Chapter 54: His Pack

He was sleeping, perhaps. That must have been what the feeling was. Or perhaps he was dead, senseless and shattered. He could not tell the difference; he did not know if there was a difference. He was thinking still, but there was no sensation at all.

He was drifting, surrounded by darkness. It was not the black of shadows and Skal'ai, twisted and malign, but rather an utter absence that deprived him of all feeling. He saw nothing, he heard nothing, he felt nothing. Half-heartedly, he wondered if he had lost his body, wondered if he was now a spirit like Andahiel and the dead. All this assuming that he still lived, and if he lived then surely Sin must have fallen.

On and on he lay in the silence and darkness, drafting aimlessly. Was he waiting? He did not know. There was something off, an eerie disturbance that unsettled him. It was not for a while that he realized what it was—it was not an interruption, but rather a lack. He had lived so long with the voices of Andahiel, with the voices of the dead. From the instant of his birth, he been surrounded by the presence. In the Outlands, he had felt the world around him, like the familiarity of a mother's womb. During his travels, he had heard the voices of the dead inside of him, the sounds of a thousand incorporeal spirits inside of him. He had been with Sister, grown so accustomed to company and companionship that he now found himself at an utter loss without it. The thought came to him suddenly, a chilling truth.

He was alone now.

He had no voice to scream with, no hands to claw with, not even a body of his own that he could feel. He was drifting in the darkness, utterly alone. And without a heartbeat, and without body to keep alive, could he even die? Could he even find an end to this? Or was he merely doomed to wander in this abeyance without resolution?

Time passed, although he had no way of knowing it. Time trickled through senseless fingers, although he had no way of feeling it pass. Hopelessly, he waited for something, anything, a change from this boundless nothing that he was stranded in. Finally a moment of inspiration struck him, or perhaps a thought of desperation. He wondered if this darkness was truly senseless darkness, if he was truly in this broken world.

Slowly, he pressed down on his thoughts, pain shooting through him as he opened his Mind's Eye. Pain. Never had he thought that the sensation would be so welcome, that he could have wanted it so much. But the pain was a reminder of life, a reminder that he was still there. Where there was pain, his thread wound on.

And when his Eye opened, he nearly wept, for after so long alone in the abyss, he saw. He saw the ruined walls of the palace hall, saw the charred stone and the burnt tapestries. He saw the melted glass, misshapen and malformed with a myriad of colors. He saw them all.

He saw his hands, the claws on his left hand shattered and broken. Blood caked the stumps of each claw, dried and crusted. He saw his scarred fur and torn scales, his flesh marred by sulfide. He saw his bruised and battered body, covered in wounds that might seem mortal for any mere man. He could see them all, and he nearly wept at the relief that granted him.

But he could not feel his wounds, did not feel any pain from them. Gingerly, he pressed the claws of his right hand into the naked, flame-scarred flesh of his stomach, anticipating the stab of agony. Yet even as the claws cut and the skin wept blood, there was nothing.

Hurriedly then, he drew in a breath. His eyes saw his chest rise and fall, but his body felt nothing. Breathing in through his nose, he could smell nothing. Raking his claws against the stone until sparks flew, he could hear nothing. Slowly, trembling with nervousness, he closed his Mind's Eye. The sensation of vision left him, and once more he was sent back to that eternity of darkness, that mindless, senseless nothingness. It was as if his body was no longer his own, as if he was a spectator.

Opening his Mind's Eye once more, he fell forward gasping hard. Slowly he stood, the sensation utterly foreign and unexpectedly difficult. Over and over he struggled to rise to his feet, yet the moment that he did, he lost his balance and toppled over. He growled soundlessly, irritated at how far he had fallen, at how he was now no better than a newborn calf. When he finally staggered up and held his stance, only then could he focus on the world around him.

Corpses littered the front of the hall, their tanned skin split open and their bones shattered from where the Skal'ai had burst forth. Yet there were no shadows now, not even a lingering black mist from their presence. It was as if they had never been there, as if there had never even been any Skal'ai.

Slowly, Joy's gaze swept throughout the ruined hall. He saw shattered statues and broken stone, saw collapsed columns and cracked glass. Black scorch marks charred almost the entirety of the once-grand walls and floor, lingering traces of soulfire. Yet there was nothing where Sin had stood, not even bones, not even dust. There was nothing.

Tiredly, he stumbled away from that hall where far too many prices had been paid for such a thankless endeavor. Sister had died. Andahiel had died. The dead had died once again. All for Sin to die. And there was no trophy to take back home—not that he even had a home any longer—there were no spoils for this battle. Only wounds, he thought as he gazed down at his right arm, the flesh blackened and necrotic where the blackstone had once been buried. Only scars.

What now is there for me to live for, now that everything is gone? What purpose now do I hold?

