- Location
- United States
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Stay
Dead Engines
- Thread starter Winged Knight
- Start date
- Original Fantasy
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Stay
Idly, are you familiar with The Locked Tomb book series? There's some overlap (necromancy, So Much Grief), and I was wondering if it was an influence or inspiration (and for everyone else, please. read them. they're So Fucking Good).
Idly, are you familiar with The Locked Tomb book series? There's some overlap (necromancy, So Much Grief), and I was wondering if it was an influence or inspiration (and for everyone else, please. read them. they're So Fucking Good).
Winged Knight
Still just a crazy man with a wolf on his head
- Location
- Texas
I am, and I won't deny the Locked Tomb has inspired a little of how I've gone about setting up this world. But the overall idea of Dead Engines was in my head before I ever picked up that series. This is something I've mulled over for a few years now, percolating in the back of my mind as I worked on publishing my first book and going through the various drafts of the second. If all goes well, I hope to also publish some version of this story.
- Location
- New York
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Stay
The Fate of Empire
Winged Knight
Still just a crazy man with a wolf on his head
- Location
- Texas
[X] Stay
For a brief, terrible moment you are torn between the urge to stay and the urge to flee. Your breathing quickens, drawing forth a fresh wave of pain from your chest that I must push down lest you send yourself into another fit of convalescence. This woman… You want to reach out to her. You want to push her away. This and so many other conflicting drives assail you as the world seems to spin in a wild tumble leaving you unable to right yourself.
How must Fatima see you? The thought manages to push through the cacophony in your mind. Bone thin, malnourished and weary, you must seem more like a rabid animal backed into a corner than a human being. Not like her, tall and strong as ever.
A spike of envy, cold and toxic, pierces through even as shame pushes it down. It is unworthy of her. It is unworthy of anything good in this world. But even smothered by guilt you cannot deny its existence. That you have suffered so much, have given so completely, to which your only rewards have been failure and misery. All while this woman stands hale and healthy to look down at you.
"We were worried you might not wake up," Fatima continues, still smiling that sad smile. But there is care and love, as well. Care and love for you, for what you both shared. That voice, soft yet firm, reminds you of better days and quells the bitterness flowering within your breast. "Ellowyn assured us it was only a matter of time, but I've been checking in on you daily just to be sure."
Checking in on you… In this secret place, so tenderly cared for, it would be Fatima's own hands that would feed you. It would be her own hands that would wash your ruined flesh as I set myself to the task of putting you back together. She must have been so careful, taking such a risk. Everything she has worked for would be in jeopardy, her political aspirations and even her very freedom, because for lingering affection she took you in when she could have left you to die.
Envy flares once more, edging ever so close to hatred, and then dies completely as you break.
This is too much. You are falling, fading into yourself and the endless ocean of anguish inside. The world focuses on a single point, on Fatima's face, as you spill forward to crawl toward her on your hands and knees. Tears trail down your cheeks, mixing with the blood still dribbling down your chin, but none of it matters. None of it means anything in the face of this woman who you loved so dearly and failed nearly as much as you did your daughter.
"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"Randall…"
"I lost her," you croak in a voice like what its left of your spirit scraping against your throat, the pain of its clenching tearing fresh gashes to send yet more blood tumbling from your lips. "I lost Kendra. I lost our daughter. I'm so sorry."
With trembling hands you embrace her. You cannot stand, and your grip is feeble, but even still you lock your fingers together with your arms around her waist. Fatima tenses at the contact, but relaxes as you cry into her shirt. She rests a hand on your head, stroking your hair, as you weep for all that has been taken and for all that never was.
You do not know how long you remain this way, holding on to her as if she were the last remaining rope to pull you out of dark waters. It must be for a long time, however, for when you finally manage to take stock of the world outside of your grasp upon Fatima you realize she has led you back to the bed. Your head is in her lap, her hand still gently stroking your hair.
Fatima looks down at you, and asks, "Are you back with me?"
"I… Yes," you say. "Yes, I think I am."
"Good," she says, looking away from you. "Good."
Silence stretches, but it is a comfortable silence. You do not get up from Fatima's lap, and she does not force you away. It reminds you of better times, when you were both young and in love before everything fell apart as you both found there was not enough to maintain the connection. You would rest on her, or her on you, or you would both simply hold each other in your arms.
She smells vaguely floral. It is a familiar scent, that of the shampoo she uses to wash her hair. Fatima has never been one for perfume, but for all her efforts at moving amongst the masses of humanity for her political career she still enjoys staying clean. You used to be similar, before your daughter was taken. Now, though…
Now you have trudged through garbage and filth, the waste of an empire, all to get Kendra back. Suddenly, you are overtaken with the sensation that you are an impure thing. That you are dirtying Fatima just by touching her. You tense, wanting to pull away, but Fatima's other hand is firm on your shoulder and keeps you in place.
"I must admit," Fatima says at last, still looking away. A smile curls the edges of her lips."It's a bit disheartening that you seem closer with a dead woman than you ever were with me."
You laugh, and the terrible dread that your presence is contaminating Fatima slowly fades. It is good to laugh. You have almost forgotten how, so consumed by hardship. Even when you break into another coughing fit, you cannot help but smile along with this woman who means so much to you.
"You've been talking with Ellowyn, then?"
"I have," she replies. "She's told us a little of your exploits over the last three years. It's answered some lingering questions."
"Us?"
"Yes, us," Fatima says, looking back to you. "I've been working with a group of like-minded people."
"To what end?"
"Revolution, of course. Or, at the very least, overthrowing the government."
Slowly, you push yourself up to a sitting position and stare at her. Fatima maintains your gaze, cheer and relaxation replaced with an expression like steel. The narrowing of her eyes, the set of her jaw… You saw this expression many times before, and after, you married her.
"For Kendra?" you ask. "You would do all this for her?"
"For her, and for so many others."
More silence, this time laced with tension. It is not uncomfortable, however, but rather feels full of potential. This is a moment of choice, a moment between you and this woman who you still care so much for and who seems to feel similarly. How many such moments have you squandered, so full of fear and doubt? How many moments has she waited for an answer from you that you could never push yourself to give?
But things are different now. There is nowhere left to run, nowhere left to hide. There is only what you decide to do, and what you are prepared to sacrifice, in order to see your daughter free.
"I would like to meet these people you are working with."
Fatima smiles, and says,"All right."
You are led, slowly and leaning on Fatima's shoulder, to the sitting room. The effort takes almost everything you have, and you are out of breath by the time she sits you down on the couch. The room smells of sweetly of hickory and is not especially large, one wall filled with a fireplace and two others with bookshelves. Across the floor is a rug set with geometric patterns, and a low table rests before the couch. Above the fireplace is a pendulum clock, gently ticking away.
A maid, you do not know her name, comes with broth and soft bread, while Fatima sets off to summon her colleagues. You take great care in eating, dunking the bread in the broth and taking small bites to avoid upsetting your stomach. Even with this there are moments you have to stop and let the food settle lest you risk vomiting again, and the broth is cold by the time you finish your meal hours later.
But despite the effort, you find yourself fortified as people begin to arrive. First is a man of military bearing, no matter that he is out of uniform. His posture is sign enough, standing rigidly straight. He comes in from the front door with Fatima, the two standing comfortably close as they wait for the others to make their way over. Fatima touches his hand, very briefly, and the military man's stoic demeanor breaks just slightly as he smiles at her and she smiles back.
That hurts, just a little, but it is a dull ache of opportunity long since lost. You and Fatima went your separate ways over ten years ago, acknowledging differences that you could not then reconcile. Was she to wait for you? Put her life on hold until you could finally bring yourself to support her in the ways she needed?
No. The very idea is ridiculous. Time has passed, and the both of you have changed. There are more important matters to dedicate your dwindling reserves to than regret and jealousy over what new life your ex-wife might have found for herself.
Everything else is secondary to seeing Kendra free.
The others do not come in from the front door, but rather up from the basement. A young woman with short brown hair and green eyes, her face set in a scowl, is accompanied by a man in overalls with red hair and eyes the same color. For his part, his expression seems set in perpetual amusement.
Finally, there comes a terribly thin man with balding hair and a nervous demeanor. His eyes dart this way and that, as if expecting attack at any moment, and his hands never seem to stop wringing. Even when tea and coffee is served for each of you, his fingers do not stop their constant motion.
"Forgive me if we are not forthcoming with our names," the military man says. "Even just seeing our faces is a risk, Mr. Dunstan, and this is a sensitive time."
"I imagine so," you reply. "What with my burning down what I believe was a central hub of Alba's intelligence apparatus."
Everyone in the room stares at you. In response, you pick up your tea and with effort manage to bring it to your lips without spilling it over yourself. The broth and bread really have done you a world of good, and in a few days you might even be ready to do more than stumble around Fatima's house.
"So you're the cause of all the ruckus, then?" The man in overalls says with a grin. "Been a hectic few months, thanks to you."
"Details," the young woman says. "We need details."
"Yes," the military man says. "Please, Mr. Dunstan, if you could tell us what you know then we would be most appreciative."
You tell them everything. You speak of your flight from Aidric when he came for you in the night, of fleeing into the sewers where you lived like an animal until you found my tomb. You speak of our pact, and show the todstein jewelry that binds us. You speak of three years searching for the Kordian Engine, of the two senators you killed along the way, and of the battle against Margaret Zeal before the Everlasting Senate's forces sent us tumbling into the river.
Their expressions shift from ones of sympathy to horror, before finally settling on wary consideration. They are measuring you, taking stock of your words. It almost makes you laugh, weak and weary as you are, that these people might consider you dangerous. But what other conclusion could they come to, listening to our story?
The air is heavy when you finish, shadows growing long behind the curtained windows as the day turns and night approaches. You lean back into the couch, getting what rest you can to husband your strength. The only sound is of the clock, measuring time that has become so precious as you close your eyes.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. The seconds while away as they stare, trying to make sense of you. But how could they? Determined and dedicated though they may be, for none can consider rebellion otherwise, the lengths you have gone to must at best border on madness in their eyes. To wear yourself down until so little remains, merely bone and gristle fading away into dust… How many of them would go to such lengths?
Only one you can say for sure. Only Fatima. You have both grieved over what has happened to your daughter, connecting as only parents can when their child is in pain. For Kendra you would do anything. You both would.
The military man says, "Does that alleviate your concerns?"
"Yes," the thin, nervous man replies. "Yes, it does."
Differences between members of the group. Unsurprising, but also potentially dangerous in endeavors such as insurrection. One must be careful when moving against great power lest its gaze be turned upon them. And where the attention falls, soon follows the closed fist.
"Mr. Dunstan," the young woman says. "Are you aware of how long you've been unconscious?"
You open your eyes. "Some time, I imagine."
"A little under five weeks," the military man says. "During which there has been a great deal of movement."
"We've been getting things going," the man in overalls says. "There'll be protests in all the big cities for the Great Winter Festival. We convinced General Ernest Crawford to throw his lot in with us, and with him we're hoping to ride popular will into dissolving the Senate."
"There can be no victory so long as the Possessed exist," you say. "The systems of our society are built around the old and wealthy, and none are older or more wealthy than the Possessed. Too many will defer to them, and that means civil war."
"These are all concerns we've had as well, but a certain amount of violence is simply unavoidable," the military man replies. "Our best hope is to move quickly and arrest them before they can properly mobilize. With luck, that will keep the fighting to a minimum."
"They're too powerful," you say back, leaning forward and only just managing not to fall off the couch. You settle you hands on your knees to steady yourself. "Stronger than any single necromancer. Some will escape, and in doing so rally loyalists in the army to their cause."
"And you propose?"
"The Kordian Engine sustains them," you say. "So we must take that away."
More silence. More staring. Idly, you wonder just how often you're going to surprise these people. Everyone but Fatima, at any rate. Her expression does not change. Still, you would have figured revolutionaries would be made of sterner stuff.
But then again, Alba is all they have ever known. It's all you have ever known as well, but you've long since given up on caring about that. For all these people realize the Alban empire is rotten and in desperate need of substantial change, they still care to maintain something of its shape. You do not.
Let it all burn if it must. Your daughter will be free.
"Alba depends on the Engine," the skinny man says, his knuckles white as he grips his hands. "Undead labor works the fields, the factories. Without that…"
He doesn't need to finish the sentence. You all know what will happen if the Kordian Engine, my Engine, stops releasing the abundance of necromantic power that Alba has enjoyed for so long. Production will grind to a halt. There will be shortages of everything, and people will suffer until alternatives can be made.
But it is necessary. You know it is necessary, and I am in agreement with you. The Engine must be destroyed. So long as it exists, as it releases its bounty to suffuse the Empire in the essence of death, then the spirits of the dead will rise and the Possessed will continue. Even if those in power now are deposed, all that has come before will come again.
You must convince them of this truth. Or, assuming they cannot accept this, then you must lie to them. You can say the Engine need only be shut down for a short time so the Possessed fade away. Anything to gain their help in reaching the Engine so we might destroy it.
As you observe the assembled conspirators, all of which save Fatima look at you like a beast who might attack at the slightest provocation, you know you must make a choice.
[] Try to convince them of the necessity of the Engine's destruction.
[] Attempt deception, claiming the Engine need only be stopped for a short time.
For a brief, terrible moment you are torn between the urge to stay and the urge to flee. Your breathing quickens, drawing forth a fresh wave of pain from your chest that I must push down lest you send yourself into another fit of convalescence. This woman… You want to reach out to her. You want to push her away. This and so many other conflicting drives assail you as the world seems to spin in a wild tumble leaving you unable to right yourself.
How must Fatima see you? The thought manages to push through the cacophony in your mind. Bone thin, malnourished and weary, you must seem more like a rabid animal backed into a corner than a human being. Not like her, tall and strong as ever.
A spike of envy, cold and toxic, pierces through even as shame pushes it down. It is unworthy of her. It is unworthy of anything good in this world. But even smothered by guilt you cannot deny its existence. That you have suffered so much, have given so completely, to which your only rewards have been failure and misery. All while this woman stands hale and healthy to look down at you.
"We were worried you might not wake up," Fatima continues, still smiling that sad smile. But there is care and love, as well. Care and love for you, for what you both shared. That voice, soft yet firm, reminds you of better days and quells the bitterness flowering within your breast. "Ellowyn assured us it was only a matter of time, but I've been checking in on you daily just to be sure."
Checking in on you… In this secret place, so tenderly cared for, it would be Fatima's own hands that would feed you. It would be her own hands that would wash your ruined flesh as I set myself to the task of putting you back together. She must have been so careful, taking such a risk. Everything she has worked for would be in jeopardy, her political aspirations and even her very freedom, because for lingering affection she took you in when she could have left you to die.
Envy flares once more, edging ever so close to hatred, and then dies completely as you break.
This is too much. You are falling, fading into yourself and the endless ocean of anguish inside. The world focuses on a single point, on Fatima's face, as you spill forward to crawl toward her on your hands and knees. Tears trail down your cheeks, mixing with the blood still dribbling down your chin, but none of it matters. None of it means anything in the face of this woman who you loved so dearly and failed nearly as much as you did your daughter.
"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"Randall…"
"I lost her," you croak in a voice like what its left of your spirit scraping against your throat, the pain of its clenching tearing fresh gashes to send yet more blood tumbling from your lips. "I lost Kendra. I lost our daughter. I'm so sorry."
With trembling hands you embrace her. You cannot stand, and your grip is feeble, but even still you lock your fingers together with your arms around her waist. Fatima tenses at the contact, but relaxes as you cry into her shirt. She rests a hand on your head, stroking your hair, as you weep for all that has been taken and for all that never was.
You do not know how long you remain this way, holding on to her as if she were the last remaining rope to pull you out of dark waters. It must be for a long time, however, for when you finally manage to take stock of the world outside of your grasp upon Fatima you realize she has led you back to the bed. Your head is in her lap, her hand still gently stroking your hair.
Fatima looks down at you, and asks, "Are you back with me?"
"I… Yes," you say. "Yes, I think I am."
"Good," she says, looking away from you. "Good."
Silence stretches, but it is a comfortable silence. You do not get up from Fatima's lap, and she does not force you away. It reminds you of better times, when you were both young and in love before everything fell apart as you both found there was not enough to maintain the connection. You would rest on her, or her on you, or you would both simply hold each other in your arms.
She smells vaguely floral. It is a familiar scent, that of the shampoo she uses to wash her hair. Fatima has never been one for perfume, but for all her efforts at moving amongst the masses of humanity for her political career she still enjoys staying clean. You used to be similar, before your daughter was taken. Now, though…
Now you have trudged through garbage and filth, the waste of an empire, all to get Kendra back. Suddenly, you are overtaken with the sensation that you are an impure thing. That you are dirtying Fatima just by touching her. You tense, wanting to pull away, but Fatima's other hand is firm on your shoulder and keeps you in place.
"I must admit," Fatima says at last, still looking away. A smile curls the edges of her lips."It's a bit disheartening that you seem closer with a dead woman than you ever were with me."
You laugh, and the terrible dread that your presence is contaminating Fatima slowly fades. It is good to laugh. You have almost forgotten how, so consumed by hardship. Even when you break into another coughing fit, you cannot help but smile along with this woman who means so much to you.
"You've been talking with Ellowyn, then?"
"I have," she replies. "She's told us a little of your exploits over the last three years. It's answered some lingering questions."
"Us?"
