Heraclius Staurakius - A Life Well Lived
As Heraclius swung the hook back into the river, straw hat on his head and a reed in his mouth, he pondered on his life with a wistful smile.
He'd reached Core Formation, he'd prosecuted some of the most historic wars in recent history, he'd raised wonderful children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren, as well as, more recently, a most incredible nephew. He supported his Clan to his fullest, and through his leadership gave them one of the best-fought Trials to have occurred in millennia!
That had to be one of his proudest moments, bar none.
He'd conquered nemeses and bitter rivals, taken lovers and paramours under many sheets, laughed and cried in the company of boon companions and sworn brothers. Some of them alive to this day. Most of them were dead, gone by blades in the dark, the horrors of war or, most commonly, the mere passage of time having ground them to dust.
Not much longer before he joined them.
These past few decades as the Protostrator were the most fun and hectic he'd had ever since he'd been a Qi Condensation whelp, a much-needed injection of energy and life into what otherwise promised to be a slow, quiet decline into death.
He'd left Detasia a small note to that effect in his will, thanking her for making his last days in this world an enjoyable one. Thanking her for the raunchy stories, the moments of shock that Manuel would always try to hide whenever he saw the newest edition brought a smile to his face. Hopefully she'd get to read it instead of throwing it away and focusing on her experiments, but what could he do about it even if she did? Why would he even
care if she did? He'd be dead.
That thought was oddly freeing in a way, the idea that nothing mattered now. It was strange, nihilism as a concept never really appealed to Heraclius. The finality of existence, the ending to the beginning that is and was Heraclius. Of course there would ever be meaning in life, so long and up until you were as close to the end as he was.
Now? Well, barring a surprise ascension to Nascent Soul, no matter what happened, he was going to die.
And he would not indulge himself in more Lifespan Treasures. Having had
two was already incredibly wasteful on an old set of bones like his.
So why not enjoy the time he had left? He didn't have to worry about his reputation with his peers, because any poor reputation would slide away after his passing. There were no proper examples to set for his juniors, no more punishments for breaking line for his Legion, because in his final days he didn't see anyone but his family and his peers. Hells, even his legend as a Core Formation cultivator wasn't under threat, because all of the heroic deeds he could do
were done already.
There were no mountains left to climb, no trials for him to overcome, no more mentoring to do to the next generation, nothing left but passing over the mantle of command, a quiet retirement (for however long it would last), and death.
The only 'challenge' left to him was figuring out what to do with the scant time he had left.
Family. Friends. Clan.
Each and every single one of them, an important cornerstone to his life.
And thus each should be given their final dues.
… but first, to reel in the Silver-Threaded Devouring Bass that had just caught his bait and was trying to splash away, the bastard!
… … …
It had been during the Year of Inspections that Heraclius had let the truth go out.
His Legion, nay,
all the Legions, would gain a newer, younger Prostrator. A Prostrator whose orders would drive the protection of the Golden Devils for generations to come. Whose words would inspire courage into the troops, and fear into their enemies. Whose decisions would shape the future of the Clan.
The reins were to be handed down on the eve of the Inspection of War, the most important event of them all, where a smudge on armor could find a legionnaire on latrine duty for decades, and a dint in their spears could earn a true formal reprimand for themselves and their families.
It would be the last orders Heraclius would ever hand down.
The last rewards for the best kept set of Bronze Show Chassis. He'd ever been a stickler for ensuring his troops would have the War Banners in their order of precedence, and Heraclius was well known to inspect each and every suit with a Magnifying Stone.
Not a speck of dust would escape his sight.
The last punishments were given, and poor Marcus Aurelius would now be stuck cleaning bathrooms until his replacement decided otherwise.
He didn't care that a supposed Celestial Chicken had gone on a rampage when young Aurelius tried to grab some eggs. He should've been stronger, just like Aurelius's ancestor, one of the previous Prostrators of the clan.
