TTL: The Second Labour

Here are all the submissions. As a general reminder, I have only included forum names if given permission by the author to do so - otherwise, these stories remain anonymous. Feel free to post reviews for these stories in the general conversation thread. Try to provide some helpful critiques and suggestions, and mention anything you liked. 

Winners will be declared on June 15th, and any applicable Challenge Accolades will also be awarded then. All winning entries will be saved in the Twelve Labours Archive with a permanent link in my signature, as well as mentioned in a report in the News section and General Discussion subforums. Once again, thanks to @mdk and the rest of the RPGC crew for helping to schedule The Twelve Labours.

If you did not win, but feel you should have? Make an appeal to the judge who made the call for your entry (yes, you'll know which judge evaluated it). Keep it classy, and exercise some courtesy while making your case, and they might just reevaluate your entry. Please keep in mind, you only get the one appeal. Sometimes you just have to let it go.

If you sent me an entry but I forgot to put it here, inform me IMMEDIATELY. As long as you made the submission deadline, there is no reason your entry should not be here!

The Stories:
This entry was submitted by @RomanAria.
It seemed like it was an honor. The first girl to ever be granted the rank of Imperator.

I wore a purple dress on that day, a symbol of my soon-to-be-real power. The High Priest conducted the ceremony, an anonymous face behind the silk veil he wore. Everyone had been dismissed from their duties to watch, well over two thousand individuals crammed into the city square. On the raised platform, Julian stood across from me, the golden laurels gleaming on his head, dark eyes serious and wryly amused as he met my gaze.

“Olivia Russell, known to us as Livia. The Senate and People of Rome have found you worthy of our highest honor: The title of Imperator Romae. Empress of Rome.” The High Priest spoke quietly, though the sound carried over the entire audience.

Julian looked down at me for a moment, smiling slightly, before he turned to face the assembled audience.
“As the current Imperator Romae, I am the only one with power to appoint my successor. I have been Livia’s mentor for one thousand and one days. In that time I have come to know her as I know myself, her weaknesses and her strengths. In the surprise attack yesterday she created a plan when I was paralyzed by fear. It is thanks to Livia and her quick thinking that we all are standing here today, having suffered not one casualty even though the gods themselves seemed to have conspired against us.
Livia is brave and just and smart, and she will make a powerful leader of Rome, better than I ever can. As of this moment I name Olivia Russell to be my successor and resign my post. May the gods bless Lady Livia, Imperator Romae.” As he spoke the last line he turned to face me and knelt. The High Priest took the laurel crown from Julian’s head and settled it over mine. In that moment, everyone packed into the square knelt before me. “All hail Lady Livia, Imperator Romae.”

Right now, though, it’s an honor I’d happily do without.

Is there such a thing as too much power? When people trip over their feet to try to please you, when people are executed for disrespecting you, is it really worth it? They haunt my mind, the people who get flogged or worse because they were too slow to bow to me. I cannot intervene, not when a breach of protocol could bring the Empire crashing down.

The logical thing to do would be to resign my post. But I can’t. The gods allowed me to be appointed. My people look to me to be their pretty figurehead. And above all, my Empire needs me to endure this with courage. For my Empire to live eternal, I must keep my chin high and ignore those who suffer. The Empire is cruel but it must be to last in this cruel, cruel world.

~~

Except I can’t.

Thirty of my people have been executed for “violations of protocol” regarding respect in the last week. THIRTY of my friends and family.

Watching them suffer is the worst torture in the world.

I am she of ultimate power, the crown jewel of the New Roman Empire. And yet I cannot stop this madness, or my empire will fall.

My friends, or my nation? This is the question that keeps me from performing my duties. As a true friend I would turn my back on my Empire, as a true Empress I would turn my back on my friends. 

I cannot do either and live with myself.

Julian, dearest, dearest Julian.
You have no idea how sorry I am to be writing this.
I wish you had not given me this post. But once given it cannot be given back.
I cannot turn a blind eye to the suffering of our people in the name of protocol. They suffer because they try to treat me as their Livia, not as Imperator Romae. They touch me, and their hands are cut off for defiling a gift of the gods. They raise their voices in a joke to me, and they are flogged bloody.
It is unendurable. For the sake of the Empire I will not challenge this protocol, for it has always been this way, but neither can I exist, as Imperator nor as Livia. How can I look at my friends who have been beaten, either when I wear the laurels or when I don’t, how can I look at them and not feel guilty? Because it is my fault. I was a girl of the people and now they try to treat me as their friend, not as an Imperator.

By the time you get this letter, I will be dead. I would encourage you to be the same.
My heart cannot stand the cruelty of our Empire.
“PLEASE! I GOTTA TALK TO HIM!” I pushed through the hospital doors as they tried to pull me away. I exerted a small amount of heat from my body, though with how adjusted I was to this power; it was just as hot as the summer heat. The medics instantly stayed away as I rush to his room. 

I had heard the stories of my brother. Of how he called upon the storms in the Middle East, of how dictators disappeared with a thunderclap, of how he liberated people and razed any kingdom that dared disregard human life. Some call him a hero, others called him a terrorist. I didn’t care. He was still my brother.

When I opened those doors and saw my brother, I nearly cried. The heart monitor busted open. Some smoke came from its charred remains. The IV drip was knocked onto the floor, its metal humming with electricity. And there, on the very bed, lay my brother. He writhed as I could see tiny sparks dance around his body. His hair was spiked up as I saw the static electricity travel through it. 

“What happened!?” I asked him. His eyes shifted to me and raised a hand. He tried to speak, but a bolt of lightning escaped his hand. I blocked it in time with a wall of fire. He spoke up, though at a rough and raspy voice.

“B-brother…” He said to me.

“Zack… Don’t worry, I’m here.” I told him. He grabbed my hand. My heat managed to stave off his static.

“Sammy… It’s my body… I can’t…” He tried to speak, but he began to cough. He spat out something onto the blanket. At first, I thought it was blood, but when I saw the blanket, I saw that it was a strange, blue fluid. “I… I needed more power…” He said.

“Huh?” I asked. Zack looked up and told me everything. I tried to listen through his raspy voice, tried to make out what he would say as he coughed, and this is what I got.

You see, Samuel, I had spent my time fighting the tyrants who had threatened the livelihoods of dozens. However, it was never enough. Escalation has always been a weakness to our kind. We were made in a time before the concept of splitting atoms was even considered for military use. As such, our power was only meant to combat regular people. Regular vehicles.

Then there’s escalation. Weapons became more deadly. Wars were now fought through digital transmissions. And every passing day, more and more innocent people are affected by the trauma of war. Just like us.

We needed to become stronger. We needed to become more powerful. Fortunately, I found a way. By absorbing the elements themselves, we could amplify our power… You remember when you defeated me? That was because you took in my elemental power. So, I did whatever was necessary. I flew into thunderclouds, I tazed myself on a regular basis, I even absorbed an entire generator full of electricity.

And it worked. You should have seen me, brother. I was able to control not just my own lightning, but also the thunder of everything else. I was able to move thunderclouds and use them like drones, I was able to shut down an entire power grid with the flick of my wrists, and I was able to make thunder dance like a Chinese dragon.

I. Was. God. However, it seemed that you can have too much of a good thing. My body wasn’t made to store all this power. It has begun destroying itself. I’m not sure if I’ll live another day.

When I had heard what he explained to me, I nearly cried. I had to find a way to fix this. 

“Maybe you can zap me. I can be a conduit and-”

“No… I don’t want to hand you my burden… I played with fire, and now I will get burned…” He said. I shook my head.

“No! There has to be another way!” I said. Just then, I saw the busted machines. I replayed the story in my head and realized what I had to do. I picked up my brother and flew out of the hospital. I busted a hole through the roof. I’d pay for damages, but right now I had a life to save.

I observed the area. I figured that if he was able to unload the electricity, he could offset the imbalance he had and lessen the burden. The problem was dumping him somewhere that wouldn’t hurt anyone else…

That’s when I saw it: a rain cloud. It didn’t have enough to become a thundercloud, but perhaps with Zack’s power…

I flew over to the cloud and once I was inside, I shouted: “ZAP THE CLOUD!”

Zack did just that. His body exploded into a burst of yellow and blue light as lightning bolts sprayed from every corner. My heart winced as I heard my elder brother let out an ear-piercing scream as all this happened. The lightning bolts entered the cloud and at the sound of thunder, I saw my brother was alright. I flew out of the cloud and to the ground. I set him down.

He looked to me. 

“I… can’t feel anything…” He said.

“Good. It must have worked then.” I said. He shook his head.

“No… I can’t… do it… anymore…” I looked to his arm as he tried to flick it. Nothing came, not even a tiny spark. 

“Don’t worry… The important thing is that you’re okay.” I said to him. He grabbed my hand tightly.

“No… I… I lost them… All of it… I… I needed my… power…” I can see him tear up. “Everyone… will be hurt if I don’t… have my powers…” He wept.

I took him up and brought him back to the hospital.

I later learned through study of old notes from a camp back in Germany that our bodies didn’t become generators for energy but rather vessels. Holding banks for such powers. We weren’t made to store so much power. Once we exhausted our power, that’s it. We’re done. We can always reload ourselves, but one look at my brother tells me that I shouldn’t give him that idea.

He had risked his life just to have more power than everyone else had. I don’t want him to continue risking his life for an addiction that he can’t cure with normal rehab and cold turkey tactics. I continually visit my brother in that bed every day, and he still felt miserable over what happened.

“Do you know how many people died to this one man’s firing squad over in Turkey?” He asked me at one point. “Dozens. If I had been there, they would have lived…”

“Zack… don’t worry. It’ll be fine.” I kept telling him since the time he got into the hospital.

“No. It won’t be.” And he kept responding with that every time I said that. I sighed and left, but I could feel my brother tug at my sleeve.

“If you find out anything about restoring my powers… You’ll let me know, right?” He asked. I smiled.

“Of course I will… But, you know what you told me… Sometimes there is such a thing as ‘too much of a good thing’.” With that, I left. When I left, I made a strong promise in my heart. 