"Yes, us," Fatima says, looking back to you. "I've been working with a group of like-minded people."
"To what end?"
"Revolution, of course. Or, at the very least, overthrowing the government."
Slowly, you push yourself up to a sitting position and stare at her. Fatima maintains your gaze, cheer and relaxation replaced with an expression like steel. The narrowing of her eyes, the set of her jaw… You saw this expression many times before, and after, you married her.
"For Kendra?" you ask. "You would do all this for her?"
"For her, and for so many others."
More silence, this time laced with tension. It is not uncomfortable, however, but rather feels full of potential. This is a moment of choice, a moment between you and this woman who you still care so much for and who seems to feel similarly. How many such moments have you squandered, so full of fear and doubt? How many moments has she waited for an answer from you that you could never push yourself to give?
But things are different now. There is nowhere left to run, nowhere left to hide. There is only what you decide to do, and what you are prepared to sacrifice, in order to see your daughter free.
"I would like to meet these people you are working with."
Fatima smiles, and says,"All right."
You are led, slowly and leaning on Fatima's shoulder, to the sitting room. The effort takes almost everything you have, and you are out of breath by the time she sits you down on the couch. The room smells of sweetly of hickory and is not especially large, one wall filled with a fireplace and two others with bookshelves. Across the floor is a rug set with geometric patterns, and a low table rests before the couch. Above the fireplace is a pendulum clock, gently ticking away.
A maid, you do not know her name, comes with broth and soft bread, while Fatima sets off to summon her colleagues. You take great care in eating, dunking the bread in the broth and taking small bites to avoid upsetting your stomach. Even with this there are moments you have to stop and let the food settle lest you risk vomiting again, and the broth is cold by the time you finish your meal hours later.
But despite the effort, you find yourself fortified as people begin to arrive. First is a man of military bearing, no matter that he is out of uniform. His posture is sign enough, standing rigidly straight. He comes in from the front door with Fatima, the two standing comfortably close as they wait for the others to make their way over. Fatima touches his hand, very briefly, and the military man's stoic demeanor breaks just slightly as he smiles at her and she smiles back.
That hurts, just a little, but it is a dull ache of opportunity long since lost. You and Fatima went your separate ways over ten years ago, acknowledging differences that you could not then reconcile. Was she to wait for you? Put her life on hold until you could finally bring yourself to support her in the ways she needed?
No. The very idea is ridiculous. Time has passed, and the both of you have changed. There are more important matters to dedicate your dwindling reserves to than regret and jealousy over what new life your ex-wife might have found for herself.
Everything else is secondary to seeing Kendra free.
The others do not come in from the front door, but rather up from the basement. A young woman with short brown hair and green eyes, her face set in a scowl, is accompanied by a man in overalls with red hair and eyes the same color. For his part, his expression seems set in perpetual amusement.
Finally, there comes a terribly thin man with balding hair and a nervous demeanor. His eyes dart this way and that, as if expecting attack at any moment, and his hands never seem to stop wringing. Even when tea and coffee is served for each of you, his fingers do not stop their constant motion.
"Forgive me if we are not forthcoming with our names," the military man says. "Even just seeing our faces is a risk, Mr. Dunstan, and this is a sensitive time."
"I imagine so," you reply. "What with my burning down what I believe was a central hub of Alba's intelligence apparatus."
Everyone in the room stares at you. In response, you pick up your tea and with effort manage to bring it to your lips without spilling it over yourself. The broth and bread really have done you a world of good, and in a few days you might even be ready to do more than stumble around Fatima's house.
"So you're the cause of all the ruckus, then?" The man in overalls says with a grin. "Been a hectic few months, thanks to you."
"Details," the young woman says. "We need details."
"Yes," the military man says. "Please, Mr. Dunstan, if you could tell us what you know then we would be most appreciative."
You tell them everything. You speak of your flight from Aidric when he came for you in the night, of fleeing into the sewers where you lived like an animal until you found my tomb. You speak of our pact, and show the todstein jewelry that binds us. You speak of three years searching for the Kordian Engine, of the two senators you killed along the way, and of the battle against Margaret Zeal before the Everlasting Senate's forces sent us tumbling into the river.
Their expressions shift from ones of sympathy to horror, before finally settling on wary consideration. They are measuring you, taking stock of your words. It almost makes you laugh, weak and weary as you are, that these people might consider you dangerous. But what other conclusion could they come to, listening to our story?
The air is heavy when you finish, shadows growing long behind the curtained windows as the day turns and night approaches. You lean back into the couch, getting what rest you can to husband your strength. The only sound is of the clock, measuring time that has become so precious as you close your eyes.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. The seconds while away as they stare, trying to make sense of you. But how could they? Determined and dedicated though they may be, for none can consider rebellion otherwise, the lengths you have gone to must at best border on madness in their eyes. To wear yourself down until so little remains, merely bone and gristle fading away into dust… How many of them would go to such lengths?
Only one you can say for sure. Only Fatima. You have both grieved over what has happened to your daughter, connecting as only parents can when their child is in pain. For Kendra you would do anything. You both would.
The military man says, "Does that alleviate your concerns?"
"Yes," the thin, nervous man replies. "Yes, it does."
Differences between members of the group. Unsurprising, but also potentially dangerous in endeavors such as insurrection. One must be careful when moving against great power lest its gaze be turned upon them. And where the attention falls, soon follows the closed fist.
"Mr. Dunstan," the young woman says. "Are you aware of how long you've been unconscious?"
You open your eyes. "Some time, I imagine."
"A little under five weeks," the military man says. "During which there has been a great deal of movement."
"We've been getting things going," the man in overalls says. "There'll be protests in all the big cities for the Great Winter Festival. We convinced General Ernest Crawford to throw his lot in with us, and with him we're hoping to ride popular will into dissolving the Senate."
"There can be no victory so long as the Possessed exist," you say. "The systems of our society are built around the old and wealthy, and none are older or more wealthy than the Possessed. Too many will defer to them, and that means civil war."
"These are all concerns we've had as well, but a certain amount of violence is simply unavoidable," the military man replies. "Our best hope is to move quickly and arrest them before they can properly mobilize. With luck, that will keep the fighting to a minimum."
"They're too powerful," you say back, leaning forward and only just managing not to fall off the couch. You settle you hands on your knees to steady yourself. "Stronger than any single necromancer. Some will escape, and in doing so rally loyalists in the army to their cause."
"And you propose?"
"The Kordian Engine sustains them," you say. "So we must take that away."
More silence. More staring. Idly, you wonder just how often you're going to surprise these people. Everyone but Fatima, at any rate. Her expression does not change. Still, you would have figured revolutionaries would be made of sterner stuff.
But then again, Alba is all they have ever known. It's all you have ever known as well, but you've long since given up on caring about that. For all these people realize the Alban empire is rotten and in desperate need of substantial change, they still care to maintain something of its shape. You do not.
Let it all burn if it must. Your daughter will be free.
"Alba depends on the Engine," the skinny man says, his knuckles white as he grips his hands. "Undead labor works the fields, the factories. Without that…"
He doesn't need to finish the sentence. You all know what will happen if the Kordian Engine, my Engine, stops releasing the abundance of necromantic power that Alba has enjoyed for so long. Production will grind to a halt. There will be shortages of everything, and people will suffer until alternatives can be made.
But it is necessary. You know it is necessary, and I am in agreement with you. The Engine must be destroyed. So long as it exists, as it releases its bounty to suffuse the Empire in the essence of death, then the spirits of the dead will rise and the Possessed will continue. Even if those in power now are deposed, all that has come before will come again.
You must convince them of this truth. Or, assuming they cannot accept this, then you must lie to them. You can say the Engine need only be shut down for a short time so the Possessed fade away. Anything to gain their help in reaching the Engine so we might destroy it.
As you observe the assembled conspirators, all of which save Fatima look at you like a beast who might attack at the slightest provocation, you know you must make a choice.
[] Try to convince them of the necessity of the Engine's destruction.
[] Attempt deception, claiming the Engine need only be stopped for a short time.
[X] Attempt deception, claiming the Engine need only be stopped for a short time.
IC it seems like an obvious choice, these people would never accept a permanent end to the engine.
OOC, I kinda support that viewpoint anyway. For as terrible as everything it causes, philosophically I'm definitely on the side of the loom and the printing press rather than the weavers and scribes.
IC it seems like an obvious choice, these people would never accept a permanent end to the engine.
OOC, I kinda support that viewpoint anyway. For as terrible as everything it causes, philosophically I'm definitely on the side of the loom and the printing press rather than the weavers and scribes.
- Location
- Somewhere!
- Pronouns
- She/Her
I like that there's not really a question about ending the engine - just how to sugar coat it or present the choice.
[X] Attempt deception, claiming the Engine need only be stopped for a short time.
[X] Attempt deception, claiming the Engine need only be stopped for a short time.
- Location
- United States
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Attempt deception, claiming the Engine need only be stopped for a short time.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Attempt deception, claiming the Engine need only be stopped for a short time.
- Location
- [REDACTED]
[X] Attempt deception, claiming the Engine need only be stopped for a short time.
It's not really a lie, it's just a difference of standards on the definition of short.
It's not really a lie, it's just a difference of standards on the definition of short.
- Location
- New York
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Try to convince them of the necessity of the Engine's destruction.
Yes little yellow notice, it took me more than 50 days to get through my backlog to here, I know.
Yes little yellow notice, it took me more than 50 days to get through my backlog to here, I know.
Lies in Service of Truth
Winged Knight
Still just a crazy man with a wolf on his head
- Location
- Texas
[X] Attempt deception, claiming the Engine need only be stopped for a short time.
But really, what choice is there? The only thing that matters is the destruction of the Engine. The people of Alba will suffer, but that is already truth. Inequality between those with an abundance of resources and those who are lacking them, often pushed into joining the military to kill and steal to feed a bottomless pit. The poor being made to feel ashamed of their poverty, manipulated into turning against each other rather than standing together to get what they need in order to do more than merely survive.
To live as one of the masses in Alba, which calls itself the greatest nation in the world, is to be constantly pushed into feeling grateful for the lash so those who consider themselves "better" can enjoy their luxuries. There will be distractions of bread and circuses, not to mention how often the populace is told outside their borders exist only lesser people who can only become truly civilized by Alba's grace. But perhaps the greatest deception, or at least the most foundational, is the belief they might one day rise to the exalted heights of the wealthy if they but work harder and without complaint.
Alba's people are already suffering, and without drastic change this awful state of affairs will continue. But this is not your driving reason. That is, and will always be, Kendra. It will always be your daughter, and everything else is secondary to her freedom.
So you have absolutely no guilt in your heart about lying to the leaders of this conspiracy.
"It only needs to be for a short while," you say. "A few weeks, perhaps a month at most. Enough time to let the energy of the Kordian Engine disperse. Without that the spirits of the Possessed will fade."
"How exactly do you know this?" the man in overalls asks. "And even assuming you're right, how would we even turn the damned thing off? I can build a house or fix up a car, but something like that is a bit beyond my expertise."
"He's a master of the necromantic arts," Fatima answers for you. The look she sends your way is calculating, as if she is appraising your words and thus your character. "He even taught the subject as a professor in Alba's premier universities. He would know how to operate it."
"What of the satellites, then?" the military man asks. "Would those be enough to sustain the Possessed?"
"The satellites came about decades ago because the Senate is paranoid," you reply. "The Engine could empower necromancy in full across all of Alba, but that creates a central point that might be tracked. But if it's not operating on full power, and instead has other smaller engines to boost its effectiveness and muddy the waters, then that hides its location from potential sabotage."
Fatima nods. "They're old records, but I've seen the paperwork approving their construction in the senatorial archives. National security was one of the reasons given."
"That doesn't answer my question," the military man says. "Would the satellites be enough for the Possessed to sustain themselves with the Engine turned off?"
"No," you say, shaking your head. Inwardly, you are smiling. They're listening, and that means they're not dismissing you out of hand. "It could maintain necromantic infrastructure in localized pockets, but the Possessed require far more to sustain themselves than revenants. Without the Engine they will eventually disperse."
"Means any fighting would only go on for… What was it you said? A month?" says the man in overalls. "After that the Possessed go poof and there's no one leading the loyalists. Seems a good deal to me."
"It would be a bloody month," the skinny man says, his lips drawing into a tight frown. "The Possessed would know their time is numbered. It would make the fighting even more intense."
"Do we need to have this conversation again?" the young woman cuts in before the skinny man can build himself up into a proper rant. "It was always going to be bloody. At least now we've got a potential timeline to work with."
They turn to each other and away, muttering between themselves in heated discussion that doesn't require any further input from you. With a sigh you lean back into the couch, resting weary muscles and aching bones. The throbbing agony is always there, hovering just beyond the periphery no matter how much I dull its burning touch upon your body. But this does not bother you, for very soon your pain will not matter.
You've got them. You know you've got them. Even better, you spoke but a single untruth. Only your claim the Engine need be temporarily shut down was a lie. For everything else you were completely honest.
Which likely helped. Subterfuge was never your strong suit. Interaction of any kind has always given you trouble, with but a bare handful of people able to see past what you consider your flaws. It is why you believe lecturing came so easily to you since it is such a controlled environment. The reality is more complex, and not one you are able to perceive with any kind of objectivity. For while you are far from a perfect man, should any such a creature even exist, you are also excessively hard on yourself.
"Poking fun, Ellowyn?" you whisper as you settle your hands over your stomach. They almost touch either end of your torso with how gaunt you have become. "Even at this late hour, with death hounding my heels?"
Simply attempting to lighten your dour mood, I reply. Though if you must maintain your focus, then look toward Fatima. She was not taken in by your deception.
You turn your eyes to Fatima. She is not speaking much, opting instead to listen. Mostly it is the skinny man, the younger woman, and the military man talking. The man in overalls cuts in as needed, smiling in a way that hints he is used to keeping the peace amongst this group. But Fatima is looking at you out of the corner of her eye, and she nods as she watches you watching her.
There were times like this in your marriage, more frequent early on and becoming increasingly sparse later as fear drove ever more of your actions. Times when the awkwardness and confusion gave way to understanding. When you didn't need to stumble over words and half forgotten propriety your grandfather did his best to beat into you, and instead you and Fatima just connected as if you were one mind.
Your daughter will be free. The both of you will see it done no matter the cost. And if you must tell lies in service to this truth, then so be it.
Eventually, the discussion ends and the group turns back to you. They finally take seats rather than stand over you, a sign they are treating you more as an equal rather than a subject for interrogation. With effort you sit up straight, joints cracking as if you are a man twice your age, and you take a deep breath.
"I trust you have come to a decision?"
"We have," the military man says. "Anything that can destabilize the Possessed makes the chances of victory, and of averting a protracted civil war, more likely. During the time of the Great Winter Festival we shall spark an uprising, which aside from its main purpose will provide a distraction so you can render the Kordian Engine inoperable for as long as is needed."
"We just need to find the damned thing," the man in overalls says, leaning forward to put his hands on his knees. "Don't suppose you've got that one figured out too, eh?"
"It's underneath the Senate," you reply. "There's a secret way down from the House of the Upper Chamber."
The skinny man narrows his eyes "And how…"
With effort I manifest, condensed down to a human shape so I do not fill the room with the vast expanse of myself. Even still I loom, a shadow that drinks in the meager light, and my hair flows around me as if underwater. What illumination is left comes from the threads of shining silver connecting me to my jewelry around your wrists, neck, and forehead.
"Because with my hands and blood and soul I created the Engine," I say, my voice shifting the air in a breeze reminiscent of an oncoming storm. "And though time robbed me of my memories, I have broken the spirits of those who believe themselves high and supped of their essence so as to know their innermost thoughts."
"Ellowyn is being dramatic," you say as I dissipate, spoiling the show I put on as the darkness fades. "But that's essentially the facts of the matter."
There is silence for a time, the group unsure how to respond. You take this moment to reach for your tea and take another sip. It has gone cold by now, but the more fluids you get in your system the less lightheaded you feel. There is only so much I can do with keeping your body together before certain biological necessities make themselves known, and dehydration is one of them.
"I know you said he had a spirit riding with him," the man in overalls says, tugging nervously at his collar. "But that was something else."
"What I wouldn't give for a chance to interview you," the young woman says. "A primary historical source…"
"Something you will have to do later, assuming we have time," the military man says. "Right now I'm sure Mr. Dunstan requires as much rest as he can before the festival."
"Which will be?" you ask, setting your empty cup aside. "I'm afraid I'm not completely sure as to the date, what with the recent coma."
"Three weeks," Fatima says. "Which will give you time to recover and give us time to get everything in motion."
"Not least of which is putting people in place to organize relief with the Engine down," the skinny man says. "It, along with the fighting, will break the chain of supply. We need to be ready to accommodate for that so people will not needlessly suffer."
The military man frowns. "I still say it risks revealing our hand."
"I don't care!" the skinny man replies, standing up to glare at the other man. "We'll already be moving people in order to get the uprising underway, which is itself a risk, so if you want my continued support you will give me this!"
There is more heated discussion, but as before it does not concern you. Right now you must rest, conserve your energy as much as possible for the trials to come. The embers of your life are weak, and will only grow weaker. But is fine. You have time enough to do what you must. Let these conspirators work out the details of their revolution amongst themselves, for you doubt you will live to see the end of it.
Fatima glances at you again, and you look back at her. She gives you a tightly controlled expression, lips pressed together, and you nod your understanding. She knows what you have done, what you plan to do, and has given her support. Nothing need be said.
