I swear to you all I did not intend to let things slip so far. The chapter is mostly written, and was mostly written today, and is almost certainly trash. Between family drama, fourth of July, FFXIV dawntrail, and the little vacation I'm currently on, writing was like repeatedly slamming my head on a wall.
The chapter is almost certain to go up sometime tomorrow, and hopefully I can polish it up some. I swear the only thing harder than a fight scene is the aftermath of a fight scene. I kinda hate the chapter being worked on, and will be glad to see the end of it.
To make up for my failure to keep a promise, I will attempt to get the next next chapter out a day early, to balance the books. I know it's basically a pittance compared to how some writers I admire are, but it's a remarkable challenge to write 4k words weekly. The attempt has given me a newfound appreciation for periodical writers.
I appreciate the thought, but if I didn't impose deadlines on myself, I'd never post anything. Like I said, I got most of the writing done on this chapter by squeezing my brain against the upcoming deadline and dripping the juices onto the page.
And I spent like the first four days of this week deep in FFXIV, so this hopefully won't repeat too often. Thank you for worrying, though, Acolyte! It means more than you know.
[...] Herald Vanyel saw the Shadows,
And they turned their wiles on him.
For one moment, even he began
To feel his spirit dim—
But he saw their secret evil,
And he swore ere he was done.
He would stalk and slay these Shadows,
And destroy them one by one. [...]
Shadow Stalker, Mercedes Lackey
Chapter Eleven: Spirits Dim
As Robb suspected, there sat Bran, much the worse for wear and dragging his legs limply across the floor by his glowing ball. Warm relief froze to frigid worry over his little brother's state. "Bran! What the hell happened?" He had a thousand and one more questions, but they would wait for the safety of Winterfell's walls.
"The Grimoire, Robb," Was his response. A fair enough answer to many of his unspoken questions, but- "Sometimes the powers it grants are gentle enough in delivery. Other times, less so." Ah, of course. He should have kept a closer eye on him, swiftness be damned!
"Dammit all!" Suddenly Bran's little green bubble popped, and he landed on his legs in a most discomforting manner, limply twisting in entirely incorrect directions. Robb was already on the move, legs acting on impulse. "I don' supp'se therrs any svagble furntur nere?" Bran wasn't making any sense, had he suffered a head wound!?
"Bran! Are you okay?" Gods, but he looked a mess. No inch of him was free of injury, and his eyes had gone dim, unfocused. Robb grabbed him by the shoulders, fighting the Stranger's spectre hanging over the room. "Bran! Bran, stay with us!"
As all this was going on, none save Ser Rodrik noticed the small stranger approaching from the other side of the ruined tavern. His blade was ready to strike before he saw it was no demon, but a child near Bran's age. Appraising the boy, he began to wonder if all such children would be growing strange from now on.
In nearly all respects, the newcomer bore a passing resemblance to Bran, being of similar build and carrying the same air of strangeness about them. Yet his hair, it marked him as clearly unnatural even if his countenance merely hinted to it.
He knew of no boys with hair so starkly white.
Not even a terribly unnatural white in itself, which only made it more uncanny. In these strange circumstances, hair of frost or marble might be almost expected. But this boy's hair was the whiteness of age, of wisdom. For all his apparent youth, he carried himself with an air of mystery, of ancient things forgotten by most. In his hand he bore a branch of unworked wood in the shape of a shepherd's crook, and he was draped in simple roughspun garments.
Even as the knight brandished his blade, the child did not stop his approach. "Halt! Identify yourself, boy!" He commanded with an authority he did not feel. The others all turned to see the strange sight of a fully grown knight trying to hold a boy at swordpoint, and failing.
The boy did not heed him, instead waving the crook in the direction where Bran fell, casting the fallen mage in an aura of purest light; Robb and the others cried out in shock at the sight. All the Northmen felt their hackles raise at the sight, and drew their weapons to guard against the strange magic. It hit the solitary knight amongst them the hardest, tugging at the hold his oaths had over him.
He had long been of two minds on matters of faith. Long had he held to the Old, yet he had sworn knightly oaths in the name of the New. Those oaths were held with all his heart, as any decent man of the North holds their oaths. He looked fondly enough on the Seven, though he felt their representatives left much to be desired. It was hard not to feel something, standing in the grand places erected for their veneration.
He felt a similar thing, looking upon the aura that graced the little lordling, That same intangible something he had felt only some few times in his life, most strongly the day he was knighted. It had fallen on him like an ill-fitting cloak at the time, but the oaths of knighthood were good oaths and he was proud to swear them.
He could hold to his gods and still uphold the tenets of others, so long as they did not contradict. The Old Gods had very little in the way of demands from their followers, thankfully.
The power settled about Bran now was an order of magnitude greater, however, at some seven or eight paces away. As he gazed through the beautiful light, he saw a miracle occur: Bran's wounds, fading like ink in the sun and leaving pure, unblemished flesh behind. In moments, the boy seemed entirely unharmed, if greatly discomfited by the brilliance mantling him.
"What… What have you done? Who are you?" The white-haired lad turned to the knight, gaze deep and even. His words, however, bore the uncertain timbre of a youngling.
"I am J-Jack, a humble a-attendant of the Seven-Who-Are-One, b-bestowing the Mother's mercy on a… poor soul in need. And y-thou…," he said, eyes thawing somewhat, revealing a deep, abiding kindness within. "Art a k-knight brave and true, who s-stood well against f-forces of evil under the r-righteous command of your liege. Thy liege." He spoke well, but stiffly, as if reciting a text. His language was odd as well; Robb recognised it as an old dialect Measter Luwin had some few texts written in, but it was clearly affected and unable to hide the Northern Common in check.
"That he is, and his conduct today has been beyond reproach." Robb said, charily. "But I am more concerned by your conduct, stranger. You bear the mien of a child, the air of a priest, and the gall of a Dornishman to so brazenly work a strangeness on my kin, however benevolent, without my leave." Ser Rodrik saw his lord's point, but could not help but feel that miracles of healing ought to be celebrated first and the prophets questioned later. Preferably after the darkness was quelled in the North.
The light lifted off of Bran, leaving him healed and whole, for the most part. As the light faded to glittering dust, a bright and airy voice sounded out from nowhere.
Be not afraid, O Warden of the North, and forgive my ward his transgressions, said the harmonious voice. He acteth only in service to a higher power, to restore one who shalt be vital in the battle ahead. Behold, he stirreth!
Robb turned again; as the intangible stranger had said, Bran was beginning to come to, fidgeting and scratching at himself oddly.
"Be that as it may," Robb said, torn between his brotherly concern and his lordly duties. "You and yours have us at a disadvantage. You clearly know me. Who, then, are you?"
I am an angel, a messenger of the Seven Above, and guardian of the waif before thee. He hath been chosen to act as the conduit 'twixt man and Divine in this frozen land, in these dark times.
"Ugh…," I blinked slowly awake, palms itching something fierce and a familiarly overbearing presence surrounding me, pulsing with the light dancing behind my eyes. Of course the Divine would send its agents to monitor this disaster, how could I have thought otherwise? No need to question my condition, doubtless a minor miracle of healing had taken place. Minor for certain, as I still could not feel my legs.
God helps those that help themselves, I suppose.
Struggling onto my arse, I saw we were still in the smoldering ruins of a tavern, the Smoking Log living up to its name if I don't miss my guess. 'Twas so named for the fire which had taken the tavern that last stood there, some few years back. My brother was apparently in talks with a Divinely-touched individual; I could recognise the sight of that wisdom-blasted hair anywhere, a common effect of direct Divine contact.
I wasn't looking forward to working with the lad, but if God felt the need to act so overtly I cannot deny we could use the assistance. I doubted, personally, that the Divine had anything against magecraft, else my old life would have had a much more difficult time squaring his life and his beliefs, but the constant suppression of wizardry was annoying if nothing else.
Not to mention just how uncomfortable a Divine aura is for a practitioner, for 'tis no easy thing to have your entire art called into question as a pale shadow before the bonfire that is the Divine's wellspring of power. Still, with what very well might be demons having the run of town, I was hardly in a position to decline. Every soul would be vital in the battles to come.
"Didn't feel like fixing up my legs, eh, little septon?" I called blearily. "Or does even your grace have its limits?" By the reddening of his little cherubic face, he did not care for someone testing his faith.
"H-hey! I tried my best!"
The fault lies with me, mageling, came the unmistakable voice of an angel. Thou needed no further healing there, for thou art already as whole as thy wish.
"What in the world could you possibly mean by that?" I replied icily.
Thou enjoyeth being underestimated, if I recall rightly.
Well that's certainly curious. Was that a touch of humor in his voice?
"Oh no, you must be mistaken. I would remember having met an angel before."
Not in this life, perhaps.
I shook my head, the last thing I need now is a renewed crisis of faith. "It's quite rude to stay discorporated in the presence of mortals, you know. We don't always take kindly to mysterious voices from nowhere."
Very well.
A beam of light descended from the heavens, entering through a hole in the roof. It danced across the floor, growing in luminosity, before coalescing into the form of a man. He was well-dressed, but strikingly… common-looking. Aside from his kind countenance and healthy glow, one would be hard-pressed to name him as ought other than human.
But I knew better. Felt better, too; Divine energy saturated him, he wasn't even masking his aura as angels were wont to do in such forms. Better for testing the faithful, as I understood. As the majority of those present were slack-jawed at the spectacle, including the little septon, Robb had his eyes locked on mine.
"Bran, does this being speak true?" He asked. "Is he really-?"
"An angel, messenger of the most holy? Yes. Sent by the Seven? That's harder to say." I turned to the angel. "Well, messenger? Speak you for the Seven, or for the Christ, or the Prophet, or the people of Jerusalem?"
"All and more, as thou well knowest, mage." The voice, still maintaining an ethereal quality, at least now had a source.
"Of course you do." Gods, was it difficult to keep my temper around this angel! "I suppose the Divine Will is above such petty squabbles over scripture, no matter how many fall to them."
"I prithee, still thy tongue, mage." The angel frowned, disapprovingly. "Again, thou dost well know the ineffable nature of God." A Christian-aligned angel, then. Wonderful. I may have held to the Faith as a Hermetic, but they were only slightly better to deal with than the overbearing Islamic angels.
"Oh, stuff your ineffability, you-!"
"Bran!" Robb shouted, worriedly. "Please, if this is truly an angel, and Jack his ward, do not fight them! We'll need their help, and not to harp on, but I know you know that too!"
I grunted, shaking my head. My brother was right, but the angel was just-!
Just what? I stopped, reassessing my behavior. Taking a deep breath, I stilled my mind with my Occlumency, and tethered my inner beast tighter. The Beast falls to Pride, the Hunter lives by Humility.
There were too many cooks in the kitchen of my mind, and I couldn't allow such disarray to impede our mission. The people need help, and I can tolerate a holy pest to facilitate that.
"You are right, brother." I turned back to the angel. "I apologize to you, holy messenger, and to your mortal servant as well. Such words were unbecoming of me, both as a mage and as a son of House Stark."
"Thou art forgiven, little one." The angel deigned to smile at me softly, as my inner beast writhed in anger. Jack huffed at me, and while glaring at me still, he nodded at his angel's words.
"Yeah, I guess it's okay… I-I mean, y-thou are forgiven. Art forgiven!"
I couldn't help but smile at that, he was remarkably precious for a saint-in-the-making.
"You realize you don't have to mimic his diction directly, right?" I gestured at the angel. "The job of a decent priest, septon, or other shepherd of the faithful is to communicate the gospels in a way the people can understand. You won't do well by talking like that."
"To my chagrin, the mageling speaketh true, my ward. Thy common tongue differs enough from those I am accustomed to to make clarity difficult. Pray, speak as thou wilt, Jack, so long as thou keep the Seven-in-One close in thy breast, thou shalt not speak awry. I can teach thee what to say, but the one who speaketh must be thee."
Jack didn't quite seem to believe me, but he nodded to his angel's words. Hmm…
"There is something I'd like to ask before we continue: Are you a guardian angel, by any chance?"
"I am, indeed."
"I had figured as much, you've been uncommonly forthcoming even considering the circumstances. You have experience with mortals, I take it?"
"Enough."
I chuckled; his presence still sent my hands and teeth to itch, but keeping a leash on my more primal self helped to see the goodness inherent in the angelic mien. Not surprising, as goodness is partly what defines the angels, but it's no matter.
"So." I decided to get down to it. "I see the fighting has been rough on your group, Robb. But you've taken well to the blade, as well."
"He will need it. Behold." The angel gestured to the doorway, where a huddled mass of people observing proceedings with awestruck terror at the things being witnessed. "These are all those who hath been saved by thy liege's hand or my ward's. A fraction of those who once called this place home, but all that remaineth."
I wondered at that. "Surely, that is a good thing, then? Can we not simply take the survivors up to Winterfell, where it is safe?"
"No."An objection came from Robb's direction, where he stood pale-faced. "I don't know what you've fought so far, but these things… They are unnatural, in more ways than are obvious. They don't track through sight or sounds, as far as I can tell, and the men will back me on this. We have seen them cut down people from behind solid walls, who were sneaking as well as a crannogman. If this is all that remains…"
I saw his point immediately. "You think they'll attack soon?"
"In force, brother. And theirs is no small force." Thunder rumbled in the distance, a storm must be brewing.
"Indeed, my lord." said the angel. "The enemy is great, their might, unquestionable. That is why I have shown myself, to aid thy quest to rid this place of darkness."
I snorted. "Don't suppose that means you'll be fighting yourself, then?" I kept a light grin on my face, to avoid truly offending them.