Heraclius still spent some time every month walking through the Path of Leadership, where Prostrator were immortalized for as long as the clan stood. Passing through hallowed halls of the army commanders that came before him never got old, unlike him of course. Some were courageous frontline attackers, others cautious fortifiers and defenders, yet others canny trappers and schemers.
Why, he could still remember when he posed for his photo, full of vigor and strength and assurance that he would not… that upon taking the reins as he had, during strife and pain, that he would lead them into a brighter, better future if it was the last thing he did.
As Heraclius stood before his picture, bright plaque with his name underneath, he would dare say he'd succeeded even beyond his wildest hopes and dreams.
Two Core Formation Elders, less than five hundred Foundation Establishment, less than eighty-five thousand Qi Condensation. That had been the toll of the last Trials he would ever face, and the best outcome the Clan has had in well over a thousand years.
He might've cried when he'd gotten the news, on a fishing trip with his nephew.
Passing through the doors one last time, the banner of his Legion well in hand and its flag fluttering proudly in the winds, Heraclius felt the weight of age on his shoulders lighten up just a little.
His… the troops stood at the ready.
The sun shone brightly overhead.
His successor stood tall and proud.
Heraclius couldn't be happier on this day.
"Sheng Yu, with the passing of this banner unto you, do I bequeath command and responsibility from my shoulders onto yours. This banner bears the burden and glory of a thousand generations. To bear it is to bear the weight of the shield, as you protect the Clan from all who strive to harm it. Each order shall be the spear that shall strike down the enemies of the Clan. To hold it is to hold the weight of each and every life that shall serve under you henceforth, unto victory everlasting."
Passing the banner… it had been mere decades, but Heraclius had been grateful for each and every year that he'd gotten to lead the Golden Devils' armies.
He could only hope young Sheng would find as much appreciation in the work to come.
…This was it, wasn't it. All these decades of work, molding his army into something strong, something decisive, something uniquely his own, something that fit him like a velvet glove. The army was
his, the title of Prostrator was
his, and it was only now that Heraclius felt the true enormity of setting his title down.
No longer would he command an army in war. No longer would he exult in victory alongside his men, or rage at the bitter taste of defeat. No longer would he reward those bright-eyed younglings for their heroic deeds, or comfort his men after their failures. His soldiers were no longer his, and…
That burned.
That burned with the heat of a thousand suns.
But there was work to be done, a title to pass on, and Sheng Yu would do the position proud.
"Behold, Imperial Optimatoi, your Prostrator comes!"
And as the young Prostrator beheld his armies of flowing bronze, Heraclius joined the lines of troops for one last salute…
"We salute the Commander!"
… and wondered why the Heavens would make it rain with the skies so clear.
… … …
Heraclius really,
really should have expected this, sighing internally even as he twisted his wrist a little and sent the hook back into the river with the tiny fish still hooked on the other end.
Then again, he mused with a wry smile, no matter how long they'd been exposed to her, nobody really ever expected Destasia Duca.
"… through the testing of your body and cultivation, and just a bit of liberal usage of my own concoctions, why I foresee a 75% chance of successfully extracting about 10% of your current strength!"
He raised an eyebrow at Destasia's latest exuberance.
"And the other 25%?" His voice was drier than the desert at how willfully the flighty councillor would omit the bad outcomes and give a shine to even the worst ones.
"Weeeeeeell… 15% odds that it's all a waste of time and spirit stones, and everyone walks off hunky-dory!"
She was bright and doe-eyed. She was cheerful.
She was hiding something.
"Uh huh."
At this point, to Heraclius, it was a waiting game. His ex-associate was not known for her patience, and thus more often than not would either bulldoze past the conversation, or just keep on talking. It was a good thing she knew that, and was more than willing to go through the appropriate steps to address the problem.
Heraclitus had to admit he was both impressed by the will she had shown in cursing herself, and worried if that same will transferred to her charges.
Well… no longer his problem, anyhow.