As papers are brought to the table, maps and numbers and names, you lean back into the couch and close your eyes. And as sleep approaches, you imagine Kendra's face and smile.
It is snowing on the morning of the Great Winter Festival, white flakes coating the world in a fine powder while you observe from your vantage point as a cold wind blows. There are decorations everywhere, colorful ribbons and globes hanging from storefronts and little fir trees set out to celebrate the solstice and the coming of the new year.
In every window there are signs proclaiming sales of any luxury good one can think of.. From rich delicacies to fine watches, the latest radios to immaculately tailored silk suits. If one can imagine it, then the great marketplace of Alba's capital has it. The very center of the city, a circle hundreds of feet across and connected by a wide road all the way to the Senate rising in the distance like a small mountain.
At the center of the marketplace plaza is an enormous pile of carefully stacked logs. It will be set alight at the coming of evening, providing warmth and illumination for the revelry. Men and women will gather, drinking and dancing as music plays to welcome the death of the old year and the birth of the new.
And to spend money, of course. So much wealth comes here, taken from all across the world and set with bright lights to reflect gold and glitter. It is so vitally important to have the newest trinket, to show off the shine of jewelry, the roaring engine of a new car, and the latest innovations in necromantic products. Revenants that can follow detailed instructions, the broken bodies of the poor gathered and put on display to be purchased as accessories to a household with todstein spikes jammed into their skulls.
It makes me wonder when the solstice became about such things, rather than a celebration of fellowship. When did love, and family, and friendship become overtaken by materialistic desire? When was appreciation for living through another year, honoring those who have passed while appreciating those still with us, replaced by empty pageantry?
There are no merrymakers preparing for a day of festive debauchery. The sun rises to find all the shops closed, the windows boarded and the doors locked, with the plaza walled off by barricades of cars and people. Thousands of people, filling every available space and blocking completely this place of commercial celebration. Many are young, some are old, but all are holding signs protesting war and policy while demanding equality under the law. Chants go up, and while they are not coordinated as one their overall intent is clear. There will be no festival so long as injustice persists.
Early birds, eager to be first to the party and the products of empire, are turned aside. The immediate response is anger. This is, after all, supposed to be a day of amusement and entertainment. There are shouts, raised voices and threats. Those cries are silenced when blades and guns come out, firm warnings that violence will be met in kind.
Matters escalate swiftly after that. The police respond within the hour, marching down the road from the Senate in wide ranks that fill the street. Armored revenants are at the front, shields locked together with heavy clubs at the ready, while the necromancers controlling them stand back in their black uniforms. Beside them are officers of no necromantic ability, but the shotguns in their hands make them dangerous enough in their own way.
A tall man steps forward, his uniform covered in gold trim, and adjusts his tall cap. He cuts a striking figure with the assembled force behind him, which is likely the intent, and raises a metal cone to his lips. Even at this distance you can hear his voice as it roars over the din of the crowd.
"This is an illegal gathering! You have five minutes to disperse! If you have not dispersed in that time then we are authorized to use force to remove you!"
There is almost certainly more he intended to say, for this alone is a lackluster threat, but his calls die as one figure in the crowd steps forward to address him. She is followed by others, each in fine suits noting their station, and while you cannot hear her response you can assume it is excoriating. Fatima, after all, has always been quite the eloquent speaker.
This makes the small army of police pause, unsure of what to do in the face of this new development. The general citizenry, even in such a large gathering as this, is straightforward enough to deal with. Not easily, perhaps, but there is no confusion as to what is expected to be done with them. But to have senators standing with them? Well, that is something else entirely.
Something the crowd recognizes as they begin hurling invectives at the police, along with no small amount of detritus. Bricks and bottles bounce off the shields of the revenants, and the officer hastily retreats back to the safety of the defensive line to get away from the now emboldened crowd. A cheer goes up, acknowledgement of an early victory, and despite a few aborted rushes from either side a tense standoff ensues.
There are hundreds of police down there, including the revenants, with more doubtlessly on the way. All attention has been brought here to this place where there is supposed to be carousing and currency changing hands, with taxes gathered for government coffers. With how much money is not being collected something has to be done, but so long as people of importance are there it cannot be handled with brute force until permission from yet higher authority is granted.
Now it is time to move. With an effort of will you leap from your position, telekinetic power launching you from rooftop to rooftop toward the Senate. It is a mismatched thing, a mixture of older buildings with columns and towers alongside newer ones of squat, brutal cubes that clash terribly in their sensibilities. The only concession to blending the two together is that the newer buildings have the same style of windows as the older, multi-paneled and meant to actually open rather than simply bring in light.
It takes longer than you would like to reach your destination, taking care not to draw on so much necromantic power you alert the police to your presence. But even moving carefully you find you are out of breath by the time you jump down from the rooftops and over the stone walls that separate the Senate from the surrounding capital. You pause for a moment, one hand on that wall, and steady yourself.
Your heart is beating faster, and not just in anticipation. With effort I soothe the ache building there, prevent the attack that was coming with this exertion so that blood may continue to flow freely throughout your body. There is pain burning in your chest, but that cannot be avoided now. Though I shield you from the majority of your suffering, there is no hiding the fact that you should already be dead. Even the most meager of efforts tire you, your body slowing down and failing even as I do my best to hold it together.
But there is time enough left for this. You push yourself off the wall and stumble toward the main building, one of the older ones built long ago back when the Senate was Parliament newly in power with the deposing of the monarchy. You do not head for the main doors with their imposing columns, however. There will certainly be some form of guard, and you can ill afford to make this a fight. Instead, you head to one of the walls.
You take a deep breath as you place your hands on the thick, smooth marble. With every inhale you pull in the air, pull in the essence of death that pulses throughout Alba and shape it to your will. You suffuse it into your body, every part of yourself, and then step into the wall.
This technique is dangerous. To become insubstantial requires absolute focus, risks a terrible death should concentration lapse. You would imbed in your surroundings, suffer agonizing moments of suffocation and pressure until blessed release comes as you are finally crushed by all that would be displaced by your sudden solidity. Most necromancers never attempt this even if they know how to do it, such is the peril.
At this moment, however, it is the best tool for the job at hand. You push through the wall and into the floor as you make your way into the Senate. The world is white and grey as you make your way through the marble, filled with seams so thin that resemble hair as you make your way. There is no sound, no smell and no touch. There is only sight, and a faint taste reminiscent of grave soil in your mouth as you swim through solid rock.
Alas, there are limitations to this approach. You know the House of the Upper Chamber is connected to the main building, it being part of the original construction, but you cannot see where you are going. Even worse, you are running out of air. So with a wrenching pull you force yourself up and through the floor to come out back into the world.
Your gasping breaths sound incredibly loud in the hallway as you collapse on your side, unable to bring yourself to your feet, but thankfully no one comes rushing to stop you now that you are so deep into the complex. The Senate is in recess for the holiday, as are many of the clerks and other administrative officials whose job it is to keep the empire running. And with so few people left there is little need for a full guard.
So it is a surprise when you look up to see two people staring, one being carried by the other. The first is wearing the uniform of a soldier, though her black coat covers most of it to protect against the chill of winter. The other is a man wearing rags, his white shirt torn and bloody and his brown pants barely hanging on by a belt to an impoverished frame that can only come through starvation.
Even more surprising is that you recognize them both.
"You crazy bastard," Lieutenant Leslie Ashton says, her eyes wide with horror and no small amount of awe. "You made yourself insubstantial."
"Is that what he did?" Harold asks, his head lolling weakly. He seems barely able to stand, one arm over Ashton's shoulder to keep him upright. "And here I thought… I was just… seeing things."
The effort of speaking sends him into a coughing fit, flecks of blood and bile spattering the ground as his eyes roll back in what appears to be the beginnings of a seizure. The Lieutenant puts her free hand to his chest, drawing necromantic power and pushing into his body. After a few moments Harold calms down, his breathing settling into an easy rasp as the episode passes.
"What is this?" you ask, getting to your feet with effort. "What are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same," Ashton says, settling Harold's arm more comfortably across her shoulder. For a moment you think she is going to confront you, but then she shakes her head and sighs. "After Kirwick I was sidelined and kept in the Senate. But I've had enough of being a prisoner just for seeing inconvenient truths, so I'm making my escape."
"That explains you," you reply. "But him?"
"She found me because one of her army friends let her know I was being held prisoner here," Harold replies, his voice stronger after Ashton's infusion of power. "And that I was to be an… oversight, now that they'd gotten everything out of me they wanted."
"It wasn't right," the lieutenant says, scowling. With her hair tightly bound in a bun, it makes her already severe face resemble a knife. "None of this is. I didn't join the military to sit on my hands or look the other way at murder."
"No," you say. "You simply allowed yourself to become a tool for the interests of wealth that doesn't care who it hurts so long as it remains in power."
Ashton's eyes go wide, but Harold's laugh cuts off any response she might give as he says, "Oh, there we go. Randall Dunstan, always so charming. Ever-ready to tell you what you're doing wrong and expect you to thank him for it."
You look over your old friend as he goes into another coughing fit, requiring another necromantic intervention from Ashton to keep from passing out. He bears marks of torture, bruises from beatings and scars where blades have cut into his flesh. But worst of all is the loose skin hanging over his bones, indications that he has not been fed nearly enough to support himself. And underneath that…
"You're cursed," you whisper, narrowing your eyes. "They put a curse on you to keep you from leaving your cell."
"I'm keeping it at bay with regular infusions," Ashton says, moving closer with effort as Harold's feet drag. "And I'm hoping if we get far enough away from the Senate that it will break the tether between him and his cell. Assuming it doesn't kill him."
"Enough about that," Harold says, reaching out one hand to grip your arm. He looks into your eyes, and you see fear twist his face into something wretched. "Randall, he's here. Your grandfather is here. I think he might be waiting for you."
The world goes still and silent. Ashton is talking, but you do not hear her. You cannot hear anything save the beating of your heart in your ears, nor feel anything save the chill that crawls over what remains of your flesh. Your grandfather, Aidric Dunstan, is here. Your grandfather, who abused you for your entire childhood and called it love. Your grandfather, who disowned you when you married Fatima and took up a career in academia rather than continuing on the family legacy in government.
Your grandfather, who stole your daughter from you. Who, even now, wears her skin as if it were his own. It is a crime that has gone on for almost four years, hounding your dreams and drowning you in an ocean of your own tears. Aidric Dunstan is here, and he is waiting for you.
But that also means Kendra is here, and there is no more running. That time is long since past, and if you wish to make up for all your mistakes then this will be your only chance. There is so little left of you, so much burned away to get to this point. All that remains of you to give, you shall in this moment to see your daughter free.
Ashton grabs your shoulder and shakes you, but you still can't hear her over all the noise filling your head. You barely even see her, your eyes instead taken in by the sight of your old friend Harold. He gives you a smile, but you see the pain there. It goes beyond the merely physical, for you can see the curse wrapping around Harold's heart thin and twitching like a centipede. He winces every time it contracts, his breath hitching as dozens of tiny barbs stab into the sensitive flesh of his insides and threaten to tear him apart.
You could remove that awful thing. Doing so is obviously beyond Ashton's skill, for while the lieutenant is an able necromancer she has turned most of her skills toward military application. But yours is a finer touch, honed from long experience both in research and practical appliance. You could take a moment to free this man who you once loved so dearly and relieve him at least a part of what he has suffered no doubt for the crime of helping you.
Only if you are to confront your grandfather, and thus make it to the Engine, you will need all that remains of your strength. He will be fresh, in the young and vigorous body of your daughter, while you are broken and weary. Can you afford this act of kindness, considering what rests ahead?
[] Break the curse on Harold.
[] Leave them and press on toward the Engine.
But really, what choice is there? The only thing that matters is the destruction of the Engine. The people of Alba will suffer, but that is already truth. Inequality between those with an abundance of resources and those who are lacking them, often pushed into joining the military to kill and steal to feed a bottomless pit. The poor being made to feel ashamed of their poverty, manipulated into turning against each other rather than standing together to get what they need in order to do more than merely survive.
To live as one of the masses in Alba, which calls itself the greatest nation in the world, is to be constantly pushed into feeling grateful for the lash so those who consider themselves "better" can enjoy their luxuries. There will be distractions of bread and circuses, not to mention how often the populace is told outside their borders exist only lesser people who can only become truly civilized by Alba's grace. But perhaps the greatest deception, or at least the most foundational, is the belief they might one day rise to the exalted heights of the wealthy if they but work harder and without complaint.
Alba's people are already suffering, and without drastic change this awful state of affairs will continue. But this is not your driving reason. That is, and will always be, Kendra. It will always be your daughter, and everything else is secondary to her freedom.
So you have absolutely no guilt in your heart about lying to the leaders of this conspiracy.
"It only needs to be for a short while," you say. "A few weeks, perhaps a month at most. Enough time to let the energy of the Kordian Engine disperse. Without that the spirits of the Possessed will fade."
"How exactly do you know this?" the man in overalls asks. "And even assuming you're right, how would we even turn the damned thing off? I can build a house or fix up a car, but something like that is a bit beyond my expertise."
"He's a master of the necromantic arts," Fatima answers for you. The look she sends your way is calculating, as if she is appraising your words and thus your character. "He even taught the subject as a professor in Alba's premier universities. He would know how to operate it."
"What of the satellites, then?" the military man asks. "Would those be enough to sustain the Possessed?"
"The satellites came about decades ago because the Senate is paranoid," you reply. "The Engine could empower necromancy in full across all of Alba, but that creates a central point that might be tracked. But if it's not operating on full power, and instead has other smaller engines to boost its effectiveness and muddy the waters, then that hides its location from potential sabotage."
Fatima nods. "They're old records, but I've seen the paperwork approving their construction in the senatorial archives. National security was one of the reasons given."
"That doesn't answer my question," the military man says. "Would the satellites be enough for the Possessed to sustain themselves with the Engine turned off?"
"No," you say, shaking your head. Inwardly, you are smiling. They're listening, and that means they're not dismissing you out of hand. "It could maintain necromantic infrastructure in localized pockets, but the Possessed require far more to sustain themselves than revenants. Without the Engine they will eventually disperse."
"Means any fighting would only go on for… What was it you said? A month?" says the man in overalls. "After that the Possessed go poof and there's no one leading the loyalists. Seems a good deal to me."
"It would be a bloody month," the skinny man says, his lips drawing into a tight frown. "The Possessed would know their time is numbered. It would make the fighting even more intense."
"Do we need to have this conversation again?" the young woman cuts in before the skinny man can build himself up into a proper rant. "It was always going to be bloody. At least now we've got a potential timeline to work with."
They turn to each other and away, muttering between themselves in heated discussion that doesn't require any further input from you. With a sigh you lean back into the couch, resting weary muscles and aching bones. The throbbing agony is always there, hovering just beyond the periphery no matter how much I dull its burning touch upon your body. But this does not bother you, for very soon your pain will not matter.
You've got them. You know you've got them. Even better, you spoke but a single untruth. Only your claim the Engine need be temporarily shut down was a lie. For everything else you were completely honest.
Which likely helped. Subterfuge was never your strong suit. Interaction of any kind has always given you trouble, with but a bare handful of people able to see past what you consider your flaws. It is why you believe lecturing came so easily to you since it is such a controlled environment. The reality is more complex, and not one you are able to perceive with any kind of objectivity. For while you are far from a perfect man, should any such a creature even exist, you are also excessively hard on yourself.
"Poking fun, Ellowyn?" you whisper as you settle your hands over your stomach. They almost touch either end of your torso with how gaunt you have become. "Even at this late hour, with death hounding my heels?"
Simply attempting to lighten your dour mood, I reply. Though if you must maintain your focus, then look toward Fatima. She was not taken in by your deception.
You turn your eyes to Fatima. She is not speaking much, opting instead to listen. Mostly it is the skinny man, the younger woman, and the military man talking. The man in overalls cuts in as needed, smiling in a way that hints he is used to keeping the peace amongst this group. But Fatima is looking at you out of the corner of her eye, and she nods as she watches you watching her.
There were times like this in your marriage, more frequent early on and becoming increasingly sparse later as fear drove ever more of your actions. Times when the awkwardness and confusion gave way to understanding. When you didn't need to stumble over words and half forgotten propriety your grandfather did his best to beat into you, and instead you and Fatima just connected as if you were one mind.
Your daughter will be free. The both of you will see it done no matter the cost. And if you must tell lies in service to this truth, then so be it.
Eventually, the discussion ends and the group turns back to you. They finally take seats rather than stand over you, a sign they are treating you more as an equal rather than a subject for interrogation. With effort you sit up straight, joints cracking as if you are a man twice your age, and you take a deep breath.
"I trust you have come to a decision?"
"We have," the military man says. "Anything that can destabilize the Possessed makes the chances of victory, and of averting a protracted civil war, more likely. During the time of the Great Winter Festival we shall spark an uprising, which aside from its main purpose will provide a distraction so you can render the Kordian Engine inoperable for as long as is needed."
"We just need to find the damned thing," the man in overalls says, leaning forward to put his hands on his knees. "Don't suppose you've got that one figured out too, eh?"
"It's underneath the Senate," you reply. "There's a secret way down from the House of the Upper Chamber."
