jaggedly. "Beyond you, flesh-shaper. Always." She effortlessly pulled out of Formora's hold, more mist than matter, and disappeared into the crowd.
Ikharos pushed after her. She slipped out the front door; he stumbled out onto the road in her wake, but as he looked around she was gone. Formora appeared by his side quickly, her limbs so taut with tension she resembled nothing more than a trembling bowstring ready to let fly. "Where?" she whispered. "Where has she gone?"
"That wasn't her," Ikharos replied. He walked a couple of paces down the dockwards road, pushing a bumbling drunkard out of his way. "But she must be close."
"How do we find her?" Formora kept pace.
Ikharos threw her an incredulous look. "Find her? We have to leave."
Formora grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. "Leave?"
"She knows where we are. We're outmatched."
"You killed her before."
"I was prepared. She wasn't. That's it. Now it's the other way 'round."
"Are you really so afraid?" Formora scowled.
"Aren't you?" Ikharos shook her hand free. "From what I recall she almost killed you."
"You're the same as she is. Immortal."
"No. I'm nothing like her." Ikharos struggled not to raise his voice, to avoid the attentions of strangers and worse. "This isn't about anything other than the dragon for you."
"Your dragon," Formora accusingly pointed out.
"Like fuck it is."
"Ikharos, it's here. It's here. It has to be."
The HERE was what gave him pause. The HERE was what bothered him most. A dragon, HERE. HERE being Teirm. HERE being a city full of people. Full of wants and desires. HERE became the last place he ever wanted to be. Agnisia was beyond his power, his will to destroy. But the other? Capability wasn't the issue; it was willingness. A dedication to a butchery decided long ago. One he'd shed no tears over.
"The dragon," Ikharos said. The words came unbidden - decided by an all too human part of him rather than the undead whole. He didn't like them. Didn't want them. But they were necessary. "I can't deal with a dragon. Not now. I need..." My Ghost.
"Need what?"
"Time. I need time."
An offer. A promise. One to return and settle this predicament once and for all. Formora regarded him warily, suspiciously, but in the end she nodded stiffly. "The dragon. We'll find it."
He suspected they were agreeing to different things. At his back Dûl Incaru laughed.
Then the shouting began. It came from further inland, in the city's heart. Ikharos turned, but the streets were winding, zig-zagging things designed to confound and he saw little to inform him. A series of bells rang out, echoing down the roads and against the walls, until it all but deafened him to everything else.
"The hue and cry," Formora said. She glanced at him, poised close so as to be heard. "Will that be her?"
"I don't doubt it." Ikharos sighed, suddenly exhausted. "She means to make a game of this."
They followed the alarm to an alley packed with kingsmen. Even a street away Ikharos could have felt it; there was Light in place, receding but bright. Strung between two squat stone buildings pinched close together was a human body savaged beyond all recognition. Their limbs were drawn out, threaded to the walls on either side with ropes of crackling Arc. Their garb was fine, rich, but stained black with blood, dripping from the pointed toes of their expensive boots to the cobbles below. The tunic had been cut open above the sternum, where a Hive rune had been carved deep within their ruined ribcage.
Formora raised her hand to her nose. "A sea baron," she said. The pair of them were hidden by the crowd come to investigate. Their words went unnoticed beneath the tide disturbed whispers elicited from those around them. "I can smell the salt on his sleeves."
Ikharos looked around. He half-expected to see Agnes perched in a doorway or at the corner of a house, grinning at him with dark promise. "Need a better look at this." He pushed through the press until he reached another alley. Turning to Formora, he said, "Remove us from view."
She looked over her shoulder. "Atra du garjzla jierda vel nosu." (May the light break upon us.)
Ikharos's form broke and vanished. He held up a hand and watched as it faded from view entirely - just as effectively as any Void wreath. "C'mon," he said lowly, and fired himself upwards with a gust of Light. Ikharos caught the edge of the building's roof and vaulted up onto the fragile shingles - taking care not to break a single one. He felt more than anything else as Formora noiselessly followed him up. Together they perched above the river of mortals and took in the full sight of the witch's butchery.
"She didn't kill him here," Formora observed. "The body is recent, but there isn't enough blood. He was already half-dead when she found us."
"It's not thorough enough. Not for her. We interrupted her meal." Ikharos tapped the pommel of his knife. "But the placement..."
"Out in the open. She wanted it to be discovered. She wants us to know?"
"Maybe. I'm not certain." Ikharos paused. He stood up. The witch's spindle-Light burned bright. Too bright. An element of apprehension slithered into his heart. "Ah."
"Ah?"
"I see now." He breathed in deep. His heart took off racing. "Shit."
"Ikharos?"
"It's a lure. Just not for us."
He heard a muffled curse somewhere to his right. "The Scorn."
"We know they're moving south, hitting the coasts. If there's any in range they'll come sniffing - and the rest of their hivemind with them," Ikharos said grimly. "This... this is bad."
"They'll come from the sea. Teirm has the means to fend off pirates, but Scorn..." Formora exhaled softly. "The city won't survive it."
"No. It won't."