I will never let my brother grab onto this burden again. Not for as long as I lived.
A cart drawn forth by a horse rolled over the dirt path. On either side were wheat fields and farmers worked hard to harvest their crops under the relentless sun. The man sitting in the seat of the cart raised his hand when he was greeted by one of them. The light brown hairs were covered by a straw hat and his attire showed the wear and tear of a frequent traveller. With one hand he held the reins to control the animal in front of him and he whistled a happy tune. With his free hand he took an apple from the bag and occasionally he bit a piece from it. 

While his parents had given him the name Oscar, he was frequently called Mappy by those who knew him. They did so, because that was what he did: he made maps. Even though most of the kingdom was already mapped out by royal cartographers in the past, there were still unexplored areas. Most of the area’s were simply too dangerous to venture in, but Oscar went in there anyway. Even as a child Oscar had shown a curious and adventurous nature by exploring the forest behind his village. 

One day, as an adult, he had ventured into a swamp where almost no-one ever returned from. Some said people disappeared because of the swamp spirits that lived there, others said the swamp was just a treacherous place and people drowned because they hadn’t paid attention. Regardless of the reason, hardly anyone ever went in there and from those who did only few had ever made it out. Oscar, curious as he was, wanted to know what it looked like. To avoid getting lost he drew his path on a piece of leather with a piece of chalk tailors used to make their clothes. He used something his uncle had invented to pinpoint his direction. It was a round piece of wood with an iron pin on top which could turn around and it pointed to the north every time. He wasn’t sure how his uncle had made it, but it certainly had been useful. Carefully he had ventured deeper into the area and he used a stick to avoid any sinkholes. Days he spent in there and people had already started to assume he had drowned when he finally came back. With a preliminary map of the place. 
In the weeks that followed he mapped the entire swamp, including the sinkholes and other dangerous locations and with that made it accessible for travellers. 
After this he was allowed to become one of the royal cartographers and he dedicated his career to the areas all other avoided. He enjoyed to venture into places that carried names as ‘cave’ or ‘swamp’ on the big maps and provide detailed maps of those areas.

Oscar enjoyed his years living as an adventurer, but there was a downside. He had barely seen his children grow up and one day he had come home to find his wife had left him. The neighbour informed him his wife wanted someone who would be there for her and not travel around all the time. It had hurt and up to this day he felt sorrow for that. Maybe he could have made things right with her, but then he would have to give up his travels and he couldn’t. His desire to explore those inaccessible places drove him to travel again and again. It was something he was praised for by the king and his colleagues. There were moments he felt the loneliness of this existence sting, but his maps really helped people. With his work people could travel in places without getting lost, places there were deemed dangerous before were accessible now. 

He stopped whistling when his thoughts returned to his wife and he thoughtfully chewed on the apple. If he’d turn around now and go back to her and promise her his travelling days were over, would she take him back? He knew she might. His daughter would get married soon, it was something he’d love to witness. Oscar glanced at the map next to him, his eyes moved to a green area which was known at the Witches Forest. It was a place where many got lost and several people had never returned from it. It was the place he wanted to explore next, he wanted to map it and prove the tales of witches feasting on human flesh were nothing more then myth. 

Doubt prevailed as Oscar looked at the map, should he go back or give in to his curiosity once more? It would be wise to stop, not only did he feel the need for someone in his life, he started to feel too old for it as well. Under his clothing numerous scars were the silent reminders that this life wasn’t easy. Some of the scars were left because he hadn’t been careful, others were left there by muggers. And while it was good weather now, that wasn’t always the case. He had almost died in the snow, he had almost drowned in the swamp. His joints ached when he travelled through the wind and rain. And still he travelled to the unexplored places. Sometimes it was hard to live this life, to be alone and to feel the physical toll on his body, but he felt he did much good with his work and that kept him going. Curiosity killed the cat his mother used to say. And a few times he had gotten close to that. Maybe it was time for an easier lifestyle and let someone else map the area’s. At the same time he longed to see those places himself. 
Go back or go further? 
After a moment of contemplating he decided for the latter. He promised himself it would be the last journey. After this one he would stop for good and settle down. For now he just wanted to go to that forest and discover it. He was already half-way after all and he couldn’t help but wonder what the forest would be like.

When Oscar finally reached the forest he got down from the cart, grabbed a leather bag and made his way to the forest. At the edge of it, he drew a cross on the bottom of the map to indicate the road leading up to the forest. He used the device from his uncle to pinpoint what direction he was facing and added the information in the top-left corner of the map. He put the device back in his bag and armed with the piece of leather and piece of chalk, he ventured into the forest.

As Oscar walked through the forest he drew every crossing he came across and he mentioned some landmark like ponds or peculiar trees. He wasn’t quite sure how long he had been walking here when he noticed how quiet the area had become. Normally a forest was filled with sounds, there were always birds singing, insects buzzing and the wind moved the branches and leaves of the trees. None of that was happening now, an eerie silence had filled the forest. Oscar looked around, instinctively he made a step back. A twig snapped under his foot, the sound of it seemed to echo between the trees and it made him cringe. When a female voice suddenly spoke his heart missed a beat and seemed to try and make up for that with beating faster then before.
“My, my, what have we here,” the voice said. “A traveller. We haven’t had those in a while.”
Oscar turned to see who it was and his jaw dropped when he was faced with an elegant young woman. Her skin seemed to resemble the bark of a tree and she had leaf-green hair running down her face like twigs from a willow tree. While the voice sounded like a female, her body showed no such signs.
“W-who are you?” Oscar stuttered.
“My, my, have you not heard of the mermaids of the forest?” she inquired curiously. “Oh, how is it that humans call us. Wood spirits? Nymphs? I have lost track of the names you people give us.”
“T-this place is called Witches Forest,” Oscar muttered.
“Oh, then we must be known as witches now. How peculiar. But it is of no concern.” Her voice started to gain a soft and luring melody. “You must be tired from your walk, traveller. Why don’t you rest with us for a while?” She beckoned him with a gesture of her slender finger. “Rest with us,” she cooed with that soft voice of hers. 
Oscar found himself stepping towards her. He barely noticed how more of these creatures walked towards him, all he really noticed was the one in front of him. 

The horse at the edge of the forest waited patiently for it’s owner to return, but he didn’t. Days went by without any word from Oscar. The days turned to weeks and into months, but Oscar was never seen again. People said to each other what a shame it was Oscar had disappeared in that forest. Some said it was only a matter of time before his unending curiosity would get the better of him. Maybe they were right. While a healthy dose of curiosity is a good trait to have, too much of anything is never good. After he had realized the price he paid for his lifestyle he should have made it right, but he hadn’t. And now it was too late.
This story was submitted by @mdk.

Michael Manderly was a thin man in his late thirties, with dark hair and sharp eyes. John noticed him from a long ways off, and guessed from his black cane that it could be no one else. He nodded to his pit crew and left them to their work, walking out across the strip and trying to rub the grease from his hands. He looked up, supposing that if this encounter was bound to come, this was as good a day for it as any. The Alabama sun was still climbing through clear skies, and the temperature with it. 

They shook hands on a grassy berm. “You’s looking good, mistah.”

Michael struggled a bit with his footing. His body was stiff but energetic, and he wore an infectious smile. “Well I been better,” he said lightly. “Not for a time though. Y’all got water?”

John nodded. He offered Michael a hand across the grass, and led him slowly towards the covered pit. He politely averted his eyes from the scars on Michael’s neck and face. “Might get us some weather later on.” He was trying to talk about anything else. “Should be good fer a few hours though.”

“Good, good,” Michael replied absently. His eyes were fixed on the end of the track, where a big-bodied Chrysler was lining up. They stopped long enough to watch it rip down the track, crossing the line at 14.7, to some fanfare from the very small crowd. “Faster’n hell, that is.” It was good to see Michael smile. 

“Yessuh,” John replied. “We’ll give ‘em a run though, just you wait.” They came into the pit, where a few men were adding fluids to a pair of Mustangs. One of the boys brought water and bowed a little as he handed it to Michael. “We takin’ good care of the ponies.”

Michael looked like a man lost at sea, who touches the shore for the first time in years. He picked up his cane and limped to the first car – a silver ’61 with white stripes. “I remember this girl,” he said in reverent tones. “Fifteen second quarter. Sang like an angel, too.”

“She still got it,” said John. “We keep her real nice for ya. Tommy there heard tell you was comin out, gave her a good rub.”

Michael produced a coin and flicked it towards the negro John pointed out. “That’s a good boy, Tommy. She’s gleamin’ some fierce.”

“She happy to see you.”

“Runnin alright?”

John chose his words carefully. “Ain’t none of us can hardly keep up with her. But she done sixteen last week. We need us a driver’s all. You’ll set her right.”

“Surely will,” Michael smiled. He ran his hand along the frame, and gazed for a long time at the engine, remembering another time. “Beautiful,” he said finally.

“Yessuh, she a looker alright. Still got the legs for runnin. She treat you right.”

Gradually Michael’s attention turned to the second car in the pit, the jet-black ‘65. It seemed to draw him in, and as soon as John noticed, he popped the hood open. Michael whistled. “That’s the one, ain’t it?”

“Yessuh, she’s the one.” The engine cavity had a profound effect on Michael. He steadied himself by leaning against the wheel well, and rubbed his stiff leg. “Somethin’ else, ain’t it?”

“That she is.” John noticed that Michael was spending a long time looking at the firewall and the fuel lines. He tested a few connections by hand, then, satisfied, stroked the big block engine. “She give you any trouble?”

“Heaps of trouble,” John said cautiously. “But we good now. Took the 427 right out cuz it was misbehavin’, an’ throwin’ problems on the shaft too. Bent two of them right up.”

“What’s she running now?”

“A 409, an’ a blower too, here.” He tapped the manifold sitting atop the engine.

“Blower on a 409?” Michael sounded incredulous. 

“Yessuh,” John said proudly. “Ain’t another like it in the south. Most folk, 409’s plenty, an 427’s overmuch. This’n’s special. She put all the others in place.”

“I believe she will,” Michael said. He held some reserve in his voice. John sensed it.

