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lady-quen · 3 months ago

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Hounds to Hamartia

"...Do you really want this, Commander? You wouldn't have gotten so far if not for your hunger." "...A hunger to succeed. To be recognized. To have power. You greedy creature, always reaching for more than you can swallow until the God of Flames finally made you choke on it. And yet, you'd return? To do it all over again? Don't you see how far you've already fallen - from a bright eyed Valiant to a wolf gripping tight the reins of all those who would dare question and oppose you? You're a killer, you know, right? You're never satisfied. And no matter what you do and how much you achieve, it will never be enough. You can drink til you're sick but never til you're satisfied. You will lose your Dream but your Hunt shall never end. Is this what you want?" "To save her. Yes. I will do anything." "Will you be anything?" "Yes."

[The Departing soft rewrite as applicable to my canon. 15k words. Tws for major character death, major character undeath, blood, gore, unreality, fantasy racism, swearing. The study of ambition as a fatal flaw, ironic destiny, as well as what it means to become a monster to stop an arrogant god. The Commander's encore.]

The arid Elonian air strained his lungs. That, and all that smoke from the Forged that insisted on barricading his path every step of the way.

The Knight ducked, deftly avoiding a blow from a massive Cannonade - deathly green magic snaking around the tip of Caladbolg as he angled it upward. With a shink! the Thorn slotted neatly between the plates of the construct's armor, severing the strands that bound the soul battery within. The flame fizzled out, and the colossus fell to its knees.

That... was the last of them. Maelmordha sighed, wiping a stray bead of sweat from silver skin. Sun-dried, his leaves and bark had practically lost all color. The sylvari took a short break in his climb, leaning against one of the rocky pillars that offered him some shade. Idly, his unaltered hand played with the settings of his communicator. He had already tried to enter the channel before, but the duststorms coming in from around Kesho had rendered the effort moot. Once again, the device returned nothing but static. Just like the buzz of sand in his ears when he braved the vast desert.

The necromancer pocketed the contraption, vinetooth arm adjusting Caladbolg's weight upon his shoulder. Not too long, now, he thought to himself. As he walked, the top of the Spire finally came into view - the meeting place he had arranged for the Dragon's Watch to pick him up. In theory, the altitude should allow for his communicator to work even despite the chaotic weather.

In practice, however, he really didn't like the dark clouds looming in the distance.

„Taimi, come in.” He stopped in the middle of the plateau. The only thing that answered him was yet more static, causing the Knight to let out an exasperated huff. The airship should have been visible by now. Did they get stuck in the storm? Worst case scenario, he could wait however long it took - he'd much rather spend a few extra rations than have the Watch crash somewhere far from civilization, thrown to the mercy of Elona's fickle weather and scorching sun. Spirits of this land only knew just how much of a scorned mistress it could really be, but he was beginning to get an idea. And that idea was that the sky was darkening much too quickly to be natural.

Something stirred in the pit of his stomach. Gold eyes narrowed, scanning the area around him. His stronger arm rested on the hilt of the Thorn, feeling the fuzz on his neck stand up as though seized by crackling static.

A sound. Like thunder.

The Commander leapt back, just narrowly avoiding the fiery meteor that crash landed in the middle of the Spire. What in the fucking Hydras..?! No, this wasn't a meteor -

„Balthazar!” His lips moved on their own. Fuck.

The God seemed to drink in the shock and fear betrayed by the necromancer's features. Grizzled features contorting in a self-satisfied smirk beneath a crown of obsidian horns. His gaze was oppressive, even when his voice seemed almost eerily playful. „Expecting someone else?”

Shit. This wasn't winnable.

The Commander forced a smile, even when he could already feel his skin shedding water at the sheer heat emanating from the God of Fire. His mask would do no good here - Balthazar knew all too well he held the upper hand. Still, if the Dragon's Watch were to come - how did the human God even know they were meeting here?!

Think, Mael, think..!

„Oh? Can't a man go sightseeing in peace?” He blurted out with a nervous laugh, Caladbolg poised and ready for combat. He could hear the rush of sap in his ears, heart pounding to the rhythm of alarm bells ringing in his skull. Gold eyes scanned the plateau. As if on cue, walls of fire, summoned with a snap of the rogue deity's fingers. Cutting off his escape route. Like a wolf smoked out of its den and ensnared in a ring of burning forest.

This was the end of the road. Knowing running was no longer an option, the sylvari's gaze focused on Balthazar, eyes wide and instinctive smirk turning into a wicked-looking grin. It wasn't a smile, anymore. He was a cornered beast, all bared teeth and feet ready to spring. The god chuckled. „Good. Just like that. I want your eyes on me, now, Commander.”

His title was a mockery, upon Balthazar's tongue. Like playing pretend with a child who wished he could be king. In the end, mortal rulers were but fleeting autumn leaves, falling soundless before eternal Gods. Not even a requiem, only the desert winds.

Fuck that. He was not going to think that way. He would not give this man the satisfaction. Maelmordha grinned, the sharpened tips of his fangs but polished wood before the hulking giant of flame and metal. So, too, was Caladbolg - but the Thorn had slain strange things before. And he laughed, a brazen sound to challenge Balthazar's own. If he were to fall, he would not go quietly.

„Bring it, then. Just us.”

No one was coming. Good. He would not suffer Balthazar to hurt his guild.

His attitude seemed to humor the God. An enormous blade of lupine decor and crackling hellfire rose at the fiery monarch's whim, carried solely by the strength of his will. Mael prepared himself to dodge - ducking swiftly under a wide swing that would have surely cleaved him in twain where he stood. Like a hot knife through butter. Still the red-hot bottom of the sword singed his foliage, adding a dusting of black to once pure-white leaves.

He sprang back to his feet, rolling deftly around the God's shin. Caladbolg struck viciously - a resounding clang as divine wood struck divine metal, repelled by the sheer force of magic clashing against magic. Shit. Balthazar was not only armored from head to toe - he was his armor, inhabited by flame like the lanterns in the Grove holding fireflies.

Unbothered, the God of War extended a palm - his war machine of a sword moving of its own accord and raking the ground where Mael had stood but moments prior. Lazy, like a cat swatting a toy mouse. Knowing its plaything won't run away. Catching a gaze of twin funeral pyres, the necromancer extended a hand of his own. There was no flesh nor blood here, but a necromancer of his caliber could make do.

„Rise!” He commanded, and the bleached bone of Elona's past answered his call. Skeletal warriors, rapidly assembling, with sand-worn equipment clutched in desiccated digits. Not like these could do much against the living embodiment of volcanic fury dressed in fortress walls, but they could be a distraction.

„Oh? What's this? Playing with toys? Feeling lonely?” Balthazar teased, a swing of his sword turning one of his minions into bone dust. Too shattered to return, a jigsaw with a million pieces. „...Have your friends abandoned you?”

He wasn't going to let Balthazar's teasing get to him. He only grinned in response, brows furrowed over sharp, golden orbs. Good, he wanted to say. Good, only I pay the price for my foolishness - no, don't think like that.

...You can salvage this. He's arrogant. An enemy so sure of their superiority won't be as ready for the tables to turn.

He ducked and weaved, striking with Caladbolg where he was able. Hissing as the fire burned his skin by mere proximity, retreating into a Shroud of shadows. Each step of this dance was a brush with death - against a predator who could crush him in a single blow.

„What do you say we take things a little more slowly this time?” The deity rumbled contentedly - reveling in his opponent's fleeting strength.

„I'm surprised a God can derive this much enjoyment from fighting one mortal.” Maelmordha quipped back. „Picking on prey your own size didn't go well, last time?”

„It seems you need a lesson in humility.”

He provoked him. Good.

Having baited Balthazar into advancing, the Commander leapt back. As soon as the God's boot touched the polished stone floor where he had stood but seconds prior, runic patterns alight with a green hue began their work.

An explosion, followed by another, and another. Sizzling poison accompanied by bitter frost, Death's own essence wrapped around the fallen God's form to sap his strength. The necromancer felt some of his burns heal from the sheer amount of magic taken through this gambit. Revitalized, a glimmer of hope surfaced within his mind that maybe, he could last long enough to devise a proper plan.

...And yet, even that amount of magic only seemed equal to plucking a single hair off the back of a rampaging boar. Balthazar didn't even seem to feel it.

He closed the gap faster than Mael could have ever anticipated such a behemoth to move. A motion of a fiery hand prompting his greatsword to thrust forward at unprecedented speed, and the Pact Commander could only respond so well.

A massive claw of pure darkness rose from the ground to intercept the blade, hardening quickly into solid shadow. But the flame only burned brighter. Parting the dark like a lantern, phasing right through his spell before he was fully ready to dodge.

He felt the blade brush against his side. It almost felt painless - before the scream caught in his throat.

He fell to his right, clutching his cleaved side. Golden blood gushed from the gruesome wound, Caladbolg clattering to the ground without fanfare. A howl of agony burst through clenched lips before he could ever choke it down. Shaking, he pushed down on crimson fabric, knowing no bandage could stem the flow of the sap that stickied his fingers.

Like a tree taking an axe to the trunk only to topple over. Even with all these years, he really was no more than a sapling.

No, no..! Get up. This isn't the end. Is it..?

He fought so hard to not let the terror show in his eyes. Even so much as meeting Balthazar's gaze was a monumental task. But he did. He blinked against the twin suns that threatened to steal his vision, and the Lord of Flames smirked. Satisfaction, mockery, faux pity, he couldn't even tell what it was, if not all of it at once.

„Feeling mortal yet?” He thundered, even the softest whisper of his voice an earthquake in its own right. „Do you recall the lesson? No? Let me repeat it for you: never defy a god.”

Through the haze of pain and building panic, the necromancer did the only thing appropriate. He laughed. His vinetooth arm reached for the fallen Thorn. Using the sword as a crutch, he pulled himself up to his feet. Even if his knees trembled. Even if the warmth spreading across his side sent waves of nausea through his guts.

And he felt it again. That magic he had absorbed previously. Except - no - this magic was.. was Balthazar directly feeding a sliver of his magic to him, right in that very moment? Was he going crazy from blood loss? And if so, why did he suddenly feel so much better?

Good enough to stand. Good enough to swing a sword - even with just one arm, and the other possibly the only barrier stopping his insides from sightseeing the outside world. He was still bleeding, but this... he had time. He had time.

Time. Time. Just... a little more time. What are you holding out for, Valiant? You know help isn't coming.

Tick, tock.

He bit back a groan of pain. I'll cross that bridge when I get there.

Every second he wrestled from this dire hourglass was a testament to his resilience. Every long second that counted down towards his death was a testament to Balthazar's pride. Panting, mortal breath mixed with immortal, singing fire and the roar of a sword two times his height or more slamming against the ground like a thunder drum.

A terrible symphony, for none to behold but themselves.

Tick, tock. He dodged. Tick, tock. The Thorn glanced off of impenetrable armor. Tick, tock. He slipped on his blood. Balthazar seemed almost disappointed at the lack of banter.

He couldn't move fast enough. His right hand joined the left in gripping the hilt of Caladbolg when he prepared to parry. Blinding light strained his eyes as the telekinetic strike came his way, and he angled the Thorn to minimize damage.