The skinny man narrows his eyes "And how…"
With effort I manifest, condensed down to a human shape so I do not fill the room with the vast expanse of myself. Even still I loom, a shadow that drinks in the meager light, and my hair flows around me as if underwater. What illumination is left comes from the threads of shining silver connecting me to my jewelry around your wrists, neck, and forehead.
"Because with my hands and blood and soul I created the Engine," I say, my voice shifting the air in a breeze reminiscent of an oncoming storm. "And though time robbed me of my memories, I have broken the spirits of those who believe themselves high and supped of their essence so as to know their innermost thoughts."
"Ellowyn is being dramatic," you say as I dissipate, spoiling the show I put on as the darkness fades. "But that's essentially the facts of the matter."
There is silence for a time, the group unsure how to respond. You take this moment to reach for your tea and take another sip. It has gone cold by now, but the more fluids you get in your system the less lightheaded you feel. There is only so much I can do with keeping your body together before certain biological necessities make themselves known, and dehydration is one of them.
"I know you said he had a spirit riding with him," the man in overalls says, tugging nervously at his collar. "But that was something else."
"What I wouldn't give for a chance to interview you," the young woman says. "A primary historical source…"
"Something you will have to do later, assuming we have time," the military man says. "Right now I'm sure Mr. Dunstan requires as much rest as he can before the festival."
"Which will be?" you ask, setting your empty cup aside. "I'm afraid I'm not completely sure as to the date, what with the recent coma."
"Three weeks," Fatima says. "Which will give you time to recover and give us time to get everything in motion."
"Not least of which is putting people in place to organize relief with the Engine down," the skinny man says. "It, along with the fighting, will break the chain of supply. We need to be ready to accommodate for that so people will not needlessly suffer."
The military man frowns. "I still say it risks revealing our hand."
"I don't care!" the skinny man replies, standing up to glare at the other man. "We'll already be moving people in order to get the uprising underway, which is itself a risk, so if you want my continued support you will give me this!"
There is more heated discussion, but as before it does not concern you. Right now you must rest, conserve your energy as much as possible for the trials to come. The embers of your life are weak, and will only grow weaker. But is fine. You have time enough to do what you must. Let these conspirators work out the details of their revolution amongst themselves, for you doubt you will live to see the end of it.
Fatima glances at you again, and you look back at her. She gives you a tightly controlled expression, lips pressed together, and you nod your understanding. She knows what you have done, what you plan to do, and has given her support. Nothing need be said.
As papers are brought to the table, maps and numbers and names, you lean back into the couch and close your eyes. And as sleep approaches, you imagine Kendra's face and smile.
o\O/o
It is snowing on the morning of the Great Winter Festival, white flakes coating the world in a fine powder while you observe from your vantage point as a cold wind blows. There are decorations everywhere, colorful ribbons and globes hanging from storefronts and little fir trees set out to celebrate the solstice and the coming of the new year.
In every window there are signs proclaiming sales of any luxury good one can think of.. From rich delicacies to fine watches, the latest radios to immaculately tailored silk suits. If one can imagine it, then the great marketplace of Alba's capital has it. The very center of the city, a circle hundreds of feet across and connected by a wide road all the way to the Senate rising in the distance like a small mountain.
At the center of the marketplace plaza is an enormous pile of carefully stacked logs. It will be set alight at the coming of evening, providing warmth and illumination for the revelry. Men and women will gather, drinking and dancing as music plays to welcome the death of the old year and the birth of the new.
And to spend money, of course. So much wealth comes here, taken from all across the world and set with bright lights to reflect gold and glitter. It is so vitally important to have the newest trinket, to show off the shine of jewelry, the roaring engine of a new car, and the latest innovations in necromantic products. Revenants that can follow detailed instructions, the broken bodies of the poor gathered and put on display to be purchased as accessories to a household with todstein spikes jammed into their skulls.
It makes me wonder when the solstice became about such things, rather than a celebration of fellowship. When did love, and family, and friendship become overtaken by materialistic desire? When was appreciation for living through another year, honoring those who have passed while appreciating those still with us, replaced by empty pageantry?
There are no merrymakers preparing for a day of festive debauchery. The sun rises to find all the shops closed, the windows boarded and the doors locked, with the plaza walled off by barricades of cars and people. Thousands of people, filling every available space and blocking completely this place of commercial celebration. Many are young, some are old, but all are holding signs protesting war and policy while demanding equality under the law. Chants go up, and while they are not coordinated as one their overall intent is clear. There will be no festival so long as injustice persists.
Early birds, eager to be first to the party and the products of empire, are turned aside. The immediate response is anger. This is, after all, supposed to be a day of amusement and entertainment. There are shouts, raised voices and threats. Those cries are silenced when blades and guns come out, firm warnings that violence will be met in kind.
Matters escalate swiftly after that. The police respond within the hour, marching down the road from the Senate in wide ranks that fill the street. Armored revenants are at the front, shields locked together with heavy clubs at the ready, while the necromancers controlling them stand back in their black uniforms. Beside them are officers of no necromantic ability, but the shotguns in their hands make them dangerous enough in their own way.
A tall man steps forward, his uniform covered in gold trim, and adjusts his tall cap. He cuts a striking figure with the assembled force behind him, which is likely the intent, and raises a metal cone to his lips. Even at this distance you can hear his voice as it roars over the din of the crowd.
"This is an illegal gathering! You have five minutes to disperse! If you have not dispersed in that time then we are authorized to use force to remove you!"
There is almost certainly more he intended to say, for this alone is a lackluster threat, but his calls die as one figure in the crowd steps forward to address him. She is followed by others, each in fine suits noting their station, and while you cannot hear her response you can assume it is excoriating. Fatima, after all, has always been quite the eloquent speaker.
This makes the small army of police pause, unsure of what to do in the face of this new development. The general citizenry, even in such a large gathering as this, is straightforward enough to deal with. Not easily, perhaps, but there is no confusion as to what is expected to be done with them. But to have senators standing with them? Well, that is something else entirely.
Something the crowd recognizes as they begin hurling invectives at the police, along with no small amount of detritus. Bricks and bottles bounce off the shields of the revenants, and the officer hastily retreats back to the safety of the defensive line to get away from the now emboldened crowd. A cheer goes up, acknowledgement of an early victory, and despite a few aborted rushes from either side a tense standoff ensues.
There are hundreds of police down there, including the revenants, with more doubtlessly on the way. All attention has been brought here to this place where there is supposed to be carousing and currency changing hands, with taxes gathered for government coffers. With how much money is not being collected something has to be done, but so long as people of importance are there it cannot be handled with brute force until permission from yet higher authority is granted.
Now it is time to move. With an effort of will you leap from your position, telekinetic power launching you from rooftop to rooftop toward the Senate. It is a mismatched thing, a mixture of older buildings with columns and towers alongside newer ones of squat, brutal cubes that clash terribly in their sensibilities. The only concession to blending the two together is that the newer buildings have the same style of windows as the older, multi-paneled and meant to actually open rather than simply bring in light.
It takes longer than you would like to reach your destination, taking care not to draw on so much necromantic power you alert the police to your presence. But even moving carefully you find you are out of breath by the time you jump down from the rooftops and over the stone walls that separate the Senate from the surrounding capital. You pause for a moment, one hand on that wall, and steady yourself.
Your heart is beating faster, and not just in anticipation. With effort I soothe the ache building there, prevent the attack that was coming with this exertion so that blood may continue to flow freely throughout your body. There is pain burning in your chest, but that cannot be avoided now. Though I shield you from the majority of your suffering, there is no hiding the fact that you should already be dead. Even the most meager of efforts tire you, your body slowing down and failing even as I do my best to hold it together.
But there is time enough left for this. You push yourself off the wall and stumble toward the main building, one of the older ones built long ago back when the Senate was Parliament newly in power with the deposing of the monarchy. You do not head for the main doors with their imposing columns, however. There will certainly be some form of guard, and you can ill afford to make this a fight. Instead, you head to one of the walls.
You take a deep breath as you place your hands on the thick, smooth marble. With every inhale you pull in the air, pull in the essence of death that pulses throughout Alba and shape it to your will. You suffuse it into your body, every part of yourself, and then step into the wall.
This technique is dangerous. To become insubstantial requires absolute focus, risks a terrible death should concentration lapse. You would imbed in your surroundings, suffer agonizing moments of suffocation and pressure until blessed release comes as you are finally crushed by all that would be displaced by your sudden solidity. Most necromancers never attempt this even if they know how to do it, such is the peril.
At this moment, however, it is the best tool for the job at hand. You push through the wall and into the floor as you make your way into the Senate. The world is white and grey as you make your way through the marble, filled with seams so thin that resemble hair as you make your way. There is no sound, no smell and no touch. There is only sight, and a faint taste reminiscent of grave soil in your mouth as you swim through solid rock.
Alas, there are limitations to this approach. You know the House of the Upper Chamber is connected to the main building, it being part of the original construction, but you cannot see where you are going. Even worse, you are running out of air. So with a wrenching pull you force yourself up and through the floor to come out back into the world.
Your gasping breaths sound incredibly loud in the hallway as you collapse on your side, unable to bring yourself to your feet, but thankfully no one comes rushing to stop you now that you are so deep into the complex. The Senate is in recess for the holiday, as are many of the clerks and other administrative officials whose job it is to keep the empire running. And with so few people left there is little need for a full guard.
So it is a surprise when you look up to see two people staring, one being carried by the other. The first is wearing the uniform of a soldier, though her black coat covers most of it to protect against the chill of winter. The other is a man wearing rags, his white shirt torn and bloody and his brown pants barely hanging on by a belt to an impoverished frame that can only come through starvation.
Even more surprising is that you recognize them both.
"You crazy bastard," Lieutenant Leslie Ashton says, her eyes wide with horror and no small amount of awe. "You made yourself insubstantial."
"Is that what he did?" Harold asks, his head lolling weakly. He seems barely able to stand, one arm over Ashton's shoulder to keep him upright. "And here I thought… I was just… seeing things."
The effort of speaking sends him into a coughing fit, flecks of blood and bile spattering the ground as his eyes roll back in what appears to be the beginnings of a seizure. The Lieutenant puts her free hand to his chest, drawing necromantic power and pushing into his body. After a few moments Harold calms down, his breathing settling into an easy rasp as the episode passes.
"What is this?" you ask, getting to your feet with effort. "What are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same," Ashton says, settling Harold's arm more comfortably across her shoulder. For a moment you think she is going to confront you, but then she shakes her head and sighs. "After Kirwick I was sidelined and kept in the Senate. But I've had enough of being a prisoner just for seeing inconvenient truths, so I'm making my escape."
"That explains you," you reply. "But him?"
"She found me because one of her army friends let her know I was being held prisoner here," Harold replies, his voice stronger after Ashton's infusion of power. "And that I was to be an… oversight, now that they'd gotten everything out of me they wanted."
"It wasn't right," the lieutenant says, scowling. With her hair tightly bound in a bun, it makes her already severe face resemble a knife. "None of this is. I didn't join the military to sit on my hands or look the other way at murder."
"No," you say. "You simply allowed yourself to become a tool for the interests of wealth that doesn't care who it hurts so long as it remains in power."
Ashton's eyes go wide, but Harold's laugh cuts off any response she might give as he says, "Oh, there we go. Randall Dunstan, always so charming. Ever-ready to tell you what you're doing wrong and expect you to thank him for it."
You look over your old friend as he goes into another coughing fit, requiring another necromantic intervention from Ashton to keep from passing out. He bears marks of torture, bruises from beatings and scars where blades have cut into his flesh. But worst of all is the loose skin hanging over his bones, indications that he has not been fed nearly enough to support himself. And underneath that…
"You're cursed," you whisper, narrowing your eyes. "They put a curse on you to keep you from leaving your cell."
"I'm keeping it at bay with regular infusions," Ashton says, moving closer with effort as Harold's feet drag. "And I'm hoping if we get far enough away from the Senate that it will break the tether between him and his cell. Assuming it doesn't kill him."
"Enough about that," Harold says, reaching out one hand to grip your arm. He looks into your eyes, and you see fear twist his face into something wretched. "Randall, he's here. Your grandfather is here. I think he might be waiting for you."
The world goes still and silent. Ashton is talking, but you do not hear her. You cannot hear anything save the beating of your heart in your ears, nor feel anything save the chill that crawls over what remains of your flesh. Your grandfather, Aidric Dunstan, is here. Your grandfather, who abused you for your entire childhood and called it love. Your grandfather, who disowned you when you married Fatima and took up a career in academia rather than continuing on the family legacy in government.
Your grandfather, who stole your daughter from you. Who, even now, wears her skin as if it were his own. It is a crime that has gone on for almost four years, hounding your dreams and drowning you in an ocean of your own tears. Aidric Dunstan is here, and he is waiting for you.
But that also means Kendra is here, and there is no more running. That time is long since past, and if you wish to make up for all your mistakes then this will be your only chance. There is so little left of you, so much burned away to get to this point. All that remains of you to give, you shall in this moment to see your daughter free.
Ashton grabs your shoulder and shakes you, but you still can't hear her over all the noise filling your head. You barely even see her, your eyes instead taken in by the sight of your old friend Harold. He gives you a smile, but you see the pain there. It goes beyond the merely physical, for you can see the curse wrapping around Harold's heart thin and twitching like a centipede. He winces every time it contracts, his breath hitching as dozens of tiny barbs stab into the sensitive flesh of his insides and threaten to tear him apart.
You could remove that awful thing. Doing so is obviously beyond Ashton's skill, for while the lieutenant is an able necromancer she has turned most of her skills toward military application. But yours is a finer touch, honed from long experience both in research and practical appliance. You could take a moment to free this man who you once loved so dearly and relieve him at least a part of what he has suffered no doubt for the crime of helping you.
Only if you are to confront your grandfather, and thus make it to the Engine, you will need all that remains of your strength. He will be fresh, in the young and vigorous body of your daughter, while you are broken and weary. Can you afford this act of kindness, considering what rests ahead?
[] Break the curse on Harold.
[] Leave them and press on toward the Engine.
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- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Break the curse on Harold.
What we lack in our own strength, we can make up for with that of newfound allies.
What we lack in our own strength, we can make up for with that of newfound allies.
- Location
- New York
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Break the curse on Harold.
- Location
- Somewhere!
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] Leave them and press on toward the Engine
We're so close, and they already have a plan to try and break the tether or keep it at bay, so...
We're so close, and they already have a plan to try and break the tether or keep it at bay, so...
- Location
- [REDACTED]
[X] Leave them and press on toward the Engine.
- Location
- United States
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Leave them and press on toward the Engine.
Even if Randall isn't the one to break the curse, someone else might. Plus, he can always come back and break it after he frees Kendra—if he survives.
Even if Randall isn't the one to break the curse, someone else might. Plus, he can always come back and break it after he frees Kendra—if he survives.
[X] Break the curse on Harold.
Even Ashton admits that they're only hoping the distance will lessen or break the curse, if it doesn't outright kill him. There's no guarantee that that anyone will be able to break it or lessen it, just like there's no guarantee they won't get caught in the next five minutes. Why leave him to suffer?
Besides, this isn't just some random. Harold and Randall have history, they're friends and past lovers. Regardless of how it may have ended, they shared something together, and it was strong enough that they still remained close enough that when Randall needed help, Harold answered the call. There's no way Randall would just leave Fatima cursed if he found her like this. Why is it different for Harold? This close to his goal, isn't it more important to make sure that he has done all he can for those he loves and cares about? Leaving Harold to some uncertain fate trying to escape this prison would be Randall killing off the most important and valuable thing he has left at this point: his heart.
Even Ashton admits that they're only hoping the distance will lessen or break the curse, if it doesn't outright kill him. There's no guarantee that that anyone will be able to break it or lessen it, just like there's no guarantee they won't get caught in the next five minutes. Why leave him to suffer?
Besides, this isn't just some random. Harold and Randall have history, they're friends and past lovers. Regardless of how it may have ended, they shared something together, and it was strong enough that they still remained close enough that when Randall needed help, Harold answered the call. There's no way Randall would just leave Fatima cursed if he found her like this. Why is it different for Harold? This close to his goal, isn't it more important to make sure that he has done all he can for those he loves and cares about? Leaving Harold to some uncertain fate trying to escape this prison would be Randall killing off the most important and valuable thing he has left at this point: his heart.
- Location
- HELL
- Pronouns
- They/It
[X] Break the curse on Harold.
What good is a future where we can't make time for one man? There is no guarantee that pressing on will let us go on scott free. Harold is dead and we're not better off. There is no guarantee that we can't make time.
It's worth rolling those odds to save him. One less life taken. One less life made worse.
These jackals will pay either way. Let's remind ourselves why we fight.
What good is a future where we can't make time for one man? There is no guarantee that pressing on will let us go on scott free. Harold is dead and we're not better off. There is no guarantee that we can't make time.
It's worth rolling those odds to save him. One less life taken. One less life made worse.
These jackals will pay either way. Let's remind ourselves why we fight.
Winged Knight
Still just a crazy man with a wolf on his head
- Location
- Texas
All right, vote locked. Randall will break the curse on Harold before going on to confront his grandfather.
Release and Rest
New
Winged Knight
Still just a crazy man with a wolf on his head
- Location
- Texas
[X] Break the curse on Harold.
Of course you can. For in these final moments of your life, no matter how much you have given up or how much has been taken from you, there has always remained something deep within that has driven all of your actions. Beneath all the fear and all the pain there is a core that shines no matter how much it is obscured.
