RE: Monarch

Chapter 98: Sanctum XXIII

It was an old legend that came to mind, as the infernal guards walked me down the never-ending hall. A story my mother had told me a different version of on more than one occasion. As far as I knew, it had no bearing in reality. Just another human fable couched in faux history. Yet, it came to mind just the same.

Iona was the goddess of twilight. The rare few graced with her presence described her as terribly beautiful. The sort of beauty that haunted ones waking hours and followed them into their dreams, that simmered in the back of their minds as they courted their wives and husbands, knowing and despondent that any mortal could never truly compare to her comely visage, the ruthless perfection of her body, and her stark and all-consuming image.

But Iona was far from benevolent. As goddess of twilight, she was the matriarchal deity of assassins, thieves, and all manner of brigands that haunted the midnight hours. And like her supplicants, Iona was as self-serving as she was brave. And in this consummate mix of gluttony and mettle, Iona decided that she was no longer satisfied with the span between light and dark. Like so many of those that followed her, her greatest downfall was wanting more.

So, Iona sought the goddess of night. Lune. A young but accomplished goddess who brokered peace between the gods of the dayduring the day, they could fight, and scheme, and wage wars, but during the night they would be still and rest. An uneasy ceasefire that had lasted only a few centuries, mere seconds in the eyes of eternity.

Being the only goddess of the night, Lune was a dangerous combination of curious and lonely. Iona came to her shrouded. Lune had heard tale of her beauty. The majesty that hid behind the endless darkness of her shroud. And as Iona began to make advances, and give gifts, and even, towards the end, attend gentle ministrations, Lune felt her will begin to crumble.

But Lune could not give Iona the night. Lune knew that the moment Iona held the night in her clutches, the daily ceasefire between gods would be rendered moot. So, she held her own for centuries, until her will was worn down to a razors edge.

In an unfortunate combination of desperation and lust, Lune made Iona a deal: They would isolate themselves in Aethir for a hundred years. Iona would remove her shroud. And if, by the end of the century, Lune had not freed herself of Ionas influence, rebuffed her seduction, Lune would give her the night. Iona agreed. A century later, only Iona returned from Aethir.

And that is the story of how the night was corrupted. Because, as my mother was fond of saying, you cant put the shroud back on. Once youve seen beyond the veil, life will never be the same.

But like Lune, I must stay my course. No matter how horrible the truth, I have to know. I need to know. What all this is. Who Im fighting. What Im fighting for.

Morthus looked like a man waiting for death to call. His eyes had sunk farther in his face from the last time I met him, and his simple white garment resembled a burial robe. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, face tilted downward, staring at the mark on his forearm beneath a rolled up sleeve. He looked up at me slowly, face tired, wrung of all emotion aside from exhaustion.

We meet again, fair prince. I fear I have over-tapped myself in your absence. Again, that wry smile, one that had given me comfort during my incarceration, only now filled me with dread.

You promised me answers, I said. My jaw clenched. About Barion. The metamorphosis cult.

You have grown hard in our separation. Morthus raised an eyebrow, then, slowly cocked his head. And your soul is no longer your own. That is less than ideal.

My options were limited.

As they so often are. We tell ourselves that we will be better than those that come before us. And yet, we fall into the same traps that they did, for what we think are better reasons.

Tell me about Barion. How both you and he are connected to Thoth. I pressed.

How much of yourself did you lose, in your dealings with the demons? Morthus asked.

Stop talking in circles. You already know the price.

I know what you paid. But I am asking, what did it cost? Morthus tapped his head twice. You were so young when we met. So naive and idealistic, bearing such potential, such hope. Where did your hope go, young prince?

Sliced off, bleeding on the floor of the twilight chambers amongst flesh and bitter tears.

But I kept the thought to myself. Hope doesnt matter. Idealism doesnt matter. You do what you have to. No more, no less. The minimal amount of force required for the maximal effect. Any less is weakness. Any more is tyranny.

Morthus smiled sadly. I see. Maybe, then, you will be able to understand.

So youll tell me?

Its better if I show you.

Morthus grunted and pushed himself to his feet. Then without so much as a glow, he tore open a hole in reality. It formed a square void. He held out a hand towards me and I approached him slowly. His withered hand rested on my back. Together, we walked through the void.

I only hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me, young prince.

The darkness shifted. A battlefield in a distant forest with once noble trees that had burned to blackened trunks. The smell of smoke and blood and shit filled the air in a now familiar acrid assault on the senses that made my eyes water and throat tighten. It was Whitefall, but the scale of it was staggering. Everywhere I looked, there were bodies. Light elves and infernals, burned, skin sanded away from high-pressure water, stone sticking from chests and stomachs and heads, and of course, those that had fallen to the bloody wounds of the sword and spear and dagger. The word genocide came to mind first, but a genocide was by definition one-sided.