He reckoned it wouldn't be much longer of a staring contest, as Destasia's eye started to twitch, and she started scribbling in that notepad of hers in an effort to not break too quickly. He mindfully didn't point at just how much she was agitating the river with her lack of temper.
He had the time to let it settle.
And as if on queue, her shoulders drooped and she sighed dramatically.
"Ugh. Fine. The last 10% account for the many various ways the different energies borne from the combination of your Dao and my mixes could coalesce in a fulcrum, consuming and bolstering each other beyond initially-believed values to conflagrate the entirety of the surrounding area."
Heraclius had to blink a couple times as he tried to parse Destasia's rapid-fire speech. He half believed she did it on purpose to hide her nefarious plots, though, with Destasia, one could never be sure. "So I would… blow up?"
"Magnificently so!"
Now it was his turn to sigh. "Destasia Duca. I am not going to allow you to make me explode."
She shrugged in turn, not even trying to deny that it was an acceptable outcome. "95% odds you wouldn't, but you can't blame me for trying!"
With a flip and a twist, she got up from her spot beside Heraclius and started walking away. "Well, it was a fun attempt and all. See you next time, old man!"
He chuckled and waved her away.
"But of course, you crazy woman."
Destasia continued walking, cheerful smile upon her face, all the way until she was out of Heraclius's sight.
After that, she sat down, curled up, and sighed. "It was fun, old man."
"...I wish you didn't have to go."
… … …
Heraclius' next visitors certainly held more propriety, as treats and tea were served on the river bank.
He smiled softly as he partook in a most delectable synthesis of Jade Orange Eucalyptus tea, his fishing rod leaning restfully under a nearby tree's shadow. "My compliments, Casia. You have outdone yourself with this blend."
The councillor, in turn, bowed softly. "A measly centenarian symbiosis borne from the herb garden's whims, paltry in comparison to Councillor Xie's own work with the fish you have caught on this day, Heraclius."
The two Councillors chuckled in turn.
Xie murmured happily. "Thunder Roc Wafers topped with Five-Thousand Belgarious Salmon paste with tomatoes and sea salt and Centenarian JOE tea. It makes this wonderful day all the more appreciable."
The winds blew lightly over them, sun shining in perfect warmth overhead as the trio shared this moment of peace and tranquility.
No fighting.
No business.
And most importantly, no paperwork.
Bliss.
Slowly the time passed. No words were spoken in the meantime, for there was no need.
The visit was for Heraclius, true.
But the best part about peaceful memories lay in their simplicity. Moments passing on without worry. A whisper of a joke traded in moments, a peal of laughter following closely. The sun slowly arching overhead, as day turned to night, as the winds went from softly embracing you with their warmth with lightly chilling you for bedtime.
Nothing of import happened to take them away from their spot.
And for that, they would be forever grateful.
… … …
Heraclius was losing.
He, a Core Formation Elder, was
losing. He, the (former)
Prostrator of the Clan, was losing a war game.
More specifically, he was losing to his nephew at Shogi.
Now, that in and of itself wasn't too surprising. Heraclius always lost at least a few games to his nephew, on purpose of course. There was no point playing a game with Iostros if his nephew was never able to score a hard fought victory, and besides, Heraclius' aim here wasn't to win against a cultivator who hadn't even reached Core Formation, it was to make sure that his nephew was having fun.
No, despite his (fake) wrath, the real problem wasn't that Iostros was beating him. It was that Heraclius was only letting his nephew win for the fourth time in a row because he wanted to soften the sting of the news he would have to give him.
"Hah! Beat you again uncle!" And, yes, there it was, Iostros exclaiming in victory after having caught his pieces in an ingenious pincer trap.
Heraclius allowed himself a fond smile. His nephew would grow up to be an incredible tactician one day, that was for sure. "And so you did Iostros. Marvellous work."
Something about the way he said that must have tipped off Iostros, because his nephew was suddenly looking at Heraclius, suspicion writ large on his face. "Uncle? You never let me win this much. What's going on?"