It is your heart, which your grandfather did his best to make a cold and lifeless thing. To an extent he succeeded, for you cannot help but think through bitter calculus where others would act without thought to help their fellows. But he never fully killed that part of you. The part that cares, the part that loves.
And that part of yourself will not allow any chance for Harold to die.
"God dammit are you even listening to me?" Ashton asks as the world finally comes back into focus. "Dunstan, if you don't-"
"I hear you," you say, your voice soft. With one hand you gently remove hers from your shoulder, while the other you place on Harold's cheek. He looks up at you, eyes full of pain, as you give him a sad smile. "I'm sorry."
"You're always sorry," Harold replies. "You've been sorry so many times, but it never seems to change how you act."
You flinch, but do not step away. Harold's words are without heat, given merely with blunt stoicism that only comes from long acceptance. He knows you, has known you ever since you were both children. Because of this he is aware of all your failings and all your fears, the things that drove so much of your life leading to this point. At one point he believed there might be the possibility to reconcile all of that with what he wanted, that there was a chance you could be together.
It was not to be. There are so many reasons for this, and not all of them are your fault. But that does not change here and now. Harold is standing before you, and you have the power to save him. What you could not give him, and what he could not understand, are irrelevant in the face of this truth.
"They hurt me," Harold says, voice breaking. Tears gather in his eyes as a fresh bout of pain rocks his body, the curse wrapped around his heart ripping into his flesh. "They hurt me for helping you."
"I know."
"I suppose you do," he says. "You tried to warn me, but I…"
You move close and slowly, tenderly, set your lips upon his. Harold goes completely still, limp in both your grasp and in the increasingly uncomfortable Lieutenant Ashton's. Then he leans into you, wrapping his arms around your neck. He tastes of blood and stale vomit, and you are not much fresher despite your time recovering with Fatima, but at this moment you are both young again. You are running through the forest of your family estate, moving for the sheer joy of it. You are sharing a night looking up at the stars, chill winds giving you both an excuse to lean into each other and enjoy the feeling of your bodies. You are kissing, awkwardly and without skill, but with all the passion that comes from discovering something wonderful and new.
You wrap your arms around Harold and hold him to yourself, taking him from Ashton's arms. With an exertion of will, the air rippling as the light tinges with shades of black and violet, you reach out for the curse tormenting your friend and first love. It resists, of course, latching on hooks to keep from being wrenched away. Harold moans in your mouth, his embrace becoming painful as he crushes you with manic strength, but you do not let go.
With delicate care you unlatch the barbs of the curse from Harold's flesh and bind them to its form, curling the malevolent necromancy into a ball. He gasps as it comes up his throat, and when you finally allow Harold to stumble back the thing is writhing in your teeth. It twitches like a living thing, a narrow sliver of shimmering amethyst and obsidian, reaching for Harold and attempting to tear at your face so it can fulfill its function.
You bite down, and with a high-pitched squeal the energy sustaining the curse disperses.
"You're free now," you say as Harold almost falls into Ashton. He is pale, and his breathing ragged, but the pain that was a constant feature on his expression is gone now. "They don't have any more hold over you."
Harold puts a hand to his chest, gazing down in wonder. The lieutenant, on the other hand, is staring directly around you and to a certain extent at me. I would be only a faint shimmer in the air, something wide and deep compressing itself down until it can fit inside a person. But I cannot fit comfortably, cannot inhabit you without strain. There is too much of me and not enough of you, and how much you've given up has not helped matters.
Even what you have done for Harold leaves you sweating, and you were already short of breath from coming through the wall. Efforts that even just a few years ago would have been difficult only in the technical sense require so much exertion, and weariness has become so constant you can barely imagine what it means to be truly rested. It is merely a spectrum of enervation, your frailty growing to the point where you cannot live without me and yet I will still be the death of you.
I know you hold no hatred toward me beyond momentary animus given to all animals when suffering injury. Brief flashes of almost-thoughts pulled from the depths of instinct are the only indication of any ill will you might feel for what my presence has cost you. You are a good man, no matter what you might think of yourself. What you have done here for Harold, as I both buttress and drag you down, proves that.
How I wish I could give you more. But I cannot live your life for you, can only advise and support. And, ultimately, I will be with you when everything is said and done. It is the least I can do.
"You're being ridden," Ashton says. And, with that awareness, she understands more clearly the state you are in. "But you're not asleep."
"No," you reply. "I am not. I have participated in every step of this journey, and will continue to do so until the end."
"Which is going to rapidly approach if you confront the Prime Minister," Ashton says. "Because, respectfully, you look like shit."
It's true, but she doesn't need to say it like that.
You frown, both at her observation and my quiet agreement, but do not respond. Instead you walk past her and Harold, who seems ready to fall over if not given any support. You can sympathize. Every step is an effort of will, like the weight of your entire life dragging you down.
How much longer can you last? It only needs to be for a little while yet. Just a bit further, and then you can finally rest.
Ashton grabs your arm, and says, "If you do this he will kill you."
"Probably," you say. "But it doesn't matter."
The lieutenant's face twists, and she looks as if she is about to say more. But Harold leans into her, almost sending them both tumbling, and when they both steady he only shakes his head. He knows that once you have set your mind to something you will not be dissuaded. Further talk will only waste time.
So Ashton loops one of Harold's arms over her shoulder and continues down the hallway. You observe them for a time, looking over your shoulder. The soldier who you defeated, and was punished for it, and your old friend who has suffered only for the crime of coming when you called.
Alba does not deserve either of them. Alba, and those who lead it, do not deserve much of anything. But if Fatima can create something better from the ashes of the old… If your sacrifice can mean something…
You shake your head, brushing off those thoughts as the two turn a corner and vanish from sight. There are no more distractions. There is only your goal. There is only your daughter, and her freedom. Everything else is secondary.
A short walk, just a few turns, takes you to the imposing oaken doors that lead to the Upper Chamber of the Everlasting Senate. Over three times the height of a man, they are carved with motifs important to Alba's modern mythology. At the center is a torch being held up by a faceless figure shining enlightenment, with the overthrow of kings symbolized with the crown tossed underfoot. To either side are falcons with wings outstretched, the leftmost holding a bell in one talon and a key in the other. Its twin holds a bloody sword, which contrasts with the lotus flower in its other claw.
And above them all are the words "With Wisdom, Justice. With Justice, Liberty."
It is interesting for me to observe which parts of this heraldry were inspired from what has come before. Falcons have always been an important symbol, as have swords and keys. The lotus, as well, has long been considered a flower with connections to divine providence and peace. But bells and torches, along with the faceless figure, all came about in the years just before and after my death.
But that is not important now. You place a hand on either door and push. They are too heavy for you, but I place translucent arms over yours and add my strength to throw the doors wide. They boom as they strike the walls to either side, revealing the Upper Chamber.
The entire room is a half-circle, a four-tiered auditorium with fifty seats at each level. Set before each seat is a desk made of polished wood inlaid with much the same symbols as the door. There is little light, but what comes through the doors behind you reflects off the marble floor to show little hints of color among the austerity. Red cushions on the chairs, gold on the pens, silver on the desk mats…
The only difference is at the bottom tier, which has but forty-nine seats set in the manner of the others. For at the end, set against the wall with a mural of that same faceless figure holding aloft a torch, is a high-backed chair that could almost be a throne if not for the lack of gilding. The desk before that chair is larger, inscribed with falcons bearing their various panoplies, with an ornate gavel and block made of black wood lined with gold and a single gemstone of icy blue at its head where the handle would emerge from the top of the hammer.
Sitting on that throne is a familiar face set with a familiar expression, though neither belongs to the other. That face stares up at you, bounded by five revenants to either side holding rifles. You barely notice them, however, so overtaken are you at finally seeing your daughter's face after almost four years.
Your first instinct is to call out to her, to rush to her side and hold her close. You take a step forward to do just that before your thoughts can catch up to the reality of the situation. It is her eyes that draw you short. Silver eyes instead of brown, narrowed in disappointment and no small amount of contempt. This and other things, like how she sits so straight-backed in that chair with her hands on the armrests, how she furrows her brow and twists her lips to express her obvious annoyance, drive home what you already know.
The tightness in your chest takes on a whole new dimension, twisting beyond mere physical pain into something nigh transcendent. Those are your grandfather's eyes, shining with the light of death, peering out from your daughter's face. Tears well at the edges of your vision, to be so close and yet so far to one who you have missed so dearly, but you blink them away. You cannot show weakness to this man who has stolen everything from you.
"Randall," comes the voice of your daughter overlaid with that of your grandfather. Hers is light and musical. His is soft and deep. Together they create a distressing blend that sends shivers down your spine. "It's been some time."
"You've been expecting me, then?" you ask, forcing the words to come out calm. "Didn't think I'd perished when your thugs bombed Zeal's little den of nightmares?"
"I would not believe you dead until I saw the body," Aidric replies, putting your daughter's hands into her lap and leaning forward. "You're a clever boy, but I know you. I know your mind and your inclinations. That being the case, anticipating your involvement with the fools causing a mess outside was not too difficult."
"I wager they've better understanding than most," you say. "And they're making their discontent known."
"Insolence and ingratitude," Aidric mutters, standing up. The revenants follow his motion, stepping in unison to remain at his side. "I hope you understand the damage your wife is causing with this little tantrum. One of the busiest days of commercial activity in the entire year and she has every major city closed off! She has brought the beating heart of Alba's economy to a standstill!"
"Ex-wife," you reply. "We divorced years ago."
"But despite this you both still find ways to conspire," Aidric says. "Properly married or not, I know you two are in collusion."
"What can I say? You inspire the best in us."
"Very droll."
"Maybe people are just tired of being told to suffer for the sake of wealth they will never truly be a part of," you say. "Maybe you and all the rest brought this on yourselves."
"Then they are children who do not understand the truth of how things work," Aidric snaps. "I'll see her career ruined for this. We bring order to a chaotic world, civilization to savagery. Without us, there is nothing."
"And yet you're always surprised when people resist rather than throw flowers at your feet."
Aidric scowls, an utterly alien expression on Kendra's face compared to your memories of your daughter. Kendra was not so reserved, was more expressive when displaying her irritation. Your grandfather, in contrast, does little more than turn up your daughter's nose.
"Enough of this," he says. The revenants move forward as one in response to his unspoken command. "I'm not here to debate with you, Randall. Surrender peacefully or suffer the consequences."
The grin that twists your face is unpleasant, as is your laughter. The tears that you have been holding back finally draw down your face, unable to be contained, and you raise a hand to hide the sight of them from the judging gaze of your grandfather. Aidric, for his part, simply waits out the display to hear your response.
Your reply is vocal, though it does not take the shape of words. With a wrenching pull you draw forth the energy born of decay and center it in your chest. Purplish black light glows through your skin as you take a deep breath, and with a furious exhale you let loose a howl to break the very foundations of the earth.
The world shudders in the face of your scream, trembling with all the rage and grief and misery that has festered inside of you for your entire life. This banshee wail, portending death. Your death… Or, perhaps, a death long since gone. The death of your innocence, your hope. It rips across the senate chamber, throwing chairs and desks into the air as this mournful vibration tears toward your grandfather in his stolen flesh.
Aidric lifts your daughter's hand, and the shriek dies.
Wind roars between you, great twisting eddies that further ruin the carefully constructed mask of governance and send the Prime Minister's desk flying to join its fellows. Directly in front of Aidric is an invisible wall, an expression of telekinetic force brought into being through sheer exertion of his will. Around those stolen fingers glows the violet and ebony light of necromancy, a perfect counter to your attack as he vibrates the air in just the right way to nullify and redirect the vast majority of the force you brought to bear.
All that remains beyond that is a quivering breeze that brushes Kendra's hair. Aidric pays it no mind, maintaining his shield until all the air is expelled from your aching lungs and you've nothing to show for your efforts other than the destruction of the room.
"You are, perhaps, more skilled than I," Aidric says, closing your daughter's hand into a fist. You are wrenched from your feet and lifted into the air, clawing at your throat as Aidric hoists you by your neck. "But you lack strength."
He flicks that hand that is not his own, and you crash into the towering doors with enough force to slam them shut. All breath remaining to you escapes in a gasp, and you cannot draw any more into your lungs from the pressure of Aidric's will pushing down. There is a low creaking sound as the wood buckles, and below even that there is the sharp pain of your bones bending.
"You've always lacked strength," Aidric goes on. "No matter how much I've tried to teach you. Oh, you took well to the study of necromantic arts. That was never in question. You are a once-in-a-lifetime talent. But this alone is nothing without the will to use it."
Breathe. You have to breathe. Without breath you cannot draw power and without power you are doomed. But the pressure only mounts, making every effort to take in air a task of truly monumental proportions as your body compresses in on itself.
"It's a pity, Randall. You could have been useful, part of something glorious. But I look at you now, at the ruin you've made of yourself, and it breaks my heart."
Aidric motions with your daughter's other hand, and the revenants raise their rifles. They take aim, ready to execute you, but in the time your grandfather has been talking you have managed to take in a breath. Shallow it might be, but it is enough. With an effort of will you shape the ethereal substance of death into something you can use to survive the next few seconds and perhaps find a way to grasp victory.
The rifles boom, the report perfectly in sync to create a sound like thunder in the confined space, but the moment before they do you render yourself ethereal. Aidric's power pushes you through the doors of the chamber, bullets punching great holes in the door as you collapse in the hallway outside. Beyond his sight, Aidric cannot focus on you and the pressure lifts.
Then, roiling with entropic might drawn from the slow death of the world, you slam your hands against the doors. The heavy wood bursts into pieces, blasting into the room with the force of cannon fire. Three of the revenants rush forward, locking arms to take the shrapnel with their bodies.
Aidric idly waves away what remains as the revenants fall, their flesh cut to ribbons, so he is ill-prepared to respond as you rush forward in a burst of telekinetic force with your hand upraised. His eyes go wide, Kendra's face twisting into an expression of fear, and you hesitate.
Your technique fills the target up with all your hate and disgust so that there is no room left for the possessing ghost to reside. But can you really inflict that on your daughter? In this moment, even with those silver eyes shining, all you can see is her terror as you are about to not only strike her but force everything you despise about your grandfather and yourself into the depths of her soul.
That brief pause is your undoing. Aidric recovers from his shock and leaps back, sparks flickering across Kendra's fingers as he summons a stream of ghostfire. A chill wind surrounds those flames, screaming as all its heat is drawn into the blaze to leave the surrounding air cold as the heart of winter.
There is only a second to respond, so you reach out to a nearby revenant and dig your hand into its skull. It gives way easily, the todstein spike falling to the floor as the head breaks open. With that gone it is easy to twist dead flesh into a barrier between you and the ghostfire. Bone and fat warps beneath your fingers, what once was at least vaguely a human shape flattening out into a wall that sizzles beneath Aidric's onslaught.
Most burns away before your grandfather stops. Revenants barely have any blood left to them, most of it drained and replaced with embalming fluids to better preserve the corpse. But some blood always remains, and even a little is enough to quench ghostfire.
You have little time to wonder at your grandfather's foolishness, or perhaps desperation, to unleash such necromancy not only in within a populated area but also his own seat of power, as he drives Kendra's fist into the side of your face and sends you hurtling across the room.
Teeth break and fly from your bloodied mouth as you slide across the floor, telekinetic power enhancing Aidric's strike to something beyond human. Only my presence, reinforcing your body and holding pain at bay, keeps your skull from cracking open. As it is, the electric fog in your head banishes all capacity for thought as Aidric steps forward and raises Kendra's foot to finish the job.
I reach out with many translucent arms and drag you away just before the heel comes down where your face used to be. The floor cracks beneath the force, marble shattering into dust, and Aidric glares at us both as you rise unsteadily to your feet.
"So that's it," he says, turning Kendra's lip down into a scowl. "That's why you have achieved so much, and why your body is so wizened. You've taken a passenger."
Aidric slashes one of your daughter's hands across the air between you, and on impulse you stumble to the side as the wall behind splits in two. There is barely time to register the pain before your left arm falls away, a bloody stump just below the elbow. Then agony hits, hot and raging like the sun, and you scream. But as you scream I am reaching out from the gore of your elbow and grabbing the arm, pulling it close and knitting flesh back into place.
Even through lingering spasms you are moving, and thus avoid another razor thin wire of telekinetic power as it tears through marble so cleanly that not even dust rises in the wake of its passing. Gasping, you are barely able to stay ahead of the assault even as your muscles scream their protest. You were weary coming into this contest, but the depths of your fatigue now threaten to overwhelm you as darkness encroaches at the edges of your vision. Your body simply cannot keep up with what you are demanding of it.
Another scream as Aidric takes off your foot, your rolling dodge just a little too slow to escape completely, and I pull it back onto your leg as you stand up and continue your flight. You need only a second, just a brief pause to gather enough power for a shield, but your grandfather does not give you that moment. Aidric never loses sight of you, never ceases his attack, and so you are left scrambling across the room to find anything to defend yourself.
The other revenants have gotten back to their feet and aim their rifles. In response you cross your arms, the left still stinging from rapid regeneration, and protect your head as they fire. Bullets slam into your flesh, but just beneath your skin I catch them with many fingers. Lead falls to the floor as I release them, and then you are among the revenants.