The angel only shook his head, sadly. "Thou know the rules that hath bound me. Wretched these creatures may be, they are not true Demons, nor any beast from the Realm Infernal. They are… new. Though I dearly wish otherwise, I may not raise my blade here directly." He shot me a little grin of his own. "'Tis thy duty to do as I cannot, with the power of thy magic."
"An angel, asking help from a Hermetic? Don't tell me the trumpets have sounded already, I was hoping for a good few more years!" A bright laugh souned, sounding like nothing so much as the tolling of church bells.
"You said much the same, a long time ago and very far from here."
"Sorry, I think you have the wrong mage there, can't remember anything about that." I feel that might change in future, unfortunately. a cold chill ran through me at the thought of losing myself to these powers I've been made to wield.
"You will, in time. 'Tis my hope, at least."
"Memory aside," Robb interjected. "How much time do we have?" Again the storm sounded its fury to the wind, cracking and tumbling through the sky.
"Not long, I'm sure." I said. "If they hunt via some supernatural sense, the congregation of people here will be as a signal fire to the creatures without. Ideally, I'd have all these people safe behind stone walls, but Winterfell is too far and we probably don't have two hours to conjure a tower." Robb startled at that statement, as I knew he would, I swiftly moved on. "Still, there is another thing I can manage, somewhat swifter. Gather round, everyone!"
As the masses began shuffling in, I looked over them. Fearful, scruffy faces all, they had lived through a nightmare of my doing and were saved only by the grace of an angel. I shook my head; I must do all in my power to make amends.
"Tell me, Jack, is that staff a holy weapon?" I knew it was, the shepherd's crook was too clear a symbol to be here for no reason, but it was best to ask anyway.
"Y-yessir, it is. Pulled it right outta the burning bush!" A curious vision, this angel is fond of the classics it seems.
"Good, I'll need you to help me. O angel!" I called. "I don't suppose you could do me a quick miracle, could you?"
"That depends." He said evenly. "Wouldst it help these people stay safe?"
"The best I can do on short notice, and even then we may be looking at a fight too soon for it to matter. Still, if it please you, to work a spell of protection on these people so we can fight unhampered by them, I will require a sum of vis. Vim vis, specifically, though I doubt a touch of holy power will harm things here." He nodded.
"I see. A Circular Ward Against Demons? Canst thou rework the spell to ward off these beasts, for they draw not on Infernal power."
I pulled the large crystal from my pocket, the one I wrenched from inside the dark orb's flesh. "With this, I believe so. This appears to be one form of the reduced essence of these creatures, and I believe I can work an arcane connection to their entire kind using it in the spell." I held out my hand. "But I will need some vis to even make an attempt, so…?"
"How long shall thy working take?"
"One hour, easily."
"An hour!?" He was oddly surprised. Does he know me or doesn't he? "Why wouldst thou use a ritual for such a spell?"
"Unfortunately, 'tis the swiftest I can do magic on this level. When the Grimoire introduced me to Hermetic magic, it allowed me insight into ritual magic alone. I know it is possible to cast spells spontaneously, and I am aware of the basics of spell formulae. But I do not know those methods, not like ritualism."
"I do not know that we can hold off the scourge so long." The angel was understandably concerned. "Hast thou no other options?"
"Like I said, I can do a mystic tower, but that'd cost two hours."
He pondered this for a moment. "What might this tower requireth?"
"A decent measure of terram vis, but-,"
"Very well. Prepare thy circle, and we shall hold the field 'til thy success."
"Excellent." I boosted myself up onto a psychic platform, waggling my hand at the angel. The angel sighed, but acquiesced. With the pealing of a sept's bell as he snapped his fingers, a light shone down upon my outstretched hand. Sprinkling down from the beam like manna, a silver dust collected in my palm, looking entirely mundane to eyes un-Gifted.
To me, it was worth far more than gold. Several pawns worth of vim vis, the manifested essence of magic and might. Extracting this sum of vis from the meagre aura of Winterfell would've been the result of several days of laboratory work at least, and an angel can conjure it at a whim. I could almost cry.
Quickly, I stuffed the vis into my pockets and rolled my way around the Smoldering Log as star cycles and lunar phases danced in my mind. Rain began pouring down through holes in the roof, bitterly cold and miserable. The smallfolk will have to deal with that, for I cannot ward against weather and demons in the same breath.
"Jack! Get over here and draw us a circle about the townsfolk!" Yet where faith springs true, there is hope. Even when the faith in question is the Seven's.
As Jack dragged his crook through the ash and dirt around the smallfolk, Robb and Rodrik made their way cautiously to the angel. They had heard how long the townsfolk's defense would take, and had some concerns. "Mighty angel, can we truly withstand a siege of these beasts?" Robb inquired. "My brother seems to be tied up in the workings, leaving only me with a weapon which can harm them!"
"Do not discount my ward, Lord Stark." He chided. "He may not be a great warrior, but his faith burneth true. Elsewise, we could have saved none. And while I may not fight directly, I doth have some ways to aid."
"You have my thanks for your work, as does he." Robb said solemnly. "I recognised some few faces in the crowd, and I had worried that they would want for safety as the battle moved on. Full glad am I of their survival, and I am in your debt." He would need to think a while on how best to reward the little septon.
"If thou art in a boon-granting mood," He pressed, "I wouldst like the land we stand on to be marked as sacred ground, and placed in my ward's care."
"Oh? Have you plans to raise a sept here?"
"Perhaps, my lord. Perhaps."
"The question remains, however: will only the two of us be enough?"
"Nay." Proclaimed the angel, turning to Ser Rodrik. "But this knight of thine swore oaths true, and shall be fighting in the defense of the innocent. A blessing would not go amiss, I believe." Reaching his hand out, the angel brushed his fingers lightly against the knight's forehead, Rodrik's eyes closing reflexively. "I anoint thee, in the name of the Seven-Who-Art-One, to fight on the behalf of the innocent with a Warrior's strength." A gentle glow affixed itself to Rodrik, before fading into his skin. "Fight brave and true, Ser Rodrik Cassel. Let the beasts of darkness's get taste the strength of thy steel."
Taking a deep breath, Ser Rodrik opened his eyes once more, blazing with righteous fervor. Not literally, to Robb's disappointment, but he didn't doubt the angel's word. "Can you empower the others in this manner?" He asked, hesitantly. "Three more men would greatly improve our odds, would they not?"
"Alas," The angel sighed. "He is the only sworn knight present. The power needed to stand on these fields requireth oaths sworn in turn."
"Truly?" The angel shrugged.
"Had thy men been truly virtuous, and unmarked by sin, that may have been different. But pagan faith aside, they art simply men, no better or worse than most in thy lands." Robb felt that might be a bit harsh, but perhaps angels simply have higher standards.
Considering the situation, Robb came to a swift decision. "Men!" he barked. "Kneel before Ser Rodrik." His men hurried to comply, Northern disdain for knighthood countered by an equally Northern drive for survival. Ser Rodrik drew his blade, and the angel laid a hand on his sword arm. Sometime between moments, he had slipped behind the knight, somehow a head taller than a man he had been eye level with a second before. The scene was the spitting image of a mighty sept's stained glass windows, and everyone felt the power gathering in the tavern.
On the other side of the crowd, some of the smallfolk could hear a child's voice complaining about 'damned holy auras' and 'could God lighten up on the magic suppression for five minutes!' But they were too awestruck by the divine event taking place that they ignored the off-putting voice.
With a solemn voice, Ser Rodrik began. The knightly oath poured from his tongue like the sweetest honey, his blade laid gently across the first man's shoulder. "Tomas of Winterfell, in the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother I charge you to protect the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women. Do you so swear?" Swapping the blade over each shoulder for each line, he spoke the last line with the blade just beneath Tomas's chin.
"I swear," was the earnest reply. Light danced about the knights as holy power crashed upon the scene. Ser Rodrik took his sword away, then struck Tomas across the face with the back of his left hand.
"Then rise, Ser Tomas, and let that be the last blow you leave unanswered!" With the same hand he struck with, Ser Rodrik helped the new knight to his feet. He turned to the next man-at-arms, and lay his blade across his shoulder.
"Rickard of Winterfell, in the name of…"
By the time the ritual was nearly a quarter done, Robb and the angel stood atop the tavern, guarding the place with the tiny septon and Ser Rodrik. The holy figure assured them that the roof would hold their weight, perhaps miraculously if needed. Sers Tomas, Rickard, and Harry stood at each of the ingresses as the second line of defense. They would strike down the little bastards that slip through Robb and Jack.
They could see a fair distance from the Cindering Log's roof, and what they saw did not please them. The giant stood, about a half-bells chime from their location at its glacial pace. It moved slowly enough, but it was already sending waves of monsters at them.
Robb gripped his magic blade tighter, and hoped Bran could join the battle soon.
Well, finally. Sorry about the late delivery again, but this week has been a wild one. Enjoyably so, for the most part, but still. Man, this chapter marks over 50k words. That more than I've written. At all. Just, in general before now I think. This chapter was a PITA but I'm glad I bulled through it.
One person, Acolyte over on SV, tried to tell me to not beat myself up over this little incident, and I deeply appreciate that, but it goes aginst the fundamental reason I am trying to post weekly in the first place: to challenge myself, and build a habit. I wasn't necessarily upset over disappointing you guys, sorry to say. I was upset because I disappointed myself. I tried my best but too late, and I failed the goal I'd set myself. For that, I seek to recompense you guys by getting the next chapter out a day early, to balance the scales once more. It shouldn't be terribly onerous, I'm pretty sure it'll be mostly battle and I'd rather have that than another discussion chapter like this one again.
Did anything even really happen this chapter? I wrote the thing and even I don't really know. Anyway, next chapter should be the boss battle and the start of the end of the Darkness over Wintertown. Thank you all for reading, and don't worry overmuch about me because I'm only trying to wrangle my adhd brain into doing something productive.
No Celestial Grimoire Perks this chapter! Hopefully that maintains!
A few gundred survivors out of thousands that called winter town home is a death knell for the north.
Bran better pray to god that a lot of people evacuated to the castle like the pesants are trained to do in case of raids and that at least a significant fraction survives, otherwise north is dead as a kingdom.
Bran better pray to god that a lot of people evacuated to the castle like the pesants are trained to do in case of raids and that at least a significant fraction survives, otherwise north is dead as a kingdom.
It's not just happening in the North, as we saw from the chapter that saw Joffrey exit stage left. The question is, since it seems to be connected to the gigantic rift in the sky, is there anyplace on Planetos where this is not happening. If this is a sample of the casualty percentages planet wide, it isn't just the North that is in trouble.
But isn't that actually pretty par for the course when a realm is invaded by Heartless?
Major complaint here, this story isnt even ASOIAF anymore and hasn't been since Bran came back in time.
it's a completely different story with a warped settting and the characters from the setting.
The wound existing completely turned the story into a different story.
I came here expecting a Bran gets celestial grimoire, goes back in time, unfricks the world by throwing magic.
Not Bran gets celestial grimoire by going back in time ruining the world in the process causing the further fricking up down and sideways of planetos and making the entire story moot because he broke it already and canon isn't just changed into another direction but stopped existing at the beginning of the story BY ACCIDENT.
I'm not a fan of this type of chaos.
I like it when the main character causes chaos to fix things.
Major complaint here, this story isnt even ASOIAF anymore and hasn't been since Bran came back in time.
it's a completely different story with a warped settting and the characters from the setting.
The wound existing completely turned the story into a different story.
I came here expecting a Bran gets celestial grimoire, goes back in time, unfricks the world by throwing magic.
Not Bran gets celestial grimoire by going back in time ruining the world in the process causing the further fricking up down and sideways of planetos and making the entire story moot because he broke it already and canon isn't just changed into another direction but stopped existing at the beginning of the story BY ACCIDENT.
I'm not a fan of this type of chaos.
I like it when the main character causes chaos to fix things.
That is fair, but also sort of my design. This wasn't intended to be anyone's power fantasy, least of all mine. I love a good power fantasy, but I keep those to myself, generally.
I wanted to tell a story, fundamentally, about magic. ASOIAF is here mostly to be the launching ground from which I want to explore magic systems, and the interactions between wildly different expressions of similar magical principles.
Much like how, in Ars Magica, the various mortal religions are all grasping at an unknowable, perfect goal with wildly different interpretations, I wanted to take a peek into what a world ravished by magic in all its forms might look like.
It's fair to assume the ASOIAF elements might take a backseat, fundamentally they aren't what I'm here for. But I do promise that canon is exactly the same as it was up to the point of divergence, and all changes made past that point will be at least well thought-about before being implemented.
If you'd like, I've had a few interludes floating in my head, casting a light onto more changes that have been wrought so far, but I don't like leaving cliffhangers longer than necessary. A full interlude chapter will likely be right after the current boss fight is over. Probably time skip over some development once the final few perks get unlocked during and after the fight.
Sorry if this is getting too rambling, I've had a couple of hits tonight after dinner. But fundamentally this isn't going to be a story of the main character magically getting solutions to problems.
It's a story about someone who tries to solve their problems using magic and realizing magic alone can never suffice, that placing knowledge before wisdom leads always to ruin no matter the intentions.
That's fine if that's not the story you want to read. It's the story I wanted to read, and that's why I'm writing it. Ultimately, I just need to make myself happy by writing. And it really, really does. I love writing this, and letting others see what my mind sees for a little while even if they don't always like it.
Thank you for reading so far, I do truly appreciate it, and hope you can swiftly find a new story you do want to read. I hope this makes sense and doesn't come off as offensive, it's so hard for me to judge these things.