“She ain’t been a bother since we got that new block in her. Won’t be no trouble. A sure hand, that’s all she need.” He found his eyes wandering towards Michael’s scars and wrenched them away. “I could take her out, warm her up if you like.”

Michael thought about it, then straightened his back. “I trust you,” he said, sounding a bit more like the man John remembered. “Better warm me up though. Ain’t seen real horsepower for a spell.”

John laughed pleasantly. “Like ridin’ a bike, mistah. You’ll see you still got it. I see you.” 

His inspections complete, Michael offered his cane to one of the boys and hobbled towards the silver car. “Think I’ll take a few turns,” he said with youthful energy creeping into his voice and face.

“Get your bearings back, ah? You’ll see.” John made the necessary preparations. “Want I should get the other girl ready for yeh?”

Michael nodded. “Gonna see if I can take her down to thirteen,” he said boldly. John’s eyes popped, then he nodded with excitement. “First gotta see that I can still drive it though,” Michael laughed. 

“You take your time now,” John said, shutting the driver’s door. “We’ll have her ready.”

They kept working on the black mustang while Michael took the silver on a few laps. John couldn’t help but watch him race. It was a mixture of curiosity and protectiveness guiding him. He was concerned for both the car and the driver – Michael after all had been down for quite some time. The first few lap times reflected as much. His first quarter mile was a frustrating 18 seconds of missed shifts and high revs, high enough that John rushed out with a bucket to cool the engine, and some words of encouragement. Michael said his leg wasn’t cooperating with the clutch, but he’d get it, and John agreed. A few laps later, he was down into low 16s, and there he stayed for about an hour. Finally he brought the hot car back into the pit, stopping just outside the shade. A few of the boys ran out to push the car into place by hand, and set to work on it immediately.

“That’ll take a man back,” Michael said, panting. He was sweating profusely from the heat and the work. John found him a chair and a cup. 

“You lookin real fast,” John said. He was exaggerating only a little – Michael was clearly past his prime, and certainly wouldn’t be satisfied with a 16-second quarter, but regardless of the times, he seemed more than ever like himself when he was throttling down the track. There were only a few spectators, most of them mechanics or drivers themselves, and all of them had recognized that same spark in Michael’s demeanor.

“As you say, John. Riding a bike.” He took a few minutes to collect himself, while John and the boys saw to the silver car. After a while, Michael was up again. He placed a tentative hand on the hood of their supercharged black mustang.

John hesitated. “We can have the silver ready in a spell,” he offered meekly. In truth, he wasn’t sure if Michael was ready for the new ride. Michael didn’t seem certain either, but he shook his head and dropped himself into the seat. “You take it easy first, now,” John warned. “You ride a lot of mustangs afore, none of ‘em kick like this girl here though, believe that.”

Michael nodded. His face was pale and fresh beads of sweat were forming on his brow, but he set his teeth and cranked on the engine. It growled, deep and powerful, more like a churning locomotive than a car. He goosed the throttle in neutral a few times and felt the power rumbling through the frame. “Easy,” he said.

“Try a lap or two in first,” John suggested, speaking loudly to be heard over the engine noise. “See how she handle it.” 

Michael nodded, and put the car in gear. It jumped out of the pit and nearly stalled as he backed off the throttle, then gently eased forwards and paced calmly up and down the track. John told the boys to keep working on the silver, guessing from Michael’s expression that the supercharged engine was too hot to handle. But after six or seven easy laps, he rolled back to the pit with a firm expression, and kept the engine running. “She’s ready,” he said, cracking the door open. His safety belt was tight across his waist, and his knuckles white on the wheel.

John nodded, frowning. “She be ready in a week too. Ain’t no need to rush, she get you there.” 

Michael looked strange. It was as if he wanted to kill the engine, but couldn’t. He shook his head, but couldn’t clear his mind. “She’s ready,” he said again. He closed the door and revved the engine again. Then, with the spark creeping back into his eyes, held up his fingers, one, three. John went cold. 

Work stopped when the supercharged black Mustang took its position. Michael was slow off the line on his first attempt, but dropped the hammer in third gear and screamed down the hot track. John’s clock showed 15 and a quarter, and the track’s clock just a little under that. Michael came around for another try. This time he started slow again, but got on the throttle sooner, and both clocks showed 14.5.

“He gonna do it?” asked one of the pit boys. “Thirteen. He gonna make it?”

John didn’t answer. By now all eyes were on the hot black mustang. Not only John’s pit – everyone recognized the throaty roar, and all wanted to see the old driver and his new engine break thirteen seconds. A few other racers made way and stepped out of their cars to watch as Michael lined up for his third drag. There were scattered cheers and applause. John was silent. 

The flag came down, and Michael threw the throttle wide open. The Mustang tore off the line, its roar accompanied by joyful shouts from all around. It climbed into second gear in no time flat, setting a blinding pace. John could feel his heart beating. Third gear. More throttle. John heard himself begging Michael to ease off, but couldn’t remember saying it. The front of the car began to shudder, but there was no holding back. He threw it into fourth. Three hundred feet from the finish line, catastrophe struck. The engine was wide open, throwing reckless power into the rear axle, and as it gained speed the front end began to lift into the air. Michael should have stomped on the clutch to bring it back down, but it never happened. The car raised its head like a rearing stallion, caught the wind, and flew up into the air. John was running. The black Mustang crashed down on its side, and tumbled end over end, throwing up smoke and dirt and soot and flames. 

John was running, already halfway there when it came to rest upside-down in the grass. Thick black smoke rolled off the wreck, smelling of oil and flesh. It was completely engulfed in flame by the time John reached the driver’s door, but he threw himself at it anyway, trying in vain to pry it open and burning his hands. The cabin was sealed shut, the hinges warped and immobile. No sound came from inside. Men threw water on the wreckage, trying to kill the fire, while the rest of the pit boys wrestled John away from the crash and held him down. He was sobbing. 

Half an hour passed. They killed the flames, and an ambulance arrived to help the other drivers work. They couldn’t manage the door, but someone fetched a jack to raise the front end. Once that was done they were able to crawl underneath the hood and pull Michael out through the broken windshield. Someone was wrapping up John’s hands, but he made them stop so he could check on Michael. By some miracle, he was alive – breathing, but unconscious, and covered in blood, glass, and char. Tommy, one of the pit boys, held his hand as they loaded him into the ambulance.

“You done it,” he kept saying, “thirteen flat, you done it,” with tears in his eyes.

John placed a bandaged hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Ain’t doin’ him no good, lyin’,” he said. Then he sank to his knees. As the ambulance rushed away, Tommy insisted he’d seen him cross the line at thirteen, and one by one, the other drivers agreed. John wept, and muttered again, “Ain’t doin’ him no good.” Then they loaded him into a second ambulance, and took him away as the sun began to come down.
This entry was submitted by @Flagg.

Part One

The shattered moon hung low in the sky, its smoldering core lending to the night a dull red tinge, illuminating faintly what was left of High Sepulchrave, whose ruined spires and cracked domes crowded the dim horizon like a line of broken fangs.

Arctos watched the night sky, as was his custom, tracing its spiraling constellations with his gaze, and tried to imagine what it was like when the moon was still whole.

“It was pale,” said the wizard, who was looking neither at the sky nor at Arctos, but at the blade he was methodically sharpening, an elegant southern scimitar of Tripantese make, “So bright it obscured the stars some nights. With a tele-lens, you could see rivers and forests across its face. The Lady's Garden they called it. Quite beautiful.”

Arctos glanced at his companion and snorted. He was used to the southron's uncanny way of answering questions that hadn’t been asked. But the moon had been broken two centuries ago.

“Read that in one of your books?” he asked the wizard.

The other man shrugged and shook his head and continued with his sharpening. Arctos snorted again and patted his vest, searching for his flask.  Drinking wasn't his first choice- he was more a fan of the tarric root, but smoking at night in the Plague Lands was a quick way to attract unwanted attention. So Dalean brandy would have to do.

He took a sip, washing the liquor over his gums and relishing the spreading numbness. It burned deliciously going down.

“Drink?” he said, offering the flask. The other man took it with a nod.

“I need to take a watch tonight?” Arctos asked. Some nights the wizard slept, most nights he didn’t. 

“No.”

“I'm to sleep, then.” Arctos said, shooting a glance at the black silhouette of High Sepulchrave, looming in the middle distance. The Silent City, they called it now. He’d been born in there, spent his boyhood an orphan living in its narrow lanes and crooked alleys before being dragooned into the Legion to fight in the Emperor’s wars. 

He’d been back once since the Dream Plague overtook the Imperium and left its lands a haunted waste. Looking for easy loot with a band of other ex-soldiers. Thirteen had gone in, four’d come out alive. Three had come out sane. He’d sworn he’d never go back so long as he lived. The things he’d seen were bad enough. Temples rebuilt, but not to Justinian. The rats, swollen and twisted. The children, if that’s what they were, living among the charred ruins, leering out from behind doorways and piles of stone. Worse though were the things he hadn’t seen… but had felt were there, just out of sight. Waiting. Gestating. 

But the southron wizard had needed a guide, and his pay was very good indeed. And by all the Holy Laws of Sacrosanctum, Arctos needed the money.

In the distance, a woman screamed. 

His hand dropped to his sword belt on instinct, as it did every time he heard the Afflicted, but this one wasn’t close. Probably. Sound sometimes traveled weirdly in the Plague Lands. 

The wizard looked up from his sword, and Arctos’ stomach twisted slightly as he detected a trace of unease in the other man’s usually inscrutable face.

“Go to sleep,” the southron said, “We’ll need to be quick tomorrow.”

“Aye. Let’s hope this book you’re after is worth it. And easy to find.”

“Let’s hope.”

Arctos lay down on his bedroll and closed his eyes, trying to focus on the rhythmic, comforting grind of stone against steel as his companion worked on his blade. After a time, he fell into a fitful slumber, trying not to dream of the children he had glimpsed the last time he’d entered the Silent City. Of their soft laughter, and rows of needle teeth.