Sometimes, Heraclius didn't exactly enjoy having such an observant nephew. Especially in times like these, where Iostros' keen mind meant that the former Prostrator would have to talk about things he would have preferred to keep hidden.
But Heraclius had long ago sworn that he would never be anything less than fully honest with his nephew, and so he would speak the truth, no matter how much it would hurt. "Well Iostros, as you know, I'm getting old. I'm not going to be around for much longer, and in the time I have left, I'd like to just spend time making some pleasant memories for the both of us."
Iostros looked up at him, and Heraclius was reminded of just how
young his nephew actually was, at least, compared to Heraclius. "...Ah. Y-yeah… that makes sense."
For a long moment, there were no words spoken between the two, and Heraclius was about to change the subject to something much less serious, perhaps a review of his nephew's performance in their latest match, before Iostros broke the silence, voice cracking as his eyes filled with unshed tears. "U-uncle?"
Oh how his heart
broke at that. His nephew shouldn't have any reason to feel such sadness, and the knowledge that it was because of Heraclius, his beloved 'Uncle Bull', made it even worse.
But Heraclius would stay strong with the ease of centuries of experience. One of them needed to. "Yes, Io?"
Iostros bowed his head, still the same little boy who didn't want his uncle to see him cry when he stubbed his toe. "...Why do you have to die?"
...Fuck.
There was no real valid answer to that beyond 'that's how the world works', and that felt like sort of a copout to Heraclius, a nonanswer that would be just as bad as lying to his nephew.
Dammit, he'd have to do this the hard way.
Heraclius sighed, rubbing his head with a palm. "...Well, Iostros… There's not really a reason beyond 'I'm near the end of my lifespan'. I can't reach Nascent Soul, I doubt I could even summon the tribulation. And the Archegetes already used two Lifespan Treasures on me. I'm not going to get another one."
"… Why not? Aren't you the greatest Prostrator in a long, long time? Surely if anyone deserved it, it would be you!" Iostros whined, tears in his eyes.
"Indeed." Heraclius nodded solemnly, draping an arm across his nephew's shoulder. "I was one of the greatest. But even a third wouldn't do me much good, you see, they tend to lose their effectiveness after a while. So now I'm merely an old Uncle Bull, who really doesn't want to see his favorite nephew cry. So please, smile for me, yes? Hey look, I even got some news you might like to hear!"
"Yeah,
right." Iostros smarted sadly. "What, you remembered where you put your Mighty Fishing Rod?"
"Oh why you…!" Even as Iostros 'secretly' wiped his eyes in laughter, Heraclius felt some pride.
He would grow up to be a fine Devil one day.
"Oh, no, I
know," The boy chirped, all smiles and jokes now, "you were invited into some top-secret Legion, weren't you?"
… it was truly uncanny how close some jokes could get to the truth, Heraclius mused, even as memories of the moment all but played in front of his eyes…
… … …
"
Archegetes." His voice had gotten raspier lately, more scratchy and metallic than Manuel remembered it. It would soon be time. "A moment of your time, if you would."
Papers were strewn all around the Grand Elder's desk, preparations, supply orders, investigations, combat orders and much more that would have usually passed by Heraclius being currently handled by the Nascent Soul cultivator, as Sheng Yu got a proper hold over the Legions.
Heraclius had offered to help with it. He could recognize the legiate's writing when he just wanted an extra padding of supplies rather than actually needing a replenishment. How the scouts' garbled yet still legible writing from across enemy lines was a mere existence report rather than anything of note. That one was the Xinya elder's constant request for more guards for their precious young, as if Xie's familial nepotism hadn't already filled his belly and guarded his bed thrice-over.
His hand itched for a storm eagle's feather dipped in ink that wasn't there, and understood that Manuel's denial wasn't to hurt him, but to free him, let him spend his time out of work and duty.
But that time was now running out.
"But of course." And all the papers were swept away into their compartments with a wave of Manuel's hand.
All but one, and sighting it gave the dying man much joy.