This was a massacre on a scale Id never seen.

As much as my people would like to blame yours for everything wrong in the world, the truth is, things have always been this way. The voice startled me. Morthus stepped up next to me, looking out, taking in the view. Humans didnt start the bonfire. They merely stoked the flame.

When is this? I asked numbly.

A century ago, maybe two. Does it matter? Morthus shrugged. Another fight over magic, or resources. Though the reasons have changed, it doesnt matter to me now, and it didnt matter to me then. My only thought was to my enemy. How to fight them. How to win.

He must have read something on his face because he nodded.

I see youre familiar with the mental space. The tunneling sight. The hatred. But this battlethis war in the Alpine Expanse, was the first to shake my resolve. Make me question my single-mindedness. Every companion in my company died. And the enemies fell before me, one, after another, after another, until you could no longer see the ground beneath the bodies.

There was a sudden gasping wretch torn from the lungs of a man returning to life. A young violet infernal amongst the bodies sat up suddenly, as if possessed by a spirit. He was dressed in heavy plate. With a shaking hand, he reached out, and a massive double-bladed sword with a cerulean core stirred from beneath a group of corpses and shot into his hand, nearly knocking him over from the impact.

He jabbed it into the ground, halfway to the hilt, and pushed, slowly rising to his feet.

But he was not the only survivor. Two bloodied and beaten elves rose a dozen span away, looking almost as haggard, their shining silver plate now dull and orange.

The infernal and the elves staggered towards each other like meandering, orbiting celestial bodies, their pathing oblique, battle-fatigued and injured to the point that they resembled the dead more than the living. The elves raised their weapons, but the infernal was faster, summoning the unimaginable strength required to raise that monster of a sword, bisecting the first elf from shoulder to hip.

The second elf tackled him, bringing him to the ground, but the impact knocked her grip on her dagger loose, which bounced just out of reach. In a drunken but complex movement, the infernal pinned her arm to his chest and managed to twist, straddling her torso. He rained down blow after blow, her body and legs jerking with every impact, until the jerking ceased.

Covered in blood, eyes feral, the infernal looked around for another target. I felt a sense of unease as his eyes passed over us, pausing for just a moment before they passed on. In that half-second I recognized him as Morthus.

The infernals gaze fell on an elf sitting in the middle of the battlefield. The elfs hair was long and white, and he was unarmored, wearing a crimson robe that had once been brown. As the elder Morthus pushed me forward to stand within earshot, young Morthus staggered towards the elf, sword trailing carelessly behind him on the ground.

I could hear his heavy breathing, the amount of effort and exertion that went into every plodding step. He sounded like a hog in heat, unrefined, uncaring, filled with heavy need that defied rational explanation.

I found myself holding my breath as young Morthuss sword came up. The elf finally looked at Morthus, blue eyes piercing, face twisted in an expression I recognized all to well. True despair. He held out his arms wide in the universal symbol of embrace. He was ready.

But the sword did not come down. In the pregnant seconds that passed between them, a vibrant green and black butterfly landed on the elfs upturned hand. He regarded it idly, then closed his hand, crushing it in his palms. It fell crumpled to the ground, body broken, wings crumpled.

Young Morthuss face changed. Curiosity. Exhaustion. Why?

Why do I refuse to fight you? The elfs voice was somber music, a dirge.

Are you a coward?

Perhaps.

Do you wish to die?

No being wishes to die. Not truly. But knowing that none of this matters? That we are nothing but rabid dogs fighting over scraps as their home rots to ruin? That knowledge I am happy to part with.

Only an elf philosophizes on the battlefield. Young Morthus sneered. But I saw the fight go out of him. There was a consummate moment his injuries caught up with him, and he wanted nothing other than to just sit down. The sword slipped from his grip, landing with a clatter against a deadmans armor, and Morthus collapsed before the elf, breathing hard.

Where are your leaders?

Retreated. Dead. What difference does it make? And yours?

The elf inclined his head. The same. You are not far behind the fallen.

Morthus looked down at his bad arm, surprised. Blood was leaking out at regular intervals. Bright red. Damn. Leaking like a sieve. He loosened the fingers of the gauntlet and tore the armor off. I winced as he poked a too-large looking finger into his wound, fished around for the artery, and then pinched it off.

The elf watched, unimpressed. Funny, the lengths we will go to, to continue drawing breath.

Youre real chipper, for an elf. Morthus groused.

And you are every bit the brute. Exactly as one would expect.

All that nonsense about rabid dogs. What did you mean? Morthus asked.