Part Two

From Wisdom comes Power. From Power comes Right.
From the Twenty Seven Hidden Precepts, Drathan Holy Text

-

The caravan crawled across the desert, by night a line of plodding gan-lizards and men on foot, beast and man alike burdened with supplies, their trudging column illumined by the the pale glare of the indifferent stars. By day they formed a small circles of tents, huddled against the merciless sun and the blowing black sands.

Even the Nuvidians avoided these waterless, shelterless badlands, home to scorpion ants and angry spirits. Yun Es, they called this place, and theirs was the only tongue in which it even had a name. Translated roughly it meant something like "the haunted sands", though haunted does not carry the connotations of hunger and greed present in the Nuvidian words.

The party traveling through these wastes knew what the desert men called it, and knew what lurked here.  

In fact, they sought it out.

It was no rare thing for a Drathan master to have dealings with the red gods. Though most followed the Hidden Paths of Yuwan and did not worship the many spirits that wandered the world, neither did they despise them or their boons. The mage-lords considered themselves superior to other beings, corporeal or not, and the greatest of their number rivaled even the mightiest red spirits in power and Art. Rare was the southron wizard, therefore, that paid such creatures homage in place of Yuwan and the Old Gods. 

Ulthaur daz Nagath was one such rarity, Drathan master and devotee of the Red Pantheon both. It was not for lack of skill that he worshiped the earthly spirits; among the Congress of Masters few were his superior in magical talent. House Nagath- rulers since time out of mind of the great slaver port of Tripantos- had worshipped the red gods for centuries, perhaps millennia if the old lineages be true. Their reasons were obscure, save perhaps to themselves and the dark spirits they honored.

Nagath rode at the head of the caravan, atop the gnarled back of an ancient gan. Powerfully built, with thick arms and a broad chest, he was clad in simple linens, in the style of the nomadic desert chieftains, the white raiment stark against his dark skin. His eyes glittered in the starlight as they wandered over the trackless black desert, seeking out signs invisible to others.

Just behind him rode another figure, more slender than he, with features obscured by hooded robes.

"Air's changed," the robed figure said. A woman. Her voice was quiet and cold.

"Soon now," Nagath said, white teeth flashing in the gloom, "He's close."

His gan-lizard snorted, pawing at the dark sand. 

The caravan slowed as animals grew nervous.

The woman held up a hand, signaling a halt. 

In the distance, some vague shape interrupted the shadowy outlines of dunes.

"You and I will go from here," said Nagath, "Have your men bring the offering."

The pair proceeded, leaving the caravan behind, followed by two of the woman's guard. They traveled in silence, moving by foot when the gan-lizards refused to go any farther, the  guards carrying a small chest between them.

The hot of the desert night cooled rapidly, and the air took on a dank, rotten smell like overripe fruit. 

Softly, the wizard Nagath began intoning the ancient litanies of his House, and something in the woman's crate rattled in sympathy with his prayers.

The distant shape grew clearer: a ruined tower of scorched stone, or rather, the very top of one. The highest spire of an ancient city, now buried beneath the sands.

"Here." said Nagath, stopping some ways before the tower, "Bring forth the offering."

The two guards came forward, setting the box at Nagath's feet. He smiled, opening it. A Voian serpent sat coiled inside, fangs bared and hissing. The wizard scooped it up easily in one hand, holding it just behind its arrow-shaped head.

"What does it do with the snake?" asked the woman, and the wizard chuckled.

"Nothing," he said.

He threw the serpent at one of the the guards, and the man screamed as the snake coiled around his neck, striking his face repeatedly. The other guard reached for his sword, but Nagath was faster, grabbing him by the head and twisting, hard. There was a loud pop, and the guard collapsed.

The woman took a half step back, hood falling from her head. 

She was astoundingly beautiful, raven hair and pale skin, tattooed after the Drathan fashion in intricate, curling lettering.

"What is this?" she said, eyeing the wizard, "Even here, you think you could best me?"

Her voice remained quiet, betraying some annoyance but no fear.

Nagath shook his head, "I am not so foolish as to challenge you in the High Art, Archmagistra, nor do I covet your title. Your guard, not the snake, was the needful offering. One poisoned, one broken, neither suspecting. That is what He demands."

The guard struck by the serpent was on his side in the sand, groaning softly, face blackened and swelling, the snake winding its way down his arm.

"We could have brought slaves for this." said the woman, frowning, "A waste of-"

"No." said the poisoned guard. The woman turned towards him, raising an eyebrow. He was grinning.

"No...the surprise is delicious." The guard's eyes rolled back in his head, and his smile widened into a twisted leer as he stood.

Nagath fell to his knees, muttering prayers, but the woman remained standing.

"You know why we are here," she said simply.

The Poisoned Man touched Nagath gently on the brow. The wizard jerked and shuddered.

"You do not pay obeisance like this one, Kai daz Syfo," the no-longer-a-guard said, "Are you above such things? Or do you save your worship for the mute heavens? That broken rock so beloved of your Augurs?"

"Most Drathans do not kneel so easily," the woman said, looking at Nagath with distaste, "But I am not here to discuss piety."

"No," said the Poisoned Man, "You are here to discuss the Plague. Could you not find answers in your libraries? Are the stars silent to your inquiries?"

Archmagistra daz Syfo said nothing.

The Poisoned Man made a gurgle that might have been a laugh. Blood bubbled between his teeth and dripped down his chin. "You have journeyed far and given me choice gifts. I am compelled to reward you... One of my brothers, the Dweller Under the Mountain, knows of this plague. He knows what is missing from your libraries. He can tell you what your augurs and scrying will not reveal, and what the pretender Justinian only suspects. I doubt he will part with such information easily, however, and his followers protect him most jealously."

The poisoned man paused, bloodshot eyes looking down at Nagath. He pondered something a moment, then continued.

"There is also a book- The Dialogues of Alhazred. I do not know what is in it, nor do I wish to. But one of your number is already seeking it."

"One of my number?" asked the woman.

"Gabul."

"The Wanderer? He is alive?"

"Yes, in the plaguelands. Seeking the same answers you would have of me."

daz Syfo stepped towards the Poisoned Man, drawing close to him. 

"What is the plague?" she whispered, her quiet voice trembling ever so slightly. "How can it be beyond all our Art and power?"

The Poisoned Man stepped back, blood dribbling from his nose and eyes, "I have rewarded your gifts with knowledge, this compact is finish-"

"You're afraid of it too." Syfo said, "That's why you don't know more. You're frightened and you've shut your eyes. What is it that scares you?"

The poisoned man shambled away from the woman, over to the prone corpse of the other guard. Slowly, he began dragging the body towards the tower.

Nagath stood, shakily. He was sweating, eyes unfocused.

"What frightens you?!" called Syfo after the poisoned man, but he did not answer.

"We should go, now." said Nagath, watching the poisoned man drag the body into the tower, "Now, Archmagistra."

She nodded, and the pair turned away, trudging through the black sand towards the caravan awaiting them in the distance. 

Behind them, carried on the warming breeze, could be heard the sound of cracking bones and of something big slurping and sucking as it fed, and the faint mewling of a long hunger temporarily sated.

- Part 3 -

Read no further, child 

Dream gently in your cradle of ignorance. 

Eat, drink, make merry- and shut your eyes. Seek not after wisdom.

What happiness there is belongs to the fool.

...

True understanding is horror.

Preface to the Dialogues of Alhazred

-

They crept over the upturned cobbles and charred skeletons that littered Septimus Way, careful to make no sound, the blackened remains of row houses leaning over them like mourners over an open grave.

Arctos went first, eyes flickering between the path ahead and the road at his feet. Though not usually one for piety, he recited prayers under his breath to Justinian and his Champions, the simple litanies the Clerisy had been drilled into him in the Legion. The wizard followed, eyes shut, head cocked as though listening for something. His feet picked their own way through the detritus without disturbing so much as a broken shingle.

In the distance, the domes of Dormire Palace rose unblemished above the shambles of the city, white marble and gilt bronze shining in the early dawn, ragged standards shifting in the faint morning breeze. Just beneath those towering walls, Arctos knew, was the Imperial Library, and- Justinian willing- the book the wizard was after.

The pair came to a narrow divide in the road, blocked by an overturned cart and its spilled load of vegetables- long dried to husks, but never touched. The skulls of draft horses grinned silently amid the jumble of mummified gourds and pumpkins. 

The remains of an Imperial Centurion hung over the side of the cart, frozen mid-clamber, a broken pitchfork protruding from rusted armor.

Arctos turned to the wizard, who scowled and shrugged. Muttering something about useless southrons, Arctos edged forward, careful to step on nothing but old produce as he tried to edge between the wall of the nearest row house and rear of the ruined cart. 

The wizard grabbed his arm and pulled him back. He barely suppressed a scream.

Arctos turned, opening his mouth to ask what was wrong, but the wizard shook his head, holding his finger to his lips. With a jerk of his head, he indicated the far side of the cart. Arctos looked.

He hadn't noticed them before, amid the general ruin. 

Four children standing noiselessly just beyond the overturned cart. Three were wrapped in rags, one was naked. They were all smiling at him, their black eyes twinkling.

Arctos groaned very quietly as his insides turned to ice. He reached for his sword, but the wizard stopped him.

"We'll take another road," the southron whispered, "Another way."

One of the children, if that's what they were, tittered. Another waved at them and licked his small, sharp teeth.

- Part 4 -

The wizard and Arctos emerged from the shadowed gloom of a narrow alley, blinking into the sunlight of Victory Square.

In front of them, the white walls of Dormire Palace rose straight and unblemished from the tangle of ruins at their base, like cliffs rising from waste pit. 

They had encountered no more child-things on their way, and had only once caught sight of an Afflicted- an old woman, naked, with eye-aching scars and sigils etched into her graying flesh. She had been wandering the remains of a row house, muttering and weeping and scratching at her sores. She glanced up at the pair of travelers as they had passed, but made no move to follow them. Her eyes had been gouged and her lips chewed away, giving her an endless, gruesome grin.

Arctos shook his head, trying to rid himself of the image and clear his mind for the task at hand.