You duck as Aidric swings your daughter's arm in another slash, and all six of the remaining undead soldiers fall to the ground in two clean halves. The top halves flail weakly, still trying to fulfill their objectives in stopping you, but the bottom halves are limp now that they are disconnected from preserving todstein.
With an effort of will you grab six pairs of legs and twist them into a wall of meat and bone between you and your grandfather. All you need is a moment, just a moment, to breathe and regain your footing. A moment to gather the necessary power, shape it to your will…
The barricade shudders beneath relentless attacks, breaking apart piece by piece, and you barely have the time you need to put a much firmer defense of telekinetic force across your skin. Your corpse wall breaks, and you are lifted into the air as you are struck again and again and again. You slam into the ceiling of the chamber, breaking wood and cracking stone, as dozens of invisible blades strike you at once. Your clothes are torn to ribbons, but you are not ripped apart as your barrier holds.
It keeps holding even as Aidric launches Kendra's body at you, breaking through the ceiling and sending you both out into the winter air. Your daughter's hands close around your neck, but that is secondary to the terrible snapping sound of your bones breaking. I dampen the pain, but even with this every nerve is alight and roaring.
Alba unfolds around you as your grandfather halts your momentum, hovering in the air as the wind of your passage sends falling snow careening wildly. Streets set haphazardly in older quarters, and in more uniform grids in newer. Grand estates and crumbling slums, parks and ponds near the former set apart from factories belching smoke to stain the snow falling on the latter. And beyond all of that…
The ocean, such a deep blue it is almost black, shines red at the horizon with the rising of the sun. Waves crash and roll against the shore and the ports that dot them, ships still harbored but ready to go out into the world beyond. A world that Alba would claim, just as Alba has claimed all that is good left in your own.
Your grandfather tosses you aside, and you fall just for a moment before he grabs you once again with necromantic power. All you can do is hang limply. You've nothing left, can barely even shudder as I snap bones back into place, and it is only because Aidric forces you to look at him that your head can remain upright.
"It didn't have to come to this," Aidric says, smoothing out your daughter's hair to rid it of the dust your passage caused. "None of this had to happen."
In the distance you hear the chanting of the crowd. They yell their displeasure so loudly that it can be heard even over the constant breeze, so rhythmic it almost creates music. That same call, for change and equality and justice, is being taken up not just here but across the whole of the empire's heartlands. A call for a different world.
Aidric turns Kendra's head in that direction, twisting her face into an expression of annoyance. It is so strange, seeing this perversion of your daughter's features. But mostly, you are just happy to be able to see her face so clearly. Her full lips, the curve of her nose… She takes mostly after her mother, though there is no small part of you there as well, and you cannot restrain your desire to reach out a hand to cup her cheek.
Your fingers twitch, but otherwise do not move.
"I see a bright future, and by your own actions it does not have you in it," Aidric goes on, returning his attention to you. "Only we have the knowledge to hold chaos at bay and direct the lives of these foolish, shortsighted people."
"And it's just coincidence that you get to enjoy yourself in the meantime?" you croak, blood pouring from your lips to join the red rain you are spilling onto the ground far below. "Cheating death again and again at the expense of children? You burn the present for this senseless future, and then act surprised when all that's left is ash."
Aidric scowls. Then he raises your daughter's hand and, with a casual flick of her wrist, slices through both of your eyes.
You scream as the world goes dark. Your face is wet, and your fingers twitch again in an instinctive urge to clear the dampness away. But not even pain can drive your weary body to action. All you can do is scream again as the pressure around you increases, your broken body a monument to your grandfather's cruelty.
"Any more clever responses, boy?" Aidric asks, his voice now your entire world beyond the agony of your flesh. "Or are we finally done with this petulant defiance?"
You do not respond, can do nothing but weep for the dying of the light. You tremble, head bowed, resting within the heart of Aidric Dunstan's designs. It is a familiar sensation, and even if the suffering is more potent the flavor is still the same. You've lived all your life in this man's shadow as he took from you and so many others, claiming it was for their own good.
That ends today.
"Take it all, Ellowyn," you whisper, "Take it all."
I'm sorry, Randall.
"I hope this tantrum has brought you some comfort," Aidric says. "Because all this foolishness stops here. I'm going to crush this ridiculous dissent your woman is fomenting, and you will die never seeing your daughter's face again. Alba's glory will reign eternal, and I will not have you standing in the way."
You open my eyes in the ruined pits of where yours once were, smiling as silver light outshines even the illumination of Aidric's own, and say, "And what makes you think I can't see my daughter's pretty face?"
I pull from the embers, all you have left, and convert it into power. Steam wafts off of you in the cold air as your body turns into a furnace, your soul fuel for a fire you have carried all your life. Everything you are, everything you were, everything you might have been, drawn into a single explosive moment and thrown at your grandfather to send you both tumbling back towards the earth.
A hurricane is unleashed as you both slam into the ruined Senate, a roaring cacophony that drowns out everything. Dust billows up in a cloud, but through my eyes you know where your grandfather is. With strength born from sacrifice you rush toward him, toward the body of your daughter. Even as Aidric raises one of Kendra's hands, ghostfire dancing around her fingers, you wrap your arms around her.
Because you have found the answer. Even while your grandfather was tearing you apart, you considered the issue of how to remove his soul from Kendra's body without exposing her to the ugliness inside of yourself. And through the pain, and the fear, and exhaustion so great you can barely imagine a world without it, you discovered the solution.
You draw your daughter close even as Aidric unleashes the ghostfire, burning a hole through your chest and out your back, and give to her all the love you have. Everything you have ever said, and more importantly have never said, flows from this physical connection and into Kendra. Warmth, and gentleness, and care. A desire for her to succeed, to be happy even at your own expense. A desire for her to live on, free and unburdened.
The flame you have been carrying through the blizzard of your own misery, all for her sake. It passes from you, and into your daughter. It touches upon her soul, buried so deeply by your grandfather's violation, and gives it strength. It grows, fills the container that is her flesh, and there is nothing left for Aidric to cling to.
Your grandfather screams as he is forced out, and you smile even as you fall.
She falls soon after, collapsing now that Aidric is no longer inhabiting her body. You know that you should be hurting, that everything should be agony. It does not, and you know that your death is finally here. I have taken too much from you, and you have pushed yourself too hard. There is nothing left to give, nothing left to build from in order to rise again.
But as Kendra groans, and opens brown eyes blessedly free of silver light, you cannot bring yourself to care that this is the end. There is no more suffering, no more anguish. You can finally rest, knowing you have succeeded in releasing your daughter from her torment.
Kendra looks at you, for a moment uncomprehending. Then she blinks, and awareness dawns as she takes in her surroundings and your ravaged form. Your clothes are in ribbons, and what remains is stained with your blood. But even worse than your ruined eyes is the hole in your chest, burned and cauterized all the way through from the quenching of the ghostfire.
It is the end of you. It is the final punctuation on a life of anguish and fear. Yet despite all of this you cannot say you hate the time you have spent on this earth. Because despite everything there has been love. Rage may have carried you on this tortured road, but it is love that saw you to its end. For that love you have endured so much, set yourself against all the myriad evils that sought to destroy you, and for that you have no regrets.
"Dad!" she yells, crawling over to your still form. "No no no no no no!"
She grabs your shoulders and holds you close. You feel nothing but a soft pressure and a peculiar chill, and with strength you hadn't realized still remained you raise an arm to return the embrace. Her warmth bleeds into you, and your smile widens. It is nice to hug your daughter again after so long.
"I'm sorry," Kendra whispers, tears falling down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry."
"It's fine," you say in a voice like a gentle breeze, unable to raise it any higher. "It's fine. You don't need to fret over me."
"But I killed you! I…"
"No, you didn't. I did this to myself, and did it gladly. I love you, Kendra. I… have… always…"
And then what little life remained leaves you, and you say no more.
Kendra wails and buries her face in your lifeless breast, weeping even as she struggles to feel the beat of your heart. But there is nothing. Your body is cold, and no blood flows through your veins. Without my light your eyes are nothing but empty pits, but that smile remains on your face even as your daughter cries out her grief onto your chest. You are dead, but undefeated. You are dead, but you have won.
From behind rises mist, twirling despite the lack of wind. It rotates upon itself, spiraling ever upward as parts of it branch off from the greater whole. It is vaguely human in shape, though its bounds are blurry and breaking off into the open air. Its mouth, if it can be called that, opens impossibly wide as it reaches out with tendrils that make up the closest thing it has to arms.
Then I reach out and grab the shade of Aidric Dunstan by the throat. A shriek builds from the ghost of the man who killed you, but I do not let it release into the world. He struggles, but it is futile. He is a small and meager thing, while I am so enormous I might block out the sun if I were to unfold myself completely. His time is finished, and I will not allow him to sully what you have sacrificed so much to achieve.
I take nothing from this man, this wretch, for I desire nothing from him. But I still break and flense all the same, scattering his essence so completely there is no chance Aidric Dunstan will ever be able to come together again. I give him final death. A fitting end to one who has orchestrated so much suffering upon the world.
Kendra does not notice. She is too encompassed in her heartbreak, overtaken by her sorrow. I do not interrupt this as I settle back down into a more appropriate shape for interacting with people. I simply move from behind her to settle before you, threads of light binding me still to the jewelry latching on to your bones.
Time passes, though how much I cannot say. The bonds holding me are fraying, and without them it is difficult to maintain proper perspective. But eventually Kendra looks up with red eyes still streaming tears to look upon me.
She does not flinch. I think perhaps there is no room left for fear in her. She sits up straight and cradles you close, her arms resting possessively over your corpse.
"You were with him," she says. "You were with my dad."
I was.
"You're why he was so broken. You killed him."
In part, yes. He asked it of me, and I could not deny him.
"And that makes it better?" Kendra asks. "That makes it right?"
I smile, and that draws a frown from her. Your daughter is rallying, Randall. Even now, your lifeless body in her arms, she is rallying. Even bereaved, newly freed from years of torture, she faces me without shying away. The wound is still there, is still fresh, but still she sets herself ready to fight for what she has gained. It gives me hope for the future.
It does not, but nothing ever will, I reply, reaching out a hand to brush your face. Kendra pulls you away, and I let my hand drop. In so many ways I think this was a long, drawn out suicide. When you were stolen, Randall gave up on his own life. Only his love for you kept him moving. His love, and his hope that you would have a future. He was… beautiful. If I could have taken his place, died a thousand times to give him just a few more moments with you, then I would have. But I can't. He's gone, and there is only our work left. But if you're willing, then I can tell you his story.
"His story?"
Walk with me and I will tell you, I say. It is all I can offer now, here at the end of this era.
"Walk with you to break the Engine?" She puts a hand to her head, wincing at the memories. "Aidric… Sometimes I was awake and could feel his mind. He was sure dad was going to destroy the Engine."
And he was right. But Randall cannot do that now, and I cannot accomplish this alone. I will need your help.
"You're not going inside of me," Kendra says immediately. She hugs you closer, as if she might hide herself from me. "Never again."
That will not be necessary, I say. The jewelry unlatches from your body, todstein moving in accordance to my will to settle before me. It melts beneath my hands, and I mold it like clay into a thin shaft set into an oval head. You need only carry this.
Kendra eyes the hammer suspiciously, but takes it all the same. Then, reluctantly, she sets you down and crosses your hands over your chest. Your daughter looks down at you, fresh tears forming in her eyes, before turning away with visible effort. You rest there, a smile still on your face, as we walk toward your grandfather's throne.
It is easy enough to find the mechanism to move it. Kendra knows of its function from Aidric's memories, and I have gleaned it from the spirits of those I have consumed. The floor that imposing chair rests upon shifts aside to reveal stairs going down into darkness.
I light the way as Kendra descends. Deep down into the earth, the stairs going around and around, there is a smell of musty dust that speaks of few venturing into these depths. The already frigid air grows colder, your daughter's breath coming out in puffs of fog as we carry on into the gloom and I make good my promise to share with her your story.
It is a trial to compress almost four years into such a short span, but I make it work. I tell her of your sadness, of your despair. I tell her of the pact we made while you were at your lowest, climbing out of the earth to wage war on all the injustices of the world. I speak of your bravery, and of your determination. But most of all I speak of how your daughter was always on your mind even at the most harrowing moments of our time together. How for her you walked through bullets and blades and fire, spilling your blood so that she might one day be free.
I do not know Kendra's thoughts, for we are not bound as you and I were. Even still, her emotions roll off of her. Grief and rage, the twin sides of her mourning, but beneath it all there is pride. Not for herself, but for you. Kendra is proud of you, Randall. Your daughter is proud of what you have accomplished, and grateful despite her heartbreak that you would give so much of yourself for her sake.
We are far below even the sewers now, so deep it almost beggars belief. How much effort must it have been to do this, and to keep it so secret? How many lives were used up, just so those with power might ensure it could never be taken away? The air grows thicker as we walk, as if through mud and clinging syrup. Musty air becomes stale, and then completely without smell as all semblance of life vanishes. I stand before Kendra so she does not get locked in the mire of the energies released, so that the heavy air does not choke her beneath its weight.
Eventually the stairs end, opening up to an expansive room. Kendra gasps as I expand the light, revealing my work in all its depressing glory.
The entire room is a concrete box more than one hundred feet across. Nothing else adorns this place, nothing fills it save for the Engine. It is made of two thick discs of todstein, the grey metal inscribed with markings to better grind against each other. Surrounding the discs are the revenants wearing nothing but drab jumpsuits. They push at the spokes settled against the metal, and every time they do there is a wave of energy that threatens to wither Kendra away into nothing.
But she does not wither, for I am there. I shield her from this power, just as my presence allows her to breathe when to do so would normally smother her beneath the gravity that is the end of all things. Todstein is death made manifest, a testament to the inevitability of entropy. To harness it is to unleash incredible potential, but so much gathered in one place and set to that purpose will not allow anything else to exist unless guarded.
The revenants move in unison, taking one step every minute. It is the slowest the revenants, themselves empowered by the energy they release, can turn the Engine while still remaining effective. All the better to hide its presence with the satellites. The massive discs ring out each time they scrape against each other, a sonorous call reminiscent of a bell. But it is not truly sound the Engine is making. It is the absence of sound, a silence so deep it warps the world around it and creates the sensation of vibration even though the air remains utterly still.
This is not a place of honor. It might have been, if it had fulfilled its potential to the purpose I designed. But it did not. Instead it was used to give those with abundance the means to steal more and more from those who have so little. To take, instead of give. To wage war, instead of promoting peace. To deny opportunity when all I wished was to give everyone the chance to live free of want.
Those who did this have forgotten a fundamental truth. Life is not a problem to be solved. People are not the means to an end, but ends in and of themselves. When we lose sight of this, when we treat living with our fellows as a burden rather than an experience, we open ourselves up to the most abominable of evils. We treat lives as if they were coins, currency to be spent in accomplishing our desires. If ever anything could be considered sin, it would be that.
Kendra looks down at the hammer, so small in her hand, then back to the Engine. The revenants push again, releasing another burst of power with that sound that is not sound. The illumination I release twists, for a moment inverting itself into a strange darkness deeper than mere absence of light, before I shift my working to accommodate for necromantic disruption. Kendra blinks and holds a hand to her head, blood dripping from her nose as she stumbles forward to stand next to my creation.
"This will do it?" she asks, raising the hammer. The revenants, dull-eyed and pale, do not respond to her presence. "This will break the Engine?"
Yes. It need only be hit once. I will do the rest.
Kendra closes her eyes, and says, "Let it end. Please, just let it end."
Then the hammer comes down.
Inside it is myself, the creator of this Engine. As Kendra strikes there is resonance, a reverberation between the hammer and the Engine as my energies and its substance synchronize. She cries out and drops the hammer, which is already crumbling as she clutches her trembling hand, but I have already flowed from what I made of the Engine's castoffs and into the greater whole.
I expand within to a sound like the roar of waves crashing upon the shore, one continuous barrage that sets the whole room shaking. The todstein buckles beneath my presence, its gravity eclipsed by my own. Metal bulges, deforms horribly with a faint scream that is felt rather than heard beneath my cry. It knocks the revenants to the ground, and after a few moments of twitching they lie still.
All of this should be impossible, for I am but a single ghost and the Engine a masterpiece that has empowered an empire. But I know this thing. Oh, but I know. It was formed with my sweat and tears, with my breath and blood. Without thought it attempts to crush me, and I direct that terrible strength against itself. Without intent it seeks to silence me, and I fill it with such defiant noise that there is no room for the calm of death. And, so bereft of outlet, the Engine stalls.
I release a sigh as the Engine decays. Todstein, normally so robust, turns to dust that falls to the floor. That sigh pulses outward, taking Kendra off her feet as it penetrates through the earth and washes out toward the whole of Alba. It crosses mountains and streams, encompassing the sky like a soft blanket that covers everything and everyone in a gentle embrace. It is absolution, the end of myself and my great work.
I cannot withstand what I have unleashed, and I make no attempt to avert my fate. I have existed for too long. I will not become like the Possessed, those thieves of children. I will not perpetuate myself further at the expense of those who come after. My time is done, and I bow out gracefully so they might inherit the world.
The last thing I see as my consciousness fades, disappearing to join you into that final mystery, is your daughter stumbling toward the stairs to leave this darkness and venture forth into the light.
Of course you can. For in these final moments of your life, no matter how much you have given up or how much has been taken from you, there has always remained something deep within that has driven all of your actions. Beneath all the fear and all the pain there is a core that shines no matter how much it is obscured.