I was made aware recently of a continuity error in the previous chapter that I could not sufficiently explain. Therefore, I have taken appropriate action and rewritten this chapter to bring the timeline in alignment with itself once more. Additionally, I discovered that the bit of hardware I'd been writing on for the past few weeks did not have my Grammarly on it, making me far more confident in worse writing than I otherwise would have been. I don't think I care enough to go over each and every past chapter, but if you spot any grammar/spelling errors please point them out in future for they are my enemy and I seek their destruction.
Used addition of wandwork to hopefully add some more flair to the ritual scene, make it a little more magic ya know?
[...] Herald Vanyel, Shadow Stalker,
Hunted Shadows to their doom
They turned all their powers upon him,
Turned away from other men,
And though they strove to take him,
He unwove their web of gloom.
So the Shadows fled his anger,
Their creator sought again [...]
Shadow Stalker,
Mercedes Lackey
Chapter Twelve: Shadow Stalker
Tom - Ser Tomas now, thanks to Ser Rodrik - never expected to be praying to the Seven.
Then, he never expected to be facing down anything but bandits and deserters, either. So as he stood, guarding the rightmost entry to the remains of his old watering hole, facing down a horde of monsters straight out from his ma's bedtime tales, he gave a small, silent prayer to his new benefactors. Benefactor. He wasn't fully clear on the details, but he met a divine messenger in the flesh and that was good enough for him.
For a moment, he thought he could feel something warm against his skin, calling a mother's comfort to mind. Whether or not it was his imagination, he genuinely couldn't be certain anymore, nor was he sure what he even wanted to be true. Dick and Harry were at the other entries, and they were all counting on Lord Stark and Ser Rodrik to handle the big fucker's they'd seen so the new knights could focus on handling the little shits. He tried not to tremble at the thought of fighting those things on his lonesome, and nearly started praying again.
Going out to this battle, Tom knew it'd be trouble. Felt it in his bones, he did, despite his relative youth compared to the others who'd marched out. Things'd been strange about Winterfell since the little lordling arose from his deathbed, and it seemed to be seeping into the ground and air around them. Calling that sword from the heavens and arming their lord with the most magnificent weapon that'd ever graced a warrior's palm did much to endear him and the men to magic, but there was just something… off about the lad.
Something that weren't there afore today, he reckoned.
It pained him to even think that he trusted the wandering messenger of a foreign faith more than his own lord's kin, but he could not deny the truth of his heart. The angel meant no harm, but magic was a sword without a hilt, as all sensible folks knew. Nothing good came from meddling with it, present circumstances very much included. He didn't know how or why the world turned upside-down, but it's not a soldier's lot to question reality, but to deal with it.
He'd lost many good friends this wretched eve, and the town served as their funeral pyre. Ruination all about them, worse than even the worst Ironborn raids he'd ever seen. At least the Ironborn left corpses behind to bury and burn; he truly feared for the souls of those these beasts had consumed. He saw one do it, whatever these things do, when one of the commanding shadows tore through his oldest friend's chest. Swift Ken hardly knew what was happening before something bright and shining and beautiful was stolen from him and smothered.
The angel had gifted him the tools to truly fight these creatures, or so he hoped. He had faith, he supposed. What was one more tall tale come true tonight? He gripped his blade tighter, keeping his prayers in his heart, watching for any sign the beasts were upon them. This time, no one's souls would be in danger. This time, they would taste the bite of his steel, because otherwise more innocents would die.
And he'd not be a knight if he allowed that, would he?
"So," Robb ventured. "What exactly is it that Bran is doing down there?" The bests were yet a ways off, and Robb had had quite enough of being tossed about by the winds of fate without so much as a 'by your leave'. It was time for some answers, and the angel was the only one close enough to press. Ser Rodrik was talking with the little septon, apparently engrossed in theological discussion. Robb had no idea the old knight had any attachment to the Faith, but he was one of the only anointed knights in his household.
"The Circular Ward Against Demons, a basic spell known by many Hermetics who hath angered Infernal powers." So spake the angel. "It pitteth the defensive might of the caster 'gainst those demons which would violate it." Thankfully, he seemed open to elucidation.
"I see," he nodded. "Yet by your own words, if I understood rightly, what we face are not true demons, are they?"
"Nay. Dark beings art they, yet not of Infernal make. They art new to me, and I knoweth not their provenance. But this I do know: they feed on mortal darkness."
"Mortal darkness? How do you mean?"
"Wrath, Lust, Pride, Greed, Envy, the traditional sins, but also despair and torment, suffering and strife. Cruelty. Pain. These things art a feast to these beasts, and they kindle within their victims the seeds of their own darkness in turn. Raising their army higher with each soul slain."
"Ye gods!" Exclaimed Robb. "So then, the things we've slain…?"
"Aye. They wert all men, once." The unassuming visage of the divine messenger bearing the skin of man faced Robb directly. "But fear not for their souls, or for thine for thy deeds this eve. 'Twas a kindness, an act of true mercy, to relieve them of this blighted existence. They wouldst overrun the world in a black tide, given the chance, but the fault is not theirs. Their minds have fled, their reason abandoned, and they art but slaves to alien instinct. Pray for their souls, but do not hesitate in doing what must be done."
"I had no intention of slacking in my duty, Ser. Er," Robb flushed, "Actually, do you have a title? Oh gods, my manners have taken leave of me, I've neglected to even ask your name!"
The angel gave a bemused smile at the lord's lapse. "Becalm thyself, my lord. It is no great matter. Ser is perfectly acceptable, but mine rank is Angel, as is my nature. A guardian angel, at that, one who looketh after mortal souls and guideth them aright. My name," he smirked, "I leave it for thy brother to recall."
"That has also concerned me. You claim some history with my brother, then? He is but seven-,"
"His age is deceiving, as thou well know thyself. Yet thou doth not comprehend the true extent of it, nor doth my old ward I suspect. I held doubts myself, initially, but he hath always been fond of his little surprises."
"What do you mean, 'the extent of it'?" Robb asked.
"Dost thou know whence magic springs?" The angel asked in turn.
"If the tales I know speak truth, then the answer would be… blood, I wager. Is this relevant."
The angel shuddered. "Ugh, I have little care for blood magics. Hath that truly been the extent of sorcery in this realm thus far?"
"The Targaryens of eld ruled by fire and blood, on the backs of dragons. Theirs is the only magic I know of with more than hearsay about it, so perhaps not?"
"I wouldst hope so, lord. In any case, 'tis not of blood I speak of, but the soul. That precious, vital thing all men possess and far too few treasure as they should. To the best of my knowledge, that inviolable sanctum is the font of magic in all creatures, mortal, Divine, or Infernal. Of course," the angel said, wryly, "He hath always had a way with surprises, as I said, and an angel is not easily surprised. If other fonts exist, doubtless he hath found them. Or will find them." He smiled fondly. "'Tis all so delightfully uncertain, now."
Ice formed in Robb's veins, wolfblood rising to the unintended slight. "Uncertainty seems little cause for delight to me, Ser. That uncertainty has spelled the end of my subjects, and quite possibly the realm in total." The angel winced, suitably chastised.
"Mine sincerest apologies, lord. The tragedy of the eve weigheth greatly upon me, yet I've oft found it best to focus on good things in times of trouble. The joy of discovery is my indulgence, if you'll permit it my lord. Wisdom is the virtue I hold in highest regard, and imparting a measure of it my ward remaineth the greatest joy I know. And few have gone as far or seen as deep as thy kin, in my time."
"How?" Robb demanded. "How can my brother, who has confessed his usurpation of the natural order in traveling back to a time before a tragedy he has yet to disclose yet bear history beyond his sight?"
"I am unsure of the precise workings of it, my lord, but I know there is naught to fear from it. For the mageling, in any case; The world will need many defenders, of that I hold little doubt. I understand thus: In this world, there is a book of such singular power the Father Above is observing directly. All that is and will be under its power is and shall be under Divine scrutiny, though His goal is ineffable as ever."
Robb knew the book he spoke of. "And this is why you came here, to protect the world from the Grimoire?"
"Nay." The angel shook his head. "Me and my kindred hath flocked to this land in our hundreds and thousands at the bidding of Divine Will, but I am in this place of my own free will. I wish to see an old friend's experiment concluded, and the people endangered, protected."
"Meaning Bran, then? I still don't understand, angel, how did-,"
"Hold thy queries, my lord. Behold," the angel gestured grandly across the street. "The hordes of evil are come."
Robb swiftly snapped to attention, as did the knight and septon. Across the way, the giant stood tall, but still far from the immediate theatre. More concerning were the teeming masses of darkness pooling in the visible alleyways, yellow-eyed monsters swarming over themselves, and the first wave of shadows charged the new knights at the tavern.
He moved to assist, but was stopped by the angel's arm. "Becalm thyself, lord. Let the faith of thy knights shine true."
Robb didn't much care for trusting his men and his smallfolk to the power of faith, but he knew the angel had power enough to intervene should aught go awry. He also wished to see if the power granted by their new Divinely-recognized titles was enough for these beasts.
He stood aside, watching from above as the least of the dark forces crept onwards, testing their mettle. Crawling close enough, one of them suddenly leapt for Ser Harry's head, dark claws meeting mortal steel-
And losing.
His blade swept through the shadow, finally catching on dark flesh where before they were as insubstantial as fog. So weak was the shadow that the one blow was enough to disperse its essence, leaving no trace of its passing; not even a small shard of crystal adorned the ground beneath Ser Harry's feet.
Robb relaxed- he was confident enough in his men's abilities to know the little pests would pose little issue now they could be harmed. Robb allowed the sounds of battle and cries of victory to wash over him as he scanned the field for more troublesome enemies, those no mortal man could fell alone.
"Uhh, what's happening over there?" Came the small voice of Jack, stirring Robb from his scouting. Turning to where Jack was looking he too was somewhat confounded. Rather than rushing out to join the growing tide of monsters, a group of them seemed to be swarming over each other more vigorously. The undulations of the mass of darkness grew more and more erratic until-!
Robb was moved without his consent, as he'd long gotten used to. The Sword of the Front Door guided him to leap from the roof, as the swiftest egress. He was further guided into a roll and onto his feet, in position for the blade to be raised in the path of the airborne current of shadow beasts, swirling like a hellish cyclone and moving as one. The blade deflected the current away from the burning building into the sky, where it twisted unnaturally to surge at Robb again.
With each blow struck, more little shadows were shorn from it, dying and dissipating, leaving the ground about them sparkling like a sunny meadow after rain. Still, the mass of monsters was unending, coming back again and again, even the blade of blue fire struggling to match it blow for blow.
Minutes passed as this stalemate went on, an eternity in pitched battle. To Robb, it felt like the passing of hours as he stood against an impossible foe, a thousand-headed force of nature. It only took one slip, a half step too far, for the whirlwind to toss him into the alehouse wall. The sword took as much of the blow as it could, keeping the shadows from hitting anything vital, but his ribs still creaked in protest as he was forced to his feet.
'Twas not his blade, this time, but Ser Rodrik who hauled the lord to his feet. Seeing Robb steady, the old knight took up position beside him, blade raised high. Robb's heart soared seeing his loyal knight's battle-readiness, and matched his stance. The dark tendril writhed in protest, shedding more shadows for the knights' slaughter.
Once more did it surge forth, only to be met by twin blades of azure fire and steel. Once more it was kept from the bounty of innocent life by the will of man, and a touch of divine intervention. A small pile of crystals formed about the two men's feet, so great were the numbers of shadows they culled. The tower of evil was shorter now by at least half, and it was beginning to lose cohesion.
With a final undulation, the dark masses imploded on themselves, scattering shadows every which way in hopes of overwhelming at least one knight. Each of the five fighters were pressed to their limit, striking at shadows without cease, frantically blinking the sweat from their eyes and praying the tide would subside.
Robb stood head and shoulders above them all, magic blade buoying him to supernatural heights. Where his men slew one shade, he slew ten easily. It almost frightened Robb how battle-proficient it was possible to be, and some part of him was glad that such power only comes about from battling this darkness. He feared what he might accomplish, could he wage war against his fellow man like this.
The tide did recede, eventually. The dark masses were no more, but a terrible sight chilled their blood ere they could celebrate. The dark giant stood above them, across the street and yet cutting a most intimidating silhouette against the star-studded sky. Piercing yellow eyes like lanterns adorned a face otherwise bereft of features, nested in a tangled web of what must have been hair. The hole it bore through its chest framed the moon-light in a heart, before gathering energy within the hollow, arms like tree trunks thrown back in twisted exultation.
Hold, I prithee! Hold! The ritual neareth completion, thou cannot fall now!
.A volley of dark energy was launched at the warriors, closing in on the fighters almost exactly the way arrows don't, as if they knew exactly where each of them was. Sword acting on unfamiliar instinct, Robb struck out at the bolt where his men simply dodged. Bolts dodged simply fizzled harmlessly into the ground, but Robb's bolt flew back at the monster, turning its own power against it.
Sadly, the blow did little if it did anything, acting more like a slap in the face rather than a bolt capable of putting a hole in a man's torso. The giant did not relent, seemingly caught in some dark rapture, gaze fixed on the sky as it launched bolt after bolt of power at Robb and his company.
"Men! Strike the bolts back, if you are able!" Hopefully his men could strike well enough, more bolts may deal more damage. Robb boggled at the idea of a creature offering up the method of its own destruction to its foes, but perhaps it was caught in some strange magic. He knew not the ways of the dark ones, so anything was possible.