On it was his full name, Heraclius Staurakius, along with Archegetes Manuel Konstantinos' signature and dating. It covered the hours and days of the guard that would watch over him, and the contribution points that would go to his nephew in exchange for serving the clan one last time. The potion that would slow the regenerative abilities of the Bronze Body, made by Destasia herself, had been placed at the ready, to be delivered on the date of the event. On top of the parchment, letters of bronze and gold ink foraged from the rarest sources and inked by the most skilled scribes in the clan, each pulsing with valiant energy and whispering the hymns of the Clan.
A glorious end to be given to the greatest of the clan, to those that would wish to serve the Clan beyond their deaths.
To imbue their life and their will into the Bronze Wall, and serve forevermore as part of the first and greatest line of defense of the Dawn Fortress.
Heraclius could only chuckle at being seen through one last time. "…Was I really so predictable?"
Manuel pushed the paper towards his end of the table, one last, final, most thorough check on the elder for drugs and mind-affecting effects. The fact that it was the most thorough one yet, enough so that even he could feel the shadows clawing through his senses for the most minute of effects, told Heraclius of the time and practice the Archegetes had with the skill, and thus understood that the Clan Elder had watched over his Council ever since he rose to the position.
And possibly even before then, if some rumours were to be believed.
"I wouldn't say that." Though, Heraclius thought, Manuel hadn't denied it. "It could only ever be the choice of a great man, to act in greatness one last time. Wouldn't you say so, Bronze Bull of Itola?"
Now, that had made Heraclius laugh loud and hard. And for but a moment, one could yet hear the stern and haughty voice of the man's youth, one that led him from recklessness to recklessness, from danger to victory and all the way to today.
And after shaking hands properly with Grand Elder Manuel Konstantinos for the last time, he ran with full force from the room, leaving dust and papers and bewildered youth galore in his path back home. Like the Raging Bull he was.
Manuel stood in the room, alone, for a long moment after Heraclius's departure, and sighed. He was
old, old in his bones, old in a way that only his fellow Nascent Souls, enemies all, were. His lot was to lead the clan for an aeon, to keep it afloat, to endure even as those around him succumbed to the sands of time.
Manuel was eternal, at least compared to the rest of his clan. He'd outlived so many of his juniors and all of his elders. Eventually, one simply got numb to the pain, becoming detached out of necessity.
… But, Manuel mused, despite everything he told himself, it would always hurt to see generations come and go.
It was what they left behind for the next to walk their path, the joy and sorrow of a life lived in full, and the marks they would make on other Golden Devils, that was well worth the price.
… … …
"Uncle? Uuuuncle??? Uncle Cooooo…. Yeowch!"
Heraclius bopped Iostos' nogging with the almighty Calming of a Thousand Bulls technique, one made specifically to deal with impertinent youngsters of the Staurakius family, easily able to penetrate their renowned tougher-than-bronze heads to inflict the most tender loving one would give to a rebellious child.
It was only taught to fathers and mothers for that specific reason. Otherwise, it would be an unbridled weapon of mass humiliation.
Heraclius had pulled some strings to learn it, though he was a mere Uncle so, so long ago.
Worth every contribution point.
"I've been appointed at the Bronze Wall to serve and protect the Fortress. Iostos, I would be most happy were you to be there when I join the ranks."
Heraclius could see it immediately, with the tilt of his head and the sparkle in his eyes, that Iostos knew not of what the old man spoke of.
This was one of those times he truly wished his family hadn't the penchant for skipping the most boring history lessons. But he wouldn't begrudge the young boy something Heraclius himself had done numerous, uncountable times in his own youth.
He would merely treat it as his last lesson.
… but that was yet a while away, even as Heraclius tussled with the boy, throwing him to and fro without leaving any permanent damage, Iostros growling and charging him after every turn. After every setback.
Yes. Iostros would become great one day, perhaps even greater than these old bones ever were, someone who could step out of his uncle's shadow and stand proud on his own.
But, until then, helping his favorite nephew along just a bit more wouldn't hurt, right?