A sickening crunch. He skid back several meters, fresh pain seizing control of his senses. His right arm refused his control, and the tip of Caladbolg fell heavy against the floor in a pitiful attempt to stop him from falling. His breath came in ragged gasps as he beheld what had become of his uncorrupted arm - mangled at the elbow, splinters of wood tearing through vine. Fresh sap streaming down his sleeve, dripping from unresponsive fingers. It hurt. Oh, by the Tree it hurt so much. A low whine of agony escaped heaving lungs, tears flowing freely down silver cheeks. He couldn't even find the energy to meet the God's gaze, then. And he wasn't sure he even wanted to. Reality's weight was settling in, like dull ache in the bones.

If he looked at him now, what would he find? What was this sadism? How long would this last..?

Tick.

Tock.

Another blow. There wasn't even any time for him to breathe. If he were to fall, he would not go quietly. Like a ragdoll, he was practically thrown across the arena, a new slash in his shoulder rendering his right side almost completely useless. His mangled form finally came to a halt when it crashed against a pillar, rupturing something inside. A pained hiss, then desperate roar of hatred and sheer anguish. With his sole working hand, he slowly dragged himself, yet again, towards his sword.

„Suffer a little more loudly. Cry out!” The God raved in glee. „Let everyone hear!”

...Who...? There was no one here... Was there? It was getting dark. Maybe the shadows dancing at the edges of his vision were people, after all.

So he did the only thing he felt he could still do. Eyes numb to the pain. He got... up. Up to his knees, for his body refused to climb any higher. Up, as though clawing for a shred of dignity. At this point, the liquid pooling in his mouth tasted all the sweeter when he considered it signaled his coming release. And he knew how Trahearne had felt. Yes, the darkness suddenly seemed so... appealing. Even if the quiet scared him.

He didn't want it to be so... quiet.

„I do enjoy these little get-togethers. You're proving to be quite useful.” What in the fuck was Balthazar rambling on about? He struggled to focus on the words. He let out a wheezy „what” and spat anothet mouthful of sap. M-maybe if he tried to talk, Balthazar would converse rather than slowly pull him apart. Alas, his inquiry was ignored.

But something else answered. At first, he didn't know what it was.

The God of Fire walked towards him at a leisurely pace, before finally stopping mere centimeters away from the Knight - forcing him to look practically straight up. He could no longer make out Balthazar's features, privy only to a hazy outline of horns and two burning eyes.

„Listen...” Maelmorda rasped. Even that much took an unbelievable amount of effort. A long pause, just to collect enough breath to form words. „I never... even... wanted... to kill you....”

The true threat to Tyria were the Dragons. And they could not be killed without catastrophe following. He supposed all his dreams and lofty ambitions were but delusions of a madman. In a sense, Braham was right. Who gave him the right to kill Dragons, anyway? And who made him believe he could ever stand against a God? Hubris, all the way down. His very own hamartia.

„You won't.” The deity of Fire and War answered, matter-of-factly. The clock was winding down. Sleep. Please. „...How sad for you to die so far from home.” Please. No more magic moving his strings. No more teetering on the brink of oblivion.

No more. He let out a harsh gasp and fell backwards. Balthazar seemed satisfied. He supposed he could die knowing he gave a God some exercise.

There was a light in the sky. Huh, so this is how....

He blinked. This was no star, nor an opening of the heavens. It moved. It was... blue. And he felt a tiny mind hold the hand of his own. Filling his silence with song just to keep him afloat. And he knew. And oh, he knew.

„Ah, the scion... come here to defend her Champion.”

„Aurene, no...” He cried out, sole working hand reaching out in her general direction. His mind begging her to run. Grasping at the air with twitching fingers, as though he could in any way stop the God from taking her like he took all he ever wanted. Just another conquest.

She whined like a battered pup. Tiny yelps that communicated more than language ever could. Her magic cradling his weary soul even as he felt every thread that tied him to existence snap one by one. Begging her to stop. Holding her mind's hand when she refused, for he knew all too well the pain of letting go. But Balthazar had already claimed what he came for. Played him like the fool he was. So he decided to claim one last thing, just out of spite. I want your eyes on me, now.

Aurene was whisked away from the reach of his vision, fading sight filled completely by his killer. And the sword that lingered, a stake, above his heart. „And now, you die.”

...Aurene, I'm so -

In an instant, she felt the connection sever.

What am I? Who am I?

It saw a barren sky, shorn of stars. Its eyes never blinked. It did not know what a sky was. Only that it filled its sight, the very first ephemeral memory, ever since „existence” became a concept that it knew.

But besides that, it also knew one other, much more intimate thing - an idea that existed before it did. The idea it needed to be somewhere else.

It rose. Spectral fingers digging into grass, without feeling. Chest falling and rising without breath, as though in a hazy recollection of having once carried that rhythm.

The ground was cold. What was... cold? Everything that heat wasn't. It did not know why, but it brought it comfort. The idea of being something else than cold terrified it. And so it wandered. It was the only thing it could really do. It was almost familiar, like a dreamscape that it once existed in before existence became a concept that gave it meaning.

Occasionally, it passed another spark. Heard questions, and discovered it could speak.

What is my name? Something inquired. I don't know, it answered.

What is a... name? And why does everything hurt?

In the distance, an object. It moved towards it. Beside it, stood a spark, asking questions. Inside it, stood another. Different. Almost like it did not... belong. The very moment it moved closer, it was addressed directly.

„You there! Come here. Over here. We can help each other. What is your name?”

Ah, again... that word.

„I don't even know who I am. Or where I am... Or how I got here.” It only spoke the truth. It had no concept of anything else - at least at the time. The stranger, however, seemed well versed.

„You died - it happens.” It shrugged. Seemingly unbothered at the notion of whatever death was, even though it certainly raged at the predicament of being restrained within an object. „Welcome to the Domain of the Lost. I am, of course, King Palawa Joko.”

Huh, it thought, and its mind regained a little clarity. Was „Palawa Joko” a name?

„King Joko..? I'm sorry. I don't know that name,” it gently responded. Wide, curious, trusting gold, like the eyes of a a freshly blossomed hound. Ah, yes... it missed them. Why weren't there more hounds? It felt like there were, last time. When was... last time?

Its inability to recall the name sent the stranger into a fit of anger. The spark could only tilt its head inquisitively, attempting to understand the many terms that rapidly spilled forth from chapped lips. Ah, yes... it had... a body. It was not a spark - a spirit. Like it. Why was it different?

So it asked. And received another name in response - Balthazar. It felt... familiar. But it did not feel cold, and that scared it more than anything.

It seemed this Balthazar was a liar, then. A deceiver. And it understood what it meant to lie and deceive, and some of the light left its eyes. It knew that it, too, had lied and deceived in life. But... why? Why would someone do that? A concept of a headache was something that became known right after. And yet, that gnawing, anxious sensation persisted. This was no place for it. It needed to be somewhere, but not here.

And it realized it, too, had been a he. Like Balthazar. Was he.. Balthazar? No. He can't have been, right? He had half a mind to ask Joko about it, but the amount of confusion he was already suffering was enough for the time. Such as, what the difference between „God” and „King” even was, if there was any.

He imagined that, had he really been Balthazar, King - God..? Joko would have had more to say about it. He let out a spectral sigh as he watched the other spark argue with the stranger on the proper definition of godhood. He was not sure what “Genuflect, peasant” was supposed to mean, but apparently, the Domain of the Lost was where such debates commonly took place.

„Come, gentle spirit. You must take the next steps, and I've heard enough of Joko's blasphemies.” Its - her..? voice pried him from his thoughts. She had evidently grown bored with the stranger within the object, and decided to debate him next. Oh, Mother. Wait, who was Mother? But more importantly...

„...Who is the Judge..?” He asked the fellow spark, following closely in tow. The landscape was strange and the anxiety was not going away. Even existing was difficult, like every body part was ill-fitting. Uncomfortable, like his very self was a lie.

She turned her head, coal brown meeting gold. She had a soothing air around her, like the remnants of a gentle sun. Warm. But not... scary. Not in the sense that Balthazar was.

„He is a loyal servant of Grenth. Charged with sending all the spirits who come through here to their appointed place.”

„But I don't know who I am. I don't know where I should be.” He mused sadly, as though afraid to admit he had no frame of reference. Everything simply fell away the moment he arrived here. If he even did arrive. Or had he always been here..? And yet, if so, why did it feel so wrong?

They walked the haunted plain, passing many other sparks. Some tall, some diminutive, some with beaks and fangs and tails. So many shapes to exist in that he had never fathomed. So, he looked at his hands. Compared his silver skin to that of the spark walking beside him. Bronze, soft, kissed by the sun. His was... harsher, pale, cold like snow.

Eventually, his senses were filled with the presence of something far greater than mere sparks. She beckoned for him to step forward, coaxing him gently towards the being. He was... massive. Hooded, with a skull mask for a face. He absentmindedly touched his own.

„Come, spirit. Do not be afraid.”

„I'm not sure why I'm here, or even who I am.” He confessed, resolving not to lie. In truth, he wasn't even sure.. how to, at least not at the time, but if being wretched had condemned him to that place, then nothing good could ever come of it.

The creature seemed to recognize his turmoil, and spoke in a soothing baritone. „That's because most spirits find their own way to their fate when they die.” He explained. „But those whose deaths are too traumatic often forget who they were or how they perished.”

„These spirits, like you and me, end up here in the Domain of the Lost.” The spark beside him added. Again, that name. This place. So.. wrong. Traumatic. Perished..? Right. He died. King Joko told him that.

„But I can't be here.” He tried to reason in the only words he knew. He didn't know why, nor where else he was possibly meant to be - he just knew it wasn't there. Like... warm. Too warm. Like fire.

Walls closing in from every direction, every angle, and he needed to get out. He needed to call for help, but also... he needed it to stay away. He was not to be helped. Why? There was a shadow in here with him. One other being. The only one. He felt like it had all happened before, and was the reason everything hurt. Why his skin felt like a lie, and his gaze darted around corners.

„You will reach your rightful place in time.” The grand being reassured, standing ever tall. He had to look up just to meet his gaze, and his chest moved faster.

„First, you must recover your name to know who you were and how you lived. Then, you must learn your purpose, to understand the choices you made and why you lived as you did.” The Judge continued, his bright green orbs a familiar hue. „Once you know your name and your purpose, only then can I determine your final destination.”

„...But how do I do that?” He asked. Confusion and fear swirled in gold eyes, as though the walls were already getting closer. Soon, he may be stuck here forever. A cage. Let him out. Let him out. He needs to see her.

Who?

„Nenah has traveled the path you now face. She can assist you.” The servant of Grenth clarified, an armored hand signaling in the direction of the sunlit spark. He met her eyes, and understood her name. ”...For though they may have belonged to you in life, once your name and purpose enter this domain, they are yours no longer. And you will have to fight to reclaim your name.” The creature's next words rang out with a heavy finality. „Now, arm yourself.”

And he was gone, dissolving into the shadows from whence he had come. Though he still had more questions than answers, this... was a starting point.

„Nenah... So you discovered your name? How do I reclaim mine?” The cold spark mused, unsure where to even begin. He did not want to fight other spirits for something he wasn't even sure was his. What if he ended up with the wrong name? What if he stole someone else's only hope to leave this place? Was this a price he was willing to pay? A spectral hand massaged the bridge of his nose, as though the habit had helped him process similar predicaments in life. Not that... he really even knew what „life” was - just that it wasn't „here.”