His men, though not as adept as him, still managed a few hits on the bolts targeting them. As Robb hoped, each blow took just a little more of its flesh with it, wisps of dark smoke rising from the impact sites. Light damage, potentially superficial, but heartening to see. What man present had never before thought of one day felling a giant, after all?
With an unnatural jerk of its head, the giant fixed Robb with a grotesque glare. With one final pulse from the hole in its chest, an enormous volley of bolts came rocketing out of the giant.
And each one was headed for him.
The Sword of the Front door moved in a blur, even Robb had trouble anticipating its movement. Twisting this way and that, every bolt was deflected in turn, slamming straight back into the giant's head. Its countenance suggested that, had it the capability, it would be roaring at them. Rather than pressing the assault itself, it waved its arms grandly, and called forth a handful of flying warriors, three in total.
Robb paled at the sight; he hadn't the time, beforehand, to comprehend how horrifying the idea of one of these creatures knowing swordplay was. As his monster swept down to meet him on the field, he came to realize they may yet be out of their depth.
"Bran! We could really use your help now!" He grunted as the beast's blade met his, and held. "How's the bloody ritual coming along!?"
"And we are firmly approaching the harvest moons, yes?" I asked.
"Yes, milord." The peasant farmer replied, safely ensconced behind the perimeter of the circle. I hummed and made a few adjustments to my calculations in the dirt. I had taken the opportunity of a small break in the needed wand-waving and chanting to double-check the ritual requirements, to ensure the ad-hoc ritual would be cast properly.
Magic may look quite fantastical, once all is said and done, but the lengthy, powerful works? They are built on many, many hours of drudgework. A Ward Against Demons was among the simplest rituals to create, so simple most just use a spell instead. But my knowledge of quick spellwork was sorely lacking, and my ritualism was at its peak. I didn't even need to use all the vis the angel had granted me, which was a pleasant bonus.
But even the simplest rituals require an hour of work to manage, and the modifications needed to work on these strange beasts were significant. Still, I was making decent time. Brushing my hands off and rising into the air on my levitation ball and platform, I reviewed what was left. 50-odd minutes of work in, and it was all done save for the final incantations, another ten minutes of dead languages and wandwork.
The circle was first drawn with a holy tool, then the vis was carefully laid out at the cardinal and intercardinal points of the circle. Prayers of protection in old Latin were inscribed by hand about the circle, surrounded by a layer of Elder Futhark runes which must be carefully drawn lest the meaning change dramatically. With a twirl, I waved my wand over the entirety of the circle seven times for protection. My inexperienced wand-waving showed in how many sparks flew off my wand as this went on, thankfully dissipating before they could interfere with the carefully drawn circles.
At least it was a pretty enough show for the smallfolk, squeezing tightly into as small a space as they could within the circle drawn. All the smallfolk, as well as Summer and Grey Wind for comfort to the young ones, had been gathered into the spacious circle beforehand; all several hundred of them left. Just shy of a thousand souls, in truth.
A pittance of lives compared to even the modest population of summer Wintertown. If things were as bad as all this everywhere…
No, I couldn't let such thoughts drag me under, I was on a strict time limit after all.
"Beggin' yer pardon, milord," the farmer spoke up, voice tremulous. "Is all this… really gonna help?"
"Indeed, it will, my good man. No demon shall cross the boundary once the working is complete. Trust me, you ought to be able to recognize when the spell starts, it's quite an unmistakable feeling."
"Hmmm." The farmer hummed, eying me warily while retreating back into the crowd. I sighed; this was to be a hallmark of my life from now on, I supposed. The Gift was double-edged in nature, in Europe. While the power and wonder of magic lies within the reach of the Gifted, so too does the Gift attract fear and ill feeling from those around them. Dogs bark, crows fly, and mundane men cannot help but fear the magical. It was an instinct, old as the earth itself, woven into the bones of mortalkind.
I counted myself lucky that Robb and the others hardly noticed; it was always easier to ignore once you truly got to know a person. Perhaps, if the Grimoire is kind, it may grant me the Gentle Gift so I might walk unfeared amongst the people once more. Alas, I figured that for an idle fantasy. Even should such be contained in the Grimoire, I am resolved to not call upon its power until and unless it is absolutely necessary.
Nearly every gift it had given had delivered a new calamity to the world in turn. It was too dangerous to experiment with idly, not while it was still so uncontrolled. I had the beginnings of a ritual in mind to conquer it, but it would take moons, if not years of development. Though I dreaded to think so, I would probably need the Grimoire again ere it was done.
Taking position at the northernmost point of the circle, facing outwards to where I caught sight of Ser Rickard cutting down shadows with ease, and beyond him my brother deflecting rather familiar magical projectiles. Was he hitting them back into the enemy? I smirked, a bold strategy. I heard him call for the others to do the same, and I returned to my own work.
This was the bit where the magic really started to flow, the words and gestures that would tie everything together and protect these people. I chanted protective spells in Latin and Greek, weaving their power into the ritual. I accounted for the position of the moon, constellations, and wandering stars, the time of year, and a myriad of other factors when deciding the exact litany of chants required. I slowly began traveling about the circle, steady as I could be on my magic pedestal.
In my right hand, my wand practically glowed with the power of the magic flowing through it, the shower of sparks from before giving way to a silvery stream, flowing down from the tip and into the circle, connecting the pools of vis.
I had but a few minutes left in the work, halfway around the circle and as close to the battle as I would get until the working was done. The ritual was building to a towering crescendo when I heard my brother's voice call out in panic:
"Bran! We could really use your help now! How's the bloody ritual coming along!?"
I couldn't break cadence to respond without shattering the ritual, so I kept chanting evenly as my mind tumbled with worry. Line after line slipped through my tongue as power continued to build. By the nightmarish cast of the smallfolk's faces, I daresay they were starting to feel the magic building too. I thanked God that they were trusting enough in their lord's instruction not to bolt past the boundary, despite the discomfort.
As I rounded the westernmost point, ritual three-quarter's done, I could see my brother warring against one of the manlike demons that we'd dispatched together. It matched him blow for blow, and while Robb bolstered by the Sword of the Front Door was the better fighter, the monster had range and strength aplenty. The blue-fire blade caught the dark sword the monster wielded, and as they clashed I saw two more begin to close in on him.
"Bran, help!"
One more minute, Robb, you must hold out a minute longer!
The words were passing honey-thick on my tongue as events cascaded around me. Robb was in danger and I was trapped in a purgatory of spellwork, each second an eternity as I watched him come closer and closer to death. Even he, with the Sword, could not hope to defeat all three beasts. The stream of silver began to darken, magic bearing my worry into the ritual before a flash of Occlumency banished my worries for the final moments needed.
Finally, with excruciating finality, the last word of my chants was spoken, the last gesture waved, and ropes of silver power rose from the vis, connecting the opposite points in a dome over the people. Light poured out from those thin lines, forming a full dome of silvered feathers, covering the circle in a dome of transparent wings. So long as the circle stayed unbroken, those inside would be safe from the darkness around us.
Freed from that burden, I swiftly leapt into the air, over the protective dome, and hurried to Robb's aid. Out came the bladed cane, segmented and whiplike, intercepting the dark blade about to connect with Robb's side and yanking it and the monster wielding it away. The blades of the whip left deep gashes in the dark flesh of the beast, but it did not relinquish its weapon.
Robb took the opportunity to break his stalemate, letting the enemy's sword pass by him as he struck at the dark warrior's midsection. It was a solid blow, but alas the fiend was still in the battle.
"Apologies for my tardiness, but you will be pleased to hear: the people are safe, and I am free to join the fray."
As tired as he was, Robb could still grin at that. "Took you bloody long enough!" He turned to the fiends confronting them. "Think we can handle them?"
I tilted my head, considering. "Might be tough if one more shows up."
That got a bark of laughter from my brother, followed by several more. "Good thing we're here, right lads?" Ser Rodrik and the other knights had joined the field proper, having seen the people saved for now and ready to tackle the enemy head-on. The little septon was still atop the ruined tavern, keeping us in sight and by extension in the range of any miracles that might be necessary. The angel, naturally, would not act unless the situation was beyond repair.
Five warriors, a mage, and a septon stood against the forces of darkness. Mankind's future rested on the outcome of this battle, whether the forces of light could eke out an existence or if all would be shrouded in a dark abyss forevermore.
I would not falter here. I gathered five more blood cartridges while performing the ritual, my cane was sharp, my skills sharper, and my mind focused. We were as prepared as we could hope to be.
With a wordless cry, we charged at the forces of darkness, fearless and hopeful.
Well, damn. Do I really only work when within the final day of a deadline? I swear this chapter was, again, written 80% over the past two days. Still, I technically met my Thursday deadline, letting me return to a more normal Friday schedule from now on. I don't know what I'd make myself do in recompense for a full hiatus, so I will endeavor not to let that scenario come to pass unless absolutely necessary.
Anyway, chapter notes. This, uh... isn't the final boss fight. It's, apparently, just the runup of minibosses and elite enemies before the final boss. Also, lots of dialogue. Exposition, too! Wish I could've predicted that this time last week. But I am glad I got to touch on a little bit of the actual ritualism bits, I hope to do better when there's less of a time crunch on both me and Bran.
Like always, leave a like if you liked, and leave a comment if you have something to say. Anything, really! Even a simple hello would brighten my day! But criticism would be appreciated most of all, I am nothing if not a work in progress myself and I do sincerely want to get better at writing.
It's a ward, it doesn't do much besides sit there and look pretty until it's tested, and even then it's basically just a fancy wall.
But I feel you, I had a bit of trouble trying to make the magic feel magical. Hopefully some more impressive stuff will follow in time. I have ideas, but my hands always seem to have their own ideas at the same time.
He fainted swiftly after he got his wand, and was sequestered in bed where he had the dream sequence. Afterwards, things moved too fast and the wand is still with the good maester being studied with the other contents of the briefcase.
This is the explanation I intended, even if I never got it across in story, but there really isn't a lot he can do with it anyway. His knowledge of HP magic is limited to occlumency, most of what he can do in the moment would not be meaningfully aided by a wand, and his biggest source of arcane lore is Hermetica Magic, which would be easily very much aided by a wand if he knew anything but ritualism.
The wand will come into play once something comes along that could be boosted by it, and there is something in the wings of my mind that would apply. But first I need to get through the boss fight sequence kicking my ass at the moment.
I never thought of an elegant way of introducing how little he can manage with the wand right now I to the story so far, but you can easily imagine that anything he did with his wand would probably just make sparks.
There is at least one interesting aspect of HP magic that may or may not see use soon, though.
Bran was in the maesters study when they got the news Wintertown was aflame, and so had ample opportunity to grab his wand and apparently just forgot. Or no, he probably didn't forget, but it absolutely needs to be mentioned in at least that last chapter.
For all that I said this story is being written because it's something I wanted to read, for some reason I haven't read it enough. Something I will endeavor to rectify.
So I'm going to be taking some time to rewrite that last chapter with the new information and get that updated asap. Still going to maintain the self set schedule or suffer punishment as before.
Idirexii, as a reward for pointing out a continuity flaw galling enough to force me to correct it, I will ask you to name an interlude perspective you'd like to see and I'll include it in the next full interlude chapter.
Going forward I'm going to try to keep first person and interlude chapters separate, unless they are needed for different aspects of the same event, or are otherwise narratively compounded upon by being included together.
My sincerest apologies again for this slipping past me, I will endeavor to keep it from happening again.
Catelyn was already planned as a part of the triumphant return to Winterfell, which is the earliest she'll be able to learn about any of this angel stuff. If you'd like to specify another perspective, I'd be willing! Alternatively, I could challenge myself and write the return chapter entirely from Cat's perspective. Somehow. Honestly, I don't have the best grasp on her character, but I enjoy a challenge.
Edit has been posted, in other news. Work continues on the boss battle chapter, ever so slowly. Given how much time I've spent on rushing first drafts out instead of giving them the thorough once-over I should be, I might change my upload from every week to every two weeks. I feel like two weeks is way to long to wait for less than 5k words, but maybe the chapters will get longer if I dedicate more time to them, who knows.
Out of curiosity, does Bran have any plans to fix his legs any time soon? Or even just develop a way to float more freely? His main weapon being a whip means he's poorly served by having to balance on a bubble or sitting in a chair, so he must intend to fix it eventually but im very curious as to how.
Out of curiosity, does Bran have any plans to fix his legs any time soon? Or even just develop a way to float more freely? His main weapon being a whip means he's poorly served by having to balance on a bubble or sitting in a chair, so he must intend to fix it eventually but im very curious as to how.
Honestly, my bet is on the simple fact of being a Wizard; they heal almost perfectly-- and with treatment very quickly as well.
The Celestial Grimoire said:
For one thing, you're quite a bit more durable now, not overtly so but still. You could get struck in the head by a solid ball of iron barreling at you at over a hundred miles an hour, fall from your broomstick, and still be intact enough that with medical help, you'll be up and about by the end of the week. In fact, so long as the injuries weren't caused by certain kinds of magic, you can rest assured that wizards and witches will be able to heal it enough that it looked like it never happened in the first place.
Emphasis mine.
So unless that fall that broke his back was reinforced by some kind of curse and If being a wizard can heal you from what's essentially a cannonball to the head with no long term ill effects, I am willing to bet that the thing stopping him from walking with a cane or the like is a combination of time to heal properly, and a mental block. Like The Angel said, he enjoys being under-estimated and only it's been a day or two at most since he became a HP Wizard? Give it a week or maybe two, with a little physical therapy I suspect he'll be limping along with the best of them, if not better.
