117 Final Day: Prelude to Bloodshed

Chapter 117: Final Day: Prelude to Bloodshed

/After its change, the Thing was faster, more nimble, and able to catch most things of the mountain more easily. It was big as an ox, strong as a bear, fast as an eagle, and ravenous like a starving wolf. In other words, it was almost as though it was made for hunting.

During that phase of its life, after the first metamorphosis, as spite drove it, the Thing was almost always hungry. It could hunt and kill, then feast as much as it wanted. It ate, and ate, and ate, but was never full. The boxes in the air appeared before it, taunting it as it feasted, any and all food vanishing in its stomach and instead going somewhere else entirely.

Never being sated, the Thing wanted to hunt more. Its muscles grew strong, each and every fiber pronounced under its grey skin. Its claws became sharper, and its legs monstrous in strength. The Thing was the ruler of its mountain, anything that moved on there only existed to be caught and eaten by it.

Yet, it was still never full. Driven by ravenous madness, it swiped at the boxes in the sky, them being the only things that always, surely, evaded its touch. It wished so badly to be full, so badly did it want to be fed, and yet no matter how much it stuffed into its maw, it never was. The hunger was driving the poor Thing mad, and there was nothing it could do but try and eat to stave it off, even a little.

But eventually, the mountain was bleak. There was no more movement, not the buzz of a fly in the air, because it had all been devoured by the Thing. Driven by starvation, the glutton began its descent after a mighty screech. It wasn't a roar that came from the Thing's maw, nor was it a cry, but a true screech. As though nails dragged across a chalkboard it was the kind of screech that made blood freeze in one's veins, that made brave people buckle, and wise people run.

It announced itself to the world, announced that the Thing was coming for anyone and anything it could get between its jagged teeth. It screeched so that they would run, run as far and as fast as they could, because it was coming, coming to catch them.

By now, the Thing had grown even more legs, all of them multi-jointed, some pointing and bending in ways that were simply wrong. As the Thing left the mountain, its sets of eyes gazed down, and spied for movement, and soon, it saw a few other things move about indeed. They had strange colours of skin, a scale from pinkish to pitch black. But they moved. It meant they had flesh, they had bones.

And thus, the Thing set upon them, hoping it would complete its second metamorphosis soon.

But the Thing was also immature, with many things still to learn. While those people ran and feared it, there was someone, or perhaps something else who had also heard the cry. To them, it was not a threat or anything the like, but a challenge for their title. If the Thing truly wanted to ravenously devour everything, then it would soon need to be hunted by the Hunter.

Still, the Hunter would take time, and before they arrived, there were other things for the Thing to eat. As an example, there was a boy, who was currently not in the village, and who was ready to come back to a dreadful, dreadful sight./

(Legends: The Thing - 3; Gluttony)

- - - - - -

That Modan was a long day. Mercury spent most of it in meditation, refining his mind's hammer and giving visualization further attempts to see if he couldn't land the concept. Being able to make things with his mind was any builder's dream, after all, and Mercury felt that the possibilities of it were limitless.

But he just couldn't quite focus. There was something very small distracting him, a slight hint of buzz in the back of his mind. Maybe it was the shift of the weather, or the wind, maybe even the altitude, but something just... didn't quite feel right. The cat felt restless, unsettled, and couldn't quite sit still, but none of his senses picked up anything out of the ordinary.

The mana in the air felt the same as always, the wind didn't sound any different, even the grass on the floor spoke of nothing out of the ordinary. Yet, Mercury felt something was off. It was almost as though somewhere quite far from where he was, a clock was slowly ticking down.

- - - - - -

By the evening of Modan, Berthorn stepped into Zyl's room again. It had almost become a ritual of his to gloat at the other man, to watch his face distort as the spark slowly travelled towards his chest. It was almost out now, far forward in his chest, and its glow seemed to faintly shine through, though perhaps that was simply Berthorn's imagination.

He smiled at the sight. Seeing this arrogant betrayer humbled was poetic to him.

"Your time is almost up," Berthorn said with scorn, stepping past the doorframe. "A page more is what you asked for, and that is precisely what you shall get."

Slowly, he began prancing around Zyl, wearing a mocking grin. "Tomorrow is the last day you have to spend freely. If you are not done by overmorrow noon, the mopaaw dies."

After that, heavy silence hung in the room for quite some time. Berthorn had stopped behind Zyl, turning around and gazing out the window rather than continue the conversation. This was freedom to him.