And if it wasn't here, maybe he needed to be alive.

„I learned my name from the spirit of my old mentor. But only after besting him at a challenge of riddles.” Nenah smiled sadly in recollection, letting the words linger on her tongue. ”I discovered my purpose hidden in an old diary I had written as a child. I was a teacher.”

A mentor, then. How fitting. Guiding others in life, and now again in death. A luminary in a land of darkness. „Is it that simple?” He raised his brows, hesitant to believe things could ever go so smoothly. Somehow, he had an inkling that bad luck was destined to follow him wherever he went. Call it a hunch, but... his hunches tended to be correct.

„It's different for everyone. The judge said you must fight to recover your name, so you clearly weren't a teacher.” Nenah pondered aloud, taking in his form from head to toe. His gaze followed hers, and he found himself clad in crimson fabric. Comfortable, but form-fitting clothes, accentuating his graceful shape. His shoulders, adorned with metal pauldrons - and knees guarded in a similar manner. Chainmail beneath his vest, little interwoven loops of steel. „A soldier, perhaps?”

„I... I don't know.” Despite everything, he truly did not know. The world was bleeding back in very slowly. Who's to say he was a fighter? Maybe he was a scholar? A performer? His knuckle idly moved across his lip, but he excavated nothing else from the chasm that was his memory.

Nenah sighed. „Well, if you are to fight, you must first arm yourself.”

„With what?” He asked, incredulous. For whatever reason, he had an instinct to pat himself over for hidden weapons. The woman raised a ghostly eyebrow.

„Spirits must abandon their possessions before they may move on.” She set off towards some distant yonder, and once again he followed.

„I'll look around. Maybe I will.. find something.” He sifted through foliage and rubble, even when the geometry of the place didn't make much sense. For weapons, he would usually go to... a blacksmith. A mystic forge, maybe. Mother?

„You know, I.. remember. I had a sword.” He recounted, searching for a familiar outline on the floor. Sliding across stone. Reaching for the hilt. He only had bits and pieces, but he instinctively looked low. „I think.. Mother gave me it.”

„Your mother?” Nenah chatted. „Was she a warrior, then? Was the sword a family heirloom?”

„I don't... think she was, no. But I think others have owned that blade before me. I think it... had seen the blood of its wielders.”

„Too much blood spilled everywhere, I tell you...” The fellow spark sighed. „I know all about it, gentle spirit. Though with your recent revelations, I suppose gentle may not be so fitting.”

„...Why do you think so?”

She did not answer.

It took them a long time to get anywhere with the search. He supposed time lost meaning in a place such as this - with no frame of reference, who's to say what was day and what was night? If death had already come, there was nothing to count down towards. Sifting through mud, he wondered whether eternity was always supposed to be so dull.

Here and there, other sparks. Shaped like many things - the best approximations of themselves in life that they could muster. And yet, there were also those formless. Like clouds, and their voices sounded like rain mixed with lightning static. Nenah warned him away from those. He supposed that was what awaited if one did not reclaim their name.

And then some who spoke in nonsense and riddles. Cryptic warnings, issued from behind trembling hands, as though covering one's face rendered them invisible. It's coming, they whispered. What, he asked.

„...The Beast. And It will get you too.”

Before he could ask any additional questions, the spark... evaporated. Pure magic in the air, and then nothing. Wherever they had gone, he hoped they had at least escaped It.

„...Is it Balthazar?”

„Who?” The teacher turned to face him as he sifted through a pile of sand.

„The Beast. It's the worst thing I have heard spoken of, here. It feels like it matches with that name.” He had no better ideas, anyway. Each step into the unknown unlocked something - not always useful, but he was determined to connect the dots. Even when he grasped at straws.

„Oh, Balthazar? No, no. He's one of the Human Gods. The Six. And he betrayed them.”

„He betrayed them? He lied and deceived them? Why?”

„No one knows. One day, he just... did. And the Beast has been here ever since.”

The sand moved with a gust of wind. A shine caught his eye, and he moved closer.

And there it was, halfway buried, as though attempting to take root. A ghostly image of his sword - slotting neatly into his hand. Like it was meant to be there. Like it had been, for a long, long time.

„Huh.” Nenah gave Caladbolg a good lookover, before coal eyes met honey gold.

„I know now. I was a soldier.” There was conviction in the spark's voice. A newfound confidence, even when facing his truths came at a cost. His words gradually turned quiet. „I... don't think I was a good man. I lied and deceived. I think I wanted something very much.”

Nenah lingered in silence. A hand of sun-kissed bronze rested upon one of the cold spark's shoulders, feeling metal. A reassurance, perhaps. Or simply an acknowledgement. Whatever it was, her smile gave him the strength to keep going.

„Look. Over here.” She suddenly yanked him, pulling him behind a cover of trees. And then, himself.

Red cloth, bronze tinted metal. Stealing fervent glances, as though afraid of every shadow. That expression of prey-animal terror did not suit his features.

„That spirit... it looks just like me.”

„We should follow. Hurry!” They ran after it, and it broke into a sprint. It weaved inbetween rocks and trees, heading for a cave shrouded in webs. A dead end. His gold eyes met their own reflection, and his mirror image screamed.

The Thorn moved like second nature, and the dagger fell out of their hand. And so, the illusion shattered - a small creature huddled, weeping, where his warped self had been. „I yield!” It screeched. „I yield. Take it! It's yours.”

He still held the Thorn - a show of power, though he did not intend to strike down the thief. „Why did you steal my name?” Gone was the mellow calm with which he arrived. The timbre of his voice changed - and so too did the look in his eyes. No longer honey, but liquid gold. „Answer me.”

And the creature wept, for it did not know any better. But he still did not remember. Why he fought, why he lied, why he killed.

„Keep looking.” The same guiding hand rested once again upon his shoulder. Though steady, her tone was filled with urgency. „If you don't reclaim your name quickly, you could lose it forever.”

And so, he fought - like the soldier he was. And as each spark begged for his mercy, doubt surfaced in his spirit.

„What if it was.. an evil name? What if finding who I am will make me worse?” He questioned, feeling the heat radiating from his bark. Pain. The sword in his hand was singed and black. It hurt. He did not remember, but the pain was growing. „What if where I am meant to go is even...”

„That's not for you to dwell on. Your task here is merely to find it. There is nothing more for ones such as we.”

„Nothing more..?”

„Your name and your purpose are all there is. And since more than one have claimed your name, it means it must be a prestigious one. Now, ask yourself. If yours were an evil name, then would they still seek to make it theirs?”

„...Do they know who I was? And if so, then why don't I..?”

„You will. All things in time. So fight, noble spirit.”

And he fought. Until the tide of shadows finally stopped coming. And the dam holding back his tears broke.

„I remember.” He lifted his clawed hand, watching his digits tremble with each new memory that surfaced in his hollowed mind. „My life... was filled with conflict.” Always war. Always killing. „Victory... and loss. I was a leader - a commander. I was...”

A Dreamer. A Valiant. A son. A Knight. A Commander. A Champion. A Dragonkiller. A Lichslayer.

„...Maelmordha. Yes. This is who I was.” A name, of his own. Something that felt right and not like a lie - even if the pain never went away.

Umber eyes lit up with the gentlest smile. „I could tell, Maelmordha. You wielded that weapon like a true fighter.”

„But I don't know why I fought... what I strove for, or against.” The sylvari spirit looked down, amber orbs filled with indescribable longing. It was all so very tiring, and he felt bad for relying on Nenah's guidance so extensively. Didn't she have a place to be..?

Didn't she, too, feel like she had to be somewhere else?

„Next is your purpose. What drove you forward... and what ultimately led to your death. The answer is here, somewhere in the Domain of the Lost.”

„...I just have to find it.” He finished her thought. She smiled, and nodded. He returned the gesture. „But how will I know it? Where will I find it?”

The words that came next were nothing but cryptic - as his guide slowly made her way onward, as though knowing exactly where to go. „If you truly desire it... your purpose will find you. I'd start with the bird.”

„A bird..?” The fallen necromancer questioned. And then he saw it: a raven of brilliant white. Its feathers alight with a sheen that reminded him of home - like Mother's petals. And he remembered Her, and each lullaby She used to sing. „Come! I need to -”

He tripped over a stray root, and realized it was moving. The ground itself shook and parted beneath his feet, tendrils slithering like snakes as a beast - a Dragon - rose in the distance. Grand, like a monument of leaf and vine, and in front of it - a pair of lights. Caithe, one of the Firstborn. And himself. Images of the eldest Knight of Thorn, Riannoc, his blade of alabaster bark glowing with the light of hope. Caladbolg itself, which now rested in his care. And on the other end, a lich, his skeletal hands commanding death like a putrid orchestra - drowning the First Knight in a sea of corpses.

Fear not this night, you will not go astray.

The raven flew ever onward, unfurling a sea of memories. And he ran after it, hand outstretched, mouth forming a silent call.

Though shadows fall, still the stars find their way.

It weaved through the darkness like a lone bolt of lightning through blackened storm clouds. He took Nenah's hand, pulling her along - afraid to let go, but infinitely more scared to lose track of the light. And they ran. „My eyes are - they're open, Nenah!”

„Good! Let yourself feel it, and let it wash over you. He who follows his purpose will never truly lose it!”

Awaken from a quiet sleep, hear the whispering of the wind. Awaken as the silence grows in a solitude of the night.

From the dark, twisting shapes. The stench of rot and clattering of bone as a tide of Zhaitan's legions marched against the army of the Pact. Mazdak, the Accursed, fallen at last at his hand – his first Hunt fulfilled. Sieran's parting words as the gates closed. The Sunless' advance and the fall of Claw Island. The tears shed that day, and the promises made to live on in spite of them. And then, in the end, their banners, raised high upon the towers - him and Trahearne, side by side.

Darkness spreads through all the land and your weary eyes open silently

Sunsets have forsaken all, the most far off horizons.

And again, they charged. Roar of gunfire and steel. Wyld Hunts that seemed all but impossible, keeping steadfast hand in hand. And the heart of it all, cleansed and beating again, as he remembered holding him for the first time. And laughing.

Nightmares come when shadows grow. Eyes close and heartbeats slow.

The assault on Arah. The thundering of war engines and the roar of airships. Destiny's Edge standing united, and him leading the final push. Zhaitan's death throes shattering the mountain, sending the Dragon itself crashing from blighted heavens towards the shoreline. Victory, and the first kiss shared in the dim light of a study. Why was he crying? Like he was already aware what came next.

Fear not this night, you will not go astray. Though shadows fall, still the stars find their way.

„Mordremoth!”

It all unfolded in quick succession. Ceara's fall; Scarlet Briar. The assault on Lion's Arch. Aurene's egg and Caithe's betrayal. The disaster of Maguuma, all that death and then - past the horror of it all - holding his dear's broken, dying body as the foul magic bled out of his system in rivers of gold. The Thorn trembled in his hands, but he knew not to let it go. The day his eyes turned cold. He felt Nenah's hand squeeze his own.

And you can always be strong. Lift your voice with the first light of dawn.

His hatred. His bitterness. And Her light, which saved him.

The founding of Dragon's Watch. The awakening of Primordus and Jormag. Braham's burden and the wrath in his words as he snapped. A bridge, burned to ashes - a wound that they would no longer have the chance to mend.