I love the theorizing, seriously! It makes be so unbelievably happy to see my story has stowed away on enough neurons for people to have it on their minds enough to think about!
I have it headcanoned, and thus canoned in this story, that HP magic heals via an internal, soul-deep imprint and blueprint of a wizard. Deep and lasting changes to the blueprint, consciously chosen or forcefully imposed via dark magic, can interfere with the healing process. Harry, for example, was extraordinarily healthy for a young boy in his situation, but he still had vision problems. Further, James also had vision problems, as a pure-blood. Given magical healing is literally miraculous and James was well-off, I can only attribute this to his vision problems being his natural default, having been with him since birth. Outside of dark magic, it couldn't be healed.
By extension, I propose this extends to life-changing effects that are not inherently magical. If a muggleborn witch lost her family in a house fire she was severely burned in, it stands to reason that the psychological scarring would make the physiological scarring unhealable. It became the blueprint.
Bran is pushing forty years old, over thirty of which he had no functional legs. It'll take more than HP wizardry's natural healing to fix it if he even wants to fix it later on.
Robb, Rodrik, and I all met the blades of the dark spawn with our own, catching the enemies' swords by the notches worked into them. The knights-in-waiting each took the opening, cutting deep into the side of each mannish beast. Dark smoke erupted from the wounds, and the flying beasts fled for higher ground.
From their position some ten feet above us, we could not strike them, but the same should be true of them. That was until familiar dark energy began gathering in their free hands.
"Parry their bolts, men!" Robb cried, quick on the draw. A warm feeling filled me, seeing how well my brother adapted in battle. I never got the chance to truly fight alongside him, the first time around, and I was glad for the opportunity even as I detested its origin.
The bolts traveled unnatural paths as they shot towards their targets, moving slower than an arrow but wandering unpredictably like a serpent. Eventually, they'd dart in to take the knights, and their attempts were soundly rebuffed. The bolts flew back at the enemies–
Who used their own blades to disperse the bolts entirely. Seems the enemy was also capable of adapting, irritating as it is. Best not to underestimate them. The fires were dimming, embers fading, and the street was being shrouded in shadows deep when suddenly, the battlefield was relit by eerie violet light from above.
The giant, in its fury, had called down dark fire once more. Motes of malicious flame fell feather-soft onto the environs, catching all alight again. A few motes fell down into the tavern, and all the inside was ablaze once more, save for the circle of protection. Where the motes fell on the dome of silvered feathers they popped like soap bubbles, harmlessly. The cursed fire, now surrounding the dome, still could not breach it.
The fire did not, could not harm the demons we faced, while all of us needed to scatter to the winds to avoid the rain of hellfire. Though kindling was now sparse on the ground, reduced to so much ash, the wicked fire still blazed high around them, fed by the giant's power. Shielding myself with the same unorthodox psychic platforms I'd used in my last battle, I panicked as we would be easy pickings separated like this. I was halfway towards reaching for the Grimoire once more before I flinched. I was too far out of alignment to plead for anything!
The only path to survival lay with the tools already at my disposal. The cartridge thrower? No, too limited. My shadows are useless, incapable of affecting the course of battle even could they be persuaded to battle the dark minions. The Beast's Roar? I considered the withered paw on my hip. I had the means to use it twice… but could my voice grow strong enough to douse these flames?
Our enemy began descending now, targeting the weakest among us now that we were separated. The newly-minted knights were no green sprouts, but neither were they seasoned warriors. Their resolve was admirable, but faith only bolstered their strength, not their skill. I was out of choices.
Hastily, I pressed two of my precious blood cartridges into the palm of the Beast's Roar. "Cover your ears and steady your nerves!" was all the warning I could afford to give. As I felt my inner beast start to rise within me, an animalistic spark of cunning crashed into my mind. I drew my wand from its hiding place in my pants packet and held it to my throat while my other hand clasped about the Hunter's tool.
I knew this wand was special, in a manner that the tools Hermetics occasionally used were not. This was no simple ritual tool, but a wizard's stalwart companion. I could feel it amplify my own powers, if only slightly, as it stirred the magic in my blood to the fore. I only hesitate in its use because I have no idea how to use it as intended; I knew no spells, had nearly no frame of reference for its origin save the practice of Occlumency and a variety of quills.
Occlumency allowed me to infer one thing, however, from its native methods of magic: the importance of will. I had no idea what I was even trying to do, except make my voice stronger, but I would do it regardless. I poured my magic out through the wand and into the places the Roar was changing my form, enhancing the power of my beast to levels I could not fathom.
The men were being pressed ever harder, Robb and Ser Rodrik powerless to assist. My throat was burning with the power I was pushing through it, such that as I breathed it felt like the dark fire was crawling into my lungs to burn me from the inside-out. I called one more time, hoping to avoid damaging my allies. "NOW!"
The beast and the fire rose higher and higher in my breast, writhing behind my neck in perverse harmony, and I poured all my might into a single bestial cry:
"FREEZE!"
A veritable wave of frigid power rode out on my voice, smothering the dark fire for two score yards around us, coating the ground in a light layer of hoarfrost glittering red and purple in the dark light, and stopping the dark soldiers in their tracks. I felt exhaustion from places I'd never known before, but there was no time for that. "Str-," My harshest coughing fit yet overtook me as I nearly hacked up a lung.
"Strike now, men!" Cried Robb, in my stead. His men jumped to follow the command, shaking off the dusting of frost and lunging for the stunned warriors. Sers Tom and Harry slashed at one of the blighters, carving deep furrows into the dark flesh of the enemy. Ser Rickard knocked his foe down on its back, where Ser Rodrik swiftly thrust his blade into its black heart.
Robb, wielding his magic blade, leapt towards the final beast and beheaded it in one cleave. In the time we had taken to slay two of them, however, the third had woken from its daze and cast off its knightly assailants, tossing them to the ground. It rose high into the air, before casting his sword to the ground and vanishing, impaling it by Robb's feet; The sight seemed unnaturally foreboding.
As the dark fire encircled Robb, fear gripped my heart once more. I didn't even think of consulting the Grimoire, only of saving my brother. As he looked around in confusion, watching the fire slow down, I rushed at him on my levitation ball. I launched myself forward, pushing my ball against the ground at an angle. With a shove to his back, I managed to get Robb on the other side of the ring just as it came to a halt. Unfortunately, that left me in the oven.
Robb stumbled as he was unceremoniously pushed out of position, crossing the ring of dark fire that had sprung up around him. He felt the air rush past him as the heat behind him multiplied and imploded. Jerking around, he saw as his brother was engulfed in dark flames.
"Bran!" He had taken only one step towards the conflagration when the fire receded suddenly. It coalesced back into the dark warrior, floating menacingly over Bran's blistered and battered form; Robb felt his own blood boiling in response.
Abandoning rational thought, Robb and his blade moved as one. He leapt over his brother's unconscious body, and swung at the monster, who met his blade with its own. Again and again, they struck at each other, neither making headway in a clanging clamor that stretched on for what felt like hours. Robb seemed to hang in the air before the beast, the momentum of the blade and the constant clashing keeping him airborne. He was relentless in his assault, pressing the flying warrior hard.
As the battle raged, the soldier's dark sword began to chip, and then to crack. Eventually, with a resounding crack, the dark blade was cleaved in twain, and its master followed on the upswing. The bisected beast fell with Robb to the ground, and dissipated without trace. Robb ignored the awestruck looks on the faces of his knights, and instead rushed to kneel by his brother's side.
He was in a bad way, to be sure: Ugly, dark burns ran up and down his side, most of his clothes were singed shreds and he was completely unresponsive. No matter how much he shook his shoulders or called his name, Bran would not wake. Robb distantly recognized his men gathering around, watching and waiting for Bran to stir, when the very ground shook.
The giant was on the move, coming right for them. Each ponderous step it took reverberated through the ground, casting some unsteady warriors to their knees. Robb was torn between rising to fight and protecting his kin when a gentle light shone down on Bran. Septon Jack was there, as if having been carried by angel's wings, and was tending to the mage.
"You must fight, milord. I-I'll keep 'im safe!" The boy said, seriously. "Seven as my witness, and faith as my sword an' shield!"
Robb nodded, not yet fully trusting the holy child, but seeing the necessity of his aid. Though his words were virtuous, he was oddly hesitant even to touch his brother. He moved Bran's hands out of his way as one might pick up a dead thing to toss it aside. Robb knew the Seven had no care for magic, but he'd hoped their envoy would be better disposed to one so vital in saving their flock.
The giant tramped closer, feet falling like thunder, until it stood over the six fighting men. This close, the unnaturalness of it became more apparent. Its legs, altogether too spindly to support such a frame yet held it nonetheless. No man there could meet its knees, and it could easily crush a man in one hand. The chest was more hole than torso, and none could imagine what animated it in place of the vital organs supposed to be held there.
Its hair, revealed to be more like the tendrils of the dark balls, waved in an unfelt wind as it glared down with its baleful yellow eyes. Reaching forth, it gathered a great darkness it its hand, and slammed it down into the ground, spreading a pool of inky blackness ankle-high and impossibly cold against their feet. From the pool rose the least of the shadows, magic and faith rendering them inconsequential save in great numbers.
Unfortunately, great numbers were precisely what the giant intended to call.
Every slash from the mortal knights slew three shadows, but five grew in their place. Robb could mow through them as a farmer through wheat, but one man could not stem the tide. They were swarming such that they had started to invade the tavern and rush the protective barrier. The power a single shadow could bring to bear was negligible, and they vaporized upon brushing up against the silvery feathers. This deterred them not, and Robb could not help but worry the barrier may be overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers.
He looked to where the giant's arm was still impaling the ground, and he knew what had to be done. "Ignore the small fuckers, men! Guard the barrier!" Robb thrust the sword in the giant's direction. "I'll make for the source!" The men nodded their assent and began a fighting retreat inside the tavern. He spared a glance at Bran; the septon's crook cast a pall of light over their position that kept the dark pool at bay and drove off the shadows, they were safe enough.
Robb carved a path through the swarming shadows, cutting down with especial ferocity any groups that threatened to form a new tower. The giant's eyes remained fixed on him as he approached, setting his heart aquiver with fear but he kept his arms steady. Afeared or no, this must be done.
The giant was almost leaning on their right hand, palm pressed into the ground and claws digging deep into the earth. Darkness poured out from beneath the hand, flitting somewhere between liquid and mist-like. As Robb approached, vertigo threatened to take him, some faraway instinct telling him he'll fall very far indeed should he misstep. Still, he pressed on, close enough now to reach out and touch the giant's skin.
Of course, he aimed for more than touching. Raising his arms high, he clasped the sword in both hands and thrust it down into the back of its hand. The Sword of the Front Door burned with blue fire, a blazing inferno to banish the darkness. The giant drew his hand back so swiftly that Robb could not withdraw the blade and was dragged into the air by the shackled arm. The pool of darkness was burned away in a wave of azure, leaving only the remnants of the shadow swarm.
Dangling from sword-hilt as his arms burned fiercely and his heart pounded fiercer, he still refused to panic. Drawing on every ounce of skill his blade was meant to bestow, and feeling his blood run icily hot in his veins, he braced himself against the back of a hand twice as long as his legs. He placed his legs on either side of the blade and pulled it from the giant's flesh, before swiftly plunging it in higher up. Twice he did this before he could wrap his legs around the giant's unnaturally thin wrist, bracing himself far more securely on the giant.
Its flesh was hard as stone. He looked upwards along the impossibly long arm, growing more thickly corded as it went higher; the giant stared back at him, yellow eyes all the brighter for their closeness, malevolent and furious. Robb clutched the trunk-like arm, climbing it like a tree. He wrenched the blade free from the confines of dark flesh to swipe at the hair-tendrils trying to impede his ascent. Gripping the great arm tightly, he inched ever closer to that baleful face; Soon enough, he had met those terrible eyes on their level.
There was not quite enough space upon the shoulders of this giant to stand upon, but still Robb raised himself as high as he could, readying himself to strike. The giant, as ponderous as ever, raised its other arm to swat at the gnat that dared to draw steel against it; The tendrils that wrapped 'round the great beast's face writhed in agitation.
Before the giant's blow was struck, Robb plunged his blade into the dark creature's closest eye. The hair-tendrils thrashed in pain, as Robb is seized by the giant's gigantic hand. The sword is torn away from the gash it left across the dark face, dimming the light in the giant's rightmost eye. Breath was mercilessly crushed out of Robb, the giant's grip like iron; with a single mighty throw, Robb was cast away the battlefield, slamming into the ruins of the Smoking Log hard enough to crash through it.
He landed harshly at the foot of the ritual circle, the silver aura of the protective spell casting him in a ghostly air. The men, fighting off the final shadows, gaped in horror; their lord's sword-arm was bent in a terribly unnatural way, and he was bleeding profusely from multiple gashes across his body. The protective aura's light grows brighter in response to the sudden presence of the Little Septon, who had appeared without warning as the men stood in shock.
"Don't worry, I got 'im!" He said, kneeling by the lord's broken body, holy light pouring from his shepherd's crook. "Ain't about to let the lord die defendin' my home!"
A tremor ran through the ground. The men tensed and turned to face the hole their lord had made in the roof, through which the stars were clearly visible. Another tremor resounded, louder this time. Thrice more did tremors come before a ghoulish face filled the hole, one baleful yellow eye glaring down at them, dark sludge pouring from the ruin of the other.
It strode through the ruined walls like they were children's blocks, setting the already fragile walls up to collapse spectacularly, a cloud of dust rising to obscure the men's sight. Only several long piles of wood and kindling were left to demarcate the boundary of the old inn. The dust settled to reveal the dark giant standing tall over where the feathered dome protected the townsfolk from its darkness.