… … …
Thus did Heraclius' last month fly away. His joints were getting stiffer by the week, covered in enough green to be missed in the grassy background, and thus he couldn't go to his favorite river spot any longer.
The ever-faithful fishing rod, so that it may continue to bring happiness in the greatest pastime to have ever been discovered, was gifted anonymously to a passing mortal, who would go on to become the greatest fisherwoman of her town and live a short, happy life.
The remainder of his possessions, the innumerable scrolls on defensive tactics he'd written across the ages, his contribution points, his spirit stones, his abode, and more, all of them were all spread amongst the branches of his family in the hopes that it would springboard another of their members to fame and fortune.
And if his beloved nephew gained a bit more than the others, such as a private room, access to some of his works, and the majority of his personal stash of treasures and knick-knacks, well, Heraclius just
dared them all to complain to his face.
None did.
The only things left to Heraclius were his name, the clothes on his back, and his faithful lance, forged from an ancient Qi-Gorging Demonic Bull.
This was the weapon with which Heraclius had gone on to rampage across battlements and wilderness, to gore and impale the nefarious Reaper of the Battle Blood Cannibal Sect, to strike fear into the bandit coves of the Sand Scorpions, to charge through the battle lines at Itola, challenging and successfully beating the Jingshen commander…
Yes, a most trustworthy friend, who had seen Heraclius through thick and thin, this would be the most important participant in the days to come.
A brown cloak now covered his moss-riddled body, each step an effort against rusting metallic muscle and an unresponsive body, each a small victory of its own right.
Step.
By step.
By step.
This was how the Raging Bull made his way to the Bronze Wall. Each footfall thundered across the earth, tremors following in his wake. Dust and sand and dirt would all make way for him, each step risking to sink Heraclius deep in the desert should he not pay attention. The weight of his corroded body was much higher now, and though he could not properly charge across the desert any longer, even a short dash would be ruinous with whatever he made contact with.
At least, that was how Heraclius comforted himself.
He most certainly
was not fat!
… … …
The proceedings on the Bronze Wall were solemn, lines of curious cultivators spread all over the area in an attempt to peek at the mysterious Guardians of the Wall.
It could be said that even in a century the Devils might not bear one cultivator worthy of the Guardians, so stringent were the requirements. One's entire being must have been dedicated to the Clan first and foremost, have achieved greatness both within the Legions and without, and in turn still hold the force of will to separate themselves from their mortal coils and part of their own very essence to imbue into the Bronze Wall.
Needless to say, the difficulty and pain of the last requirement drove off many aspirants.
But not all.
Not today.
And as he lifted his weapon high in the air, coated with anti-regenerants and tuned to better harm the Bronze Body, Heraclius thought that was a good thing.
It was hard to scream bloody murder with a throat incapable of voice, after all.
With a mighty war cry, he drove his first, strongest strike, into his heart.
With the second he cut his neck.
The third, his legs.
Fourth, his stomach.
And from there, his lance's blade bright red and his breathing minimal, Heraclius began the cleaning.
Truly, the bodies of the Golden Devil Clan were bloody resilient things. Even his first strikes, enchanted and empowered, barely left nicks in his organs. Corroded as it was, the bronze went from hardy and flexible to tough and hard to breach. But only the first four strikes mattered on the first day.
The Blood had to flow from start to finish.
Green and red flew all around, as Heraclius struck and struck and struck all the corrosion off of himself, leaving only shining bronze to be brightened by the rising sun. No part was left untouched, though a cloaking was applied when it came to the nethers.
It might have been the most nervous moment in his life.
Strike after strike after strike, so no corrosion was to enter the Walls, so no weakness was given entry. This was the first of three days.
Many came to say their goodbyes then. Some had been saved by his forts during the latest Trial. Others were old friends from his Legionnaire days, troops and soldiers he had marched and fought alongside, brothers and sisters bound in blood. A few roses were delivered by old paramours, too embarrassed or too saddened to come visit directly.
