QuiteTheSlacker
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Chapter 95: Embodiment of Freedom
🕑 Added 2024-11-24 09:01:31 +0000 UTC“It required all our strength for Libevich and I to subdue Luxmi, then. The district was left ruined in the aftermath. I lost my right eye. There was not a moment to comprehend it: the destruction that poured forth from her grief-stricken mind.
“The public thought it to be an explosion wrought by insurrectionists, but never would they have believed the cause to be their beloved ruler. I could not believe it. Here she was, a woman I thought stronger, more composed, than any else… reduced to a mindless vessel for a being beyond the sky.
“When she had finally returned to her senses, Luxmi changed. Gone was the one who yearned to uproot corruption; instead, there was only fear. Her only concern was of maintaining this stagnant, fetid system. I could not believe it. The passionate revolutionary I once so respected was gone, replaced by a shell that could only whimper.
“In such a state, it was only a matter of time before she finally broke. Our once-so proud group was reduced to a gathering of three. And with her death… there was only me. Me, and that nuisance Libevich. She could not be trusted with leadership, nor did she wish to. I knew then that I alone would have to carry the mantle of the Corvid.”
Grand General Xeros, Ruler of Nox Caelum
––––––
Ascalon
There is no sound. No color. No touch. Ascalon’s last memory is of being swallowed by a great, crooked maw, and then… nothing. In this space, not even darkness exists. It is as if he is lost in the space between realms, drifting in a vast, inconceivable nothingness.
But Ascalon is no stranger to this sensation. He has experienced it once before, and this time, he shall break free with his own strength.
Even though the emptiness shrouds all, he can feel the faint outline of his body, and the pounding cry of his soul.
Even though all touch has been lost, he grips tight and trusts in the blade within his grasp.
Even though all is silent, he opens his mouth and takes a long, deep breath.
“O’ world,” he chants. “Be still.”
Light springs forth into the void, filling nothingness with life. It hums and swirls, aching to be set free, and soon the prison holding Ascalon banishes into the nether. The cold breath of wind lashes against his skin once more, and reality unfolds before his eyes in all its beauty.
Ascalon basks in his returned senses, but his relief is short-lived for before his eyes is the visage of his sworn-enemy––pulsating within a violent red thunderstorm. The Grand General’s figure can barely be seen within the electric sparks; that man is preparing something. A premonition warns the King of a great, terrible evil.
He must stop him. Ascalon attempts to break through the discharge, but it repels him back. His body cannot move further; the maelstrom is simply too vicious. Mayhaps if he is to concentrate his own power onto the Mattatron, a course to Xeros’s heart shall part way. However…
“Ascalon! Where are you!?” his beloved’s voice relays. Her tone is anxious, almost desperate. It is the very first time he has heard her with such emotion.
“I am here,” he says.
“Ah, thank goodness,” she whispers, tensions easing. “I grew fearful for your safety after witnessing the sky’s transformation.”
It is as if the entire world is cloaked in twilight. The sun and moon, the twinkling Stars––all hidden under an impermeable darkness.
“I will never fall, that I promise you. Progress with the siege and tend to the others. Xeros will not last much longer. I will end this here––”
A scream distracts him from below. Whereas the armies of Polus have long infiltrated the city, there are still two of the living left amongst the battlefield: Sarathiel, and Libevich. There is no mistake; Sarathiel has lost. The monstrous woman pins him to the ground and prepares her final strike, but fortunately the commotion wrought by Xeros diverts her attention.
“What is this? Why is that madwoman––”
“I had to attend to a matter within the capital,” she says. “Sarathiel offered to fend her off in my place, and I accepted.”
“But that is dangerous!” Ascalon says. “Her immortality cannot be handled by none other than you and I. Sarathiel will only…”
Her next words are sharp, deliberate and clear. She speaks not as one would with a friend, but with the rigid chill of a leader.
“He understands full well, Ascalon. This is his resolve.”
A repulsive wave of dread suddenly spreads across the land. It burrows into his skin, his mind, his very soul, and soon: a voice dripping with malice speaks for all to hear.