The elf forced a small, bitter smile. The ancients did not listen. The wisest of my people. Then the regional shamans, and even the local leaders. None of them listened. The kind ones called me a doomsayer, and the others were not so kind. My words of warning earned me a trip to the battlefield, and a sentence of death. Why would you care, infernal brute? Why would my words reach you when none of my people can be bothered to listen? After all, I am mad.

Morthus skin was growing pale, his breath heavy. His eyes unfocused and focused again. Who knows. Its funny. I dont even know why Im here. They told me, at some point, but it slipped out of my mind as easily as a name for a forgettable face.

High potency mana crystals, the elf said.

Morthus nodded. Thats right. But I just swing the sword. Thats all Im good for. Refresh the water supply. Cast spells if needed. Every so often I advise on tactics, but mostly its just one thing. I swing the sword.

I envy you. A simple existence.

Is it? Existence, I mean, yes. I can turn the tide of battle. But there is always another battle. And the pleasure derived in blood is a diminishing return.

How does one derive existence? What is the defining state of one who exists versus one who subsists?

Accomplishment. Making a mark. Finding yourself alone in the world, drawing your last breath, and being able to say, I mattered.

The elf raised an eyebrow. Who is philosophizing now?

You started it.

The elf started to laugh, a low growl that slowly rose in pitch into a sound as merry and dissonant as twinkling half-step bells. When his gaze returned to Morthus, his eyes were full of joy and madness in equal measure.

If you swear a soul-vow to wait to kill me until after I have shown you, after I have spoken my peace, then I will grant you life. Though you may wish, after, that you had died without knowing.

I watched the struggle on Morthuss face. Striking a deal with the enemy wasnt easy for him. But in the end, curiosity won out.

Deal.

The elfs body glowed with the nature-sick green of life magic, and the scene paused at the clap of their hands meeting, vision pinching and swirling, as they were vortexed away.

Of the many questions the vision raised, there was one that stood above the rest.

How did you stop yourself? I asked. My voice was quiet, barely audible over the din of crickets and birds that ornamented the trees.

From killing him? Older Morthus took his place next to me.

I saw it in your face. The rage. I know it well. Once it takes over, theres no stopping it. It grabs on, seizes. And rational thought leaves me taking reason and logic with it. All I want to do is hurt something. And it becomes less about whether I should, than how it will feel if I dont.

The umbra.

Is that what its called?

Only by me. His mouth worked for several seconds. And have you given over to it before?

Once. The pause hung. A few times.

In the heat of battle?

I knew what he was asking. Only once outside a fight. My mind was fractured. Its I rubbed my head, its hard to explain. I didnt realize that my actions would have permanence. It didnt seem to matter what I did. And even know, I dont remember the exact details of it. As I said my thoughts were shattered, a fractal graveyard.

I can help you remember, Morthus offered quietly. It sounded almost obligatory, like he already knew the answer.

I shook my head. Erdoss face rose in my vision, followed by the image of Bellarex grieving alone in our practice cave. No. I dont think I can now. And objectively, the result was likely the right one.

But you didnt factor in the cost to the living.

No.

Morthus sighed. I cannot give you the answer. It is a question older than time itself that has plagued beings much greater than you or me. There is no stopping it. But it is possible to derail.

How so?

Morthus strode to the spot his younger self and the still unnamed elf had teleported away from, surveying the ground. When I was about to kill the elf, it was much as you describe. The umbra was upon me, the bloodlust. I doubt a hundred magicians could have staid my blade.

So what did?

Did you see the insect? I must have rolled my eyes because Morthus laughed, long and hearty. Nothing like that. I didnt think, Oh how wondrous natures bright beauty, woe the ugly cicatrix of war. Theres no poet in my soul, little prince. His face grew somber. But when he crushed it in his fingers, that gave me pause. The dichotomy of what I knew of elves, and what his actions reflected. Casual cruelty. Almost contempt. And my mind began to wonder what sort of person he was, what sort of life had made him so different from his ilk, and before I knew it, the umbra was defused.

So the answer is to ask questions? I raised an eyebrow.

Sometimes. Every so often it cant be helped. But if you can find a crack, and wedge your thoughts in like stubborn fingers, sometimes you can tear the shale away. Morthus shrugged. For now, let us move on.

I followed him, and the scene shifted.

We were in the interior of a cave, now following behind the two distant figures wreathed in shadow. A soft distant light illuminated a passage to the front. I identified them by voice alone. Young Morthus, and the elf.

Where the hells are we going Saravan? Morthus asked. The irritation in his voice was underpinned by discomfort.

Do you meant to tell me an infernal is frightened of the underground? Saravan asked.

Im not afraid. Morthus said, a bit too heatedly. Weve been descending into the earth for days. How much longer?