The Imperial Library sat at the far side of Victory Square, a large rectangular building of grey-white stone little damaged by the firestorms that had ravaged the rest of the city. Its great bronze doors hung crooked from their hinges, framing the darkness of the interior like jaws. 

The wizard drew his sword and took the lead, striding quickly across the empty square past dead fountains filled with standing water, brown and stagnant, and the broken statues of Justinian's Great Companions. 

Lord Septimus, Ucario the Southron, Agatha Warrior-Queen, Artys of the Ashlands. Great leaders of men, warriors and saints. Empowered by the blessing of their earthly god, they had swept across Avara with fire and steel, laying waste to the devil worshippers of the heartlands and fending off the hordes of vile moonlanders and sorcerers from the South. Now their likenesses lay scorched and shattered in the ruins of the city they had built in honor of their god. Nothing more than silent, still witnesses to a Drathan wizard's mad errand.

Arctos followed the southron, one hand on the pommel of his own weapon. The blackness of the library's interior yawned before him, and he and the southron paused at the entrance.

Inside, little could be made out in the gloom. Dust motes danced on shafts of light poking in from the doorway and from sloppily boarded windows. Books lay everywhere; books and scrolls, loose sheaves of paper and...bodies. 

The wizard went first, scimitar held loosely in his hand. Arctos followed.

The pair stalked through the shambles of the lobby, once-proud banners rotting on the walls, and into the shadowy confines of the stacks, reeking of dust and mildewed paper. What light there was came from the wizard's sword, which did not glow, exactly, but did seem to reflect back the low ambient light more brightly.

"How do you know where it is?" Arctos murmured. 

"It whispers," said the wizard, giving no further explanation.

They walked in silence, sliding between shelves piled high with codices and scrolls, slipping on torn pages and rotted parchment.

Slowly, Arctos realized that he could hear something. A distant insectile buzzing or chittering. His sword hand tightened on the pommel of his weapon. 

The wizard paused between shelves, and Arctos could see by the pale light of his sword that he was frowning.

"Somethings-" the southron began, and the stack of books in front of him overturned, sending both men stumbling backwards in a shower of books and dust.

The buzzing suddenly became deafening. The wizard held up his sword and Arctos caught a glimpse of something huge in the darkness, something with too many eyes, all black.

"Don't look at it!" shouted the southron, and his sword flashed a brilliant white, practically blinding Arctos, who was fumbling backwards on hands and knees in a panic. There was an noise like a cannon firing, and another brilliant flash of white. Arctos could make out a great shadow rearing in the gloom of the library, something with dripping mouth parts and too many legs. Great heroes of men...the size of it...

The wizard was shouting something in a foreign tongue at the top of his lungs, what Arctos dimly realized was a spell. He could see blood and teeth pouring like vomit from the southron's mouth as he shouted. There was another ear-shattering bang and Arctos' world went dark.

- 

When he came too he was already running, the wizard's hand latched to his upper arm, pushing him forward.

"OUT! GET OUT!" the southron shouted. 

Arctos ran, glancing sidelong at his companion. He'd lost his scimitar, but had a heavy book clutched under one arm. He was covered in his own blood, which poured from his nose and eyes and the corners of his mouth, and dribbled stickily down his chin.

The entrance to the library was a square of daylight in the black, and Arctos made for it will all his power, feet sliding on books and the dried husks of old corpses. Behind him, the Thing chittered  and clicked and buzzed, it sounded- it sounded almost playful. He could feel it gaining on them.

They burst out into the daylight of Victory Square and kept running, and it took them a moment to realize they were surrounded by the children.

Hundreds of them, filling the ruined windows and doorways of the buildings around the Square, all of them smiling, all of them facing the Library.

The wizard urged him on and Arctos kept running- drawing his sword for the first time in this nightmare.

The children began to chant, something in Old Somnian that Arctos could only half understand, something about milk and love and tender kisses.

They sprinted through a clutch of children at the edge of the Square. They giggled and grasped at them as they ran by, but made no real effort to stop them. All of their attention seemed fixed on the Library...or what was emerging from it. 

There was a loud crash, what Arctos assumed was the front of the Library collapsing as whatever they had found within it emerged. He glanced back, curiosity mastering his fear, and caught a glimpse of  great, segmented legs unfolding from the ruined shell of the building, like a spider emerging from its hole, and vast shimmering (wings?)

The wizard hit him, hard, and Arctos spun around, sword clattering to the ground.

"Get up and run," hissed the southron, helping him regain his balance. He was ghost white and his voice shook, "And don't you dare fucking look back."

Part Five

They sat by the edge of a stream, catching their breath. The wizard was shaking as he washed the blood from his mouth and hands. Arctos was propped against a tree, eyes half closed, sword clutched in a death grip across his lap.

Between them on the grass lay the Book. Thick, black and old. Leather bound and held closed by a thick buckle and small iron lock.

Arctos didn't look at it. He watched his companion and wondered if the man was dying.

"What-" Arctos began.

"Don't speak of it."

"They were singing, the children were singing. Did you-"

"A hymn. They were singing to their mother."

Arctos shuddered.

"Your flask," said the wizard, and Arctos offered it. The other man downed it in a single gulp, and that seemed to steady him a bit. "We need to get out of here, make for the south."

"Aye," Arctos said, staggering to his feet. He was tired, more tired than he had ever been. But strangely elated. He could not believe he was still alive.

"We should be dead," said the wizard, nodding as he scooped up his Book, "We should be dead or worse. But I am very skilled in the Art. That alone saved us."

The two men shouldered their packs and began the long journey South, out of the Plaguelands and away from the Silent City and whatever lived there.

"What's in the book?" Arctos asked.

"Answers," said the wizard, "I hope."
This entry was submitted by @Dark Wind.

Merkel had it, and it was incredible. 

He spent years in his homeland where everything was comfortable and normal. Never moving. The sameness rolled by his sight in a never-ending wave of gray reality. There had to be more to his existence than helping at his Father’s shop. More to life than aiding his Mother with dull simplistic tasks. “Pick up the leaves in the yard, Mark.” And it never ended there. “Feed the dog, clean the dishes, you should try waking up earlier everyday. Did you look for a job at all?” All of it was maddening. Enough for Merkel—that’s what he preferred to be called now rather than Mark—to drown in his own mind with silent screams.

Schooling was a unique bubble away from the world. The only things to worry about were grades, girls, and friends. Sometime sports and clubs. All too easy to get lost in the wilderness of that fairy tale land where a high grade unearned was enough to make one feel like they were on top of the world. The peak of Merkel’s life resided in that moment as he marched in line with his fellow friends and received that piece of parchment. Smiling faces of friends and family in the crowd. 

But that was his last smile. Even his girlfriend couldn’t stay his blues. Kira was her name. Or was it Kylie? He remembered her screaming at him that her name was Kylie. All that mattered was Mother and Father approved of her. Sweet little thing. Kind, gentle and a bit shy. Never one to be excessively daring. He once loved her, but now spending time with her was a dreadful idea. 

But then he had it, and it was incredible.

A metallic ship appeared in his homeland, dropping off a new girl. Oh Celes, the sweet escape of his life. And her friend Jolin who helped along the way. Celes was a sorceress, a witch. Messy hair and ink on her skin in unfamiliar languages. Smoke often escaped her lips in clouds. The words imprinted on her beckoned him. As though they promised him adventure. So he came and listened to her sweet, cooing voice. Beautiful poison indeed.

Lured away with her charm. Rough, blunt language that sounded like his but so different. And Jolin with his bold spirit. He followed them away wherever they went. Late nights away from his homeland on that metallic ship. Rolling past the black, starlit sky. Shimmering moon that he’d soon know more well than the bright sun of day. 

His first journey away from home began simple. Merkel watched Celes longingly while Jolin kept his eyes forward on the path ahead. 

“Don’t gotta be so tense with me, boy.” 

“You’re just very pretty.”

“Bold. I like you. But you don’t know what beautiful is yet. Here, take this.”

Merkel took the item she handed to him. It transported him after he tried it. The world seemed to ebb and flow. He traveled on a bed of clouds to the land of electric tingle. When he came to a soft pleasant stop, he saw Jolin and Celes were with him riding upon clouds of their own. There was no pain here. Worries of yesterday died away. Physical stress evaporated in the seemingly nonstop massage. The land of smooth waves was what it was. 

He chuckled. Jolin did too, and so did Celes. For what reason, he didn’t know. Something was incomprehensibly funny. Soon the laughter died out and the music within the ship consumed them. Rippling over their skin in successive trembles. Drowning them in a sea of feeling. Was this what it was like to escape? 

“What do you want, Mark?”

Merkel looked at Celes and tried to grasp for an answer.

“None of that I want to be happy stuff. What do you really want?”

Merkel didn’t know. He shrugged.

“Yeah, me and Joe here don’t know either.”

“Fuck that Stephanie, I know exactly what I want.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I want to live.”

Merkel saw Jolin and he understood. 

“Do you want to live, Mark?”

“Yeah...” And suddenly Merkel found the words. Always there but buried deep underneath the layers of life that confused him from his true path.

“But to live we need to shed the weight of our pasts. Everything we were taught that was good or bad because all of it came from bigoted, ingrained thoughts of our parents and other authority figures who are looking out for their own interests, still living within the confines of the cells that society established for them. To live we need to escape them.”

“Word.” Jolin broke in.

Celes giggled. “That was deep, how do we do that?”

“First we change our names. I’m not Mark anymore. Call me Merkel. You’re Jolin, and you’re Celes.”

“Jolin huh? I dig it.”

“Celes is pretty.”

“I told you you were.”

Celes smiled. They held hands. 

Hand in hand the two traveled to new lands together with their pilot on course for better and brighter things. A future of living.

Weeks in the land of smooth waves and soon a new escape was needed. Mother and Father were on him. Asking constant strings of questions. The same questions over and over. On a loop.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Mother spoke.

“I’m taking a journey.”

“Journey? To where?”

“Anywhere.”

“Mark, come back here.”

“Call me Merkel.”

“What?”

Merkel left. 

He climbed aboard the metallic ship. Smiled to Celes and brushed his lips against hers. Jolin took them away to a new place. A wooden castle, grand enough for the three companions to rest.