The giant gathered the darkness once more in its hand, slamming its fist down on the magical dome. With a flash of light and the tolling of a sept bell, the fist was rebuffed. It struck again, and again, and again, strike after strike sounding bells that tolled for all present. With every strike, silvery feathers were shook from the spell, losing their luster and vanishing into the breeze.
"Jack!" Ser Rodrik called, desperately. "Where is Bran!?"
"Angel's got 'im! Now lemme work!" he replied through gritted teeth, guiding Robb's arm back into shape. He sighed under his breath. "Alls we can do for 'im is pray."
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
The bearer of God's will stood above an old, old friend. It had not been long, in his mind, since they had last met, but he knew his friend did not remember; his name had not been Bran back then, after all. It was possible he could not, as for all his experience since Creation's start he still did not fully comprehend the work his friend had set in motion. Whatever it had been, it had opened the way for the Divine to intervene in this blighted realm, to his joy and sorrow.
Though far from Europe or any of the lands he'd known, there were still people who worshiped the Divine, if oddly. Easily attributed to a lack of genuine connection to Divine truth, however such a strangeness could came about. Still, if God could be three-in-one, there was no reason He can't be seven as well. It was a good number, in his opinion. Not for the first time, he wondered if those devas they'd once communed with hadn't had a point, in their own way.
Bran's burns were healing well, yet he refused to wake. Clearly, the exertions of the past while had taken their toll on the boy. Arcane exploits were not for the meek nor the feeble, it takes immense strength of will to attain the heights of the practice. Enough will that one might succumb to an overindulgence of Pride, and thus requires the Divine to constantly take a harsh tone with practitioners.
Ideally, such an admonishment would take the form of lessons and penitence, rather than stake burnings, but, well… Mortals. 'Tis irrational to expect strict adherence to virtuous ideals from ones so vulnerable to darker influences. Some magi never listen, and some priests do not desire their repentance but their exile or execution. Angels may weep over these acts, but this weeping is all they are permitted. Only mortals may interfere with mortal business, so saith the Lord.
When the Adversary gets involved… The rules change somewhat. These beasts are not his handiwork, the angel was honestly quite surprised to learn. They are cruel things, but oddly natural. They do not bear the marks of deliberate creators, beyond that of the Lord which is in all things. They must have some role in the natural order of things.
Whatever that role may be, however, the angel is certain they are acting well beyond its remit. Already, much of the world is irrevocably lost, swept away by a roaring tide of wickedness. Angels are mighty beings, but they are not omnipotent nor omniscient, and they may only be in one place at any time. Even with all his kin available to travel forth to the Earth of Westeros, there were wide swaths of land full of innocent souls with no one to protect them.
As a born guardian angel, the thought tore at him fiercely. The pain would never stop him from enacting the Will, of course. He held the utmost faith that the Creator had a good end in mind for all this, as He does for all things. Right now, his old friend and ward needed to rejoin the fight!
Bells rang out, the usually joyous sound turning grim and ominous. The wretched giant, that mockery of a nephilim shrouded in darkness, pounded harder and harder on the shimmering border of his ward's warding. He fixed his hand on Bran's shoulder; if he was going to be difficult, then it seemed the angel would need to use stronger tools. His other hand raised up to touch Bran's forehead gently.
The granting of a divine vision was the usual modus operandi of an angel doing the Lord's work; Only circumstances as dire as these might necessitate an angel coming in their fullness. The lightest of touches were required, a mortal's mind was ever so delicate compared to an angel's. Enough to see and be seen, no more or less.
Hmm. Uncommonly difficult, getting a read. Even more so than he's used to from his old friend. He wondered what it said for this world, this situation, that such strong mental defenses were needed. Difficult, however, is not impossible, and with the fine skill of an experienced weaver the angel wove his way through the layers of Bran's mind.
Even approaching the outermost layer of his mind felt unpleasantly like walking through a dark woods at night. Wefts and weaves of thought echoed like the baying of wolves, and darker things besides. The solemn promise of vengeance should the angel's purpose be untrue. Fortunately for the both of them, an angel cannot ever be untrue. Ignorant, yes, but not untrue. The angel made the thread of himself he sent Bran-wards as unobtrusive and obeisant as he could. The mind was a sacred domain, private and personal; its boundaries were not traversed lightly, even by holy agents.
The mental aura shifted slightly, resembling more an open clearing than a shrouded forest path. The angel could feel Bran's conscious attention on him; what parts of him were conscious at the moment, that is. He was… ragged, was perhaps the best manner to describe it. A central pillar, weathered and battered by time's ceaseless march; Bright orbitals of thought, familiar souls bearing unfamiliar memories broken into a thousand lost refractions. His ward was showing more than he realized, if he seemed this rough at the surface… the turmoil in his soul must be great, indeed.
Bran seemed a figure in darkness, glimpsing only some few beams of light. Or perhaps a newborn bird, pecking and prodding at their weakening shell. Both metaphors rang with some truth, the angel thought. He knew well how multifaceted a thing could be; people most of all. What was most obvious was the sheer discord on display between the elements in play. Each independent nodule of thought sought to press its own way to the fore, as the centrality of Bran's consciousness kept them in check and at bay in turn.
He feared what would happen should a true integration take place, that what makes him him would be lost beneath a tide of foreign experience. He only needed his eon of experience with humanity to tell him that, of course. Humans could be terribly prickly about having their limited view of reality expanded, even when it's to their benefit. Sometimes, especially so.
But Bran's entire mind was in uproar, the strike of the wretched beast enough to shift the balance slightly out of Bran's favor. What parts of him were not overseeing the physical repairs were now locked in contention with the free-floating nodules. Through the tableau he could perceive, he could tell this battle stretched all the way to his core, war dominating the fields far inland of his surface thoughts.
This was not a bramble patch he could untangle now, unfortunately. Bran was needed on the front lines immediately. He scanned the metaphorical landscape of Bran's mind, probing the bright orbitals for some mechanism or power that might prompt a swift rejuvenation. His ward followed his attentions, though he could not speak even to consult the angel. There was not enough of him currently free from battle to understand language.
It was amongst the orbital that echoed with the power of dreams and wonder that the angel saw a spark of unrealized potential. A power remarkable, yet limited, and subtle enough its coming almost certainly went unnoticed with all else that surrounded it. All it needed was a little push…
A chime sounded out with s feeling of shattering glass, and all Bran's mind lit up with azure light, not too dissimilar to the light of his brother's remarkable blade. The mental conflict halted in its tracks as Bran began to reassert his authority on a wave of healing power. In the moments before his highest cognitive functions were restored and after he reclaimed language, as the angel withdrew from his mind, Bran whispered one thought to the angel.
Thank you, Zagzagel.
Free - (Kingdom Hearts) Wisdom Form -
By focusing all power on magical might Wisdom form provides a powerful boost to the
damage of your magical attacks, the speed at which you cast spells, and
your mana recovery rate. The real damage dealer comes when you cast a
spell a few times in a row - the final spell will be a combo finisher, which
boosts the scale of the spell considerably. One bolt may become three,
and a ring of fire becomes a wall. Your clothes become predominately blue
and you can magically slide above the ground and fire rapid, though not
particularly strong, bolts of magic. 15 minutes after exiting this form you'll be able to use it
again, although as the decades roll on your efforts with Wisdom form may reduce this to a
mere 5 minutes.
And that's the end of that chapter, a day late and a dollar short, but here we are!
My final thoughts were of fire and flame as I succumbed to the blow meant for Robb. Between a monstrous constitution and the magics in my blood, I lived. I know Robb would not have, so it was a good trade. I drifted a while, subject to the whims of recollection. Some my own, and much not. Then the angel - Zagzagel, whispered a traitorous part of my mind - he did something, and seemingly limitless power flowed through me! I felt the last of my burns heal in a rush, and blood was fit to boil with magic!
I opened my eyes, and found a world tinted blue beyond them. I realized this was not a result of the world, but of a substantial glow emanating from me! What's more, I was hovering – not levitating on a sphere, but simply drifting above the earth like a leaf on the wind. I felt transcendent, like a raging wildfire, but I could tell the truth: I was a candle, and my fuel was dearly limited. There was no time to explore.
The angel was gone somewhere. The tavern had been reduced to so much rubble, and - Dong! Dong! - the giant was attempting to reach the bounty I had hidden behind my magic. I smiled at the grotesque mess made of its face; Robb had done good work. Speaking of, the men stood guard as the townsfolk shrieked and hollered, though they did not strike at the beast. Robb -!
I was at their side in a flash, looking down at the sight I'd dreaded to see. My brother, bloodied and broken as I'd been or worse. Blue light blazed from me in my rage, my skin nearly sparking with anguished power. I turned to the giant, which had slowed its assault upon seeing me. I leaned down, brushing aside Jack's healing hands to unclasp the shackle that connected Robb to the Sword.
I resecured it about my off-hand's wrist; in my primary sword-arm, I held my threaded cane. The others tried to speak to me, but their words were very far away from me. Right now, all that mattered was making this devil pay while I had the power. I held the Sword of the Front Door aloft, in challenge to the enemy, and was duly surprised when several toy-sized crows made of blue light flew from its tip. The birds flew straight and true, impacting the giant along the arm it rose to protect itself. They popped like soap bubbles, doing little visible damage.
But little isn't none, and if the way I felt after firing them was an indication they needed nothing from me to create. They were a function of the azure power holding me aloft. Delightful. I followed with another volley, slipping away from the more fragile men and the terrified townsfolk; I intended to lead the giant out to less risky environs. It turned to face me as I maneuvered around it.
When the giant was silhouetted by the silver light of my dome, I fired a third volley. Some instinct drove me to follow up with twin lashes from the threaded cane. The whip blazed with blue fire, leaving two great wounds across the giant's chest; dealing far more damage than it could deliver on its own. I swiftly backpedaled, leaving easy range of its great fists. This state even enhanced my psychic powers, allowing me to cross a great many feet in a single bound!
The candle was burning fast, but I still had time.
It flinched back in pain as my whip left its marks, but leaned into the motion and began gathering energy in its chest. By chance, it had thrown one of its arms close enough to the men for them to strike at it! Sadly it was not the hand that called forth the dark pools, but if it had to die by ten thousand cuts it would.
As it fired volley after volley from its chest, I matched every bolt with one of my own; The energies of my birds unwove each dark missile. When the time felt right I would slip in and lash out with my whip before leaping back out of the fray. It gathered its power for one final barrage, sending what must have been over one hundred bolts my way; far more than I could shoot down.
Thinking quickly, I manifested a psychic barrier, verdant green run through with swirling lines of blue. The shield would normally have broken after only a few blows, but enhanced by the rapidly fading power it managed to take the whole lot. It dimmed significantly but remained unbroken as I cut off the flow of psychic energy.
When the barrier vanished, it revealed the giant coming to its feet, off-hand mangled but swiftly reforming. It charged at me with a speed I hadn't expected from something so large. I leapt away on a boosted levitation ball when he slammed his fists on the ground. Making creative use of a spontaneous platform I launched myself directly into its remaining eye, snuffing the light from it as well.
I was away on my ball before it could catch me as it screamed silently in rage. It clawed at the ruin the Starks had made of its face, dark sludge dripping from its fingers and pooling on the ground below. Dropping its hands, it fell to its knees; with its well-coated claws it dug into the ground. Energy thrummed in the cavity where it's heart should reside, as if it were preparing to fire upon the earth.
Instead, it seemed to flow back into the dark creature's flesh, veins of blue illuminating along its arms and plunging into the ground. From the monster's hands, darkness spilled forth. A tide twice as horrible as it had called earlier, already towers of demons were shaping up! If I could not float over it, the flood may well be knee high to me!
Further, Zagzagel's bolstering was beginning to fade. I only had the time for one more impressive strike, and it would have to count. Its head had been ravaged without cease and it was no deader than it was an hour ago, so I needed a better target. I eyed the pulsating energy in its chest; perfectly placed, akin to a heart. Combined with the way it flowed into the earth…
I knew what to do. I hoped.
I slid over the pools, going slower with my power nearly expended. I fired a few avian barrages to spool up the tension in my metaphysical muscles, then leapt for the core. At the same time I probed inwards, rousing my inner beast to action. The fading dregs of the azure power flowed into the muscles my beast was enhancing, compounding power onto power.
My arms lengthened as my claws grew sharper and deadlier. Sadly, I would not be using those. I thrust both my blades into the giant's dark heart with all the force my beast-enhanced self could muster. Both sword and cane blazed with light, and as the blade of blue fire was engulfed in that light it was empowered!
Trails of fire coursed across the sword and into the beast's heart. As it thrashed in pain, the fire crawled through its viens and into the pools of oily blackness. Much like true oil, the darkness was soon ablaze with azure flames. The towers were decimated before they could form, and the giant's struggles soon ceased.
The pools burned merrily away, as the smoky remnants of their creator were swept away by the wind. The light faded from me completely, leaving me lying prone on the ground. Whatever that boost had been, it left me unbelievably drained. Not to the point of passing out, as before, but all the same I felt certain the knights could handle any stragglers. By the sound of clashing steel, I'd say they were already doing so.
I rolled over to lie flat on my back, using platforms to wrangle my uselessly limp legs into position. As I gazed into the sky, I saw the first probing rays of dawn peeking over the horizon, and smiled.
Wow, sorry for the late upload once more! This chapter fought hard every step of the way. None of that Zag scene was planned, he just put himself there and made me write a thousand words for what could have been a hundred and let me get to the actual final fight.
