"Ah, you must be Francisque. I've heard a lot about your talents." The King of Gallia was smiling at him. They were standing in a courtyard in the
Royal Palace and there was a
King shaking his hand. Of an entire country. Who'd brought him here. To do a portrait.
"We have a great many things to talk about." He could hear his father's voice but couldn't see him. The sunset behind the King made for a beautiful image, but the darkness of the light was hard to paint by. For some reason he couldn't move his hand properly; the chains around his wrists were making it difficult.
"Tell me what you see, boy. Does it bother you?" Francisque cast his eyes about the throne room and frowned. Everything seemed normal. The court stood around; blood from their eyes staining their fine garments. Behind the Black King his throne was pulsing like a beating heart.
There was a dagger in his hand and his father was collapsed in front of him and he was smiling as the servants tackled him to the ground and dragged the weapon out of his hand father wasn't moving but he couldn't stop smiling the sun was burning black screams echoing inside him and everything was fine because he'd done as he was told and now they would let him out.
The desert was endless and the sun was burning black. It pulsed with waves of cold heat that beat down on him. There was… somewhere, an exit but he didn't know where it was. None of them did.
Her mother was hurt. That was impossible. Mother was an untouchable giant. Nothing could hurt her. Éléonore's thesis was on the table and they were discussing it over wine. He stared into her eyes and in his she saw the death of worlds.
Cold skin. Clammy and rubbery, no heartbeat underneath. Too strong to get away. Whispers in her ears. Standing in front of a hole in the ground. Being dragged into the mine but slowly walking as she got closer. Seeing the body growing in the depths. The scale of it all makes her mind rebel.
There's a pistol in her hand. She remembers loading it, but doesn't know why she has it. Her mother is here and she's happy but for some reason she feels tired. When she's hugged the gun goes off. Why? She didn't fire. Her mother is invincible and she's dying on the ground.
The cavern was endless and the sun was burning black. She couldn't see the sky but the unlight from above permeated everything. They were trying to find the way out but nobody could remember how they got here. If you don't know where you were how can you escape?
There can be no light in darkness if the darkness is the light.
Warmth flooded Francisque's body. He looked up and saw that there was a desert in this cavern and the cavern was the desert. His arms and face hurt. Blood was caked under his fingernails but there were a pair of soft hands holding his wrists. Gently, tenderly, but somehow holding him back without any force at all.
A warm light was flowing in from an old-fashioned lamp hanging on the end of a wooden staff. It was set in the sand beside him and the one that presumably owned it was holding him. They were hazy, though; hard to see in the darkness that was constantly trying to consume the light.
He tried to talk but his throat burned. They seemed to understand something, though, and leaned forward; wrapping their arms around him. Whoever they were they were soft and warm and Francisque felt tears running down his face; stinging the scratches on his cheeks and moistening the blood caked there.
Then they stood and took the lamp in one hand and his hand in the other. They gently tugged at him and lead him into the darkness with lamp-staff outstretched. No matter how hard the darkness tried it couldn't penetrate the little bubble of warmth that they carried with them.
Another shape welled up in the darkness. His guide planted the staff in the ground again and walked up to it. Now he could get a good look at both of them. The figure on the ground was in much the same state as him; a blonde woman covered in thin cuts and with blood dripping from their fingertips as they had to be stopped, with that same curious lack of force, by the one who'd stopped him as well.
That one was small. Wearing a plain green cloak. An utterly unassuming young lady with a gentle smile that hugged the blonde and delicately pulled her to her feet. For some reason, he wasn't sure why, Francisque stepped over and supported the woman as she tried to stay standing. She quickly clung on to his side they walked arm-in-arm behind the lamp-bearer as she lead them onwards.
They found more in the darkness. An old man weeping and clawing at his chest. A young girl rocking in place and digging her nails into her cheek. An exquisitely dressed boy gnawing on his own hands. Yet for each one she just took their hands and hugged them close. Francisque watched as they stilled and then began to cry. Not with the pain and anguish they'd had moments ago; but with relief.
He and the blonde separated to offer an arm each to the old man. He left her again to help the young girl. The old man took the hand of the young boy. Together they helped each other like she had helped them. Two had become three had become four had become six, had become ten, had become dozens. Each one holding another; walking together at the edges of the light that held back the endless darkness.
Then something changed. They had found another one, an old woman with torn clothes and streaks of blood running down her head, and their guide had helped her up like all the rest. But then she hadn't continued on. Instead she just stood still and stared into the dark. They began to grow restless. Fearful.