It is your heart, which your grandfather did his best to make a cold and lifeless thing. To an extent he succeeded, for you cannot help but think through bitter calculus where others would act without thought to help their fellows. But he never fully killed that part of you. The part that cares, the part that loves.
And that part of yourself will not allow any chance for Harold to die.
"God dammit are you even listening to me?" Ashton asks as the world finally comes back into focus. "Dunstan, if you don't-"
"I hear you," you say, your voice soft. With one hand you gently remove hers from your shoulder, while the other you place on Harold's cheek. He looks up at you, eyes full of pain, as you give him a sad smile. "I'm sorry."
"You're always sorry," Harold replies. "You've been sorry so many times, but it never seems to change how you act."
You flinch, but do not step away. Harold's words are without heat, given merely with blunt stoicism that only comes from long acceptance. He knows you, has known you ever since you were both children. Because of this he is aware of all your failings and all your fears, the things that drove so much of your life leading to this point. At one point he believed there might be the possibility to reconcile all of that with what he wanted, that there was a chance you could be together.
It was not to be. There are so many reasons for this, and not all of them are your fault. But that does not change here and now. Harold is standing before you, and you have the power to save him. What you could not give him, and what he could not understand, are irrelevant in the face of this truth.
"They hurt me," Harold says, voice breaking. Tears gather in his eyes as a fresh bout of pain rocks his body, the curse wrapped around his heart ripping into his flesh. "They hurt me for helping you."
"I know."
"I suppose you do," he says. "You tried to warn me, but I…"
You move close and slowly, tenderly, set your lips upon his. Harold goes completely still, limp in both your grasp and in the increasingly uncomfortable Lieutenant Ashton's. Then he leans into you, wrapping his arms around your neck. He tastes of blood and stale vomit, and you are not much fresher despite your time recovering with Fatima, but at this moment you are both young again. You are running through the forest of your family estate, moving for the sheer joy of it. You are sharing a night looking up at the stars, chill winds giving you both an excuse to lean into each other and enjoy the feeling of your bodies. You are kissing, awkwardly and without skill, but with all the passion that comes from discovering something wonderful and new.
You wrap your arms around Harold and hold him to yourself, taking him from Ashton's arms. With an exertion of will, the air rippling as the light tinges with shades of black and violet, you reach out for the curse tormenting your friend and first love. It resists, of course, latching on hooks to keep from being wrenched away. Harold moans in your mouth, his embrace becoming painful as he crushes you with manic strength, but you do not let go.
With delicate care you unlatch the barbs of the curse from Harold's flesh and bind them to its form, curling the malevolent necromancy into a ball. He gasps as it comes up his throat, and when you finally allow Harold to stumble back the thing is writhing in your teeth. It twitches like a living thing, a narrow sliver of shimmering amethyst and obsidian, reaching for Harold and attempting to tear at your face so it can fulfill its function.
You bite down, and with a high-pitched squeal the energy sustaining the curse disperses.
"You're free now," you say as Harold almost falls into Ashton. He is pale, and his breathing ragged, but the pain that was a constant feature on his expression is gone now. "They don't have any more hold over you."
Harold puts a hand to his chest, gazing down in wonder. The lieutenant, on the other hand, is staring directly around you and to a certain extent at me. I would be only a faint shimmer in the air, something wide and deep compressing itself down until it can fit inside a person. But I cannot fit comfortably, cannot inhabit you without strain. There is too much of me and not enough of you, and how much you've given up has not helped matters.
Even what you have done for Harold leaves you sweating, and you were already short of breath from coming through the wall. Efforts that even just a few years ago would have been difficult only in the technical sense require so much exertion, and weariness has become so constant you can barely imagine what it means to be truly rested. It is merely a spectrum of enervation, your frailty growing to the point where you cannot live without me and yet I will still be the death of you.
I know you hold no hatred toward me beyond momentary animus given to all animals when suffering injury. Brief flashes of almost-thoughts pulled from the depths of instinct are the only indication of any ill will you might feel for what my presence has cost you. You are a good man, no matter what you might think of yourself. What you have done here for Harold, as I both buttress and drag you down, proves that.
How I wish I could give you more. But I cannot live your life for you, can only advise and support. And, ultimately, I will be with you when everything is said and done. It is the least I can do.
"You're being ridden," Ashton says. And, with that awareness, she understands more clearly the state you are in. "But you're not asleep."
"No," you reply. "I am not. I have participated in every step of this journey, and will continue to do so until the end."
"Which is going to rapidly approach if you confront the Prime Minister," Ashton says. "Because, respectfully, you look like shit."
It's true, but she doesn't need to say it like that.
You frown, both at her observation and my quiet agreement, but do not respond. Instead you walk past her and Harold, who seems ready to fall over if not given any support. You can sympathize. Every step is an effort of will, like the weight of your entire life dragging you down.
How much longer can you last? It only needs to be for a little while yet. Just a bit further, and then you can finally rest.
Ashton grabs your arm, and says, "If you do this he will kill you."
"Probably," you say. "But it doesn't matter."
The lieutenant's face twists, and she looks as if she is about to say more. But Harold leans into her, almost sending them both tumbling, and when they both steady he only shakes his head. He knows that once you have set your mind to something you will not be dissuaded. Further talk will only waste time.
So Ashton loops one of Harold's arms over her shoulder and continues down the hallway. You observe them for a time, looking over your shoulder. The soldier who you defeated, and was punished for it, and your old friend who has suffered only for the crime of coming when you called.
Alba does not deserve either of them. Alba, and those who lead it, do not deserve much of anything. But if Fatima can create something better from the ashes of the old… If your sacrifice can mean something…
You shake your head, brushing off those thoughts as the two turn a corner and vanish from sight. There are no more distractions. There is only your goal. There is only your daughter, and her freedom. Everything else is secondary.
A short walk, just a few turns, takes you to the imposing oaken doors that lead to the Upper Chamber of the Everlasting Senate. Over three times the height of a man, they are carved with motifs important to Alba's modern mythology. At the center is a torch being held up by a faceless figure shining enlightenment, with the overthrow of kings symbolized with the crown tossed underfoot. To either side are falcons with wings outstretched, the leftmost holding a bell in one talon and a key in the other. Its twin holds a bloody sword, which contrasts with the lotus flower in its other claw.
And above them all are the words "With Wisdom, Justice. With Justice, Liberty."
It is interesting for me to observe which parts of this heraldry were inspired from what has come before. Falcons have always been an important symbol, as have swords and keys. The lotus, as well, has long been considered a flower with connections to divine providence and peace. But bells and torches, along with the faceless figure, all came about in the years just before and after my death.
But that is not important now. You place a hand on either door and push. They are too heavy for you, but I place translucent arms over yours and add my strength to throw the doors wide. They boom as they strike the walls to either side, revealing the Upper Chamber.
The entire room is a half-circle, a four-tiered auditorium with fifty seats at each level. Set before each seat is a desk made of polished wood inlaid with much the same symbols as the door. There is little light, but what comes through the doors behind you reflects off the marble floor to show little hints of color among the austerity. Red cushions on the chairs, gold on the pens, silver on the desk mats…
The only difference is at the bottom tier, which has but forty-nine seats set in the manner of the others. For at the end, set against the wall with a mural of that same faceless figure holding aloft a torch, is a high-backed chair that could almost be a throne if not for the lack of gilding. The desk before that chair is larger, inscribed with falcons bearing their various panoplies, with an ornate gavel and block made of black wood lined with gold and a single gemstone of icy blue at its head where the handle would emerge from the top of the hammer.
Sitting on that throne is a familiar face set with a familiar expression, though neither belongs to the other. That face stares up at you, bounded by five revenants to either side holding rifles. You barely notice them, however, so overtaken are you at finally seeing your daughter's face after almost four years.
Your first instinct is to call out to her, to rush to her side and hold her close. You take a step forward to do just that before your thoughts can catch up to the reality of the situation. It is her eyes that draw you short. Silver eyes instead of brown, narrowed in disappointment and no small amount of contempt. This and other things, like how she sits so straight-backed in that chair with her hands on the armrests, how she furrows her brow and twists her lips to express her obvious annoyance, drive home what you already know.
The tightness in your chest takes on a whole new dimension, twisting beyond mere physical pain into something nigh transcendent. Those are your grandfather's eyes, shining with the light of death, peering out from your daughter's face. Tears well at the edges of your vision, to be so close and yet so far to one who you have missed so dearly, but you blink them away. You cannot show weakness to this man who has stolen everything from you.
"Randall," comes the voice of your daughter overlaid with that of your grandfather. Hers is light and musical. His is soft and deep. Together they create a distressing blend that sends shivers down your spine. "It's been some time."
"You've been expecting me, then?" you ask, forcing the words to come out calm. "Didn't think I'd perished when your thugs bombed Zeal's little den of nightmares?"
"I would not believe you dead until I saw the body," Aidric replies, putting your daughter's hands into her lap and leaning forward. "You're a clever boy, but I know you. I know your mind and your inclinations. That being the case, anticipating your involvement with the fools causing a mess outside was not too difficult."
"I wager they've better understanding than most," you say. "And they're making their discontent known."
"Insolence and ingratitude," Aidric mutters, standing up. The revenants follow his motion, stepping in unison to remain at his side. "I hope you understand the damage your wife is causing with this little tantrum. One of the busiest days of commercial activity in the entire year and she has every major city closed off! She has brought the beating heart of Alba's economy to a standstill!"
"Ex-wife," you reply. "We divorced years ago."
"But despite this you both still find ways to conspire," Aidric says. "Properly married or not, I know you two are in collusion."
"What can I say? You inspire the best in us."
"Very droll."
"Maybe people are just tired of being told to suffer for the sake of wealth they will never truly be a part of," you say. "Maybe you and all the rest brought this on yourselves."
"Then they are children who do not understand the truth of how things work," Aidric snaps. "I'll see her career ruined for this. We bring order to a chaotic world, civilization to savagery. Without us, there is nothing."
"And yet you're always surprised when people resist rather than throw flowers at your feet."
Aidric scowls, an utterly alien expression on Kendra's face compared to your memories of your daughter. Kendra was not so reserved, was more expressive when displaying her irritation. Your grandfather, in contrast, does little more than turn up your daughter's nose.
"Enough of this," he says. The revenants move forward as one in response to his unspoken command. "I'm not here to debate with you, Randall. Surrender peacefully or suffer the consequences."
The grin that twists your face is unpleasant, as is your laughter. The tears that you have been holding back finally draw down your face, unable to be contained, and you raise a hand to hide the sight of them from the judging gaze of your grandfather. Aidric, for his part, simply waits out the display to hear your response.
Your reply is vocal, though it does not take the shape of words. With a wrenching pull you draw forth the energy born of decay and center it in your chest. Purplish black light glows through your skin as you take a deep breath, and with a furious exhale you let loose a howl to break the very foundations of the earth.
The world shudders in the face of your scream, trembling with all the rage and grief and misery that has festered inside of you for your entire life. This banshee wail, portending death. Your death… Or, perhaps, a death long since gone. The death of your innocence, your hope. It rips across the senate chamber, throwing chairs and desks into the air as this mournful vibration tears toward your grandfather in his stolen flesh.
Aidric lifts your daughter's hand, and the shriek dies.
Wind roars between you, great twisting eddies that further ruin the carefully constructed mask of governance and send the Prime Minister's desk flying to join its fellows. Directly in front of Aidric is an invisible wall, an expression of telekinetic force brought into being through sheer exertion of his will. Around those stolen fingers glows the violet and ebony light of necromancy, a perfect counter to your attack as he vibrates the air in just the right way to nullify and redirect the vast majority of the force you brought to bear.
All that remains beyond that is a quivering breeze that brushes Kendra's hair. Aidric pays it no mind, maintaining his shield until all the air is expelled from your aching lungs and you've nothing to show for your efforts other than the destruction of the room.
"You are, perhaps, more skilled than I," Aidric says, closing your daughter's hand into a fist. You are wrenched from your feet and lifted into the air, clawing at your throat as Aidric hoists you by your neck. "But you lack strength."
He flicks that hand that is not his own, and you crash into the towering doors with enough force to slam them shut. All breath remaining to you escapes in a gasp, and you cannot draw any more into your lungs from the pressure of Aidric's will pushing down. There is a low creaking sound as the wood buckles, and below even that there is the sharp pain of your bones bending.
"You've always lacked strength," Aidric goes on. "No matter how much I've tried to teach you. Oh, you took well to the study of necromantic arts. That was never in question. You are a once-in-a-lifetime talent. But this alone is nothing without the will to use it."
Breathe. You have to breathe. Without breath you cannot draw power and without power you are doomed. But the pressure only mounts, making every effort to take in air a task of truly monumental proportions as your body compresses in on itself.
"It's a pity, Randall. You could have been useful, part of something glorious. But I look at you now, at the ruin you've made of yourself, and it breaks my heart."
Aidric motions with your daughter's other hand, and the revenants raise their rifles. They take aim, ready to execute you, but in the time your grandfather has been talking you have managed to take in a breath. Shallow it might be, but it is enough. With an effort of will you shape the ethereal substance of death into something you can use to survive the next few seconds and perhaps find a way to grasp victory.
The rifles boom, the report perfectly in sync to create a sound like thunder in the confined space, but the moment before they do you render yourself ethereal. Aidric's power pushes you through the doors of the chamber, bullets punching great holes in the door as you collapse in the hallway outside. Beyond his sight, Aidric cannot focus on you and the pressure lifts.
Then, roiling with entropic might drawn from the slow death of the world, you slam your hands against the doors. The heavy wood bursts into pieces, blasting into the room with the force of cannon fire. Three of the revenants rush forward, locking arms to take the shrapnel with their bodies.
Aidric idly waves away what remains as the revenants fall, their flesh cut to ribbons, so he is ill-prepared to respond as you rush forward in a burst of telekinetic force with your hand upraised. His eyes go wide, Kendra's face twisting into an expression of fear, and you hesitate.
Your technique fills the target up with all your hate and disgust so that there is no room left for the possessing ghost to reside. But can you really inflict that on your daughter? In this moment, even with those silver eyes shining, all you can see is her terror as you are about to not only strike her but force everything you despise about your grandfather and yourself into the depths of her soul.
That brief pause is your undoing. Aidric recovers from his shock and leaps back, sparks flickering across Kendra's fingers as he summons a stream of ghostfire. A chill wind surrounds those flames, screaming as all its heat is drawn into the blaze to leave the surrounding air cold as the heart of winter.
There is only a second to respond, so you reach out to a nearby revenant and dig your hand into its skull. It gives way easily, the todstein spike falling to the floor as the head breaks open. With that gone it is easy to twist dead flesh into a barrier between you and the ghostfire. Bone and fat warps beneath your fingers, what once was at least vaguely a human shape flattening out into a wall that sizzles beneath Aidric's onslaught.
Most burns away before your grandfather stops. Revenants barely have any blood left to them, most of it drained and replaced with embalming fluids to better preserve the corpse. But some blood always remains, and even a little is enough to quench ghostfire.
You have little time to wonder at your grandfather's foolishness, or perhaps desperation, to unleash such necromancy not only in within a populated area but also his own seat of power, as he drives Kendra's fist into the side of your face and sends you hurtling across the room.
Teeth break and fly from your bloodied mouth as you slide across the floor, telekinetic power enhancing Aidric's strike to something beyond human. Only my presence, reinforcing your body and holding pain at bay, keeps your skull from cracking open. As it is, the electric fog in your head banishes all capacity for thought as Aidric steps forward and raises Kendra's foot to finish the job.
I reach out with many translucent arms and drag you away just before the heel comes down where your face used to be. The floor cracks beneath the force, marble shattering into dust, and Aidric glares at us both as you rise unsteadily to your feet.
"So that's it," he says, turning Kendra's lip down into a scowl. "That's why you have achieved so much, and why your body is so wizened. You've taken a passenger."
Aidric slashes one of your daughter's hands across the air between you, and on impulse you stumble to the side as the wall behind splits in two. There is barely time to register the pain before your left arm falls away, a bloody stump just below the elbow. Then agony hits, hot and raging like the sun, and you scream. But as you scream I am reaching out from the gore of your elbow and grabbing the arm, pulling it close and knitting flesh back into place.
Even through lingering spasms you are moving, and thus avoid another razor thin wire of telekinetic power as it tears through marble so cleanly that not even dust rises in the wake of its passing. Gasping, you are barely able to stay ahead of the assault even as your muscles scream their protest. You were weary coming into this contest, but the depths of your fatigue now threaten to overwhelm you as darkness encroaches at the edges of your vision. Your body simply cannot keep up with what you are demanding of it.
Another scream as Aidric takes off your foot, your rolling dodge just a little too slow to escape completely, and I pull it back onto your leg as you stand up and continue your flight. You need only a second, just a brief pause to gather enough power for a shield, but your grandfather does not give you that moment. Aidric never loses sight of you, never ceases his attack, and so you are left scrambling across the room to find anything to defend yourself.
The other revenants have gotten back to their feet and aim their rifles. In response you cross your arms, the left still stinging from rapid regeneration, and protect your head as they fire. Bullets slam into your flesh, but just beneath your skin I catch them with many fingers. Lead falls to the floor as I release them, and then you are among the revenants.