"... How do we draw them away?"
He looked at her with surprise - or tried to in any case. "Oh, now you care," Ikharos huffed. He waited for a response, a retort, but she offered none. "It'll be the Light that attracts them," he explained. "Agnisia left enough to enough to burn awhile yet, but it's no fire. There's little we can do to extinguish it. Energy can't be destroyed."
"Only transformed into another form," Formora continued. "I know. I am familiar with the laws of energy transference."
"But we don't have the means to change it either."
"Can we not blanket it in the Dark?"
Ikharos hesitated. "No," he said at length. "It'll still be Light. Can't hide that. Odds are the Scorn are already on their way, so even if we could it won't do a damn thing."
"In which case... we need to offer them an alternative."
"My thinking exactly." His hands balled into fists by his side. "Which leaves us with two options."
There was a long pause before Formora spoke again. "No."
"We don't have any other choice. She took it from us." Clever little sorceress. "We can try to find her, stake her outside the city's... psychic wavelength for want of a better term, or we eschew that whole waste of time and use me."
"That's not a sacrifice I'm willing to live with," Formora snapped.
"It's not yours to make."
"I waited decades for someone like you; I won't allow you to throw your life away on a whimsy."
"A whimsy? There are hundreds of people here. Thousands. More!"
"So we find Agnisia. We offer her to the Scorn."
"That's what she wants," Ikharos groaned. "She knows we'll come to this conclusion, and she knows we'll try to find her. It'll be on her terms. One way or another she gets her due."
A cold air brushed against his cheek. "I won't allow you to give yourself up. Your survival is too important."
He scowled. "So then what?"
"We must- we will find her."
"We won't have long."
"She can't have gone far. The soldiers will soon close the gates, if they haven't already," Formora pointed out. "They won't allow anyone to pass."
"That's no obstacle."
"Save for a fledgling dragon unsure of flight. Given its age it will be too large to hide."
"So we watch the exits?" Ikharos said dubiously. The idea didn't sit right with him - not least because Teirm had two gates. They wouldn't find her so easily. They wouldn't find the witch at all. Not if she didn't want to be found. All this was was delaying the inevitable.
"No." He felt her touch his elbow, drawing his gaze towards the eastern wall. "There. The hinterlands. The forests are thick and the cliffs many. If I were to hide a dragon, it would be there."
Ikharos scrutinized the dark thicket beyond Teirm's surrounding plains, scarcely visible over the city walls. A witch in the woods; it wasn't a far cry from the early stages of Operation Elbrus. "How can we be sure?"
"I have an idea," Formora said.
His gaze floated back to the dead man. "So do I." He funnelled his Light beneath him and glided, unseen, across the street. Ikharos hit the opposite roof, and shuffled over to the edge to look down at the body. He raised his hand, caught hold of scraps of latent memory, and pulled away the veil of reality. The Deepsight thrummed within him. Jerky movements echoed within the dead man's body, struggling as he was drawn up like a gutted carcass onto glowing hooks. The diaphaonous form of Agnisia flickered in front of him, directing the desecration with twisting claws. The sight of her sparked screams and shout from the onlookers; there was a clang as weapons were brandished. Many of the mortals chose to flee outright.
"Vorlog," Agnisia's echo whispered. "Vorlog. Vorlog."
Less than me.
She peeked over her ivory-shelled shoulder. The moment her grim work was done she flitted away - once more assuming the shape of Agnes. A soldier swung for her, a trembling prayer on his lips, but his sword sailed clean through her hollow form. Others thrust forth blades, each of them hitting nothing but empty air.
"Wraith!" someone cried. Fear of the apparition scattered the rest. Agnes walked along the street and the frightened soldiers parted for her.
Ikharos heard a dull thud as Formora landed next to him. "Are you incapable of subtlety?!" she snarled.
"We have to hurry." Ikharos took off running. When he reached the end of the building he simply leapt for the next one. On and on they went, tracking Agnes' haunted path through the city. At moments the Deepsight blinked out - no memory strong enough to keep alive - until it manifested far ahead of them. The hue and cry followed them the whole way, but all who beheld Agnes' lifeless visage either fled or fell to their knees.
When the memory reached the city wall it once more became Agnisia, the Apothecarian and she released herself from the tyranny of gravity. A cloak of Void crept along her shell until she, too, was as invisible as they, though the hazy flicker of Deepsight was telling enough and Ikharos followed it up to the ramparts above, catapulting himself with a jet of Solar. The urge to spread his wings and embody the ideals of the ever-burning Sun were strong, barely suppressed.
Ikharos paused by the edge. His only indication of Formora having kept up was a sliver of Darkness on the edge of his inexplicable senses. She climbed up beside him and together they watched as the sparks of Deepsight faded, following the witch out to the wilds.
"You were right."
"I am aware!" Formora raged. She swatted his arm. His implants picked up on a minute refraction of the day's light, painting a moving silhouette stepping past him. "How quickly can she fly?"
"Fast." Ikharos leaned against a parapet. "We don't have the numbers to thoroughly comb it. Is there a road?"