And so the hours passed, the skies turned dark and then bright once more.
The second day arrived with more fanfare than the previous.
Today his achievements would be celebrated. His command over the Trials would be written in the annals of the Clan. His triumph at Itola, a story for the ages. His accomplishments, his tribulations, each a seed with which future generations might hopefully be inspired to greatness.
And all the while, Heraclius was to strike against himself. Small cuts, short cuts, minor wounds. Each and every line, and act or accomplishment on his part. That each story be honored with the blood that flowed through him, and through his blood his accomplishments be inscribed within the Bronze Wall. The more his accomplishments, the higher the flow of blood, and the greater the Will that he could imbue alongside the Guardians.
His strength nearly failed him, the last swing a thin red line from collarbone to hip, at which point his lance full of dents thwanked on the wall.
But this weakest of strikes shone the brightest. This single line, woven among a myriad other wounds, sunk deep into the wall, and caused a soft thrum to echo amongst all viewers.
And thus the night came, and with it the last moment of respite for the weary Heraclius.
… or so he had thought, as the guards he had ignored the whole while let pass a single visitor.
His eyes may have been caked with blood, but he could yet recognize that anguished face.
"… Kleisthenes."
Heraclius' voice was barely a whisper, and even muttering her name drew coughs of blood from the old man. She kneeled softly beside him, lifting his head from the ground, eyes boring into him, searching for something.
"What…" a whistle could be heard, as Heraclius drove what little air he could into his torn lungs, "… can I… help you with?"
She went over each wound, her nail trailing over his throat, his stomach, and stopping over the hole to his heart. Her breath quickened, as old memories surfaced.
"I… I don't know."
She bade the guards away, and they complied. As one of the Clan's Councillors, she had that right.
"Manuel… for so long he had become jaded, hollow. After ascending to Nascent Soul, it was as if he had become the shadows he often hid in, ungraspable, unfathomable."
A tear slid down her face, and she sobbed at what had been lost with time.
"My sister had been so close to ascending. I had been jealous for a while, and then… and then she gave her life so Manuel could escape from an ambush in a trial hundred years prior. He could only save one."
Her voice was forlorn.
"For the longest time, I couldn't understand why he chose me. We had been friends, oh so long ago, and then fought time and again. Things had been… patchy, ever since that day."
She released her aura. Kept it reigned in to the two of them, and still she shone with the power of a Nascent Soul. "And then the cryptic bastard once again chose me. Through an impossible chance, I became a Nascent Soul, and have utterly detested the pain that comes with the power." The aura was once more dimmed, yet Kleisthenes was so much brighter now, in his eyes.
"So why… no, how do you deal with it? The pain, the suffering?"
Heraclius could barely feel her holding him up, yet the salt from her tears burned, and his heart roared at the pain, which drew more bloodied coughs from him.
Kleisthenes cared not that her pristine white dress, an impossibly powerful treasure for most and utterly priceless, was drenched in blood.
"Simple… as usual…" With great effort he lifted his arm, and pointed it to the sky. "What do you… see?"
Her eyes, rapt with demand, followed his fingers to the starry skies above.
"The unjust Heavens, the broken Seas, the fight for another day."
Her voice was steely, resolute.
Such assurance drew a grating chuckle from Heraclius, which in turn drew a soft glare from the councillor.
"Simpler… than that…"
"Look…"
Turning his hand into a fist wasn't supposed to be this hard, but he pumped it softly against the air.
"Tomorrow… comes, we… fight. Yesterday… came, we… fought."
He could see it dawning in her eyes, the flame, the
spark that lay dormant, defiance rekindled once more.
Heraclius didn't need to say the last piece of his wisdom.
He said it anyway.
"Today… Today we
live!"
… … …
With her leave the guards returned, as did peace and quiet. There was little left to reminisce over, so Heraclius rested.
For the toughest challenge was yet to come.
The third day rose softly, and few came to speak with the body near-empty of blood. He could no longer lift arm or leg, and even speaking was beyond him.