You duck as Aidric swings your daughter's arm in another slash, and all six of the remaining undead soldiers fall to the ground in two clean halves. The top halves flail weakly, still trying to fulfill their objectives in stopping you, but the bottom halves are limp now that they are disconnected from preserving todstein.
With an effort of will you grab six pairs of legs and twist them into a wall of meat and bone between you and your grandfather. All you need is a moment, just a moment, to breathe and regain your footing. A moment to gather the necessary power, shape it to your will…
The barricade shudders beneath relentless attacks, breaking apart piece by piece, and you barely have the time you need to put a much firmer defense of telekinetic force across your skin. Your corpse wall breaks, and you are lifted into the air as you are struck again and again and again. You slam into the ceiling of the chamber, breaking wood and cracking stone, as dozens of invisible blades strike you at once. Your clothes are torn to ribbons, but you are not ripped apart as your barrier holds.
It keeps holding even as Aidric launches Kendra's body at you, breaking through the ceiling and sending you both out into the winter air. Your daughter's hands close around your neck, but that is secondary to the terrible snapping sound of your bones breaking. I dampen the pain, but even with this every nerve is alight and roaring.
Alba unfolds around you as your grandfather halts your momentum, hovering in the air as the wind of your passage sends falling snow careening wildly. Streets set haphazardly in older quarters, and in more uniform grids in newer. Grand estates and crumbling slums, parks and ponds near the former set apart from factories belching smoke to stain the snow falling on the latter. And beyond all of that…
The ocean, such a deep blue it is almost black, shines red at the horizon with the rising of the sun. Waves crash and roll against the shore and the ports that dot them, ships still harbored but ready to go out into the world beyond. A world that Alba would claim, just as Alba has claimed all that is good left in your own.
Your grandfather tosses you aside, and you fall just for a moment before he grabs you once again with necromantic power. All you can do is hang limply. You've nothing left, can barely even shudder as I snap bones back into place, and it is only because Aidric forces you to look at him that your head can remain upright.
"It didn't have to come to this," Aidric says, smoothing out your daughter's hair to rid it of the dust your passage caused. "None of this had to happen."
In the distance you hear the chanting of the crowd. They yell their displeasure so loudly that it can be heard even over the constant breeze, so rhythmic it almost creates music. That same call, for change and equality and justice, is being taken up not just here but across the whole of the empire's heartlands. A call for a different world.
Aidric turns Kendra's head in that direction, twisting her face into an expression of annoyance. It is so strange, seeing this perversion of your daughter's features. But mostly, you are just happy to be able to see her face so clearly. Her full lips, the curve of her nose… She takes mostly after her mother, though there is no small part of you there as well, and you cannot restrain your desire to reach out a hand to cup her cheek.
Your fingers twitch, but otherwise do not move.
"I see a bright future, and by your own actions it does not have you in it," Aidric goes on, returning his attention to you. "Only we have the knowledge to hold chaos at bay and direct the lives of these foolish, shortsighted people."
"And it's just coincidence that you get to enjoy yourself in the meantime?" you croak, blood pouring from your lips to join the red rain you are spilling onto the ground far below. "Cheating death again and again at the expense of children? You burn the present for this senseless future, and then act surprised when all that's left is ash."
Aidric scowls. Then he raises your daughter's hand and, with a casual flick of her wrist, slices through both of your eyes.
You scream as the world goes dark. Your face is wet, and your fingers twitch again in an instinctive urge to clear the dampness away. But not even pain can drive your weary body to action. All you can do is scream again as the pressure around you increases, your broken body a monument to your grandfather's cruelty.
"Any more clever responses, boy?" Aidric asks, his voice now your entire world beyond the agony of your flesh. "Or are we finally done with this petulant defiance?"
You do not respond, can do nothing but weep for the dying of the light. You tremble, head bowed, resting within the heart of Aidric Dunstan's designs. It is a familiar sensation, and even if the suffering is more potent the flavor is still the same. You've lived all your life in this man's shadow as he took from you and so many others, claiming it was for their own good.
That ends today.
"Take it all, Ellowyn," you whisper, "Take it all."
I'm sorry, Randall.
"I hope this tantrum has brought you some comfort," Aidric says. "Because all this foolishness stops here. I'm going to crush this ridiculous dissent your woman is fomenting, and you will die never seeing your daughter's face again. Alba's glory will reign eternal, and I will not have you standing in the way."
You open my eyes in the ruined pits of where yours once were, smiling as silver light outshines even the illumination of Aidric's own, and say, "And what makes you think I can't see my daughter's pretty face?"
I pull from the embers, all you have left, and convert it into power. Steam wafts off of you in the cold air as your body turns into a furnace, your soul fuel for a fire you have carried all your life. Everything you are, everything you were, everything you might have been, drawn into a single explosive moment and thrown at your grandfather to send you both tumbling back towards the earth.
A hurricane is unleashed as you both slam into the ruined Senate, a roaring cacophony that drowns out everything. Dust billows up in a cloud, but through my eyes you know where your grandfather is. With strength born from sacrifice you rush toward him, toward the body of your daughter. Even as Aidric raises one of Kendra's hands, ghostfire dancing around her fingers, you wrap your arms around her.
Because you have found the answer. Even while your grandfather was tearing you apart, you considered the issue of how to remove his soul from Kendra's body without exposing her to the ugliness inside of yourself. And through the pain, and the fear, and exhaustion so great you can barely imagine a world without it, you discovered the solution.
You draw your daughter close even as Aidric unleashes the ghostfire, burning a hole through your chest and out your back, and give to her all the love you have. Everything you have ever said, and more importantly have never said, flows from this physical connection and into Kendra. Warmth, and gentleness, and care. A desire for her to succeed, to be happy even at your own expense. A desire for her to live on, free and unburdened.
The flame you have been carrying through the blizzard of your own misery, all for her sake. It passes from you, and into your daughter. It touches upon her soul, buried so deeply by your grandfather's violation, and gives it strength. It grows, fills the container that is her flesh, and there is nothing left for Aidric to cling to.
Your grandfather screams as he is forced out, and you smile even as you fall.
She falls soon after, collapsing now that Aidric is no longer inhabiting her body. You know that you should be hurting, that everything should be agony. It does not, and you know that your death is finally here. I have taken too much from you, and you have pushed yourself too hard. There is nothing left to give, nothing left to build from in order to rise again.
But as Kendra groans, and opens brown eyes blessedly free of silver light, you cannot bring yourself to care that this is the end. There is no more suffering, no more anguish. You can finally rest, knowing you have succeeded in releasing your daughter from her torment.
Kendra looks at you, for a moment uncomprehending. Then she blinks, and awareness dawns as she takes in her surroundings and your ravaged form. Your clothes are in ribbons, and what remains is stained with your blood. But even worse than your ruined eyes is the hole in your chest, burned and cauterized all the way through from the quenching of the ghostfire.
It is the end of you. It is the final punctuation on a life of anguish and fear. Yet despite all of this you cannot say you hate the time you have spent on this earth. Because despite everything there has been love. Rage may have carried you on this tortured road, but it is love that saw you to its end. For that love you have endured so much, set yourself against all the myriad evils that sought to destroy you, and for that you have no regrets.
"Dad!" she yells, crawling over to your still form. "No no no no no no!"
She grabs your shoulders and holds you close. You feel nothing but a soft pressure and a peculiar chill, and with strength you hadn't realized still remained you raise an arm to return the embrace. Her warmth bleeds into you, and your smile widens. It is nice to hug your daughter again after so long.
"I'm sorry," Kendra whispers, tears falling down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry."
"It's fine," you say in a voice like a gentle breeze, unable to raise it any higher. "It's fine. You don't need to fret over me."
"But I killed you! I…"
"No, you didn't. I did this to myself, and did it gladly. I love you, Kendra. I… have… always…"
And then what little life remained leaves you, and you say no more.
Kendra wails and buries her face in your lifeless breast, weeping even as she struggles to feel the beat of your heart. But there is nothing. Your body is cold, and no blood flows through your veins. Without my light your eyes are nothing but empty pits, but that smile remains on your face even as your daughter cries out her grief onto your chest. You are dead, but undefeated. You are dead, but you have won.
From behind rises mist, twirling despite the lack of wind. It rotates upon itself, spiraling ever upward as parts of it branch off from the greater whole. It is vaguely human in shape, though its bounds are blurry and breaking off into the open air. Its mouth, if it can be called that, opens impossibly wide as it reaches out with tendrils that make up the closest thing it has to arms.
Then I reach out and grab the shade of Aidric Dunstan by the throat. A shriek builds from the ghost of the man who killed you, but I do not let it release into the world. He struggles, but it is futile. He is a small and meager thing, while I am so enormous I might block out the sun if I were to unfold myself completely. His time is finished, and I will not allow him to sully what you have sacrificed so much to achieve.
I take nothing from this man, this wretch, for I desire nothing from him. But I still break and flense all the same, scattering his essence so completely there is no chance Aidric Dunstan will ever be able to come together again. I give him final death. A fitting end to one who has orchestrated so much suffering upon the world.
Kendra does not notice. She is too encompassed in her heartbreak, overtaken by her sorrow. I do not interrupt this as I settle back down into a more appropriate shape for interacting with people. I simply move from behind her to settle before you, threads of light binding me still to the jewelry latching on to your bones.
Time passes, though how much I cannot say. The bonds holding me are fraying, and without them it is difficult to maintain proper perspective. But eventually Kendra looks up with red eyes still streaming tears to look upon me.
She does not flinch. I think perhaps there is no room left for fear in her. She sits up straight and cradles you close, her arms resting possessively over your corpse.
"You were with him," she says. "You were with my dad."
I was.
"You're why he was so broken. You killed him."
In part, yes. He asked it of me, and I could not deny him.
"And that makes it better?" Kendra asks. "That makes it right?"
I smile, and that draws a frown from her. Your daughter is rallying, Randall. Even now, your lifeless body in her arms, she is rallying. Even bereaved, newly freed from years of torture, she faces me without shying away. The wound is still there, is still fresh, but still she sets herself ready to fight for what she has gained. It gives me hope for the future.
It does not, but nothing ever will, I reply, reaching out a hand to brush your face. Kendra pulls you away, and I let my hand drop. In so many ways I think this was a long, drawn out suicide. When you were stolen, Randall gave up on his own life. Only his love for you kept him moving. His love, and his hope that you would have a future. He was… beautiful. If I could have taken his place, died a thousand times to give him just a few more moments with you, then I would have. But I can't. He's gone, and there is only our work left. But if you're willing, then I can tell you his story.
"His story?"
Walk with me and I will tell you, I say. It is all I can offer now, here at the end of this era.
"Walk with you to break the Engine?" She puts a hand to her head, wincing at the memories. "Aidric… Sometimes I was awake and could feel his mind. He was sure dad was going to destroy the Engine."
And he was right. But Randall cannot do that now, and I cannot accomplish this alone. I will need your help.
"You're not going inside of me," Kendra says immediately. She hugs you closer, as if she might hide herself from me. "Never again."
That will not be necessary, I say. The jewelry unlatches from your body, todstein moving in accordance to my will to settle before me. It melts beneath my hands, and I mold it like clay into a thin shaft set into an oval head. You need only carry this.
Kendra eyes the hammer suspiciously, but takes it all the same. Then, reluctantly, she sets you down and crosses your hands over your chest. Your daughter looks down at you, fresh tears forming in her eyes, before turning away with visible effort. You rest there, a smile still on your face, as we walk toward your grandfather's throne.
It is easy enough to find the mechanism to move it. Kendra knows of its function from Aidric's memories, and I have gleaned it from the spirits of those I have consumed. The floor that imposing chair rests upon shifts aside to reveal stairs going down into darkness.
I light the way as Kendra descends. Deep down into the earth, the stairs going around and around, there is a smell of musty dust that speaks of few venturing into these depths. The already frigid air grows colder, your daughter's breath coming out in puffs of fog as we carry on into the gloom and I make good my promise to share with her your story.
It is a trial to compress almost four years into such a short span, but I make it work. I tell her of your sadness, of your despair. I tell her of the pact we made while you were at your lowest, climbing out of the earth to wage war on all the injustices of the world. I speak of your bravery, and of your determination. But most of all I speak of how your daughter was always on your mind even at the most harrowing moments of our time together. How for her you walked through bullets and blades and fire, spilling your blood so that she might one day be free.
I do not know Kendra's thoughts, for we are not bound as you and I were. Even still, her emotions roll off of her. Grief and rage, the twin sides of her mourning, but beneath it all there is pride. Not for herself, but for you. Kendra is proud of you, Randall. Your daughter is proud of what you have accomplished, and grateful despite her heartbreak that you would give so much of yourself for her sake.
We are far below even the sewers now, so deep it almost beggars belief. How much effort must it have been to do this, and to keep it so secret? How many lives were used up, just so those with power might ensure it could never be taken away? The air grows thicker as we walk, as if through mud and clinging syrup. Musty air becomes stale, and then completely without smell as all semblance of life vanishes. I stand before Kendra so she does not get locked in the mire of the energies released, so that the heavy air does not choke her beneath its weight.
Eventually the stairs end, opening up to an expansive room. Kendra gasps as I expand the light, revealing my work in all its depressing glory.
The entire room is a concrete box more than one hundred feet across. Nothing else adorns this place, nothing fills it save for the Engine. It is made of two thick discs of todstein, the grey metal inscribed with markings to better grind against each other. Surrounding the discs are the revenants wearing nothing but drab jumpsuits. They push at the spokes settled against the metal, and every time they do there is a wave of energy that threatens to wither Kendra away into nothing.
But she does not wither, for I am there. I shield her from this power, just as my presence allows her to breathe when to do so would normally smother her beneath the gravity that is the end of all things. Todstein is death made manifest, a testament to the inevitability of entropy. To harness it is to unleash incredible potential, but so much gathered in one place and set to that purpose will not allow anything else to exist unless guarded.
The revenants move in unison, taking one step every minute. It is the slowest the revenants, themselves empowered by the energy they release, can turn the Engine while still remaining effective. All the better to hide its presence with the satellites. The massive discs ring out each time they scrape against each other, a sonorous call reminiscent of a bell. But it is not truly sound the Engine is making. It is the absence of sound, a silence so deep it warps the world around it and creates the sensation of vibration even though the air remains utterly still.
This is not a place of honor. It might have been, if it had fulfilled its potential to the purpose I designed. But it did not. Instead it was used to give those with abundance the means to steal more and more from those who have so little. To take, instead of give. To wage war, instead of promoting peace. To deny opportunity when all I wished was to give everyone the chance to live free of want.
Those who did this have forgotten a fundamental truth. Life is not a problem to be solved. People are not the means to an end, but ends in and of themselves. When we lose sight of this, when we treat living with our fellows as a burden rather than an experience, we open ourselves up to the most abominable of evils. We treat lives as if they were coins, currency to be spent in accomplishing our desires. If ever anything could be considered sin, it would be that.
Kendra looks down at the hammer, so small in her hand, then back to the Engine. The revenants push again, releasing another burst of power with that sound that is not sound. The illumination I release twists, for a moment inverting itself into a strange darkness deeper than mere absence of light, before I shift my working to accommodate for necromantic disruption. Kendra blinks and holds a hand to her head, blood dripping from her nose as she stumbles forward to stand next to my creation.
"This will do it?" she asks, raising the hammer. The revenants, dull-eyed and pale, do not respond to her presence. "This will break the Engine?"
Yes. It need only be hit once. I will do the rest.
Kendra closes her eyes, and says, "Let it end. Please, just let it end."
Then the hammer comes down.
Inside it is myself, the creator of this Engine. As Kendra strikes there is resonance, a reverberation between the hammer and the Engine as my energies and its substance synchronize. She cries out and drops the hammer, which is already crumbling as she clutches her trembling hand, but I have already flowed from what I made of the Engine's castoffs and into the greater whole.
I expand within to a sound like the roar of waves crashing upon the shore, one continuous barrage that sets the whole room shaking. The todstein buckles beneath my presence, its gravity eclipsed by my own. Metal bulges, deforms horribly with a faint scream that is felt rather than heard beneath my cry. It knocks the revenants to the ground, and after a few moments of twitching they lie still.
All of this should be impossible, for I am but a single ghost and the Engine a masterpiece that has empowered an empire. But I know this thing. Oh, but I know. It was formed with my sweat and tears, with my breath and blood. Without thought it attempts to crush me, and I direct that terrible strength against itself. Without intent it seeks to silence me, and I fill it with such defiant noise that there is no room for the calm of death. And, so bereft of outlet, the Engine stalls.
I release a sigh as the Engine decays. Todstein, normally so robust, turns to dust that falls to the floor. That sigh pulses outward, taking Kendra off her feet as it penetrates through the earth and washes out toward the whole of Alba. It crosses mountains and streams, encompassing the sky like a soft blanket that covers everything and everyone in a gentle embrace. It is absolution, the end of myself and my great work.
I cannot withstand what I have unleashed, and I make no attempt to avert my fate. I have existed for too long. I will not become like the Possessed, those thieves of children. I will not perpetuate myself further at the expense of those who come after. My time is done, and I bow out gracefully so they might inherit the world.
The last thing I see as my consciousness fades, disappearing to join you into that final mystery, is your daughter stumbling toward the stairs to leave this darkness and venture forth into the light.
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- Location
- United States
- Pronouns
- He/Him
That is a fine conclusion. Poor Randall was a bitter old man who died in as spiteful a way as he lived. Rest in peace.