And Her, coming into the world at last. Caithe's words, and her vow. To lay down her life for -

„Aurene.” He found himself repeating his own words. „Her name is Aurene.”

Dawn's just a heartbeat away. Hope's just a sunrise away.

The rise of Lazarus. A mystery of the great deceiver. Climbing the spire as everything around them began to burn, and yet they knew the only way was up. He knew the only was was up.

It had always been like that, hmm, Commander?

The raven disappeared into the smoke, and he dove after it. Coughing, as though his lungs remembered the feeling. White leaves singed black and then he lost her in the fire. „Nenah! Where are you!” He could no longer feel her hand. His fellow spark had disappeared, and only Balthazar's pyre remained. The planks behind him crackled and crumbled as burning heat cut off the way back. So he climbed. Following each white feather. Humming Mother’s lullaby.

„...Have your friends abandoned you?” He could hear the God's mockery in his ears. His oppression, his glee, the sadistic pleasure he took in prolonging his every breath. And then, Aurene. Reaching for him. Damning herself just for a chance to save him.

And still, in the end, she was taken, and he died with no one to hold him. His last words frozen in his throat. But now, he screamed. He screamed and wept and his eyes shot open only to find his fellow spirit clutching his hand tightly within hers. And he looked into coal orbs and in his tormented mind, they seemed to flash crimson, shadowed by a crown of horns.

„...Balthazaaaaar!!” He howled like an animal, thrashing. A hand pushed down on his chest, keeping him on his back, before pulling his head into her lap. „Shh. Shh. There, there. Just breathe. Like you remember. Even like this, it helps.”

Tears streamed freely down silver skin as he wept in terror, clawed hand outstretched towards the sky. But there was no Aurene. No dark clouds cutting him off from the world. No Balthazar, staring down at him like yet another broken toy, balancing his blade over his heart. So, he did the only thing he could. He cried, allowing the mentor spirit to gently pet back his leaves, quelling the sobs that shook his body.

„...I remember. I remember.” He repeated, the most quiet of whimpers. Wet, haunted gold found umber again as he spoke. „Balthazar - he wants revenge on the other gods, and he's going to use Aurene to get it. I... I have to convince the Judge to send me back.”

„Rest, silver tongue. Death is not something to outwit.”

„You don't understand.” He gathered himself enough to stand and walk, even as his knees shook with every step. „That bastard will destroy Tyria. All of it. This isn't about me and my ego, for fuck's sake!” The Commander broke into a sprint. Moving as fast as his legs would carry him, causing the Elonian spirit to struggle to keep up. „He wants the strength of the Elder Dragons for himself, and doesn't care that killing them now will doom the world!”

„I see.” Nenah responded. There was deep concern upon her face, now, as the true weight of all that had transpired took the time to fully settle and click into place. „...He has ravaged this place. Stolen spirits and used them to bolster his army. He has let something horrible into this place, something beyond even Grenth's jurisdiction.”

Maelmordha paused, stern gold meeting her gaze. „The Beast. Come. We need to move!”

As soon as they arrived in the Judging Ground, the grand spirit rose again from the shadows, a visage of skull and green fire ready to welcome them both. Recognizing Nenah and sensing the distress within her companion, he turned his full attention to Maelmordha.

„Grenth welcomes all, noble spirit. Step forward, and I will send you to your appointed place.”

But the necromancer had other ideas. He took exactly one step in the Judge's direction, setting his boot down with absolute conviction. „You must let me go back.”

For a moment, there was absolute silence. If the Judge could produce an expression, he would surely have frowned. A spectral sigh laced his words when he next spoke, weighting them carefully. „...I see you clearly now, Commander. Balthazar killed you, but you would face him again?

„Yes.” The sylvari replied immediately, filled with fervent - perhaps even crazed - determination. Yes, a thousand times yes. Even when it hurt. He couldn't just let her... He grit his teeth, releasing a quivering breath.

„Balthazar has done great harm here.” Grenth's right hand confirmed what Nenah had already told him. „The magic he uses to hijack spirits shakes the foundation of the Domain of the Lost. But I... cannot help you.”

No..! No, this wasn't going to end this way. He would not let it. By the Tree, he had to bargain.

Mael took another step, lacing fingers together as though in prayer and slowly shaking his hands with every word. „If I could only get back... if I could defeat him, it might undo the damage he's done in both our worlds.” There. He was officially bargaining with Death himself. Or, rather, his right hand, but the point still stood.

The Judge sighed painfully, sending ripples through the aether. „It is too late. No life remains in your body. Unless...”

Unless? Fucking hell, he was actually getting somewhere.

„When Balthazar left, a fearsome beast, the Eater of Souls, rose to prey on the waning life energy of the spirits here....”

Nenah moved closer. „That's got to be the screams I heard in the distance. So, it is true, after all.”

„...If you were to defeat the beast and claim its power, that life energy might be strong enough to reanimate your body.” The Judge continued. „Allowing you to go back. But, if you were to fail, the beast would consume your entirety. I could grant you no final reward or punishment. Your spirit would simply cease to be. Do you.. really want this, Commander? You will be changed. There is no other way. As a necromancer, you know what this entails.”

He did. Oh, he did. He opened his mouth to speak, but the sound froze in his throat.

Riannoc...! He tried to shake the memory from the Dream. Lose the ghost of the man whose Wyld Hunt he once bore. No, this was bigger than him. Bigger than all of them. That bastard had Aurene, and if she...

Maelmordha clenched his fists. Gaze downturned, shrouded in white leaves. His shoulders shook with the weight of the choice placed in front of him. With the phantom of his people's very first nightmare. Did he... have the right? To do this? And if so, who gave him it? Who allowed this man to play God in his own right?

He supposed the answer was standing right in front of him. Gazing with green orbs, waiting patiently for his reply. „Grenth does not take kindly to those who defy his domain. But he is willing to forgive this one transgression, in the name of both our worlds. You will become something different, and if you ever go astray, you will no longer be entitled to your final reward.”

„Diabolistic magic...” He muttered under his breath. His fellow spark looked on with worry. Softly, her hand once again found his shoulder, resting upon it with comforting weight. „Whatever you decide, I will help you see it through til the end. So, think - for what does your purpose call?”

Did it call for him to fall this low? And yet... if it was the only way to save Aurene - to save Tyria, then did he ever really have a choice at all? He took a breath, and his golden gaze rose anew, finding ghastly green.

„...I accept that risk. I have to go back to finish what I started.”

Clawed gauntlets rose into the air, the Judge's mask angled towards the jade-hued skies. „Then in Grenth's name, o blessed sinner, conquer the Eater of Souls and live again! Remind Balthazar that none escape judgement.”

With a snap of the servant's fingers, crimson fabric set on viridian fire, and in an instant, his body was framed in darksteel. A long, black cape extended from beneath the upturned spikes of his new pauldrons, ornate gauntlets wrapping around his forearms and tall, metal greaves fitting upon his legs. A disc of magic flared to life over his sternum, like an eye of Death itself.

He took a moment to inspect his new armor, finding it a perfect fit. „...Thank you.” He gasped, unsure at first what to make of the gift. And yet he could feel no ill magics from it - nothing meant to limit or control him, only accentuate his existing power.

„Let this be proof of Grenth's favor. An exceptional honor, in exchange for your willing sacrifice. Go, blessed sinner, and may your soul remain your own through this dire tribulation.”

„It will. You have my word.” And he turned around, features dark and the Thorn on his back ready.

After all, he who bore Caladbolg would not fall, so long as his desire was pure. Funny how that turned out. Did the sword's apparent curse carry on in death? He'd have to find out.

„Allow me to lead you, Maelmordha. The Beast stalks the deepest shadows of this land. Those spirits we've met earlier...”

„...It may already be too late for them.” He finished the teacher's thought. „I'm sorry, Nenah. But I cannot allow you to go with me, this time.” If he were to be devoured... ah, would it not simply be due payment for his hubris...? But her? She had done nothing but help him. „This is a journey I must take alone.”

„Even when dying alone was your greatest fear?” She retorted, causing the necromancer to seize up. He did not look at her, simply continuing to walk forth into the darkness. „...Thank you, Nenah. But I will take this from here.”

„As you wish, blessed sinner.” And just like that, her footsteps no longer accompanied his.

And in the deepest depths where even the raven did not delve, he found it. A hideous demon of blue fire, contorting into whatever fears his mind held to finally settle on the form of a Mouth of Zhaitan. Towering, with rows of fangs ready to snatch him up where he stood. How did one fight hunger incarnate..? He drew the Thorn, and charged.

The same rules did not apply here as in the waking world. This was not only a fight of tooth against thorn, but a dance of nightmare. Like every worst part of him, reflected right back in his face. The shadows had been nothing, compared to this. They only wanted his name, after all.

Oh, the Beast? It wanted everything. To strip his soul, down to the marrow. And in the end, it had been decided all along. To conquer the Mouth was to embrace its hunger. To take for himself another name. Even if he had to become a worse version of himself, he would do it in every life. His right hand's fingers traced a symbol on his heart. Chanting an ancient curse, the same forbidden verse he spent his first five years researching. The Commander's spirit ignited in black smoke, Caladbolg a Reaper's scythe.

...Do you really want this, Commander?

You wouldn't have gotten so far if not for your hunger.

...A hunger to succeed. To be recognized. To have power. You greedy creature, always reaching for more than you can swallow until the God of Flames finally made you choke on it. And yet, you'd return? To do it all over again? Don't you see how far you've already fallen - from a bright eyed Valiant to a wolf gripping tight the reins of all those who would dare question and oppose you? You're a killer, you know, right? You're never satisfied. And no matter what you do and how much you achieve, it will never be enough.

You can drink til you're sick but never til you're satisfied. You will lose your Dream but your Hunt shall never end. Is this what you want?

To save her. Yes. I will do anything.

Will you be anything?

Yes.

Waken then, Fell Wolf, and hunt.

Kill Balthazar, and devour.

The monstrous body before him fell, dissolving into shadow. His scythe still lodged in its burning core, he felt the cold flicker climb up his weapon and touch ground with his skin.

The demon's magic flooded his senses. The world swirled in front of his eyes, a gaze of spectral gold darting around in terror. He saw the lost sparks return, freed from the beast's belly, as they all moved in unison towards Judgement. The Domain breathed a sight of relief - and then he felt his chest rip open.

And he screamed. By the Pale Tree he fucking screamed. Feeling every second of the blade digging into and parting his flesh, crushing organs and searing his insides. Except now, the blackness offered no relief. There was no merciful veil of Death to take the pain away, to ease his body's last gasp as embers took his lungs. And the flames did not burn his throat and steal his voice. At some point, the agonal screech turned into a howl, and his eyes wept spectral light.

Seizing, he fell to his knees. His armor glowed a deep cerulean - and more metal enveloped the Commander's form. He scarcely registered it, even when links of chain snaked round his heaving chest and hooked into the gaping cavity of his wound.

It was almost a mockery. Almost a voice, sneering into his ear. This is what you are. Do you regret it yet?

„Aaaargghh!” His own voice burst forth in strained cries. Calling names as though their owners could ever help him. „Pale Mother! Aurene! Grenth!”

No one will save you now, either. You chose this. Maelmordha, you poor, poor fool.