Was the dark a little deeper, or was it in their head? That echo in the distance, was it real or imagined? Francisque tried to speak and found that he could, after a fashion, his throat burning as he forced the word out.
"Why…?" The girl who had been leading them turned around. Her smile seemed strangely sad but still so very warm and her eyes glowed with the green of fresh summer grass.
"It's time to leave." Her words caused a ripple amongst the lost. The blonde woman, carrying a trembling little boy in her arms, pushed forward with a stern yet nervous expression.
"We… we don't know how. There's no way out." Yet their guide just shook her head and sighed.
"You all know the way. It's been with you the whole time. You just couldn't face it." Ice poured into Francisque's veins. Face it… what he'd done… how could he? How could any of them? Everyone was shaking in place, but the girl just walked up to them and took the hand of the nearest person then placed it in that of the person beside them.
"You can do it. What happened was never your fault. All of you helped each other stand. Now walk free. People need you, and you need them. It's going to be alright." She smiled then and raised her staff; the light shining brighter and brighter until it was like a new star, a new sun, burning away at the darkness around them.
Just sand. Just a cave. No horrors. No monsters. No terrors in the dark waiting to ensnare them. "There's never been anything here but you. That's why it worked so well. Nobody can hurt you more than you can hurt yourself. Now you have each other, but that's not what you need. Let go. Forgive yourselves. Be free." Tears were flowing freely down a dozen faces. Regret and pain were freely visible every way you looked. And yet..
"... I'm sorry, Father. I'm so sorry."
Francisque tried to sit up but his muscles weren't working properly. Someone was beside him; pushing him down and calling for help. He looked blearily at them and realised it was their family butler. The old man was restraining him with a single hand. How was that possible?
More servants arrived. One of them passed the butler a small jug and he held it up to Francisque's mouth; pouring water into it. Tomas. That was the man's name. Mister Tomas, when they were boys. The water was cool and soothed the fire in his throat. His head felt like it was stuffed with wool.
"Fa… father… how is…?" The old man looked troubled and glanced at the servants. One shook their head slowly and Tomas sighed; taking Francisque's hand and helping him up with a palm at his back.
"Master Armand is not in a good way, sir. I think we'd best take you to him." Two of them took an arm each, the old man to his right and one of the young to his left, and they helped him out of bed. He looked miserable; cuts and scratches on his arms and ragged fingernails. It felt so familiar, and yet not. Like a bad dream…
Adrien and Maximilien were in the room when they arrived. The former was crouched by the bed, head bowed in prayer, and the latter was holding their father's hand. He was speaking softly, yet loud enough for the man in the bed to hear. He didn't look well at all.
"... and they made Guiche a Knight Captain, father. Head of his own Knightly Order, now. He's overtaken me. They repelled an invasion attempt by Gallia, I heard, and we're to go to war soon. I'll have to leave you here. But Adrien will take good care of you and…" His brother trailed off as Tomas cleared his throat. Both brothers turned at once to see their sibling supported between two servants.
Francisque's heart was pounding. He'd done this. Surely they must hate him. He'd… he'd stabbed… and now their father was… Adrien but Maximilien stood and strode over at once. Before he could try and say anything, though, his brother was hugging him and burying his face into Francisque's shoulder.
"We thought we'd lost you, too. I'm so happy you're alright, brother." His heart was pounding so hard he thought it might burst. Like it was trying to rip its way out of his chest. "It wasn't your fault. You didn't do this. It wasn't your fault." That mantra, repeated in his ear, was like a bucket of cold water. Weakly, Francisque raised his arms and held his brother in turn. They didn't blame him. They didn't hate him. So why did he want to cry so badly?
"Francisque…?" It was a quiet voice. So weak that it broke his heart all over again. Maximilien released him and took over from Tomas; helping his brother desperately hobble over to the bed. Their father had opened his eyes. He was staring blearily at his sons, and a faint smile touched his lips.
"You're all.. no… Guiche is... " The old man's brow furrowed in concentration. "Knight Captain… that fool boy… he didn't need… to do that…" One trembling hand reached out and was placed on Adrien's head. "Your wife… treasure her, boy… if you have a daughter, name her Rosalie. It was… your mother's name."
"Yes, father. Yes. I will, I promise." Adrien cried and bowed his head; wetting the blanket beneath him as he shook and dripped in place. Armand just smiled at him and then reached a hand out for Maximilien. His son took it; dropping to one knee as Tomas came from behind to expertly support Francisque once more.