"Yes. To the Empire's inner cities, but I doubt she takes to them. Not if the dragon is still with her."
"That's not helpful." Ikharos scanned the horizon. The Spine hung in the distance, making way for a wide valley some ways south-east of Teirm's position. "There's too much land to cover."
"A moment," Formora said brusquely. The spell concealing them dropped. Ikharos looked around but the upper walls seemed to be abandoned, and they were well out of sight for most of the city below. "Efla adurna," Formora said, and a hundred droplets of water formed from moisture in the air, puddling together. She motioned with her hand and it took the shape of a flat circle. "Draumr kópa."
The surface shimmered and the light bouncing off of it twisted, shattered, filled with new colour to paint an entirely different sight. Instead of their own reflections an image of trees, countless and smothering, sprouted in every direction. Parts of it remained dark, muddied, but the sky above was clear. In the centre of it all, padding along the forest floor... was a dragon. It was a powerful beast, easily the size of a horse, and corded with muscles that would make a lion envious. It was a quadruped, a long-fanged predator, with a snout somewhere between a bird and crocodile. A pair of horns sprouted from back of its skull and small spines ran down its back. The dragon's tail was long, powerful, and a pair of wings hung from just behind its shoulderblades. Its scales were brilliantly silver, save only for its darker underbelly. Its eyes shone violet, its dark slitted pupils glittering with alien intelligence.
A green smoke fell over the edges of the arcane window. With a gasp Formora released the spell and the water splashed to the stone below.
"She... she saw me," she breathlessly reported. "She saw me."
"I could've told you she would," Ikharos said disapprovingly. "What was that?"
"Scrying. A glimpse of the world away." Formora straightened; she was unhappy with him. "But I know where they are. For now."
"If she knows you saw her, they'll relocate."
"So we must move with haste." Formora leapt over the rampart. Ikharos followed her down. Where she softened her fall with a spell, he used his Light. Together they dashed across the open fields, but Formora soon outstripped him entirely. When they reached the forest Ikharos quickly lost sight of her, following instead the fragment of Darkness in her heart.
They ran deep into the heart of the woods, until Ikharos almost barreled into Formora's back at the perimeter of a curious glade, one marked by the gleaming white bones of forest animals stripped of their flesh and a dark pit where a fire had burned.
"I can't sense them," Formora murmured. She called up another mass of water. Ikharos stepped around her, the Dark already weighing in his mind, and he plucked at threads of emotional impressions left in the conceivable space. The power of Deepsight ripped up shapes long gone - the form of Agnes, of the dragon with its blood-stained snout resting on her lap, of troublesome Skuldu hovering above and looking at them with naked jealousy, and...
Elisabeth.
It was difficult to parse through everything he felt seeing her. Confusion took the reins for the first couple of moments, soon followed by annoyance, by anger, by hurt. He was... hurt. That she would choose her. Elisabeth sat there, feeding the small fire with kindling, and occasionally threw both Agnes and the wishful beast careful, curious looks. Her face beneath her hood flickered with the soft-light form of a human face - a clever disguise borne of holographic techs.
The dragon shifted. It lifted its head from Agnes and peeked around, seemingly in his direction. Even knowing the memory was empty, far from real, Ikharos approached with Múspel drawn. The Ahamkara's violet eyes burned with false-Void, tracing the world with icy hunger.
It...
It drew him in...
Something wrapped around him. Something ethereal; something more and less than he; something like...
he
couldn't
break
free
ikharos walked stepped approached sword fell to the grass he reached out flesh met memory
burn
burn
It BURNED! With a cry he tore himself free, falling into the grass and leaf litter as liquid pain, so cold it seared his nerves, ran up his arm and laced his mind with the sensation of ghost-fire. The world swam and twisted until he could stomach it no more, shutting his eyes against the agony. He heard another cry, a shriek reverberating within his thoughts - pain, pain, PAIN, MAKE IT STOP!
Another presence invaded the sanctity of his psyche, other and familiar and just as much a trespasser. Formora dragged him up in both mind and body until he was sitting straight. "Ikharos," she whispered - no, she shouted. "Ikharos!"
The pain receded as quickly as it had arrived - save for the smouldering sensation digging into his hand. Something else was there, mewling frantically. He caught sight of a flash of flailing silver before the Deepsight dissipated entirely and the forest plunged into silence.
"Ikharos," Formora said again, though more quietly. She knelt in front of him. Her arm was around his shoulders, keeping him braced upright. "Ikharos, what happened?!"
"I'm..." He gasped for air. His lungs burned for it. Ikharos scrunched his eyes shut, willing the pain to leave him, and when he opened them they landed on the glowing shape branded onto the back of his hand through raw Deepsight. The phantom marking was a whorl of silvery scar tissue embedded in his flesh, chained to the memories of stinging nerves. It occupied much of the space between his wrist and just beneath his knuckles.
A gedwëy ignasia.
AN: All the thanks to Nomad Blue for editing!
Took a little break for the holidays (and the Rogue Trader game, love it), but I'm pleased to have finally polished this off. Writing these two assholes get on each other's nerves is what I live for.