It felt like ages but the pain relented just enough to leave the fallen Knight gasping and wheezing in a ghastly approximation of life. Collecting his stolen breath, registering a familiar sensation upon his cheeks before he ever realized he was crying. Again. And only then did he get to truly, wholly gaze upon his form - the warped image of his own demise, seared forever into his soul.

Trembling fingers probed at the edges of his wound - the very one that killed him - and found fangs. Rows of umbral teeth, licked by flickering tongues of blue fire. This had to be... was this real? Absently, he reached inside, half expecting the slick wetness of entrails. Instead, he found only cold nothingness, and a pulse at the core of it all. A rhythmic thrum of magic where his heart had been, just barely out of reach, yet begging for his touch.

Focus, the magic whispered. The Alchemy bends to your whim. Death's defector, defiler of Nature. So he did. And the dark became corporeal.

Transfixed, he pulled on the object, and out emerged a sword of midnight. Blue veins running along its surface, magic pulsing to the beat of the orb that lay at its center; Connecting the hilt and the blade. And he felt his new heartbeat, bare within his hand. Bound to his maw with chain like some eldritch stem, bridging the gap between man and demon. The first fang of the bound Wolf, and then the second - Dromi and Lædingr.

They slotted into his grip as though he had never been meant to hold anything else. Extensions of his ambition and his sin. These blades, they felt nothing like Caladbolg. Where the Mother's Thorn tasted of light and grief, these weapons? They were forged of naught but gnawing hunger, pulled straight from the pit of his stomach.

„I'm...” He was almost afraid to have a witness. But he did. And slowly, he lifted his gaze again, finding his fellow spirit staring back with what could only be described as somber pity. „...Nenah, why did you come... I'm...”

What am I?

A Dreamer. A Valiant. A son. A Knight. A Commander. A Champion. A Dragonkiller. A Lichslayer. A... his sight was blurry.

„I'm... so...”

Static enveloped his mind. Ghastly blue light burned within his eyes.

„I'm... so... hurrggh....”

He was ravenous. He - it - the Soul Eater.

Someone called out. Their words but white noise in the void of his thoughts.

Slowly, he walked. Tips of his swords dragging against the ground and gouging the earth. The magic inside him pulsed like the want that moved his jaws. The desire that now held together his spirit. This unholy, aberrant, ugly spirit. Pounding in his split-open chest, the war-drum of instinct drowning out every alarm bell in his mind.

Devour. This is what you are. This is what you chose. Didn't you?

„...Remember...”

A voice. Did it matter? They all screamed at the precipice between worlds. Their words made no difference.

„...Remember who you are...! Remember why you did this..!”

Aurene? No, she was...

Who - whose name was this? What was a name?

„Blessed sinner..!”

Who?

There was the sensation of weight wrapping around his wrists. He growled, lips twitching. And in that moment, his mind surfaced - searching for something, anything, to keep itself afloat.

„Remember your name! Maelmordha..!”

And he snapped back. Blue eyes back to yellow, swords dissolving and chest stitching shut. A gasp, as though his soul yet remembered the rush of air in his lungs. And he found dark eyes, holding the gaze of his own - a lifeline for a dead man.

The eyes of a woman who never knew him. A woman who had nothing to gain from this, and everything to lose.

„...Why..?” He mouthed. Utter silence in his mind aside from that singular question. „...Why did you risk your li - your existence? I could have -” Mael scowled, bringing gloved hands before his face. His digits shook with the strain of keeping himself together.

He could have eaten her. Erased her. Even now she caused this beast's mouth to water. A soul - a light - pure magic. He knew now how Dragons felt, and if the hunger hurt so much, then were they ever truly to blame..?

There was conviction in Nenah's eyes as she once again took hold of the sylvari's wrists, pulling them down as to force the fallen Commander to meet her gaze. „This isn't about... what you could have done to me. Nor what could happen to you. This world is falling apart at the seams because of Balthazar. I believe... I'm here, because Kormir wanted me to help you.”

„Kormir..?”

The Goddess of Truth who could only smile sadly as she departed. No actions taken, only words of hollow solace - as she abandoned them all. Abandoned her people. He wasn't human, but witnessing the heartbreak on Kasmeer's face? He might as well have been. „Kormir left us. Left Tyria behind. The Gods have relinquished all claim to this realm -”

„And yet you're here. And you'll live again. With Grenth's own blessing. So who's to say they really left us? Who's to say they abandoned us when they still guide us?”

Mael closed his mouth. The teacher was right. This was an angle he hadn't truly stopped to consider - and what right did he have to stomp down on the hope that still remained for the people? Living or dead, they all needed a light to lead the way. Gods and spirits for men, Dream for sylvari. Heroes and concepts to hold onto - invariably, no one ever wanted to go alone into the dark.

To trudge on, not knowing what awaits on the other side. The necromancer's voice came in a soft whisper.

„...You're right. I'm sorry. And... thank you.” Maelmordha swallowed, desperately pushing down his racing thoughts. He forced an apologetic smile, a last look at the fellow spirit who had accompanied him for so long. „So... I guess this is goodbye.”

„So it is.” She returned a smile of her own. In that moment, the humble teacher truly looked like the Goddess she so loved. And he could see that love burn bright. It would be the beacon that lit her way to her final reward, far, far away from the war that took her and those she mentored. A war he'd return to, damned as he was - to make sure it took no one else. Perhaps it was a fool's notion, but a chuckle broke through the silence nonetheless.

„Good luck wherever you're going, and... Pray for me, would you?”

„I will, Commander. Trust in Grenth. And know that everything happens for a reason.” She let go, a final nod offered his way before she turned around, heading towards the Judge.

And so, Maelmordha turned his gaze towards the precipice of worlds, knowing he now possessed the strength to bridge them. But one more voice vied for his attention - someone he unfortunately recognized. Once again demanding to be the center of the world, now with the added bonus of kissing ass. A smirk crept onto the Commander's features.

„Look who's groveling. Genuflect, Your Majesty.”

And so began the worst lich feud in Tyrian history, but that was a tale for another time.

”Gods, I... I can't even bear to look at him.” The mesmer's body shook with stifled sobs. Tears charting dark lines down pale skin - washing away the paint from her lids.

Tribune Brimstone could only frown, jaws parting to offer some form of solace just before he remembered he was never any good with words. And so, lips fell over fangs again, safekeeping solemn silence. „Yeah... yeah.”

He always did make everything worse, didn't he...? Green orbs wandered back to the proof of his failure. The haphazard veil that covered the worst of the Commander's wounds was soaked in sap. Empty eyes now resting closed, the poor bastard looked almost eerily peaceful. Almost as though he were merely resting. It didn't suit him to be so dark in the evening, though. That ruby light was gone and the soldier in Rytlock - all he had ever been - knew better than to dwell on death as humans did. It wasn't sleep. No gods to kiss it all better. And all that blood and gore couldn't be dressed in words in a way that made it pretty.

„He's done so much and I can't... I can't even look...”

Kas was still crying. Rytlock winced. Clawed hand hovered over her form, as though debating whether his touch could offer any superficial semblance of comfort. Ultimately, it retreated, and his tail flicked uncomfortably. With a deep rumble, he excavated his voice.

„...He wouldn't have wanted you to.” There was no point. He was gone anyway, so it didn't matter. At least he wasn't in pain anymore. And, well, Commander never did want anyone else to have to suffer for no reason. „Shit, how we gonna break this to Taimi...”

„That's what I'm worried about. Kid won't take this too well.” Canach sighed, raising himself up from his kneeling position. „Aren't you the Watch's second? Should I call you Commander, yet?”

„Shut it, weed.” The snarl came on its own before he ever had the chance to reel in his anger. A growl seeped past the Blood Tribune's teeth, and he pinched the bridge of his snout. „Look, just - just let me think. Or make the call yourself if you have so much yapping left in you.”

Uncharacteristically, Canach merely sat quietly away to the side, closer to the body. For a brief moment, the Secondborn's stern gaze met that of the charr, before both men promptly looked away. It was clear the former convict had no interest in petty arguments at the time - whatever words he did have locked firm behind his teeth.

„I'll do it.” A meek voice picked up from the back. Rytlock's head turned, only for green orbs to meet dim blues. Lady Meade looked positively pathetic. And yet, though her eyes were framed by streaks of runny makeup, her expression was one of tired determination. Rytlock chuffed.

„You sure? You aren't looking too-”

„I said I'd do it. So, let me.”

Silence. Kasmeer raised her hand to her ear to dial on the device, and the comms crackled to life. One last shaky breath, and a tiny voice came through.

„Yes? Hello? Guys, is everything alright?” The small prodigy chirped in a fervent tone. Her voice cracked towards the end and Kasmeer Meade could feel her heart crack in tandem. „...Please tell me everything's alright.”

„Oh, Taimi. Baby, I'm so sorry.”

„Kas? Kas - I - Kas tell me what's - No no no please don't tell me he's -”

Despite the fresh tears tugging at her waterline, the mesmer knew she had to say it. „Shhh, I'm so sorry. Mael's gone, Taimi.”

It was as though the full weight of it only really sank in at that moment. Rytlock's glare seemed to actively want to bury itself in the dirt, while Canach turned away to gaze silently off into the distance. Even Kasmeer felt a fresh knot twist within her gut only to release, all that horrible, horrible tension burning like living fire the very second she heard Taimi's voice quiver on the other end of the line.

„No.. no, no.. Kas this isn't funny...” She sniffled, and the mage of Lyssa could oh so easily visualize the little girl shaking her head over in her lab. Just like when she argued with Phlunt, or any other scientist. Always so very confident in herself, and what she believed in.

„No, this isn't FUNNY, don't LIE to me, he's FINE! He's the Commander - he's - he's FINE - go check! Do the light test on his eyes - t-take his pulse - s-sylvari don't have easily accessible carotids b-but -”

„Taimi...”

Another click, and Canach joined the line. „Taimi, there wasn't even a need to check.”

„Canach!” Kasmeer could only gasp at the swordsman's blunt intrusion. „Canach, I swear on the Six -”

„Make that Five. He's dead, kid. That's a whole God that got him. Could tell the moment we looked.”

„Fucking burn me, have some tact!” Rytlock snapped, earning a scornful glance from the sylvari. The tension could very well be cut with a knife.

„Or what? Thorns, sometimes you have to be direct. Grow some spine, you people!”

„That's a CHILD!”

„...I'm still on the line. I-I’m not a child! I can hear you all. I'm sorry. I j-just -” Taimi's voice broke again, dissolving into a series of wheezy sobs. Kas's heart dropped. She was having an episode. The mesmer wasted no time in briefly disconnecting her communicator.

„Shut UP! Both of you!” The outburst was so out of character that both Rytlock and Canach promptly fell silent. Having achieved her immediate goal, the mesmer tapped the device again. „Talk to me, Taimi.” Walk her through this, Kasmeer, just like Mael used to. Don't let him down, now. This is the least you can do.

„I'm - I-I'm just... I'm so sorry I screamed.” The teenager sniffled, interrupting herself with a hiccup. „I-I knew the odds were bad... I just didn't want it to be true...”

Lady Meade smiled painfully, mustering up every bit of comfort in her voice. Oh, how she wished she could be there with her - lay her hand gently upon the asura's head and pet her hair. Just like he always did.