“Once upon a time, in a faraway land…”
The electricity breaks, and a disfigured beak erupts from Xeros’s chest. It caws and writhes, slowly shuffling forward as it proceeds with its haunting tale.
“Ascalon, you must stop him now!” Unease settles into her voice; even her composure shatters into a desperate shout. “Whatever it is Xeros is calling forth, I can feel its power surging by the second. You have to prevent its birth here.”
“But if I do, then Sarathiel will…”
Lorelai sighs, but it is an endearing sigh: almost thankful, as if his words are the very ones she has been hoping for. “I will always trust your judgment, Ascalon. Whatever you decide from here on, do so without regret.”
He smiles. Even without her telling him so, Ascalon is already resolute in his decision. “I am sorry, Lorelai. You will have much work to do following my stubbornness.”
She laughs, and bids him forth with a final cheer. “Then let us share in this burden together.”
Ascalon raises his wings and hurtles straight towards Libevich with the force of a falling meteor. She breaks free from her daze and turns to face him, but it is too late.
“Mattatron, send forth thine authority!” he cries. A ray of orchid surges from the zweihander’s tip and envelops Sarathiel in its blessed aegis. With him now safe, Ascalon pulverizes the old woman with a charge, splattering her body into little chunks of flesh.
“Ascalon?” Sarathiel wheezes, struggling to stand back up. “You fool…”
“You may curse me after this battle is over,” the King says, hoisting the haggard man onto his back. “And I shall save my own scolding as well. You must be treated by Surasha with haste.”
A severed hand grabs onto Ascalon’s leg, and a muffled laugh escapes from a grotesque, half-formed Libevich nearby as her bloody remains gather and recombine.
“Going so soon, brat?” she chides with her gargled throat. “How rude of you to ignore this old woman.”
She lurches forward, her eyes quickly filling with a maniacal tint that would distress even the most stalwart of knights, and looks up at the creature emerging from the Grand General’s body. “Oh dear, I haven’t seen that thing in a long, long time. Surprised that runt gathered the nerves to bring it out. Ah, it’s such a shame! If only I could have one last bout with Lorelai… pity, but this war’s coming to a close soon. You’ll just have to entertain me in her stead.”
“Get out of my way,” Ascalon warns, his voice close to a growl.
“I might consider it if you ask nicely.”
Ascalon takes off and confronts Libevich head on, grabbing her neck and soaring back up into the sky.
“Oho? What are you planning now?” she teases, gripping onto his arms and attempting to crush them in vain. “It’ll take a lot more than some tiny drop to kill me, y’know.”
“I do not need to,” he grunts in reply. His wings push harder, he gains more and more speed as he races towards the capital’s direction. “Consider yourself fortunate that I have not the time to slay you now. Disappear from my sight.”
With a loud shout, Ascalon launches Libevich out towards the far, far horizon. She curses and wails a slur of disturbing phrases aimed at his character, but her voice fades until she’s not but a tiny speck in the distance. She will not be returning for some time, but for now, he must attend to his fellow’s wounds.
“Lorelai, where is Surasha’s location? Sarathiel’s state is grim; he must be treated soon.”
“Right near the gate’s entrance. The other knights have set up a temporary refuge for the injured whilst the siege progresses,” she reports.
“I will meet her there.”
Ascalon drifts near the city’s base and lands. Frantic yells and cries fling through the air as stretchers and healers pass by, as well as those no longer able to continue on. It is a sobering, and brutal, sight––but also a much needed one. Even now, his subjects persist in their struggle: they fight on, trusting that their King shall see them to a new dawn.
Surasha soon rushes out from amongst the crowd and hurries to Sarathiel’s side. Her movements are sluggish, breath harsh and hands shaking from the war effort, yet nonetheless she rips off his armor with one pull and diligently attends to his needs.
“I’ve got it from here,” she says. “Go, finish that thing off already.”
Ascalon bids her farewell with a nod, and takes off to the skies once more. The creature still chants its tale; perhaps it is not too late.