Usually, in a situation such as this, he would have to feel fear. Be worried that his red haired once brother would burst out and turn him to ashes. Well, try to do so, at least. Maybe he'd live losing a limb or two, yet what mattered wasn't the result, but rather the fear of it.

Very rarely were there times Berthorn did not fear. He was, at heart, a coward. He feared his superiors, and feared his underlings. Scared of a rebellion, he made sure to make them fear him just as much. In front of his superiors, he groveled, and bowed. Kneeling even when no one asked.

As a result of all that, Berthorn knew how to read a room. He knew when someone was hostile, what words would bother people, and simply watching became one of his greatest pleasures. Because those eyes of his told him so much.

He learned of secrets by watching how people acted. Their habits when they lied, who they were afraid of, and how to manipulate them. It helped him learn weaknesses, and with his eyes, he rose through the ranks. But even with all that, with status and nobility, Berthorn feared.

Regardless of how sharp his eyes were, of how much he knew, he was still fragile. There were people out there, monsters to him, who could crush him more than quickly. And he was forced to work very closely with one of them.

When his superiors assigned him to gather Zyl's spark, Berthorn was not excited at the prospect. It was a dangerous mission, and he had to deal with a person he would rather never see again. Up until now he had asked politely, negotiated for it, even tried to threaten the country, yet every time the response was simple.

Silence his pleas or be burnt to ash.

Over time, Berthorn grew to resent Zyl further than he had even before, but at the same time, his fear grew. Like a wave, threatening to throw him off a ship, it started small but gradually grew larger, slamming into him with more force each encounter. He had barely been holding on, oftentimes running away.

That fear fostered jealousy of Zyl, and even more resentment. He had to run so many times, was so unable to do anything, he resorted back to what he always did and watched. Berthorn watched as Zyl met a mopaaw, as they talked and grew closer, and a smile was on his face not long after.

Finally, he had grasped a weakness of the betrayer.

Now, he looked out the window, over grasslands and forests, houses down below the cliff, and people going about their daily life and took a deep breath. The air felt refreshing, relieving even, and he felt free. As though he had sprouted a pair of wings and was ready to take off into the sky like he had last done as a child.

And Berthorn smiled as he turned around, a truly happy grin on his face as he watched Zyl suffer. His days as a shadow would be no more. After so long, he would finally be free.

- - - - - -

Zyl, on the other hand, wanted to groan in pain at that very moment. It felt as though his chest was about to burst, the blood rushing through his veins feeling like it was boiling. Waves and waves of heat travelled through him, frying his brain as he struggled to hold onto his thoughts.

What he held onto wasn't anger or resentment anymore, that could only fuel him for so long. The deep sea of his wrath was covered in a layer of flames. It was no longer a safe haven. Rather than that, where he sought shelter for himself was an island on there. One built from memories.

His sense of self clung onto the rocks tightly, not letting the tides of fury or pain sweep them away. Each one was precious, precious ground to maintain who he was after all.

Just maintaining that island wasn't quite enough though. He clung to each rock like it was a lifeline, and he had to stay close to them, but there was something more to do as well. Zyl spent most of his time fanning the flames that enveloped him. The waves of heat that spread through were his as well. Because the spark he was getting out, the fragment, was also just part of him.

On the side, he heard Berthorn threaten him again. The sea level rose, then sunk once again, like a wave crashing against his island. It didn't distract him. He was just as worried as before, and still stalling a little. Each second was important, giving Alexander more time to find Mercury. To be there when he needed protection, to send him a message, any word at all that his friend was safe.

If it didn't come, well, when Weddan came around, he would give up the spark at noon. That decision was set in stone, all that was left was to wait. And to endure.

- - - - - -

After Modan came Tudan. The final day before Weddan rolled back around. The sky was cloudy, largely, and it looked as though by the evening, rain would pour down.

Most people weren't bothered by that very much, least of all Scarlet. She had sent out letters to those she hoped to consider allies, inviting them to her place. They had arrived Modan night, and by the time the sun first greeted the land, their meeting was held in secret.

All of them knew what king Fulthur had decided on. That the war was done. That blood had watered the fields enough, and it was time to try and bring down cows and crops, construct gardens that would last and feed them through the winter. The idea sat right with none of them.

In that room were many generals of the north, and distinguished soldiers as well. Perhaps the most surprising guest was Fulthur's first son, hailed as Evlenor's brave warrior. Scarlet smiled. If he was here, then perhaps that bravery wasn't brave at all, but rather prideful or simply foolish.