„It's alright. Everyone reacts in their own way. It isn't your fault. Shh. Shh. It's okay...”

„If I - I-if I weren't taking a break at the time I could have noticed the energy readings were shifting and he - B-Balthazar - was changing course - and we could have warned him before the storm set in and comms died -”

„...You know this isn't true. You can't always work. If you had overworked yourself, you could have missed something else, baby. We may all have been dead. You could have gotten hurt from overdoing it.” The only thing she could do now was speak and listen. Between herself and the Dawnborn, she wasn't ever really sure who was better at talking people down. „...He wouldn't have wanted this, alright? Commander - Mael - wouldn't have wanted you to aggravate your condition. None of us do.”

„H-he was the first person who really, truly took me seriously!” Taimi was spiraling. „What I do is my choice! And I could have saved him! I could have... Alchemy...”

Her tired body was giving out, too drained to argue in vain with herself. Deep down, she knew. She knew that she had been powerless to stop it. That even the Dragonslayer had no hope to kill a God, and it was a childish thought to even entertain. That deep down, Mael himself knew he was marching to his death, but his Wyld Hunt drove him onward anyway.

Just like shackles and chain. Being pulled ever towards the gallows, with no ability to run. And yet, he shouldered his fate with a smile.

Even when she watched him grow bitter and jaded he always found it in himself to smile for her.

„...You did your best. That is more than enough.” Kas' lids fell shut, forcing out the last tear that still lingered in the corner of her vision. „He's proud of you. I know.”

Wherever he was. If he was... anywhere. She didn't have the heart nor the stomach to consider the full implications of Grenth leaving. When she next opened her eyes, her vision was swimming - and not because of the desert heat, which had long since given way to a brisk evening chill. Taimi seemed to have calmed down, and only the occasional quiet sniffle still registered on their shared frequency. The Meade sat down on a rock, fearing her own legs too feeble to keep her upright for long.

„...So, what do we do?” It was Rytlock who next broke the silence. „It's late and there may still be some Forged in the area. Wouldn't exactly want a bullet through the skull and an early ticket back to the Mists. Would hate to disappoint Commander like that.”

Again, he thought to add. He bit his tongue.

„...I'll stay here and get a breath of fresh air.” Canach sighed, the usual edge to his tone replaced by bitter, cold apathy. „If you want to go back to the ship, then go. I need to collect my thoughts.”

„I'll cloak us, just to be safe. Let Fidus know to post sentries and be on a lookout for trouble.” Exhaustion was not going to stop Kasmeer from being cautious, and this was simple magic, anyway. With a wave of her hand and reality rippling beneath her force, the top of the Spire was encased in an invisible bubble. Reflecting sight, just like a one way mirror. If anyone else wandered inside, she'd know.

In the end, none of them had it in themselves to go back - not yet. A quiet vigil for the fallen. For a leader. For a friend

It felt like several hours had passed. The night was silent and uneventful, an air of tranquility fallen over where tragedy had struck. Ash and dust long since scattered to the wind, there was scarcely a trace of the battle. Only charred foliage, cooled armor strewn about here and there, and three broken people trying to decide where to go from there. But the night, though quiet, held danger nonetheless. Teasing fate was a fool's errand in these lands.

„It's high time we move. I'll... get the body. Set a course for Amnoon.” The revenant spoke, and the airship's crew began preparations for takeoff. Kasmeer and Canach wordlessly nodded, their gazes following Rytlock as he walked up once again towards the center of the Spire.

...The very last thing Kasmeer Meade expected was to hear Rytlock holler her name with borderline panic in his voice.

„Uh, Kas?!”

„What is it?!” Both her and Canach were already running from the deck back to the plateau, weapons drawn and half prepared to find Forged come to hunt them down and finish what Balthazar started.

But Forged did not have blue eyes. Whatever stared back at them from the very center of the Spire was no soldier of Fire. A figure shrouded in shadow, darkness itself gathering where it stood to leave its features obscured and nigh unrecognizable. Stark blue eyes seemingly lost interest in gazing into Rytlock's own in favor of inspecting the sheet of gold-soaked cloth held in one hand.

„Get back!” The charr ignited Sohothin, wide arc of his sword a warning to both sides. „Where is the bo - where is he?!”

The stranger's head turned, shifting shadows offering a glimpse of white hair. Aether warped their words, like the Mists themselves speaking. „Rytlock...”

And yet, the sound of his name in their - in his lips was recognizeable beyond all doubt. „Kasmeer! What in the hells! Is this one of yours or am I going mad?!”

„What do you mean mine - you can't be - since when do I -” The mesmer was tripping over her words, staff clutched tightly. She could smell necromancy anywhere. Jory, and Mael - she's spent so long around them, but this felt familiar and different at the very same time. A darkness she knew well, but somehow wrong. A twisted image of Grenth's magic that sent alarms going off in her brain and overwhelmed her thoughts. That aura was oppressive.

„Is that...” Canach mouthed, incredulous.

„No. It's not.” Brimstone bared his fangs, tail lashing wildly against the ground. „I've been there. I know what lurks there. This isn't him. It's a demon.”

The figure's eyes seemed almost sad. He dismissed the notion.

„Grrraaaahh!!” With a mighty leap, he charged, fury burning in his eyes - challenging the reflection of the ghost fire that razed Ascalon. If this beast thought he'd let it defile the Commander's body, it was dead fucking wrong.

Split seconds before Sohothin could sink its fangs into a gap in darksteel armor, the stranger's chest opened. A jagged maw of teeth.

„Pale Mother!” Canach gasped, and Kasmeer covered her mouth. Taimi came online and hurled a hundred questions over the comms.

Their swords met with a spectral chime. Like a rung bell, living flame against one cold and dead. That strength. How did so much power fit in such a small, feeble sylvari body? The charr grit his teeth, air hissing past his brandished fangs. A deadlock.

„Rytlock! Stand down!” The stranger repeated, forcibly. The Tribune's mind flashed back to their last fight. Pain and rage seethed in jade orbs, muscles pushing with all their might against the single sword that halted his advance. „...No. I won't let you. You don't deceive me!”

Blue eyes that gazed from where gold had once been narrowed. „I thought I had made myself clear before, Tribune. I won't take no for an answer.”

A pulse of dark magic repelled Sohothin, forcing Rytlock back. His weight shifted dangerously, hind claws struggling to find purchase. Green orbs shot wide open - he was exposed, and the dark blade was more than capable of ending him right then and there.

So he focused, a last ditch-effort; With a mighty beat, crystalline wings sprouted from his back - the Dragon Prophet's own visage bursting from the Mists to lend him her strength.

And then she just... stopped. The Commander - the stranger's free hand was outstretched, and he felt every nerve in his body refuse to listen. „What in the...” Some blasted chains - wrapped around him, wrapped around even Glint before her fleeting facet dissipated.

He felt familiar magic swallow him in rosy light and he was yanked back, appearing in a portal next to Kasmeer. Her and Canach had both stepped forward to shield him with their bodies, but made no move to advance. Hesitating? Now, of all times..?! He was about to tell them off before he noticed that very same spell binding them in place, every fibre of their bodies frozen and helpless to the fates.

„Burn me! Rrraahh!!” He raged against his restraints, soul reaching out through the Mists to call for aid. Any aid. What was a charr to do to get some fucking reinforcements around these parts?! Glint, Jalis, even the blasted Shiro Tagachi or Mallyx, it made no difference. The voices in his head fell silent, unwilling or unable to manifest his magic. He was stuck, and this monster was going to kill them all.

Balthazar didn't even have to get his hands any dirtier and come finish the job. Some random fucking demon was all it took. I'm sorry, Commander. It seems I can't stop messing up.

But the killing blow did not come. The blade that emerged out of the portal mouth upon the bastard's chest simply went right back in like his body was some twisted scabbard. Split open by a God's wrath and this demon was hell-bent on making a mockery of even the Commander's death. What a joke.

„...Rytlock...”

„Stop it. Just, get it over with. I've some dignity to keep.” His fur stood on end, hearing that voice when he knew it wasn't real.

„If I wanted to, I would have done so already. Pale fucking Mother, Rytlock.”

The Shroud relented, and the shadows fell away. And so, they got a chance to see him, really see him, for themselves. No anger nor malice contorted his features. Only sadness. A deep, profound sadness in haunted eyes that extinguished the blue flame within to once again welcome gold. Those eyes that had once fallen dim and unseeing weren't fully dead. There was no light inside, not anymore, but... there was a spark, nonetheless. A sliver of cerulean that danced inside his pupils - just like the color of his glow, a stark contrast against the crimson they had come to know. And above all, he just looked so... tired.

„What's going on?!” Taimi was almost going into hysteria on the channel.

The chain magic dissolved, sending Rytlock stumbling a few steps forward. Some animalistic side begged him to charge again, but the desolate look within the Commander's eyes gave him pause. Similarly, Kasmeer and Canach made no move, staring with fear and worry at the scene unfolding before them. Mael - no, he couldn't let it deceive - was he..? - opened his arms, palms facing the starlit sky. Exposing his chest. Clad in some strange, new armor, seemingly spawned from the Mists just like the one worn by the Blood Tribune. A circle of magic spun slowly upon his sternum, remnants of blue fire easing into necromantic green.

„ ...That's Grenth's regalia. Like those given to the Seven Reapers.” Kas observed.

„It's Grenth who let me go back.” Maelmordha nodded at the mesmer, gratitude in amber orbs. His voice somber, but so unmistakably his. „Even in this state.”

The asura finally managed to shove herself back into the center of attention. Her words shot forth like machine gun fire inbetween panicked breaths. „Wait, w-wait wait wait - I DEMAND an explanation right now! If this is some sick prank I- I...”

Mael reached for his own device. Luckily, it was still in one piece. His tired smile was evident in his tone. „Hi, Taimi.”

„...Hi, Taimi? You almost DIE and „hi, Taimi” is all I get?! What's going on! You all said the Commander was dead! I flipping told you! I told you to check you - you -”

„I... I was dead, Taimi. But now I'm back.”

„Yeah, but that's not how „dead” works.”

„She makes a good point. You don't just go back to being alive like you go back to being your usual cranky self after a night of drinking. Kind of defeats the definition of „dead”, if anyone wants my opinion.” Canach interjected, sword lowered but not holstered. Skepticism in a gaze of violet framed by thorns. But also hope, try as he might to hide it. „...We checked, Commander, and you were very much no longer with us.”

„Here's the catch. I'm not alive.” The Commander let out a forlorn sigh, arms crossed over his back as he turned back around and slowly walked over to where his veil lay. He bent, once again taking it in a gloved hand - feeling the weight of his lifeblood.

„You're not?” The Secondborn raised a ridged brow. „I'm getting confused here. Is this some sort of last visitation to collect the money I owe you? ...Do you still need the money?”

„You're not?” Taimi repeated. „B-but... but.. buh...”

„Oh no...” Kasmeer seemed to realize the implications first.

„Listen.” The necromancer was back to doing what he did best. The party fell silent and focused on his words. „...I'm... still me. I've got this. I'm still the Commander. Still -”

That's right. Remember your name. It may well be the last thing that remains of you. He shivered.

„...Still Maelmordha.” The sylvari finally discarded the bloodied cloth from his grasp.