"My son… be a General, if you wish… but only follow that path for your own sake… not for mine… you should be your own man… not my shadow… no matter what you choose… I will always love you…" Silent tears ran down Maximilien's face and he nodded; unable to speak. Then their father reached for the last son and Francisque reached out; only to hesitate at the last minute.
"Ah… come here, Francisque… it's alright…" He stumbled forward and nearly fell as he went to his knees; bent double and laid down over their father's chest. The old man didn't say anything at first; merely putting a hand on his son's head and gently patting it. Then he gently pushed at Francisque's chin so he looked up.
"I never got you… to paint my portrait… I regret that… I regret… so many things… but not any of you. Francisque… please… don't give up… you must live on… live the life… you dreamed of… with your father's blessing…" He was trembling and he couldn't stop crying. Staring at the pallid visage of their father brought it all back.
Armand reached out and wiped away Francisque's tears with a friendly smile. Though he looked weaker than any of them had ever seen him he also spoke with a quiet resolution and seemed to possess a curious aura of peace. "Tell Guiche… that he can be a hero… tell him that… I will always be proud of him… of all of you… my boys… you are… my finest…"
His hand went still, and then slid down Francisque's cheek. They all sat there in mute incomprehension; staring at the still form of their father where he lay, blankly gazing into space with a smile still on his face. The healer pushed Maximilien aside and put a hand to Armand's neck; shouting at the servants while his sons just sat there.
After a moment Francisque stretched out his hand and gently closed their father's eyes. Beside him Adrien had started openly sobbing. Maximilien was stoic but his sorrow still flowed freely. And yet Francisque had no tears left. His face just ached. He didn't understand.
Thus it was that General Armand de Gramont, known as Armand the Quake, passed away at peace with his life; surrounded by what he considered to be his life's greatest failures and, at the same time, in the company of his finest successes.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Karine Désirée de la Vallière née Maillart opened her eyes. There was already a startled healer babbling at her as she sat up but she ignored the man and forced herself to her feet. Her legs tried to collapse out from under he but she
refused to let them. Instead she grabbed the man by his collar and dragged his face up to hers.
"
Where is my daughter?"
Mere minutes later she was in Éléonore's room; checking her condition. The girl had a mild fever but that was pretty much it. They had strapped some padded gloves to her hands, though, and the scratches on her face and neck explained that. She seemed to be fine. Relief flooded Karin and she finally allowed her screaming body to fail; collapsing to her knees and flopping bodily over her daughter's bed.
The door slammed open behind her and then her husband was picking her up and holding her in his arms; immediately moving her to the second bed in the room. Why it was even there Karin had no idea but Pierre put it to good use fussing over her.
"I'm fine, my love, I'm fine. You know it would take more than that to kill me. More importantly, how is Éléonore? How is Louise? How is Cattelya? What's been going on?" His sudden stillness filled her with a terrible dread and she grasped her husband's arm tightly. "Pierre… what has happened to our daughters?" He was shaking, his face a sudden rictus of terror with one hand covering his mouth.
"They… Éléonore hasn't woken up, but… Viscount Wardes, he… he proposed to Louise and… and I agreed. There was a wedding, but she turned him down at the altar…" Karin was startled by every step of that statement past the first bit, but a growing sense of dread told her the worst was yet to come. "Wardes was… he attacked Saito and took Louise. Cattelya was injured in the fighting, but Saito he… he had magic, and he killed the soldiers and healed Cattelya then went after Louise."
Her mind was reeling. The Viscount was… a traitor? And he kidnapped Louise? She just couldn't reconcile the images in her head of a polite, loyal and talented Knight with a traitorous kidnapper. Pierre wouldn't lie to her. Then there was Saito using magic… she'd always suspected he was hiding something but that hadn't been high on the list.
Still. Two daughters injured and one taken from her. That made for three unforgivable offences in her eyes. Karin clenched her fist and began to tremble as anger overcame her. How dare they. How
dare they! In all her years, with all the monsters she'd slain, all the enemies she'd made, not a single one had
ever attempted to hurt her family because they just
knew better.
Her anger was quickly deflated for two reasons however. The first thing to draw the wind out of her sails was that she had no target for this rage. Wardes could have been working for any number of nations or even none at all; for all she knew he was simply so grotesquely enamoured with Louise that kidnapping her was all his own design.