Speaking of the fight scenes, I'm looking for genuine critique on those in particular right now. I feel like something's off with my choreography, but I can't finger quite what. And I really wanted that last sequence to be more impressive than it is, and I'm sorry I couldn't deliver something suitably epic. Still, the damn thing is over, and twice as long as I wanted!
Seriously I only wanted to use like two quotes from Shadow Stalker, but the town shit just kept happening and happening and I wanted the bit to last the whole thing but not overstay its welcome at the same time and it's just felt a mess. Next chapter, God willing, we might get a properly new grimoire perk! Been a while since we had that!
My peaceful repose was upset by the machinations of reality before too long. That is, with the battle concluded and the darkness seemingly defeated and withdrawn, the rough work of caring for the survivors and counting the dead began. There wasn't much in the way of remains to count, but the living had been collected together so that the dead may be determined. The final outlook… 'Twas grim.
By the grace of the Seven and our efforts, nearly one thousand souls had been spared the deprivations of darkness. In winter, such a loss from Wintertown would've been catastrophic, much of House Stark's direct smallfolk gone in a flash. In summer, the devastation was less apparent but still quite evident. Decimation would imply a lesser tax, the current total standing at least one-half the town perished, with the true count certainly higher.
Dawn's rays anointed the ruins with the promise of a new day, contrasting the somber mood of the gathered. I had heard some post-battle exultation after the giant was felled, but it was tellingly brief. The true battle was only just beginning.
"Please, my people!" Robb cried, exhausted. "The enemy is withdrawn and the path to Winterfell is more than safe!" I had felt the emanation of holiness as Jack invoked the Mother's mercy on Robb; He wasn't fit to battle further today, but he could yet direct his people. 'Twas a shame the smallfolk were all stubborn arses.
The light of the dome was nearly invisible in the dawn's presence, the protective magic outshone by the brilliance of the Sun. It had been much reduced in strength over the course of the battle, and the simple transition of night to day was eroding it further to almost nothing. I daresay I could spit on the circle and break the spell, yet the smallfolk would rather trust it than the sturdy walls of Winterfell.
I didn't blame them for trusting only the evidence of their senses in this disaster, but neither did I envy my brother. A shadow - the usual kind - passed over my face as the- no, Zagzagel stood over me. I glared up at the one who would disrupt my last few precious seconds of nothing-in-particular; the dawn's rays framed his mortal shell's head positively angelicaly, hair shining a richer gold than the Lannister's could imagine. That tended to happen around his lot.
"Art thou well?" He said, smiling beatifically. "I hath not known thee to be so hard-pressed terribly often." He had shed most of his divine aura for my comfort, but its remnants still made my teeth itch.
"'M well enough, Zaggy." I replied, hoping the vaguely familiar diminutive stuck in whatever holy orifice of his masqueraded as his craw. "How's the folk?" I manifested a simple green platform to serve as a temporary seat as I made to sit up.
"Frightened and fractious, as thou hast surely heard." He reached a hand down for me, which I took. Trying to tell an angel not to be helpful is akin to telling a hound not to hunt. Little sense in arguing against one's most fundamental self. "A great tragedy weigheth heavy on their souls, driving many from good sense." Hoisting me up onto my psychic slab, he went on. "Like beasts they be, in absence of loyalty to thy lord they wouldst doubtless lash out at his uplifting hand. 'Tis credit to thy line they art merely stubborn." I adjusted my legs into a stable configuration beneath me, a thought bubble forming beneath me and allowing the platform to rest upon it.
After the past… had it truly only been a day or so, already? In any case, the process of providing psychic locomotion for my inable self was nearly perfectly natural by now. All it took was a few battles to the death to make such things second-nature, it seemed.
"The Starks have ruled these lands for eight thousand years or so." I replied, setting off. Zagzagel followed, easily keeping stride with me. "The smallfolk have shorter memories than maesters, however. The credit best goes to our father, and to his just rulership." Forty-odd years on, I could still remember the last lesson he ever taught me with crystal clarity: 'Let the one who would pass the sentence wield the sword'. Those words had guided me true all my years, and hopefully would for some time yet.
The thought of Father niggled at the back of my mind, as though I had forgotten something. Something potentially important. Whatever it was, the angel's reply scattered it back to the winds.
"So I hath heard. But tell me, my new old friend…," he trailed off, looking me up and down. "What in the name of the Father art thou wearing?" Oh Lord, not again…
Sure enough, looking myself over I had once more found myself unwittingly dressed in singularly ridiculous garb. Rather than a rather simple, if garish, set of adornments, this time I looked as though I had crawled from a tailor's darkest nightmares: strips of cloth and leather wound across me with only a passing eye for practical consideration. The tunic and pants were both a dark, woody brown as a base, criss-crossed with the vibrant green and dark black of belts that served no apparent purpose.
Further, lines of odd steel were inlaid throughout, bearing an odd pattern and bedecked at one end with a small metal bangle. What possible use they might have eluded me. Actually, looking closer… Perhaps not. I unsheathed my threaded cane to better examine the pattern there inlaid. It bore a limited resemblance to the lines, but was far from a perfect match. Still, it gave me the confidence to try something.
After re-sheathing my cane, I gave an experimental tug of one of the tags, trying to extend the line of steel throughout the cloth. All I succeeded in doing was rip a hole in my sleeve. Clearly, that was not their purpose… Before I could even consider its repair, however, the tear in my tunic mended itself before my eyes!
"I take it thou hast little idea yourself." Zagzagel said with a laugh. "Perchance the other direction will yield more success?"
I grumbled something unfavorable, but did as he suggested. Pulling the tag along the length of the line of steel turned the one line into two, revealing an empty pocket beneath. "Storage spaces?" I looked myself over again; in this light the design was marginally less obnoxious, the sealed pockets were actually distributed with a measure of practicality in mind. Several of them along each of the long sleeves for smaller objects, much larger pockets along my legs for hidden weapons, and a few across my torso for utility's sake.
"A blessing, I'm sure, for one who prepareth as I know thou dost."
For another blessing, I had been given real shoes this time instead of the ridiculous things with the name I refuse to acknowledge. Closer to boots, they came up to my mid-shin and were the same dark brown of my clothes. They were less adorned with frivolities than the rest of the outfit, but still bore traces of green and black along its ridges.
I checked to make sure all the items that I had carried with me into battle were still on my person despite the wardrobe change: My wand was ensconced safely in a sinister pocket, while the BEast Roar was concealed in a dextrous one, in easy reach of the appropriate hand. The cartridge thrower was sheathed on the only belt resting where it ought, as were both the blades I wielded. I had done that without thinking as I got up, it seemed.
"Well, overall I think it less objectionable than my last magically-delivered set of clothes. These have the decency to repair themselves, at least." Now if I could only enchant them to be as strong as steel plate, I wouldn't give a rat's ass about looking like a bravo everywhere.
"If we art lucky, there shan't be cause for thee to test that feature further anytime soon."
I laughed. "I wouldn't plan on that!" My mirth faded as I looked upwards, clawed hands curling as my gaze was drawn to the angry red pustule in the sky. "World's gone to shit, Zagzagel. Worst bit is, it's my fault. What would it say about me, if I stepped off the front lines now?"
"That thou art human, friend." Another laugh, this one painfully bitter.
"Angel, I know you see clearer than most. You know damn well I'm not. Not anymore." It was nearly impossible to keep out of my mind, now that I wasn't in the midst of battle: the way I could feel the points of my claws dig into my palm, the light irritation of cloth against my wing-arm's feathers. Were I able to stand, I knew my balance would be wildly different as well, given the shape of my legs.
"Thou art human, Bran." He said firmly. "Thy soul mirrors that of mankind, and 'tis one I knew dearly in lands afar. Thy form may be twisted by heathen gods, but thy soul is inimitable. I prithee, ne'er forget that."
I sighed. He wouldn't understand, and possibly could not. "I care not for this topic. Now that the town is saved, what do you intend on doing?" Zagzagel looked disappointed, the prick, but allowed the diversion.
"What dost thou?"
Damn him. Ah well, I had intended to sort my thoughts out anyway. I did not trust Zagzagel, not fully, but he would still serve as a fine sieve for ideas. "Hmm. First off, the monsters. I wanted to handle the Trauma up there," I gestured up to where the menacing wound twisted the dawn's light bloodier. "Before aught else, but recent events have forced a change of priorities. How can we prevent further loss of life?"
"For a mercy, that problem is partly resolved." Zagzagel smiled. "All those who wert safe behind a rightful lord's walls hath been spared. God hath poured power into the promises made in the Seven's name, even to those lords who rule the North and holdeth not to the Faith. Knights brave and true the realm over hath found their blades blessed, save for those who make full mock of their oaths." His smile twisted, a half-step from a smirk. Quite possibly the most wicked expression his face could make. "Thy brother 'tis, in sooth, the one member of thy party thou didst not need to arm specially. Though he holdeth not to the Lord, he yet rules by the Grace of God."
My thoughts rolled to a stop. That was a significant departure from the standard model in Europe. "Since when did pagans ever benefit from God's Grace?"
"Since first they swore fealty to the Iron Throne and the monarchs who hath sat it, coronated in the name of the Seven-Who-Art-One."
"Spin me another tale, O angelic mummer!" I snorted. "I imagine if Charlemagne could have been any less uncompromising to the Saxons, he would have, Zaggy." Let him choke on another diminutive for such a story!
"'Tis not so strange as thou mayest think, friend. Though they ever pale before the Almighty, the little 'gods' of Europe were many, and prideful. From the Romans to the Germans to the Saxons, none would forswear their claims on the souls of their followers. 'Twas not their way to surrender so precious a thing as that without true battle. Great Charlemagne, though I shalt ne'er condone his violence, knew that with such beings commanding their faith any peace wouldst be doomed to failure." His words bore the confidence of long practice, as though he had had this debate times beyond counting. I would be a liar if the pattern of discussion did not resonate with me, as well…
"Feh!" Rather than consider that further, I ventured another argument. "Even should I believe that, why then was Ser Rodrik unable to harm anything until you arrived? I trust you were not withholding thy blessing for theatric's sake?" This actually had Zagzagel pause a moment. An angel cannot help but betray their feelings, and he seemed to be… embarrassed? This was new enough, I felt. I doubt I'd ever seen an embarrassed angel in any lifetime!
"I… had not realized thy party was not so blessed ere I saw thee in person. From a distance, the conjured blade thy brother wielded so fiercely felt a great deal like an angelic presence. Nor, indeed, could I accurately read the virtue of Ser Rodrik whilst Jack occupied my attention."
Grinning, I said, "You - an all-seeing, all-powerful agent of the Lord - or Seven, whatever - mistook my very pagan brother for an angel-"
"On account of a magic sword, yes." Never before had I been so thankful for the angelic disposition towards thoroughness in their material forms as Zagzagel began blushing. "'Tis not my proudest moment, true, but did I not swiftly correct the matter?" He paused. "And pray do not compare mine faculties to that of the Lord again."
"Somewhat-knowing, then?" I relished the moment like a sweet wine. "Semi-potent? Not the most inspiring labels, are they?"
"I prefer aspiration over inspiration, in sooth." He looked out to where Jack was helping to win the smallfolk's support. "Inspiration, even Divine inspiration, it seldom lasteth, and for ones so short-lived thy kind art far too oft beset by Sloth's disgraceful presence. But if thou givest a man a goal, a model to aspire to…" The little septon was swiftly sweeping the crowd into action; he had led them true to their liege, protected their vulnerable souls from a foul darkness, and had come from amongst their ranks. Personally, that's what I thought helped bring them around so easily, as well as the fact that none could bear to be called more craven than a child. "They shalt ever endeavor to better themselves, to one day call their virtue equal to their heroes'. We venture from the true point once more." With a flourish, Jack swept his cane across the circle and shattered the pathetic remnants of the silver shield.
I let out a sigh, watching Robb and the knights corral nearly one-thousand reluctant but compliant townspeople. Grey Wind bounding over to him as Summer trotted sedately my way. We moved to join them. "So the lords and knights who are worth a damn are safe. The septs are safe. What of everyone else? The farmers spread far and wide, potentially miles from safe harbor?" The majority of people, in other words.
Tyrion had once told me, in a small council meeting, of a most interesting book he'd been reading. A maester had had the odd idea of examining society through the use of maths, and wrote down some of his calculations. According to this maester, Tyrion had said, For every one man there is doing anything else, there are three farmers. Lord, craftsman, merchant, or mercenary, for every one of them it took three farmers to keep everyone fed.
And even among this privileged one-quarter, who knows where they might be at any time? There was no guarantee of being near a sept if they were a merchant on the road, or the mercenary guarding him. Even in the best case, I would expect only some ten-and-five out of every hundred people to live. The end of the Seven Kingdoms.
Zagzazgel bowed his head, as thoughts of travelers danced in my head searching for something to connect to. I couldn't help but feel something important was being forgotten. "I know thy fear, and shall not deny it. This enemy is legion and my kin here art few, and a great many will suffer for it." Raising his head, he fixed me with an unreadable stare. "But not all is lost, and there may yet be some hope for them. Not all places were so besieged as we were. The beasts crave something vital from man, and sought out thy cities and townships in greater numbers. They art also attracted to me and my kin like moths to flame, and thy summoned blade is likewise."
"What!?"