Jolin brought the music. Sea of tunes around them. Smoke of the clouds in the air. Celes showed something to Merkel. It looked round. White.

“What is it?”

“Eat it.”

He did. 

Merkel fell back into a bubble of happiness. Felt right. Felt good. All was in its proper place. And the music. The music came alive. Mother and Father would never understand. Neither would Kira. In this new world where the sounds spoke to his very soul. Vibrating. 

When did his hands get sweaty? He wiped them. Jolin created three straight walls of snow. The three companions made the white dust disappear. Good became great. A land of life and energy. Walls seemed to bounce from the music.

“Let’s hit it.”

Merkel and Celes followed Jolin to the metallic ship.

Merkel couldn’t remember much of what happened. Swarm of people. Lights flashing everywhere. Night fading away into a locked naked embrace with Celes. 

He woke up in his clothes. Mother cried. Father yelled.

This happened often. Every week.

Kira slapped him one day.

“What the fuck, Kira?”

“It’s Kylie! Who is Kira?” 

She’d never know. Never understand. Merkel went for the door.

“No, you’re not leaving. You’re not going with that bitch!”

Merkel shoved her out of the way, she fought with him. He hit her. He looked at his hand in horror. Tears flowed from Kira.

Merkel ran into the darkness. Had to get away and return to the lands of life, energy and bright sun.

All changed for the better. Jolin found the greatest of the greatest treasures. Three for the three companions. Listen to Jolin’s instructions. Tapped their arms. They looked at the potion. The orange glow chanted their names. Whispered sweet bliss into their ears and danced before their eyes. 

The three companions stuck it in.

World floated away. Merkel was above everything with his queen Celes. God and Goddess transcendent to a higher plane. Gave their thanks to the master of everything that Jolin was. The maker of journeys.

Days, weeks, months. Years? Time drifted on by in the otherworld. Mother and Father always tried to claw their way in. Merkel would not allow it. With Celes on a journey was where he belonged. Warm and safe. Or so he believed. Kira left a while ago. A storm of tears and begging pleas. Merkel did not listen. Simple words meant nothing here. 

Missed an event. Celebration of Father’s birth? Festival of snow and colored lights? Merkel knew not which. Mother and Father still tried. 

Unreachable. Until a funny thing happened on his quest. The cloud he rested upon lowered every time. Merkel thought it’d get higher. No. Only lower. Couldn’t remember the last day he didn’t journey to the otherworld. 

One day Jolin dropped. Fell off the cloud in a fit. Drifted still on the cold hard surface of mortality. Icy body. Merkel and Celes shared confused terror. Jolin went into the ground.

Merkel consoled Celes in passionate embrace. Rolled amongst the sky. Couldn’t see it was only a messy bed.

Soon Celes showed less often. Merkel sought her out. Tried to enter her wooden castle but was met with her captors. Her own mother and father.  Met her out back. Showed her the dancing orange potion. Celes said no. Merkel said yes. Celes said no.

Merkel found the darkness. Celes screamed.

Merkel stepped back. Looked at her. Stepped away in disgust, hate eating from within.

He traveled through the weighted, gray streets of hard sameness. Merkel didn’t belong here. Didn’t belong here. Didn’t belong. Didn’t. 

Back home. Mother and Father saw it. He tried to stick it in. Father stopped Merkel. 

“Let me go! Let go of me!”

“Mark, stop it!”

“My name is Merkel!”

“You’re not Merkel. You’re Mark. You belong here.” You belong here is what they said. He didn’t feel like it was so. They denied the journey. There was no land of smooth waves. No land of life and energy. 

We love you, they said. He couldn’t feel it. Maybe he did. Merkel didn’t know anymore.

Sent away. New faces in an unfamiliar place. Only water and food and walls. No journeys. Just sitting. Merkel twitched often. Needed to get out. Too cold. Much too cold. Felt as though he was buried under ice. Shivering the night and days away. He sweat. What was this place that was in eternal winter?

But it wasn’t just winter. Fire burned under his skin. Merkel scratched at himself. He screamed. Yelled. Curled up into himself on the floor within a bubble of missed chances and lost opportunities. Fires blazed around him. Too hot. Needed to shed his clothes. Shed his clothes.

This had to be Hell. Mother and Father put him here. They were his only guests. Never amounted to much. Merkel had nothing to say. 

Unexpected guest today. Celes.

“Please… It’s Stephanie.”

“But.”

“No.”

“We had so much fun. Went through so much and saw everything together.”

“We did. But not the right things.”

“Why are you saying this?”

“It’s true.”

“Hm.”

“You can beat this. I know how hard it is. It still is for me. If anyone can make it. You can.”

“Sure.”

Stephanie hugged him. Mark hugged back.

He didn’t know whether he’d see Stephanie ever again. 

The cold winter and burning hell seemed to dull. Day by day. The burning burning burning faded. 

Mark looked outside the window. The shadow of Merkel on the wall. He glanced behind him, then back outside. Golden rays of sun on green grass.

Mark might belong here. Might belong here. Belong here. Belong.
"I think, therefor I am."

Hefting his chest high to breathe in as great a breath as he could muster, Émile looked up to the sky and—cringed, blinded by the sun. That was a dumb idea.

The day was bright and the birds dapper as ever; all-in-all, he was feeling good. Glancing down at the small notebook he held in his palm, he quickly re-read what he'd written earlier—scrawled messily across the paper were the words he had carefully selected for his great reveal.

Alas, he had not needed them.

Ripping out the page and crumpling it neatly into his pocket, Émile strode confidently across the campus towards the café, where his date was no doubt waiting.

It was a small place, tight but comfy with large open windows and a splattering of chairs and sofas across the common area. Seated directly in the sunlight, at the very center of attention, was Julie-Lou, nursing a cup of hot chocolate. She seemed almost worried to him; not anxious, but perhaps a little apprehensive. He had to remind himself that despite her past bravado, this was a new experience for the both of them. Just gotta ease into it.

Émile slid in beside her on the sofa, startling her for a moment, but she relaxed upon realizing it was him. "Hey," she muttered softly.

"Hey." The two of them were close in their childhood, but he had been sent away to a foster home after his family suffered a fatal car accident. Only recently had the two of them been reunited at college.

There was some serious catching up to do, and frankly, Émile didn't have a clue how to go about it.

"So..." he started, hesitantly. "You're looking good."

"Wow, is that really the first thing you're gonna say to me?"

"Oh, because you've got something better to say."

Julie grinned, darting her eyes away. "Undoubtedly." She took a sip from her cup. "Now that you're back in town, where are you staying? Find your own place?"

"Aye, I'm renting an apartment by the train tracks. Nothing fancy, but—"

"—But you prefer being out in the crowd then stashed out alone anyways, right?"

He paused for a moment. "Yeah."

She sighed. "I'm glad you haven't changed. It's nice to have a familiar face out here."

The two of them sat in silence, content as they stared out the window, and Émile edged his hand over hers. Julie-Lou looked back at him quizzically. "Would you like to take a walk around the campus?" he offered.

"Yeah," she chuckled. "You read my mind."

The dirt path was narrow, with vast oaks breaching the soil on either side, reaching for the now cloudy sky. Émile was a bit lanky of build, and taller than Julie-Lou, so he wrapped his arm across her shoulders and held her close. "It almost feels like we'd never been apart."

"Mmmmm," she mumbled.

"You don't agree?"

"I moved on."

Émile snorted, playfully nudging her away from him. "I for one was devastated." His face grew sombre as his eyes downcast, and he spoke more seriously. "After losing them, losing you too felt—unfair."

Julie drew her russet locks back over her ear with a finger and looked him right in the eye. "It was a shock, for you more than anyone. How about we just focus on what's ahead instead of behind for now, okay?"

"Yeah," he grinned. "I guess I can do that."

They continued down the path hand in hand, each lost in their own thoughts.

Kiss me.

Émile glanced over at her. She was blushing slightly, staring off into the distance. "What?"

She jolted, looking back at him as her cheeks reddened further, apparently broken free from her reverie. "W-what? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Didn't you just tell me to—" Her look of confusion silenced him. "Never mind. Let's keep going."

The smell of popcorn and cotton candy permeated the air as the young couple meandered through the rides and stands, arm in arm. Though the sun had nearly set, the two had decided to make the most of the yearly fair in what time they had. They'd already bashed about the bumper cars, sped through the roller coasters, and been blasted up to the sky in the elevator. Not to mention all the booths they'd visited and prizes they'd won.

Émile caught a booth out of the corner of his eye. "Here, watch this," he said to Julie-Lou, pulling her towards it.

A wiry man stood behind a counter with eight cups, juggling three balls. Émile tossed him a toonie, and the man caught it deftly out of the air and flipped it into his pocket. "I imagine ye know how to play?"

Émile nodded—it was the time-honoured game of hiding a ball in a cup and switching their places quickly. Guess the correct cup, and you'd win a prize. In this case, there were three balls, to increase the odds. "Just one ball please." The man looked at him quizzically, but set aside two of the balls nonetheless.

"Your funeral," he grinned.

"Here," said Émile, passing Julie a ribbon. "Blind-fold me."

Now both Julie and the man were laughing. "If you insist on showing off, sure." She tied it tightly above his eyes, and motioned for the man to begin.

Julie watched as the man swapped the cups in a rapid and perplexing series of movements. Once he was finished and the cups were aligned in a single row, she tapped Émile's shoulder. He took off the blindfold, considered the cups and their owner for a moment, and then pointed one out. To both Julie and the man's great shock, it was the correct cup.

The owner of the booth grinned ear-to-ear and passed him a stuffed dolphin. "Yer one lucky kid."

"I have my tricks," announced Émile, bowing, before leading Julie-Lou away.

With the fair almost closing, the two of them decided to take the ferris wheel up to look at the sunset—a traditional, romantic experience.

Julie leaned into him as their chair rotated upwards. "How did you do it?"

"Do what?"

She flicked his nose playfully. "You know."

It's been almost a year. It's time to tell her. "Think of a number."

"What—"

"Thirty-two, that was the number you just thought."