As he was about to leave, he saw the pebbles on the ground begin to rattle. Turning in surprise, he saw hall itself come alive with motion, feral green marai in the air sinking into the ground with dancing sparks. The earth was churching, stone and dirt sliding and morphing in unnatural movement. It was not until he realized there were figures coming out of the ground that Joy realized what was happening.

Some took advantage of the statues already present, those charred figures suddenly groaning to life. Others formed raw from the dirt, the mud and earth shaping and sculpting muscle and hide. The strongest came from stone, the cracked surface almost like a liquid as it sloughed and fashioned blood and tissue. Ever slowly, Joy watched as earth and stone turned to flesh, grey and brown flaking, morphing into hide and skin. He saw with his Mind's Eye as their spirits blossomed, as the spark of white inside of them pulsed and throbbed and grew. He watched as they twitched with life, as the tendons and muscles worked, as their pallor lifted. He watched as their chest heaved with struggling awkwardness, fluid and mud coughing out of their lungs.

Some bore ruffling fur, others leathery skin, others still shimmering scales. Some bore horns, others crests, others nothing at all. Some looked vaguely like men, others bestial enough to sent an armyman fleeing with fright. No one looked alike, their eyes glittering in a myriad of colors. Some bore claws, others scythelike bones, others leathery wings large enough to almost span the entire hall. The largest was nearly twice his height, the smallest no larger that a pup. As he watched, their eyes blinked in quiet recognition, their mouths opening as they let out a howl that pitched towards the sky.

And Joy heard it.

Not with his senseless ears, but he heard it nevertheless in his mind. He felt it resounding through his head, a prideful gale loud enough to break steel. He felt it through the earth, through the tongue of his birth. He knew what they spoke, for these were same as him, born the same as him. They were demons.

They were young yet, their flesh weak and their senses poor. They had little but instinct holding them up, some of the weakest scrabbling awkwardly on the stones. Joy could see it in their souls; they were formed from the wills of the Malifori that had died here. They were formed from the ashes of those slaughtered people, who had died in lands not their own, in flesh no longer their own. They had died hopeless, without a bloodline nor a legacy. They had died with nothing left.

Joy had lived his life for the sake of vengeance. That was the will that had created him, that had carved him from the Outland stones. The Malifori had left a different will. Prosper, the commanded to the only children they had left. Grow and prosper.

Joy watched as the hundred demons met his gaze, their eyes glistening with primal instinct and curious intelligence. He watched the first demon strode towards him, holding the flesh of one of the statues that once stood in these halls: a swordsman guarding the king. He watched as those blue eyes blinked under a helmet of bone, watched as slowly, the demon knelt.

He watched as others of the hall's statues fell to their knees, the ground shaking as their bone armor struck the stone. He watched beasts crouched, as they bowed their heads in obeisance. He watched as the hall was filled with their downcast figures, until their tide covered the rubble-covered floor. Sunlight poured in all of a sudden from the ceiling, the star's path finally letting its light shine through the broken ceiling. The sudden radiance fell over the gathered mass of demons, glinting off of their still-wet flesh.

The first bladedemon struck his fist against the ground, letting out a savage growl. It was not like the tongue of man, with that strange inflection and twisting of the throat. This the primal tongue, the natural tongue. Joy had known it from birth, had known it from instinct. That growl was a word, a position, a promise. Pack, it spoke. Leader, it conveyed.

King, it howled.

Next came a demon borne from a cavalryman statue, his flesh melded between man and horse. He reared up on his legs, hooves striking the ground with a cloud of dust. King, he howled, his voice a deep-chested whinny. Then came a bat-like thing, with wings large enough to block out the sun. Throwing its wings wide, it scraped its claws against its own flesh, hard enough to draw blood. King, it howled, its voice a rattling shriek.

Then came a demon with bone-scythes large enough to fell a tree, striking them against the floor. King. Then came one from the statues of an archer, the arms of its bow formed from its own flesh. King. Then a shieldman, with forearms broad enough to protect two men each. King. A dog-like beast with four eyes, bristling with tusks and horns and spurs and spines that dripped with venom. King. King. King.

On and on it went through the hall, until the once-palace was filled with the rumblings and cries and howls and shrieks of demons. King, they demanded. King, they praised. King, they called him. Slowly, Joy felt his spine straighten, felt his doubts clear and newfound vigor run through his tired will. They wanted a king to lead. King, he howled, adding his own voice to the raucous cacophony that made the ruined walls tremble.

These were his people. His brothers and sisters. Prosper, their wills commanded. Grow and prosper, that the Malifori may live on in a new name. He would lead them. He would live on for their sake. For the sake of his people.

Joy roared in his namesake, his entire body trembling even though he could not feel it. He had been afraid. He had been mournful. He had lost his Sister. He had lost his pack. He had been alone.

He was no longer alone.