Thump-thump.
It is that wretched, paralyzing melody again. Only this time, it is louder, more powerful, more drenched in resentment. The heartbeat’s thumping bellows across the land in its entirety, sparing not a corner nor ear of its insidious sound. Ascalon knows better now, however: he encases his heart in the Mattatron’s authority and forces it to pump against the rhythm.
The others are not so fortunate. Friend and foe alike are ensnared within its grip. They stop all movement, weapons dropping onto the floor, and stare off towards the high heavens with eyes bereft of light. Empty.
The twilight disperses, and the darkness recedes: welcoming the evening’s incandescence back into the world.
But there, towering above the hills, the mountains, and reaching up to heights far beyond the clouds, is a divine being wreathed in feathers of pure white. Its figure is distorted: human-like, yet distinctly avian, as if the two aspects are struggling for dominance over the other. There are no wings, yet a pair of crooked talons jut out from its two forelimbs. Its body shows not a bit of skin, yet its form is slender––almost feminine. Even its face is a disturbing blend of man and crow; piercing black eyes, a noseless center, and a slavering beak with rows of jagged, human teeth lined where should be its mouth.
It is the very embodiment of desire. It desires power, for only with strength can it smite the wicked. It desires wealth, for only with capital can it insure prosperity in a world run by greed. It desires fame, for only with authority can it bid the masses to move.
It desires all, for only with all may it save that which it cherishes most.
Ascalon cannot fathom how such a creature could be of Xeros’s creation. The yearning within this corvatine deity is not his––no. It belongs to another, but who? The man appears not even in control of his abhorrent form; the thing is mindless, acting upon an instinctual appetite for destruction, but he has no time to ponder such oddities now. A shimmering mass of aura howls to life and gathers at the tip of its maw, ready to be unleashed upon the entire capital.
Ascalon riles his heart and charges towards the light. He spreads his authority wide, wider, until the entire capital is nestled behind his bulwark, and he braces in place firm. The divine corvid howls louder. The beam ripples the very fabric of space as it nears its convergence.
A second passes. And two. And three.
And then, all that can be heard is a roar as the energy is set free in an all-consuming, blinding flare. It collides with Ascalon’s barrier before he can even think, and for the first time in all his long years as Freedom’s champion, his invulnerability cracks. And pain floods through unabated. And his blood ignites aflame.
Pain onto every bone. Pain onto every pore and vein. It feels as if his very existence is vaporizing bit by bit. Yet even so he does not waver, or else every soul still within the city shall meet their end here.
All of time grinds to a halt during his long struggle. How long has it been? It cannot be any less than an eternity, for every excruciating instant is filled with eons upon eons worth of grit.
When the devastation finally ends, Ascalon staggers onto his knee and holds onto his weary blade for balance. Every morsel of his body trembles from shock, but nonetheless the people are safe. His duty is not finished just yet, however. The Corvid stands tall, and it looks upon his efforts with indifference before upheaving the earth with a step of its massive talon.
“No other choice,” Ascalon grunts, lifting himself back up and raising the Mattatron to his chest. “To me, my friend. Let us join in spirit once more.”
He recalls back to his memories of the Magnus Murus. Remember that sensation, Ascalon. How it felt to rise, to entrust your everything to the flow of Creation.
A cascade of orchid luster spills forth from the greatsword and swirls around his body in a joyous dance. It brushes past with soft, delicate caresses, and it carries him up into the air as the energy spirals, condensing, taking new form as a colossal suit of armor. Soon, the protector giantess of Polus returns with a victorious shout, and it swings forth the enlarged Mattatron––preparing for the final confrontation with Polus’s sworn enemy.
“How strange for I of all people to protect Caelum now,” Ascalon says, body and soul one with the orchid deity. “But no matter how I wish for this grudge of ours to end, the destruction of Caelum is not what I wish for. This day shall end only with your death, so prepare yourself, o’ vile Corvid. I face you now as the embodiment of freedom!”