She remained silent for a moment, and when she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. "How did you know that?"

"Guess."

Are you... Are you a telepath?

He grinned. "Yes."

Émile awoke to the feeling of Julie-Lou's warm body against him, nudging him from sleep. "Time to get up, gotta get ready for class."

With a groan, he plopped his head back into the pillow, closing his eyes and absorbing the softness of her bed. Comfort had never been a luxury he's afforded himself. "Man, I could just lay here forever." Julie's response was to toss his dayclothes in his face.

"Get up, you lazy bum. I call first shower." After collecting the appropriate apparel from her dresser, she left him alone in the room.

It had been a couple months since he'd told her of his newfound ability, and it had not taken much to convince her. Their mutual trust went deep.

He dragged himself out of bed and started pulling his clothes on, still a little drowsy. Out of curiosity, he reached out his mind to Julie's, testing its range. He'd always found it easier to connect to familiar minds, and who did he know better than Julie-Lou? It took him a moment, but he soon located the familiar voice of her thoughts, allowing them to play gently in the back of his mind as he fastened his belt. She was thinking about the day to come, plotting out her spare time accordingly. Even in her mind she's got it all figured out. As he was pulling on his shirt, he felt her mind focus on something—her foot had entangled itself in her clothes as she removed them. He decided to pry a little further.

He felt her stepping into the tub, and as she opened her eyes, he saw her hand reach for the tap, flipping on the shower. The barrage of warm water rushed across her body, and she let loose a relaxed sigh. He saw her reach for a bottle, and she started to balm up her hair in conditioner. Next she grabbed the soap, and began applying it to her skin. He could feel her hands gently caressing their body, and he couldn't help but release a groan of pleasure—

What are you doing in my mind?

He jolted back into his body, panting in a cold sweat. What the hell just happened?

Grabbing his bag from the floor, he rushed out of the room. Julie-Lou accosted him from the side, having just left the bathroom with a bathrobe pulled tightly across her. Concern flashed in her eyes as she saw the panic in his. "Are you okay? I've never felt you do that before." I'm scared.

"Me too," he muttered without thinking. "I-I just need to be alone for a bit, clear my mind. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

Julie-Lou was unconvinced, but he pushed past her and out of the house, leaving her standing at her doorstep, dripping and worried.

Damn, late for work—
—Why does she hate me so much?—

—God bless me on this day—

—Don't forget the keys—

—Who's the fucking kid?

I am Émile, and my thoughts are my own.

At the very least, that was what he was desperately trying to convince himself of.

The streets were packed with people, and Émile couldn't keep his mind out of theirs. He stumbled about the sidewalk, hands to his forehead, trying to isolate himself, but each pairs of eyes lent him their sight, each pair of legs took him another step forward, each mind bombarded him with thoughts. It was all he could do to keep himself walking.

As expected, his door was locked, but the landlord assured her he had come home. With a liitle bit of persuasion and charm, she managed to appropriate from him a spare key.

Julie had never entered his apartment before, and was shocked to see it almost entirely unfurnished. It was almost as though the apartment was without resident; a layer of dust coated most surfaces. A few trails cut across the hardwood floor, leading from his bedroom to the bathroom and the fridge, respectively—but most oddly were the small clean squares scattered about the wall, as if photos had been recently been taken down. After some snooping about, she found the discarded photos in the trashbin—photos of Émile and his deceased family.

Enough of this.

She edged her way to his bedroom door and slowly creaked it open. Émile lay flat on his covers, staring up at the ceiling.

Grinning in relief, she rushed to the side of the bed, calling out "É—"

"—mile!" he interrupted, smiling.

She reached her right arm out to him. "I was so—"

"—worried about you," raising his right arm above him.

Unsettled, she lowered her arm, and he did the same. She could feel the familiar prod of another mind, but she couldn't sense his thoughts as she had in her shower. All she could sense was an echo.

An echo of herself.
It wasn’t enough.

Nethanel sat in the desert hut belonging to the person he had just murdered, leaned forward staring at a terrified and gagged child sitting opposite him. The heat of this place was unbearable, but that’s to be expected, this was a desert nation, after all. And in this desert nation, Nethanel was quite possibly the palest individual of them all, which made the outside world and its glaring sun quite troublesome for him. Yet, he was their most skilled Swordmaster.

The child sat and stared at him in fear. There was no question of why. The two halves of the boy’s father were lying on the floor, and the man who had cut him sat opposite. Nethanel wore but a black robe around his lower body and long black gloves, meaning his chest and muscles were bare. Except, he was slim and pale enough to be mistaken for a ghost, with short black hair, a black scabbard for his sword on the right side and empty eyes…

“Why did I do that?” Nethanel asked the child of the murdered. There wasn’t any good reply other than shaking and crying. The pale murderer smiled at the lack of response. “Oh, wait. I can answer that. It is the only thing I know how to do.” He drew his sword half-way, the red blood still present on the sword since Nethanel hadn’t cleaned it. The pale man looked down with a pleased look at his absurdly sharp blade…

“I’m a skilled soldier. More skilled than any other in existence. There is nobody that can match me. That’s why…” Nethanel stared down at the child as the sword was sheeted. “That’s why I killed my parents. They were supposed to be great warriors, but they were hardly a match. Your father, too. He was supposed to be a great Guild Leader. But, he didn’t stand a chance. Ah, where’s the battle where my skill with the sword will finally meet the ultimate test…?” Nethanel exhaled, staring down into the table.

“I only feel alive in battle, but monsters aren’t even near a challenge. Only other men can match my skill. But… none can. I am still looking for that battlefield where I can justify the extent of my abilities. That place where I can make a difference…!” The child listened to the man’s ramblings with wide eyes of fear, crying where he was bound. Seeing the fear which he himself thought was unnecessary, Nethanel leaned his cheek on his palm. “You’re no challenge, so your life is not in danger.” Really, wasn’t that obvious?

“Ah, but…” Nethanel grinned a little. “I am becoming pretty infamous now. It sounds like some people want me dead. So, if I just openly declare my location to the right person, maybe I’ll get the fight I want?” Excitement rushed through him, as he stared at the boy. “Can’t be just anyone, they might send assassins, that wouldn’t be fun. But… Oh, I know!” Nethanel laughed for himself. “How about the handsome Prince Sion? He’s famed for his combat prowess and skill, but I could never meet him myself! But with an indirect challenge…”

… Ooooh, this plan was coming together perfectly! Maybe, finally, he could have that awe-inspiring blood-curling battle that he had always wanted! The one where he could truly show off his abnormal skill! Such excitement! Such vigor! Yes… The noble prince was the perfect target. Nethanel leaned forward and grinned at the bound child in front of him, who stared back in terror due to the expression the murderer currently wore. “I’ve got a little job for you…”

‘In two days, I will be located outside Lagdou Ruins, where I have made my temporary home. Bring but your finest warriors, or prepare to face the consequences. My sword eagerly awaits your arrival.’

It was perfect. Nethanel smiled, leaning at a wall inside the wall’s shadow in order to hide his pale skin from unnecessary exposure to the dreadful sun. His hand fingered the hilt of his sword, wondering when, or if, Sion was going to arrive. The murderer wasn’t a tactician, he didn’t think very far on the matter if he was making a lethal mistake or not, but he might be getting a battle! He might be getting the greatest battle he had ever been part of! The thought got his blood pumping…!

… Though, it was taking a while. Nethanel caught himself yawning multiple times where he stood. Had Sion got the message properly? Had he dismissed it as a prank? Something unworthy of him? All kinds of worries were swimming up inside the Swordmaster’s head. If that was the case, then Nethanel might start picking off Sion’s loved ones… … … Huh? He blinked and listened closely. There were… footsteps coming from within the Ruins? Wait, what?

With an expression of mild surprise, the Swordmaster dashed out of the shadows, a hand on his sword-hilt as he spun around the wall to look into his own ruins… and there he blankly stopped, staring out over the scene. There were… hundreds upon hundreds of armed soldiers, setting up the ruins as a defensive base. Lances, swords, axes and bows, in many divisions, setting up their positions and glaring at the bare-chested Nethanel. 

On an elevated platform, which was really just a floor above in what used to be a tower but the ruins had torn down all the above walls, the blonde Prince of Jehanna stared down at him. The prince wore black armor and a red cape, as well as brandished a beautiful white broadsword. He wore no helmet, showing off his blonde hair and confident expression, where he stood among what looked like thousands of troops aiming their weapons on a single man.

“… I told you to only bring your finest. A lot of men is going to die due to your failure to follow commands.” Nethanel said with a smile. His sword-arm was shaking with excitement. Th-this large a battle…? This… was more victims than he had ever dreamed of…

“… I believe you misunderstand.” Sion responded with an almighty-sounding voice filled with power and confidence, glaring down on the lone murderer. “These are my finest, every single one of them. I couldn’t leave behind even a single soldier in order to respond properly to your request.”

“… HA!” Nethanel sounded out loudly, seeing the twist of logic with which Sion had practically brought an army… which had somehow taken over the ruins from the other direction while Nethanel had been standing guard in one. Had he known of the Swordmaster’s weakness of the sun and therefore come from the opposite direction? No… There’s no way he’d know that much about him. In the end, it didn’t even matter.

This was it. The test of skill which he had been searching for. A whole army… could he outlast every single one? The grins of the lightly armored troops looked pretty confident, they knew their prince had confidence in them. Wow, what a magnificent figure this Prince Sion must be, to command such respect! He… he just HAD to kill him…!

Nethanel dashed forward towards the first group of enemy troops. They readied their weapons, pulling swords and lances to hold before them to impale him as he came. But the pale Swordmaster had no problems tearing down their defenses. With but a single slice, Nethanel grabbed his sword with his left arm and drew it with full force, tearing through the stunned men’s weapons and armor all the same, their arms becoming severed before the force of the deadly warrior. He had barely begun.

Some of them thought they could nail him with arrows while he was busy cutting the limbs off their companions. Not even close. Nethanel had already made a mental note of every single archer’s exact location, and upon hearing the strings of bows releasing, he simply needed to take a step aside towards one of the many safe-zones in the ruins, there were a lot of left-over walls, after all, and it was always so funny seeing their arrows pierce their own allies as he stepped aside.