I turned, the shout startling me from my thoughts. Robb had come to greet us, it seemed, as we were still some score and ten feet from the crowd. He paused mid-stride when our words reached him, face caught between relief and abject horror. I looked behind him: By the relative lanquidity of the knights and commoners, our words did not carry so far. Interestingly, Grey Wind had frozen at his master's side, in near-perfect lockstep. Robb may soon develop a talent for warging; I shall have to inquire him on the matter of his dreams in the coming days.
Glancing over his shoulder, he hurried over to confront Zagzagel. "Explain. Now."
"'Tis in the nature of dark things to fear the Light, my lord." He said, his voice gentle like spring rain. "What they fear drives them to anger, anger to hatred, and by their hatred they swarm until the lights they fear are extinguished. Fear not for thy people, my lord, for thou hath been tested enough this morn. By my power will they be driven back." Taking a deep breath, Robb nodded.
"Good. Great, even! Anything other information likely to land me in an early grave?" There wasn't anything that immediately sprung to mind for me, and the angel likewise responded in the negative. "Fantastic. Bran, I need your help."
"You and Jacky-boy there seemed to have things well in hand from where I sat."
"Aye, the folk are on their way to Winterfell, but we still have problems aplenty. The majority of our people are out in the countryside. Though I fear I already know their fates, it is my duty to care for my people. I will not forsake them."
I sighed. "There's no quick way to manage a search, unfortunately. A ritual could easily manage it, but I know of none for our situation and creating a new one is the work of moons at least." Working out the appropriate Technique and Forms, making sure the stars are in alignment, adjusting for seasonal changes, marking a time to perform it that isn't years in the future; ritual creation was a deeply involved art, requiring a high level of philosophical learning both natural and epistemological.
"But what about-"
"That quick and dirty thing I managed last night was as slapdash as could be! The only reason it worked as well as it did was the nature of the vis powering it, like as not." I shot a look at Zagzagel, to which he responded with a guiltless smile. "Holy vis often has a mind of its own regardless of the alignment of it, and bends towards good acts. That was the only reason I felt confident enough to try such a swift ritual with such limited preparations."
"Swift!?" Robb boggled. "It only took a bloody hour!"
"Aye," I replied, "That's as short as a ritual can realistically get, brother. Try and spend any less time and it becomes significantly harder to make anything happen at all. The tradeoff between spells proper and ritual magic has always been power or promptness, and sadly rituals are all I know."
"That will change, in time. The ward I once knew was master of all things magical. I suspect thy Grimoire shall open the way for thee."
"To where, damnation?" I groused. "I can't rely on the Grimoire any more than absolutely necessary, Zag." Really, I'd thought that much to be obvious.
"I am afraid it will be quite necessary, Bran."
What? "Why!?" chorused Robb and I. "What possible reason is there for petitioning that thing now the battle is won!?" I continued. "Every time I've so much as touched it, it seems like it invites a new evil into the world!"
"'Tis precisely because of that selfsame evil that thou must continue thy studies, and delve ever deeper. Every new connection may bring something monstrous along, but it brings wonder in turn. And what one land may struggle with, powers from elsewhere may turn the tides. The weapon thou had gifted thy brother, it shared not a homeland with the darkness that spreads here. Yet was it not effective?"
I could hardly believe my ears; I almost failed to see my beloved Summer come to stand at my side, and I would've had he not been growling at the angel himself. "I can hardly control the damned thing! If I ask it for aught, what's to say it doesn't end the world outright?" I pointed to the Trauma again. "That's growing, Zagzagel! Every time I receive a 'blessing', the world tears a little more! It took all I had at the time just to learn how to keep it away!" He looks down upon the both of us, gaze heavy.
"I know, my lords. But Bran, thou hast not the power to heal the Trauma yet. This, thou knowest."
Shit. "Don't tell me: it's not actually contained in the lunar sphere, is it?"
"What? Nay, 'tis still so contained. I meaneth that, even with the highest power of rituals my friend could call upon, thou hast not the knowledge to tame this foe, nor the strength."
"I find that rather hard to believe, Zaggy! It's a malignant manifestation of extremely high-powered magics, and should be susceptible to some combination of Rego, Muto, and Vim, possibly with an Auram corollary with its position so-"
"I could not touch the Trauma." … What?
"W-what?" Summer let out a soft whimper.
Zagzagel sighed. "I take it then," he said, cupping his chin, "Thou didst not know. Even Divine Might is… insufficient. Mine is, at least, and though I am no Archangel I have no small power to my name."
I looked around and wondered whether something had changed in the last minute, or if reality had always been like this and he had been fortunate enough not to notice. "Why - in the name of the Seven, the Lord Jesus Christ, The Old Gods, and fucking R'hllor - would you think I already knew that!?"
"What?" Robb asked, confused. "What does that have to do with anything?"
Oh, you sweet summer child.
"Everything, brother." I sighed. "Absolutely everything. He's an angel, Robb." If even an angel couldn't move the thing, there wasn't much hope for mortal magic. "You're still thinking the Seven and the Old Gods are roughly the same, in terms of absolute power, right?" When he nodded, I continued. "That's dead wrong. The Old Gods are real, and powerful, but limited. Beings born more of magic than anything truly Divine, they are limited to lands where the weirwood grows free. The Seven-Faced God?"
Robb had grown up with the same mother I had, so it wasn't long before a flash of recognition shined in his eyes. "They are… infinite? Unbounded?"
"It's hard for even believers to get that, at times." I nodded. "But when you practice magic, it's unavoidable. We all knew good and well, at least in Europe, that the Divine could wipe the earth clean of magic in an instant if such was its desire."
"Europe?" Shit.
"That's… not important, right now. Suffice it to say 'tis the lands Hermetic magic hailed from, the ritual kind I learned. More importantly," I elegantly pivoted the conversation back on track. "Mages, if they weren't stupid, did their best not to piss off the Divine realm even as they tried not to appear too tempting to those of the Infernal. Again," I said, noticing the abrupt concern on his face, "A topic for another time. The ultimate point being: if an angel couldn't manage it? Using his full power?"
I looked to Zagzagel for confirmation, and at his nod I turned back to Robb and spread my arms wide, "We're fucked."
"Nay!" said the angel to the both of us. "Where goeth life, so goeth hope. I am not all-powerful, you must recall. I believe that the Seven, should it be necessary, would intercede before the world met ruination. You are not yet dead, and so you must fight."
"Because the Seven help those who help themselves, yes?" I derided, "Why should we count on the possibility? Use the Grimoire until half the sky bleeds red, how in Christ's name am I supposed to overcome Holy power!?"
"I… do not know." Zagzagel admitted. "The idea is, truthfully, ludicrous. And yet…" he smiled, eyes locked somewhere far away. "Thy predecessor had quite the knack for impossible things. He advanced Hermetic understanding more than even the sage Bonisagus."
"Alright, I've had enough!" Robb exclaimed, to my surprise. "There is much and more here I do not understand, nor do I care to; yet the thing I most wish to discuss seems of no interest to you. Now, I am demanding an answer!" He indicated the space between me and Zagzagel; I did not care for the direction he was heading…. "This past you share, how? I desired the story of your past life, only to find it far longer than it has any right to be! I had the Grimoire understood as some compendium of knowledge, not… whatever this is that has been happening." I, too, wish it were so simple, Robb…
"Brother, please…" I sighed. "I don't- it's- this- do we need to do this?" After the day we've had, I was in no state for these ponderings. My head was pounding like a drum at the thought of them.
"I believe thou must," "Yes." Ugh. Fine. How to phrase it…?
"It's not a major problem." I reassured them. "Simply put, some skills come with a greater… depth of knowledge… than others."
"Canst thou posit a more precise phrasing?" Zagzagel questioned, damn him. "'Memory', perhaps, or 'experience'."
"You could," I admitted through gritted teeth, "potentially, in some circumstances, sometimes maybe say as such."
"Bran!" Robb cried.
"It. Is. Fine." I assured, a touch too forcefully. "I am quite aware they are not truly my memories, and have gone to some length to-"
"Thou art mistaken, friend." Zagzagel interrupted, his voice mournful. No. "They art thine. They hath ever been thi-" You're wrong!
"Shut up!" I screamed. A force rocked through me and out from me, quick and violent. The world fell silent, even the distant sound of the horde of commonfolk was snuffed. The suddenness of it startled me from my panic; I was becoming quite adept at Occlumency with all the strain I have been under. Taking notice once more of the world around me revealed an interesting tableau: People in motion, yet completely silent.
Confusion was falling over the crowd of smallfolk as they all experienced sudden deafness at the same time. I saw Robb's mouth moving yet producing no sound. Zagzagel simply raised his arm and snapped his fingers, the sound piercing the pall of silence and restoring things to their appropriate state. "Thou canst not help but to lose control when thy emotions so enfold thee?"
"Oh don't you fucking start with me, Zagzagel!" I was somewhat calm again, but if he kept pressing the issue…
"The mage I knew, he would not have lost his temper so, nor ever let his magics run unbridled."
"I am not him!" I cried, before sucking in a deep breath and exhaling slowly. Calm, Bran. Calm. "I am not him, Zagzagel. I know not what you have seen, or what you suspect, but I am Brandon Stark of Winterfell. I was once the King of the Seven Kingdoms in a future now rewritten, I have meddled with forces beyond my ken and feel no wiser for it, and I wield power I know I am unworthy of." Keep your breathing even, Bran, 'twas no need to vent your entire spleen."I know little of the man you knew, only that some small fragment of his knowledge is now mine.
"I'm sorry."
Zagzagel nodded and hope welled up in my heart - "I understand thou mayest think it so." - only to be crushed. The tenuous hold I'd gotten on my emotions slipped once more and -
"Ah, m-my lords?" A timid voice called out, ending my building tirade ere it began. Jack had run over, footfalls muffled by my unseemly loss of composure. Now that sound had returned, it seemed he wanted to make sure it stayed that way. "Perhaps these… t-troubling matters might b-better be discussed later? 'Tis a l-long way to Winterfell."
Woe to him, for my aggravation was not so easily alleviated. "And now the smallfolk lad thinks to intrude on lordly matters! Of an age we may look, but an age we are not. Piss off, boy." My frustration echoed with the last four - five, now - nights and days of mystical mayhem and far too little restful sleep to account for it all.
"Bran!" Chorused my current tormentors, save for the boy. Jack had recoiled at my words, eliciting a cruel enjoyment in my heart, small but distinct. I Occlumentally quashed it swiftly ere it took root and festered, if only to avoid incurring the true wrath of an angel. It wasn't proper to enjoy the stricken face of a youth, no matter how irritating. So swift was I in keeping order mentally that my tongue was loosed in its stead.
"Oh, my apologies! Piss off, Your Holiness." My thoughts were quite thoroughly jumbled by a sudden sharp pain radiating from my cheek. I hadn't even seen him move, yet Robb had marched close enough to be to deliver a solid backhanded strike; A reprimand, rather than an attack, for I was still seated. "The hells, brother!?"
"That boy," he began, "is the only reason we both lived through this night. I lost twelve good men to monsters!" His voice cracked then. It occurred to me then that this was my brother's first real battle. "I thought you'd learned something from Father! You should not disrespect those who serve even half so well!" I couldn't help glaring up at him, cradling my burning face.
"Really? Between my magic and my sword, it felt like I was doing a fair bit of work there, myself!" Robb stepped back in what seemed like confusion, before Zagzagel said something that sent lightning down my spine and a blizzard back up it.
"Bran, thou art acting like a child."
I locked up, feeling suddenly quite defensive. Occlumency was primarily a defensive art, but it was handy when the mind needed organizing. I was still and silent for several minutes as I reexamined all that had been said this morn. The more I thought about what followed the giant's fall, the worse I felt; my outlook seemed bleak.
Snapping back into reality, I beheld the now extremely concerned expressions of Robb, Jack, Zag, and the four knights. I ignored them and rolled along to where the smallfolk still milled.
"Come on," I said. "'Tis a long way to Winterfell."
Ehehehehehehe... Sorry, folks. I made an executive decision a while back, around the time I mysteriously stopped posting. That decision was: "Well, I'm not really liking the quality of what I can make in a week. Doing it one chapter at a time makes keeping track of longer plot threads difficult. We should take longer to write more and better words before sharing them, like with that first bunch!"
And then I forgot to tell anyone. Ahem.
Again, sorry about that. But when I saw the yellow of age appear at the bottom of the thread on SB, I knew I needed to take action. So, I finished up this chapter, it was mostly done anyway. Consider it a reverse birthday gift, from me to you. Well, it's a bit late now, but it was recent enough to count.
Next chapter probably will not be the return to Winterfell for I have ideas for how things develop elsewhere in the Kingdoms that need some setup work done and I figure that will make a good interlude as we transition into hopefully a slower pace. Thank you in advance for patience and understnading!
It's difficult to envision how Bran is moving. Is he just constantly leaning back into a psychic cushion, being ferried mostly upright?
Or does he have his legs messily folded under him?
It's just weird to try and picture the action, and knowing that Bran is paraplegic makes it weird when how he's moving seems so incredibly awkward and draining.
It's difficult to envision how Bran is moving. Is he just constantly leaning back into a psychic cushion, being ferried mostly upright?
Or does he have his legs messily folded under him?
It's just weird to try and picture the action, and knowing that Bran is paraplegic makes it weird when how he's moving seems so incredibly awkward and draining.
When he has the time and patience to manage it properly, he carries himself essentially like the paraplegic from Psychonauts 2. In the incredibly taxing environment he's been in the last few chapters, it's a good bit sloppier. Especially because he has to conjure a psychic platform in approximation of a chair, which doubles the mental strain of it.
Sorry if I've not been conveying his conveyance well, still a novice at all this. I'll work on it in future.