His body had been pushed to the utmost limits.
Blood dripped by the trickle, and skin hugged bone.
His senses were dulled to the utmost.
He could barely recognize Iostos, as the boy was stopped from entering the circle. He tried to speak, to utter even a single word of support, but it only came out as a low whistle.
A blanket of coldness draped over his body, and Heraclius felt fear.
Would he fail on the cusp?
Would he be found unworthy?
… was he worthy?…
He could no longer feel his extremities, and his memory was getting cloudy.
He was here to join a Legion.
…Was he?…
He was dying on a Wall.
… why?…
He was Heraclius.
… and why are you here?…
To Guard the generation to come.
… Then rejoice, and join us…
… … …
Light shined forth from within him, and Heraclius knew pain.
Something was being ripped from him, he was being ripped from himself.
He screamed, he laughed, and he screamed some more. His body arose with the light, thousand figures standing beside him.
He beheld his family, his Iostos. He beheld his leader, his
Archegetes.
He beheld his clan, his Devils.
And beheld a new soul, a weak soul.
Heraclius thrust with two fingers, a splinter of his remaining might to be split between the new boy and his boy, that they might find safety within the Bronze.
And with that splinter, with that piece of his self, came understanding. Purpose.
His boy, he recognized. Iostos. His nephew, his beloved nephew. Heraclius didn't remember anything about himself but his name, but Iostos was clear as the day above, a most beloved Golden Devil.
The memories slipped through his fingers like river water or a flopping fish, things Heraclius remembered were
important, but not why, and not how.
But that was unimportant. Iostos was here. He would give a parting gift to one so close to him, that his path may be smooth. One last gift, that he may arise clear of regrets. .
The other… Heraclius didn't know him. But beside him stood
Archegetes and Dragon both. The shadow whispered of him. He was lost, and now returned, that he may behold the glory of the clan. That he may rise from the grounds whence his ancestors came from.
What a great story, the shadow told.
The Dragon huffed. She found him, he bled for her, he sought her. He was weak, but so was everyone, once.
And yet his blood was Bronze, and his Body was the Clan's.
But such a weak gift… the Heavens' Curse would eat him before dawn arose.
And so the second splinter went to him. It would reinforce the curse, sure, but he could proudly walk amongst family. The Clan would gain another Good Seed.
And whether the two Golden Devils would make true of his gifts, he left to the Shadow. And, yes, the Dragon, too.
Free of the last of his memories, Heraclius walked among the Guardians, and was no longer Heraclius. That body was left to sink within the Wall's embrace, to arise upon the enemy's arrival.
He was a Guardian of the Wall. His Will was the Protection of the Wall.
And all Guardians saluted the He That Was.
… … …
The light whispered sweet promises to the last vestiges of Heraclius, the remnants that laid discarded upon the wall.
Renewed greatness.
Glory. Power.
Time.
Each and every whisper, decadent. Willful. Honest. If he were to try one last time. Possibly, maybe, this would be the time he would succeed.
It was all that was asked of him.
To try.
He held the light of tribulation softly within the torn soul, twisted and turned it between disappearing palms as he slipped further away with each switch.
With a booming laugh, with a last
surge of will, Heraclius called the tribulation, daring it to come and face the Bull of Itola, if it had the courage!
And… The light winked out.
His core shattered into a thousand million pieces.
With his last breath and sheer willpower, Heraclius forcibly held the remnants of his core together, long enough for the ritual to complete.
He sighed ruefully, managing to twitch his mouth upwards into a bitter smile.
...It was not meant for him.
His time was…
…
..
.
(WC: 6644)
A/N: Well. This is finally done, and holy shit, it took a while, mostly thanks to my IRL problems.
Huge, HUGE, thanks to @DawnOfBoom for co-writing and co-editing this omake, they probably wrote more than me for this. It wouldn't have been nearly as good without their help.
I hope we gave Heraclius a good send off.
He deserves it.