„Those damn teeth dare to disagree.” Rytlock growled, frustration bleeding through his words. Had he no fur to hide them, his knuckles would have been white with how tightly he gripped Sohothin. And yet, despite the anger, all the chaos within him, he silently prayed to legends and gods he did not believe in. „...What are you, really?”

„A lich.” With revulsion in his tone, the Commander answered. Even now, he felt the true weight of it all was lost on him. Too much to process all at once, too little time - this was a wound which would open later.

He stepped forward, eyes trained on Rytlock with such intensity the charr seemed to shrink back, uncertain. With one finger, the sylvari lifted the very tip of Sohothin. Angling its blazing spikes to face his sternum, as though knowing it would not strike him. „Which means killing me isn't going to stick. And the fire that took my life? Don't plan to let it burn me twice.”

„A lich..? Like Palawa Joko...? That makes no sense.” Kasmeer spoke up, hesitant and afraid. Had Maelmordha still a heart of his own, it would have shattered against the terror in her words. „Grenth doesn't approve of breaking the balance of Death. He wouldn't have -”

„There's one thing Grenth approves of even less than me breaking his and my own moral code, and that is Balthazar ravaging the Mists and ripping the souls of the dead right out to fill his Forged quota.” The Commander's voice was laced with venom. Before the Watch could blather on in circles for even longer, the fallen necromancer growled. „Listen! The bastard has Aurene.”

„We know...” Kasmeer replied, gaze somber. „He was taking her south toward Kralkatorrik when we arrived. We tried to stop him, but there were too many Forged.” The sheer wall of steel and fire cordoning off passage into the Desolation prevented the slightest notion of following the fallen God. Otherwise, they would have already done so.

„And I hate being the bearer of bad news, but it appears that Balthazar has managed to build up quite a formidable army.” Canach added, swordwhip crackling as though on cue at his side. So eager for violence, but its owner was not as hasty to a grave of his own.

„He does seem to make 'em faster than we can break 'em.” Rytlock bared his fangs, fist hitting the palm of his opposite paw.

„That's why we need an army of our own.” His trademark smirk was back, a devilish spark already dancing in his eyes. „I met someone in the Domain of the Lost who told me where I can borrow one.”

„Borrow”... an army?”

„Domain of the Lost?” The elder sylvari questioned, knowing he would likely not get an answer. „My, my, Commander, back from the dead and already scheming. It really is you.”

The occasional sniffling on the channel gave way to a happy giggle. „Yay, we have a plan!”

„Kas, have you got anything that can change our appearances?” Mael continued casually, as though he hadn't just suggested the most ridiculous idea known to Tyria.

„Yes, but nothing that can make the four of us look like an army.” Naturally, she was skeptical, and yet only waiting to hear just what kind of deranged plot they were pulling off next.

„It doesn't have to.” The Commander gave the verbal equivalent of a shrug. „It just needs to disguise us as someone else... after I secure our cover story.”

„Okay. I'll be standing by.” Setting her doubts aside, Lady Meade took a breath - getting ready to place her trust in this new version of her guildmaster. She wiped off her makeup-stained face, making room for a small smile. Blue orbs met gold, and she could feel his relief and gratitude. The necromancer offered a nod, and the mesmer returned it. Finally, things were going somewhere.

„And I'll be at the casino in Amnoon. If you can come back from the dead, I want to double my wager on you.” Canach smirked, that same sly look on his face he so often shared with his Commander. Mael simply nodded again, and the elder headed for the airship.

„Fine. I'll get word to you all when the time is right. For now, let's get the ship moving somewhere safe.” A brief scowl shadowed his features when he considered having a repeat of the prior conversation with Fidus and his crew. A man was scarcely allowed to come back without being asked questions, after all.

For the last time, he went back to where he had fallen - collecting the singed Thorn. Its bark was charred, leaves burnt - but even now, the Mother's holy magic was regenerating it steadily. He felt it recoil at his touch. The last vestige of the Dream inside his thoughts, all because the sword had simply become a part of him in its own, strange way. I'm so sorry, Caladbolg. How dirty he felt, but he forced himself to focus on Aurene. Visualize. Think. Remember. Even now, Nenah's words were fresh inside his mind. Remember why you did this. For whom.

Blue flickered in his gaze, and a single covert tear fell upon the Thorn's cracked surface. He rose from his knees, greatsword in hand.

A gravelly grumble finally pried him from his thoughts. Rytlock cast a side glance in his direction - meeting his gaze - before groaning and looking away in an almost sheepish manner. If not for the circumstances, he might have considered it cute.

„Oh, hey, Commander...” The charr mumbled, scratching the back of his mane. „Good to have you back.”

Maelmordha only smiled in response. It didn't quite reach his eyes, but his comrade wasn't paying heed.

#finally the wretched rewrite! enjoy if you'd like haha #guild wars 2 #gw2 #gw2 fanfic #gw2 fanfiction #gw2 fic #guild wars 2 fanfiction #gw2 pof #gw2 path of fire #pof spoilers #gw2 balthazar #gw2 commander #About the Commander #Maelmordha #Hounds to Hamartia #gw2 the departing

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partially-controlled-chaos · 2 months ago

Text

Think Nothing, Feel Nothing Ch. 3

Pairing: Lucanis Dellamorte/unnamed f!rook

Rating: G for now but will get bumped to M for later chapters

Warning: Hurt and very little comfort for a while. Eventual happy ending. Lucanis is absolutely feral in the first days Rook is gone.

Read below the cut or on AO3!

Hollow. Empty. Broken. Spite’s words cut like dull knives against Lucanis. Rook is. Gone. And you do. Nothing!

Sit and wait. Wait and weep. The demon circled the Crow sitting silently on the library lounge, snarling and growling like a feral dog. Lucanis sat hunched with his elbows resting atop his knees, his fingers loosely laced together as he stared at his boots. He could hear Spite, as he always could, but the words hurled at him meant nothing. Lucanis was too lost in his own self wallowing that even the never ending tirade of a demon wouldn’t reach him. Insults fell on deaf ears, which only angered Spite more with the lack of reaction.

Three days had passed since Rook simply vanished from their lives and Lucanis was no closer to finding her than he was to fulfilling the second half of his contract. Lucanis wasn’t a mage and he barely understood his situation with Spite, so understanding the intricacies that now kept Rook from him was beyond his understanding. He could offer no counsel to Emmrich and Bellara, who were doing a bulk of the research into her disappearance, and his usual kitchen duties had been hastily discarded and ignored. Why bother feeding himself to stay strong when he couldn’t protect Rook the first time? A grumbling stomach was hardly a fitting punishment for losing the one person he cared about, but it was a start.

He had sharpened his blades and mended his leathers, cleaned his boots, and even refilled his poison vials in the anticipation for a fight, but there was no fight to be had. Without knowing where Rook was or how to get her back, he and his weapons were not needed. Emmrich’s scrying had turned up no leads and the lack of news from their allies only told him that Rook was truly lost to him. Lucanis had mourned the loss of loved ones before, namely his parents, but this was a different type of sorrow. Something larger than he couldn’t understand and it was incessantly hungry. The pain gnawed his bones like a beast on a kill, sharp and unrelenting. The adrenaline he felt when he first regained consciousness had long since faded and had been replaced with something heavy and cold that sat deep in his chest and squeezed his heart with an iron grasp.

Useless! Spite screeched as he ducked under Lucanis’s drooped hands to meet his eye, fury blazing in the purple glow that belonged to the demon.

“That’s quite enough, Spite.” Emmrich scolded from across the library, his voice unusually firm and sharp. The necromancer glared in the general direction of the spirit over the rim of his glasses, which were perched precariously on the tip of his nose, and closed the book in his hand with a firm snap.

In a few short strides, Emmrich closed the distance between the bookcase he’d been standing by and the circular table seated in the middle of the room and placed his book down amidst the mess. The table top was covered in open books and scattered pages relating to anything and everything Emmrich thought might help the team find Rook. Lucanis glanced up for the first time in a while as Emmrich sat his spectacles beside the book and pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. His eyes closed as he let out a long exhale, exhaustion settling clearly on his face.

Mage works. You sit. Pathetic. Spite whispered against the shell of Lucanis’s ear, just out of earshot of Emmrich.

“You should rest, Emmrich.” Lucanis’s voice was hoarse with both fatigue and sorrow.

“Oh, I’m all right, Lucanis,” Emmrich said with a half smile as he reopened his eyes, “I actually believe I’m on the cusp something.” Spite and Lucanis both perked at Emmrich’s words.

You find. Rook? Lucanis was almost hopeful and Spite now hovered beside Emmrich’s legs.

“No, not quite,” Lucanis once again deflated, “but I am working with a theory on where she may have gone and how to-” The creaking of the library doors interrupted the conversation, pulling all eyes to the entrance.

Bellara slipped through the opening quietly, a tray of steaming tea, and coffee for Lucanis, in hand. She padded across the floor quickly as Emmrich cleared off a spot on the table for the tray. Taash was close behind her, holding another platter of roughly cut meats, cheeses, and crackers; which had quickly become the go-to dinner option in recent days. Lucanis had not stepped foot in the kitchen since returning from Tearstone Island and Bellara was often busy assisting Emmrich in theorizing with the professor late into the night about their current situation. With no one properly cooking, scraps and thrown together meals were what everyone survived on.

“We found food.” Taash said while setting down their tray beside Bellara’s, snatching a few pieces of meat and cheese before sitting in their usual chair.

“Oh how delightful,” Emmrich said as he began to pour himself a cup of tea, “thank you both.”

“I know it’s not quite how you make it, Lucanis, but I thought you might like a cup. I know tea isn’t really your drink.” Bellara said with a half smile as she handed him the singular cup of fresh coffee.

“Thank you, Bellara.” He said quietly as he took the cup from her grasp, staring into the inky, black liquid. The scent of the brew was familiar, but the usual comfort associated with it was absent.

To be polite, Lucanis took a small sip of the drink before simply holding the cup in his hands. The coffee tasted just fine, much to his surprise, but he had no desire to finish the cup. Truthfully, he had refrained from the drink since the team returned from the battle against Ghilan’nain. With Rook gone, he didn’t want to stay awake. He preferred to spend his time in a dreamless sleep with nothing but a black void to wade through. Blank nothingness was better than a world without Rook.

“Have you heard anything from the Mourn Watch, Professor?” Bellara asked softly as she took a seat beside Lucanis on the couch, “Or any of the spirits?” He voice was calm, but her fingers tapped rapidly against her teacup.

“I’m afraid not, Bellara.” Emmrich sighed as he sat in his usual high backed chair, a cup of tea in hand. “Although I’ve sent word of Rook’s disappearance to Myrna and Vorgoth and they’ve promised to alert me immediately if they find anything.”

“Taash?” Bellara’s voice was small and feigned hopefulness, as if she already knew the answer to her next question before the words had left her lips, “What about the Lords? Have they found anything?”

“No.” Taash said flatly, tearing into a piece of cured meat with the flat of their teeth, “Isabella hasn’t seen her since the last time we had drinks at The Hilt. She’s got some of the others looking on the beaches and in the ruins.”

“I haven’t heard from the Veil Jumpers either. I was hoping that they might have seen something because of all the weird magic, but Strife says it’s nothing new.”