Secondly, though, was that Éléonore was suddenly stirring in her bed and all of Karin's attention was focused on this single fact. She impotently smacked her husband until he let her up and supported her as they quickly moved to their daughter's bedside.
Her eyes flickered open and Pierre, bless him, shouted behind him for the healers to come at once. They were there just in time to support Éléonore as she sat up; pushing pillows in behind her, giving her water and carefully checking her vitals. He'd clearly spared no expense, the wonderful man, and each and every last one was a consummate professional.
"... mother?" Éléonore seemed dazed and confused; staring at her own covered hands as well as her mother's face in turn. She was trembling slightly and fear was gathering in her expression. Before she could ask anything more, though, Karin squirmed out of her husband's grasp and wrapped her arms around her daughter.
"Thank the Founder… I thought we had lost you. I'm so glad you're okay." She could feel the girl shaking in her grip but didn't let her go. Éléonore started crying and her mother shortly followed suit and then Pierre was hugging both of them and he was crying as well and it was all just too much.
"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry, mother… I didn't want to… I tried to stop myself, but… it was like I was lost in some dark place and I couldn't find my way out…" Karin shook her head and pulled back; wiping her tears on her sleeve and trying to smile for her daughter's sake.
"I know. I know you'd never want to hurt me, my dear. I'm just… I'm so happy you're alright." They held each other for a time until the healers finally pried them apart so they could keep examining Éléonore. Fortunately it seemed that she was in more or less good health aside from being a little malnourished. They also healed the scratches that had been left on her as they hadn't wanted to use magic on her when she was in an unknown state.
Then, with great care, Karin set about finding out exactly what had happened to her daughter before the attack. The more questions she asked the more her blood began to boil once more. All that Éléonore recalled was a servant of the King of Gallia coming to obtain her services for some academic project. That meant one of two things; either the culprit of the attack was the King or else he had allowed her daughter to be attacked under his watch.
Her suspicions, however, pointed towards the former. King Joseph's brother had died under suspicious circumstances, normal enough for Gallia, but then his rule had become unstable and erratic. A number of the upper Nobility had left the Capital for their countryside estates and dark rumours had abounded of strange goings on in his court.
In the light of the Reconquista and the usual agressions from Germania this had all rather fallen by the wayside but now Karin had a horrible feeling. Albion's revolution had come out of nowhere; falling in line behind an apparently charismatic leader and turning the nation against its masters. Only what if that wasn't true? Somehow, her daughter had been made to return home and try to murder her own mother. That stank of magic of the foulest sort.
They laid Éléonore to bed and, at her request, Pierre helped Karin to her study. She fumbled with her desk until she found the hidden button and pressed it; a secret panel concealed in the woodwork opening up to reveal a small black journal. He looked at her with an air of concern as she pulled it out and began to flip through it; reaching for a quill and pen.
"Many of them came when you were injured. I can remember who." She nodded; writing lone names on paper and then starting a fresh sheet. Picking out those whose debts to here were still outstanding, and those who she could stand to owe a debt. Even some of those she normally wouldn't care to be indebted to. This was
important.
Over the years Karin had accumulated an awful lot of good will from a lot of dangerous people. Now someone had attacked her nation and her family both. So she was going to call in every favour she could, and then some. Whether or not Gallia was ultimately responsible
someone was going to pay for this.
She would make sure of that.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
In this one room were gathered the most skilled Elves in all the Holy Land. They called upon the Spirits' aid and together wove their power into a mighty wall that circled around
It. The last and most terrible remnant of the horrors wrought upon their nation by the Wielder of Void.
Even if the thing had long since been neglected their traditions had dictated a watch be maintained over it at all times. When the alarm had been sounded none had truly believed it was real yet all had answered immediately. The alternative was unthinkable. When it had last opened the
things that spilled out had nearly ruined them all. They were determined not to let it happen again.
Shaitan's Gate was barely visible behind the web of protective magic they had woven around it. Everyone could tell, however, that they hadn't managed to prevent it from opening. Such a thing was beyond even their combined power. Hopefully they could contain the outbreak long enough for a resistance force to be assembled. Yet even that hope was faint as some indistinct shape from within stepped forward and, to their collective horror, effortlessly rent their barrier asunder.
What stood before the now-closing Gate was not, however, the collection of horrors they had been expecting. These things had the expected number of limbs and faces, the correct amount of hands and torsos. They weren't already twisting to form living weapons nor leaping forward to vivisect the assembled Elves. Instead they seemed to be regarding the gathering fairly dispassionately.