Larger warriors thought they’d stun him. They crashed through walls with giant axes trying to take him by surprise, dashing in from varying directions to strike him with speed, each being about one and a half times taller than him, too. Too bad for them, dodging their supremely powerful attacks by bending over athletically was a ton of fun, and seeing their faces as Nethanel sliced through their bodies after having swiftly outmaneuvered their clumsy attacks to strike for the kill.

He darted from defensive position to defensive position. The enemy soldiers were setting up traps at each of the many bottle-necks these ruins had to offer, urging the lone Swordmaster to attack himself or endanger him with arrows that could eventually hit by coincidence. However, they were underestimating Nethanel’s knowledge of these ruins as well as sometimes just his athletic ability, showing up behind them and cutting them down or just plain jumping over their weapons before he carved them out. Did they really think it would work?

“… Woah!” Nethanel sounded out with a pleased voice as he just barely dodged a magical thunderbolt which struck at his feet. There were mages, too. Long-range, such. Heh. Sion had truly brought his whole arsenal to bear at a single man. This was more than he could ever have dreamed of. So much fun! Such a brilliant battle! It was almost a shame he’d have to kill Sion, because he could perhaps supply more of this kind of battle in the future…!

The pale Swordmaster dashed from cover to cover, slicing those poor soldiers in the way as he made his way towards the long-range mages. His awareness didn’t fail to catch a single enemy soldier, and he breathed heavily from the excitement this battle had brought. Finally, the hooded men was within range! Nethanel dashed at them, and saw the fear in their eyes as they realized that their spells wouldn’t be cast quickly enough to save their lives-!

CLANG!

… … … Nethanel stood grinning, staring at where Sion stood with a grim expression with his sword raised at him. In the last second, the prince had dashed in and saved the lives of his mages, placing himself in the line of fire at last. He had finally realized the scope of the Swordmaster’s abilities, eh? “Have you finally come to terms with what a mistake it was to bring common men to fight against my prowess…?” The pale murderer smiled at the prince, feeling utterly superior as he raised his sword and-

“… Eh?” … The sword… was broken. Nethanel looked down at his formerly beautiful sword with a touch of surprise. That… was the sword that he had inherited from his father, that said father had told him to cherish well, that he had killed said father with and kept at his side for so long. It was broken. It hadn’t been able to handle the sheer scope of this battle. “… Heh.” No consequence. He just had to pick up a new one. There should be hundreds lying around right now. Nethanel took a deep breath, and attempted to turn around-

“…” … The Swordmaster froze mid-motion, having turned part-way away from Sion. He hadn’t been worried about being struck by Sion, since Nethanel was faster than the prince in all regards. However, right now, all his muscles were hurting. He hadn’t even felt it while he was engulfed in the joys of combat, but the blade shattering from Sion’s strike brought him back to reality. His muscles… felt torn. They hadn’t ever been abused for this long in a single battle. This was…

“This is your limit.” Sion said, a sense of finality in his voice. “I took a moment to research what could be the consequences of the paleness the boy reported. As a result of this, I’ve come to conclude that you’re really very frail.” Nethanel stood in silence, partly turned away from Sion, standing feeling the pain running through his body with an unamused expression, staring sideways at the prince. “However, in the midst of your blood-lust you couldn’t even feel that, and now your body couldn’t keep up.”

“… So you forced me to run through my own ruins and overcome multiple defensive positions in order to tire me out as quickly as possible, expanding the lives of your own men.” The pale warrior with no visible injuries analyzed, staring at the prince as he was being surrounded by the remaining soldiers. “What a cruel prince, using your allies lives like that…” Nethanel smiled at him, trying to feel how much he could move his body. There was pain, yes. … He hadn’t even taken out a tenth of them, had he? Still, he could make one more movement, with a broken sword…

“They were all volunteers to be in the front lines. The one who ended your streak early would have gained a hefty bonus, and they were all merely willing to take the risk.” Sion explained. “They’re all volunteers, willing to give their lives for me. You have been defeated, Nethanel.” … The Swordmaster couldn’t help but smile. Of course, there had been reports of his parents dying, and with his paleness it had been easy to conclude who the perpetrator was with but a single eye-witness. Sion’s a resourceful man…

“… I’ll have to congratulate you.” Nethanel smiled, as if to a close friend, at Sion. “This appears to, indeed, be the place where my streak ends. I took on too much at the same time. However…” Oh, he felt the gazing desert sun shining down at his pale back through the holes in the ruins. He was going to have a nasty sun-burn after this, with all likelihood. If he was alive at all, of course. But… “… I trust you won’t underestimate the true extent of my bloodlust, now, will you?”

Sion… smiled back. Like he, too, was talking to a close friend. “Of course. That was how I intended to end it, all along.” … Nethanel wasn’t even sure where the sword had come flying from. Someone had thrown it. The Swordmaster had completely abandoned trying to sense the actions of the soldiers around him, so the sword just appeared. He dropped the broken sword, forced his screaming body into motion by pure will and grabbed the thrown sword in mid-air to let it descend and meet Sion’s.

The battle that then took place was too fast for any average man to track. Nethanel grinned in a violent frenzy, completely ignoring the agony his muscles was in to quickly slice up, back, down, diagonal left, right, on a constant assault hunting for the prince’s life. Sion was on the defensive, his sword moving far slower than Nethanel’s and glaring at him with a small smile… but he seemed to be able to read the Swordmaster’s movements, and as such could bring his sword to block each of his blows in time.

Nethanel realized he wouldn’t be able to continue for too long, so he sliced downwards at Sion’s foot. Sion took a step back, having successfully read the move, and struck down to hold down the pale man’s sword. However, that’s when the Swordmaster quickly sliced upwards, meeting Sion’s sword and sliding upwards and over it, gracing over Sion’s chest on the other side as Nethanel knew it would be blocked already and compensated by letting the sword fold itself to cut in on the other side…

But this movement didn’t lead to a mortal blow, as Sion had simply a light trail of a wound going through his armor diagonally across his chest, hardly enough to stop a man of Sion’s caliber. In return, Sion thrust his whole body forward and crashed his armored shoulder into Nethanel’s chest. Frail as he indeed was, the pale Swordmaster felt something crack within his chest, pain impossible to suppress with bloodlust shot through him and he lost control and he fell down on the ruin floor, losing consciousness.

Ah… Was that… it? As fun as that was… Nethanel hadn’t intended on dying. He had acknowledged the possibility, but… It had been so much easier to just pretend that all those negative things that could happen to him by fighting didn’t exist. It was because of this condition that his father eventually had told him not to fight again, ever… But Nethanel had been unable to follow that command. He knew how skilled he was, so he couldn’t accept that. Instead, he had cut his father down with the very sword he had been given by him, to prove he could fight despite his condition…

Well, that was all over, now…

…

“Huh.” Nethanel woke up. He was in a dungeon. He glared ahead of him, staring at the prince who had seemingly thought fitting to pay him a visit. So, he wasn’t dead. Despite all the lives he had taken. With a pretty uninterested stare, the chained Swordmaster looked up at Sion, who looked at him with a sense of respect. What now…?

“Swordmaster Nethanel.” … The prisoner made no gesture to show that he had heard Sion’s official tone. “Your skills with the sword has been recognized by the Kingdom of Jehanna. From this day on, you will be in my service. As long as you show exemplary behavior, you will be allowed to fight to your heart’s content against the enemies of our realm.” … Monsters, you mean? Nethanel wanted to sigh. Monsters were no challenge. There wasn’t anything fun in-

“Oh, and…” Sion smiled, a cruel little smile, and leaned in way too close for comfort to whisper in Nethanel’s ear. “A war is coming.” Nethanel’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. “A war that will engulf every corner of Magvel. A war in which every warrior in every realm will be forced to take part, and we’ll be the instigators. There will be a lot of fighting ahead of us, against untold numbers of soldiers from across the world. Would you be willing to test your mettle against them…?”

“…” Are you… kidding!? A wide grin formed over Nethanel’s expression as Sion leaned away with a winning smile. The prisoner looked over the prince’s face, seeing the wickedness within, seeing the wealth of opportunities within, seeing how… immensely beautiful he was. This was… brilliant. 

“… Prince Sion.” Nethanel smiled at him. “If what you say is true, then please do allow me to swear my allegiance to you. I’ll follow your every command, just as long as you provide me with what you know I desire. I can show you what I’m truly capable of.” And in case you fail to amuse me, I’ll just take your head, Nethanel mused internally. Sion smiled right back, because he was probably entirely aware of this little detail. Sion drew his sword, and masterfully sliced the chains off Nethanel’s limbs.

“Then follow me. I will accept no lazing about in a cell. We’re going to have some paperwork to deal with, and you need to heal, but after that we’ll be testing your mettle. I trust there are no complaints?” Sion said, standing up and turning his back towards the now free murderer. It was roughly about now that Nethanel noticed the Killing Edge sword which lay prepared in a sheet at his right side. An extraordinarily sharp blade made for killing, Sion could so easily be killed if Nethanel just simply took it and sliced…

“… None, your majesty.” The bare-chested criminal took the blade in its sheet and etched to his side, knowing he had more to gain by following this man than killing him. What confidence. His muscles still hurt a lot, not to mention the place where he had been tackled by an armored shoulder, but he had healed enough in his rest to be able to at least move somewhat, even if he couldn’t fight in a little while. The future seemed to be more exciting than the sudden death he had been expecting.

Nethanel smiled, a little excited smile that wouldn’t leave for a long, long time, for the time in the future where he’d be non-stop hanging around Sion as if in complete adoration. Sometime in the future, Sion would cause a great conflict that would allow the Swordmaster to fight to his heart’s content, once again. … He could hardly wait.

By default, I shall be reviewing all of the stories posted above. Reviews and the contest results will be posted on June Fifteenth.
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mdk 3/4

Ellri Lord of Eat / Relic

PlatinumSkink

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Keyguyperson Welcome to Cyberhell

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