Silence fell over the room as the group waited for Lucanis to report in with news from the Crows, but he had none. In truth, Lucanis hadn’t yet told the other Talons of Rook’s vanishing. They would have so many questions, all of which he lacked answers to, and he didn’t have it in him to retell the story of his failure to protect Rook. He didn’t want to listen to Viago’s ire as he began to rant about missing information and losing allies. He couldn’t stomach the pity and the hand to his shoulder he knew he would get from Teia. If he had to look at the smug look that would grace Illario’s face he couldn’t promise himself that he wouldn’t brutally murder his cousin on the floor of the Cantori Diamond. But most importantly, he knew he wouldn’t be able to face Caterina, who had warned him against becoming too close to Rook. There would be no sympathy from her, only an intense look of satisfaction.

Before Lucanis could answer, heavy footsteps and a familiar series of squawks ascended the staircase leading from the eluvian room. Davrin rounded the top of the stairs, pausing just briefly at seeing the library full. Continuing his stride, he made his way to the empty spot beside Rook’s chair, a single piece of parchment clutched tightly in his fist. He raised the parchment into the air before finally speaking.

“I just spoke with Antoine and Evka,” he said with a huff as he tried to steady his breath, “they have news from the Wardens in Minrathous.” Assan circled at Davrin’s feet and Lucanis wasn’t entirely sure if the griffon was excited or anxious.

“They have word on Rook?” Lucanis asked, the words spilling from his mouth almost frantically, “They’ve seen her?”

“No,” Davrin said, almost reluctantly, “Minrathous is under attack. Blight is taking over and the gates to the city have been sealed. Rumor has it that the Archon’s palace has been overrun by Venatori. Some of the Wardens we helped in Dock Town managed to send notice to those remaining in Lavendel before everything was shut down.”

“It’s Elgar’nan!” Bellara shouted as she stood from her seat, suddenly overflowing with anxious energy. To avoid a spill, she sat her teacup down and buzzed with energy.

“That’s not all.” Davrin tossed the parchment he was holding onto the table, “The Wardens in Minrathous wrote that they saw an elf leading a group of rebels against Elgar’nan in the city. Bald and dressed in armor and wielding some pretty powerful magic. Carrying a big, shiny dagger to boot.”

Lucanis bristled at Davrin’s words, his fists flenching until his knuckles were white. Taking a glance around the room, the answer was obvious. Rook had uncovered a handful of murals depicting various pieces of the Dread Wolf’s past and they had even heard those histories unfold from whatever arcane magic was held within the wolf statues. Solas’s image was painted all throughout the murals and Lucanis didn’t need to see him in person to know that he was the one that had been seen in Minrathous.

“Solas.” Spite and Lucanis issued in unison, Lucanis’s sorrow quickly turning to a deep rage.

“Isn’t he supposed to be trapped in the Fade?” Taash asked while finishing off their meal, using the back of their hand to wipe any crumbs off their lips.

“That’s what I thought.” Davrin grumbled as he took his seat beside Taash. Assan followed, but stopped to sniff and bite at the food on display before being ushered away.

“But how did he get the dagger?” Bellara asked as she once again sat herself on the lounge, “Solas needs it to tear down the veil and Rook would never give it to Solas.” Her voice was low, almost threatening. The implications of Bellara’s words hit Lucanis in the chest, and he shook away the feeling as best as he could before it settled.

“We’ve seen what Solas can do. We’ve seen him lie and charm people into getting what he wants.” Davrin offered, “He killed Mythal, his closest friend, to steal her power. You think he wouldn’t kill Rook to get what he wanted? Especially after she disrupted his ritual?”

Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Spite chanted beside Lucanis, the demon hungry for violence.

Lucanis couldn’t deny that he shared Spite’s desire for retribution against Solas. God or not, it was clear to him now that he was the reason behind Rook’s disappearance. The right to kill Zara had been taken from him when her neck was within his reach, but the right to kill Solas for hurting Rook would not be taken from him. In the privacy of his quarters in the pantry, he and Spite would come to an agreement on the matter, but for now he knew that they both had Solas in their crosshairs. His death would not be clean or neat. It would not showcase the work of a master assassin. But it would cruel and bloody and most definitely the work of The Demon of Vyrantium.

“Or he simply took Rook’s place.” Emmrich’s voice cut through the darkness that had begun to swallow Lucanis’s mind, temporarily breaking away from the desires brewing in his chest. “I’ve been ruminating about the matter for quite some time and I have reason to believe that Solas, through the use of magic and his own talents of manipulation, was able to trade places with Rook. Effectively trapping her within the Fade so he may walk free among the physical world once again.” Eyes were drawn to Emmrich as he stood from his chair, placing his cold cup of tea on the table before him.

“You mean put he put her in the same box he’s been stuck in? The one for gods?” Taash asked.

“I believe so, yes.” Emmrich replied.

“That’s vashedan,” they scoffed, “Rook isn’t a god. How do you put a not-god in a cage for gods? It’s messed up if he did.”

“Regret, I’m afraid.” Emmrich sighed. He began to pace at the head of the table, his hands moving with his speech as if he was teaching one of his necromancy courses at the Necropolis. “Think about it for a moment, all of you, if you will. Regret is all around us. Solas’s murals and statues showcase and highlight the regrets in his life and I believe that this is what kept him in the Fade.” He gestured to the murals and accompanying statues that littered the main hall.

Solas was angered that Mythal and Elgar’nan fought a war just to seize the title of godhood for themselves. Felt remorse for releasing the Blight by using the blood of titans to create physical form. He even regretted killing the essence of Mythal to take her power for himself. All were powerful moments in time that would cut deep into the conscious of anyone, but Emmrich believed that they weighed so heavily on Solas that it formed his own prison and held the key to finding Rook.

“I believe that his inability to work through his remorse is what kept him locked away behind the Veil after his ritual attempt. And under normal circumstances, he would be left with no ability to influence the world outside the Fade just like how Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain were dormant for so long. However, his only connection to the world outside was Rook.” Emmrich continued pacing, excitement building in his voice as he came to the crux of his discovery, “And, correct me if I’m wrong, but she is the only one of us who can hear him. She is the only one with that mental connection, but what connected them? Hm?”

“Blood magic.” Lucanis growled.

He, of all people, should have known right away that Rook was being manipulated by blood magic. The increased itch behind his eyes whenever he stepped foot in her room, Spite bristling when Rook mentioned speaking with Solas, even the icy feel that ran down his back when Solas spoke directly to her in Arlathan. How could he be so blind to something so obvious? It’s something he should have seen ages ago. Perhaps if he had noticed it sooner, Rook would still be here.

“Yes! That’s it! Precisely!” Emmrich quickly stifled the excitement of his discovery, remembering just why it was necessary at all, and smoothed his hands over his waistcoat.

“Neve said that Rook hit her head during the ritual. She was in the infirmary for a day or so with a wound.” Bellara interjected, to which Lucanis continued.

“If Rook spilled blood at the ritual site, then it’s how Solas was able to connect to her.” He grimaced at the thought of Rook having the god of lies having access to her blood, memories of the Ossuary returning to the front of his mind. “It wasn’t enough for total control, but enough to let him get in her head.”

“Lied to. Rook.” His voice mingled with Spite’s momentarily before quieting down again.

“Indeed. Shaping her thoughts and actions to suit his needs when she could go to him for counsel. And I believe he has shaped her in a way that couldn’t allow her to let go of her regrets.” Emmrich returned to his seat, thoroughly proud with his discovery.

“What does Rook have to regret? I thought she wanted to do this?” Davrin knitted his brows together as he looked to Emmrich for answers.

“She did,” Bellara said quietly, “…but Neve said that she felt so guilty over what happened to Varric. She hated knowing he was hurt because of her call.”

“And Harding.” Taash added, “Rook watched her die. She was only up there because Rook sent her to distract Ghilan’nain. She must have felt bad about that.” There was no anger in their voice, but everyone could feel their sadness as they mentioned Harding. Lucanis could see how it would be easy for Rook to blame herself.

“She never forgave herself for the dragon attack in Minrathous.” Lucanis added solemnly, remembering the numerous nights he’d spent awake with Rook in the dining hall when she’d wake up from a nightmare.

“And so, it is with those regrets that Rook was able to be molded in such a way that was so effective, that when the Fade was torn open when Lucanis killed Ghilan’nain, Solas was able to step forth into our reality and trap Rook in his when she touched the dagger.” Emmrich added softly.

“Oh, I knew you’d figure it out professor!” Bellara shouted with glee, reaching over to pat Emmrich on the top of his hand.

As much as he hated the idea of Rook being trapped in the Fade by the god of lies, it did give him a glimmer of hope that Rook was alive. For days, the idea that Rook was dead had been gnawing at the back of his mind and he had to make a conscious effort to banish the idea from his thoughts. They had already tempted fate once and lost; he didn’t want to manifest something else into existence. But, the hope was short lived the more he thought about the logistics of living in pure Fade. Rook was mortal, indomitable, but mortal. Just flesh and blood and bone who needed certain things to survive. Food, water, and shelter were all things she required, but he didn’t think a Fade prison would provide.

Rook had already been stuck in the Fade for several days and Lucanis knew that alone teetered on the edge of how long someone could go without the bare necessities of survival. She needed out and out now. The team, namely Emmrich, had discovered what happened to Rook and perhaps where to find her, but the question of how to pull her back out of the Fade remained unanswered.

“But how do we get her out?” Lucanis asked, a hint of desperation lacing his words.

“We will have no chance of getting into the Fade without that dagger.” Emmrich answered, “It’s the only tool we know of that can pierce the veil.”

“So we go after Solas directly.” Davrin said firmly, “Use the Eluvians to get to Minrathous. The gates to the city may be closed, but we have a direct line into the city at our fingertips. Go in, find Solas, and either take the dagger from him or kill the bastard out right.” Assasn’s head wobbled with excitement with Davrin’s confidence, the griffon ready to set out for battle.

“Preferably both.” Lucanis muttered.

Admittedly, he wasn’t thrilled with the idea of confronting Solas or taking on Minrathous without Rook, but Emmrich was certain in his theories. They had no alternative means of freeing Rook from Solas’s prison of regret and he knew they needed to get her out as quickly as possible. They needed to confront Solas, but they also needed time to prepare.

“Then it’s agreed,” Emmrich said has he stood, clasping his hands in front of him, “tomorrow we head to Minrathous. Use this time to rest and prepare yourselves.” Emmrich was speaking to everyone, but the exhaustion on his face was evident.

“Thank you, Emmrich. For everything.” Lucanis said softly. The necromancer responded with a small, but tired, smile.

“I’d gladly do it again, Lucanis. Rook it’s important to us all, as is Neve.” Turning to the rest of the group, Emmrich continued, “Now let’s be off. Tomorrow promises to be a most crucial of days. Rest well.” With a series of nods, the team began to disperse to their usual corners of the Lighthouse, preparing to face the two remaining elven gods and find Rook. Lucanis stood from the lounge and promptly made his way towards the pantry, ready to make another deal with his demon.

#Lucanis dellamorte #spite Dellamorte #lucanis x f!rook #lucanis/rook #rookanis #dragon age the veilguard #datv #datv fanfiction #Davrin #Taash #bellara lutare #emmrich volkarin #hurt/very little comfort #angst #eventual happy ending #good GOD this chapter took me forever

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