Seven of the group were dressed nearly identically; clad in red cloaks that caused a strange sense of unease to look upon and wearing a wide variety of masks. The one at the front's was adorned with curious red and black markings; they were sheathing a strange dagger that all the Spirits present were recoiling from.
Then one of the Elves noticed the eyes. They were golden, and glowing, and even that description fell short because they looked like they were made of molten, shimmering gold. The light pouring from them left a trail as they turned their head and gazed rather conspicuously at the unseen Spirits all around.
The eighth member of the group was not, however, content to wait. They stood some three full metres tall and were armoured head to toe with heavy plate over their arms and legs and a brigandine with extra lamellar plating over top. Their full helm was embossed with the visage of a snarling wolf but lacked any additional adornment that would have affected its protective value.
They also carried a vast warhammer with a head easily comparable in size to an anvil. This weapon was pointed at the assembled Elves as they barked out something in an unheard-of language, then turned to speak in turn to the golden-eyed one beside them.
"... it's a trick! Capture them, quickly!" One of the Elves broke the tension with a shout and either the group could understand their language or they sensed the sudden hostility in the air because six of seven immediately leapt forward with a speed and ferocity that eclipsed the Elves' own.
Coloured lights glowed on their bodies as they flew forward. Shards of ice formed but then struck invisible barriers and shattered instantly; only Elves capable of using 'Counter' were present in this room as only that magic gave one a fighting chance against their ancient foes. Likewise, bolts of fire or blades of wind were dispersed and spikes of stone bursting out of the ground ceased mid-motion and split apart.
Though the Elves were relieved to see their defences so effective their nerves had still been damaged by the near-instantaneous assault. When they struck back moments later their blows met only empty air; the attackers almost melting away as they retreated to their original positions and seemed to be forming a defensive line. Snarling loudly as they went the giant in front stepped forward and swung their massive weapon with two hands directly at the Elf who had called out.
The attack's force was dissipated by 'Counter', but even the dispersed impact caused the ground to crack around him. It had come out with such speed and force that he'd been utterly unable to react to it; even with the six before the Elves had been caught mid-dodge but this was on an entirely different level. Although his spell was still going strong he'd felt it tremble in response to the impact and that was an utterly unique sensation.
Then the titanic figure raised their maul above their head and roared.
"ZAL-MARIK!"
The head of their weapon had, on the striking surface, the impression of a monstrous face. Its 'eyes' lit up with a golden glow at the strange war cry, and runes inscribed on the sides of the hammers began to shine with an ethereal blue light that formed curious flames about the weapon that seemed to solidify into a glassy shape for only an instant before shattering into an new position.
When they swung it again a clear, beautiful sound rang out in its wake. The Elf did his best to leap backwards and this was all that saved him. That tremendous blow met his protective barrier and
something flowed into it. An instant later he felt it split open and the hammer passed neatly through the space his chest had been occupying only a moment before. He was just
barely clipped by it at the zenith of the swing and even that sent him flying backwards and spinning sideways with what felt like a shattered shoulder.
Another Elf turned to cry out a command as the titan recovered from their swing yet fell silent when they felt a faint pricking sensation on their neck. Unseen and unstoppable the golden-eyed one had appeared behind them at some point. Their bizarrely-shaped dagger had passed through the 'Counter' field like it wasn't even there and was now pressed against their neck.
Then they began to speak; quietly, calmly, even in a friendly tone as they cycled through language, after language, after language, after language. Everyone had gone very still at this strange attempt at diplomacy. Finally, on the tenth attempt, they spoke in a tongue that the Elf recognised; it belonged to one of the human nations across the sea.
"How about this one?" They swallowed heavily; restraining the urge to nod and instead weakly replying in kind.
"Yes… yes, I understand it. Who are you? What do you want?" The titan shifted forward and everyone tensed; but they only laid their maul down on the ground and pulled their helmet off. Underneath was a furious looking woman with thick red hair that had somehow been contained within the depths of that helm. When she spoke it was with a thick accent that didn't suit the language they were speaking at all and with a barely restrained rage that chilled the blood.
"My name is
Red, and I want you damned heathens to tell me one thing!" She reared her head back and roared so loudly that every single Elf within nearly a mile of the Gate could hear it. Even her own companions covered their ears.
"WHERE IS MY HUSBAND!"