"Greetings, esteemed guests!" she said, throwing her remaining arm to the side, and conjuring up a second with fire. She wouldn't be able to lift a glass with it, but it certainly looked impressive, and charisma was more important than strength in a room such as this.

The idle chatter between the attendants ceased, as all eyes were drawn to the 'Crimson Queen'. Some of that was due to her volume, while others only turned their head when a small, invisible pressure set down on them.

"All of you already know why you are here. You have heard my message, received my summons, and you have turned up for one reason and one reason only!" Scarlet yelled, her tone feverish. "You are not here today to hear me talk and say nothing. Thus, I won't. I do not want the war to end yet, and neither do you, that is why you are here!"

One after another, the guests nodded. Some leaned back and cupped their hands, wanting to hear further prospects, more slammed the table and yelled in agreement. They were not here because of the cool head on their shoulders, most weren't, but rather because of their hot hearts.

Only the first prince looked a little uncomfortable. That much was natural though, given the nature of her proposal. Scarlet grinned, again, locking eyes with the young royal.

"Indeed, this war with Nevarzahri must not yet be over. Our clansmen have spilled their blood, have broken their bones! Many of our own families have made losses, how many of you weep for your spouses, those who died bravely fighting, and those who starved because the aristocrats do not recede?!"

This time, the people yelled back with more fervour. Even the ones who had remained calm and collected before were dragged into the mood, as she rose the heat in the room. She could feel the blood of these fine people boiling, their pride and their anger as clear as hers.

"Our king is a wise man," she said, making a concession. "But that wisdom is not what we need now! He is treating our lives like currency, aiming to buy enough land for the others to get by. He is saying that what we have achieved now is enough!" the words were ground through her teeth.

"BUT IT IS NOT!!!" she yelled, slamming her fist onto the table hard enough to spill mead and leave behind a net of cracks.

"This land we have bought with our blood is not enough! The southerners have taken so much, they made us starve, and now we negotiate in blood? That cannot be!! I refuse to barter with my enemies, I refuse to give them even a single inch of ground, I refuse to pay them, because THEY! MUST! PAY!!"

The room now roared along with her.

"I paid my own arm, and the king says it is enough?! Fulthur wants you to lay down your pride, bury it with your swords. He wants you to forget your grievances, your anger, your loss. He wants you to forget the winters that you have passed in a small home with no warmth to sapre, the times you have watched your children starve, and the blood your families have given to this cause. But that is not what you want, is it?!"

Everyone in attendance called back. "NAY!" It wasn't enough.

"Then do not rest!" Scarlet roared. "When Fulthur says to lay down your weapons, raise them! Raise your axes and shields, and run down south! Their city has braved storms, but what are southern storms but small winds?! We will show them a blizzard the like of which those bastards have never seen! We won't concede an inch, we won't lay down and show our bellies, we fight!"

"AY!"

"WE FIGHT TO THE LAST BREATH!!! TO THE LAST DROP OF BLOOD!!! FOR OUR FAMILIES!!"

"FOR OUR FAMILIES!!!" the crowd roared back.

"FOR EVLENOR!!" she called.

"FOR EVLENOR!!" they echoed.

"FOR BLOOD!!" she screamed, at the top of her lungs.

"FOR BLOOD!!!" her fury was returned a hundredfold.

The war was not over.

The northern siege engine was made from these people. These generals and strategists, as well as the valiant fighters among the ones she invited. Their hearts burned the same, and their will was one. No matter what the king said, he served the people, and the people of the north knew the worth of their blood.

Scarlet smiled sinisterly as the people continued roaring. Her eyes darted to the first prince, who had been dragged in. Standing on the frontlines, he'd know what it was like. Certainly there were people he couldn't forgive, faces of southerners he remembered, those who had bested him, who had killed men he considered comrades.

That was more than enough to let him rise up against his father. Perhaps, in the heat of things, Fulthur would die. She cared not. He was a fool for thinking the war would end so soon, a fool to ask them to lay down their weapons.

She knew these people well, had grown up with some of them, drank from their cups. They knew her too, and she was trusted. Her words were heavy, and now they would bow to her. A single day was enough time to gather their forces. Tomorrow at dawn, they would stand at the gates of Stormbraver, a roaring blizzard, their hearts lit ablaze.

What they had lost would be repaid double. What had been taken would be taken back thrice, and for every soldier they lost, they'd carve out four more on the other side.

Fulthur wanted peace.

His people wanted bloodshed.

And Scarlet was ready to give them just that.

'You just wait, Priestess,' she finally thought, listening to the roars for blood as though they were music. 'I'll show you fire.'