Leylines are notoriously inaccessible and there is a reason I am taking us to this particularly spot Saravan froze. His hand shot out, flat. Morthuss head whipped back and forth, looking for the threat. A small drake the size of a dog unfurled from the ceiling and rushed towards them, its shrieks echoed across the cave, bouncing, multiplying.

Spells and elemental magic chased the shadows in an array of blue, greens, and orange. They hit it with enough combined magic to kill twenty men in the span of a minute. Still, as the creature finally collapsed smoldering to the ground, I got the feeling that they had only just escaped unscathed.

What the fuck was that? Morthus asked, breathing hard.

The reason were here.

What is that? Morthus said again. It was tough. And it doesnt look like any drake Ive ever seen. Its face is split open. Twisted.

A combination of mana desiccation and corruption, amongst other things. Come on. Keep up.

As I followed behind them, a sick feeling filled my gut as I approached the Drake. I knew what I was about to see. Its face was split open, teeth unnaturally long, designed for maximum damage with little care for the hosts ability to eat. And it looked perilously similar to the abominations wed encountered earlier. Its slit yellow eye stared up at me, sending a chill down my back.

As if under a compulsion, I followed them.

We finally came to the source of the light. Within a massive chamber, a gigantic stream of flowing magma like an elevated river connected from one side of the chamber to the other. It was pure white in the center, with gold and darker orange swirling within it. Bits of detached liquid floated like little orbs alongside the larger stream. Just looking at it made me feel uneasy.

Its supposed to be pure light Morthus stared up at the stream, as if trying to understand, comprehend what he was seeing.

Yes, Saravan said. He stood perfectly still, watching. Morthuss reaction seemed important to him.

Whats wrong with it? Morthus asked, finally. All his bluster from earlier had drained away.

Nothing, according to the elders. And everyone else. Its a blip. A strange divergence at this particular leyline. Nothing notable. Nothing of substance.

But you doubt that.

We wouldnt have made the trip if I did not. Saravan countered. Then sighed. When he began to speak again, the words had the practice of a speech said a thousand times and never truly heard. It isnt happening just at this leyline. Its happening at all of them. Every single one.

What does that mean? Morthus asked.

Nothing. According to all the brilliant minds of my race.

Saravan

The core is dying, Saravan snapped. The well we draw from. The source of all magic, all nature, all life.

A heavy silence fell over them, only the dull throbbing of the leyline remained. I saw Saravan bristle, waiting for Morthus to debunk, or argue, or disqualify. But Morthus looked horrified.

And when it dies?

The cataclysm. An end to life. Or a twisting of it. That part I do not yet understand.

The drake.

Yes.

Morthuss had dried from the unblinking stare, and he blinked several times to clear them. What can we do?

Youre just going to believe me? Just like that. Saravan scoffed.

What reason do you have to lie?

Saravan laughed, long and bitter. Theres nothing we can do, Morthus. Theres not enough time. There is only dijoahfnbikdwa

A harsh buzzing overcame my ears, a squelching piercing whine. I hunched over, one hand to my head. I glanced over to the Elder Morthus, and saw him watching me, his mouth grim.

He spoke slowly. The moment someone told me that a human awakened to the dantalion. I knew. Youre one of the chosen. And so is she.

Why cant I understand them? I asked. Their voices were still garbled, distorted.

It was all highly theoretical. Morthus said. We are talking about things that have not happened yet. We had no idea how to do it, only that we needed more time. I suspect, there are blinders in place.

At the mention of blinders, I thought of how I couldnt communicate the true nature of my situation to anyone. My heart raced. I dont understand. Why not just go to the council. The people. My father. The dwarves and elves. Surely if they saw

We tried. Morthus said. Saravan, for all his nihilism, was not wrong. Some things are too horrible for people to accept. The problem too great. Apathy kicks in. So, we needed a solution first. Even if it was theoretical. Only then would they listen. And thats how the Metamorphosis Initiative was born.

When we first talked, you said they were disbanded. That you were operating independently. What caused the fracture? I couldnt imagine it. Couldnt stomach the immensity of what Id seen, the inevitability of what it implied.

Ill show you, Morthus said.

The scene shifted again. We found ourselves in a damp, dimly lit basement. Morthus and Saravan sat at the table as others arrived. A dark elf. A dwarf. My heart raced as Barion entered, with all his unnatural grace and swagger. And then it stopped completely as one final face entered the room.

He looked different. His balding head gleamed in the candlelight, the last vestiges of hair forming a near perfect bare circle at the top of his skull. But his shrewd, knowing, deep-set dark eyes were the same. My blood boiled as I took in my fathers spymaster. The architect of Lillians demise. He leaned over to whisper something in Barions ear, then took his seat, looking over the rest of the table with a wide smile.

I hope you havent been waiting on my account. Thaddeus said.

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