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Vanguard, Chapter 23: Legacy

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In The Wastelands, the unwary traveler would only find two things: death's hand, and a mouthful of sand. So the saying went, and there was yet anyone to prove it wrong. In The Wastelands, where the sun never seemed to set, where water was a myth and a fairy tale, and where demons roamed about like wolves, one could ask themselves what a traveler was doing there in the first place-—unwary or not. Much less when the lands were swept clean in a sandstorm like this one.

The wind ripped and screamed like a mad banshee, sparing no thought to what havoc it may wreak in its path. The sands were like a million needles, prickling and digging into the skin of one particularly bold soldier, who made his way through the chaos.

It was high noon, but the sun was nowhere to be seen—not through this ocean of sand that howled its way over the dunes. The soldier that pushed his way through the sandstorm had no way of knowing where he was, nor how far he was from his destination—only that he was slowly making his way forward, putting one armored foot in front of the other, and trying to breathe as little sand as possible. The sand underneath him gave way for his heavy steps, but every time he did, it seemed as if the sandstorm quickly hurried to cover it up again, and take his foot with it. He knew he had to keep moving or the sands underneath him would eat him up, as if the desert itself was a huge, all-consuming mouth... to hell, some theorized. Some said the demons came up through the sand at night, and being consumed would mean dumping into their hellish realm. Others said that the demons were already walking around, over the sand, but were in some kind of parrallel dimension, and somehow managed to break through from time to time. Himself, though? He believed that demons were already here, walking about... wearing armor and looking an awful lot like humans.

He was wearing a thick scarf, wrapped around his entire face to avoid getting sand in his eyes and mouth. It flapped and whipped like a flag, and over the sound of screaming winds, he could hear the rattle of sand colliding with his armor. It had been newly polished, but after this, no amount of polish would be able to straighten out the thousands upon thousands of tiny cuts, that was damn well certain. Still, he pushed on. A tarnished armor was, after all, much better than death's hand and a mouthful of sand, as they said.

It seemed almost endless, though. The sands just wouldn't stop coming, and he considered for a moment sitting down to rest, trying to shield himself under his armor. Besides, he had no idea which way he was going, and for all he knew, all this walking could have brought him even further away from the camp. However... amidst all the bad luck, a shred of hope seemed to twinkle. Looking upwards, he could see the sun breaking through the sands. That meant the sandstorm was about to dwindle. He let out a relieved sigh and pressed on, knowing that it couldn't be long by now.

And he was right. Within a few moments' time, the sandstorm passed, and while a little wind still swept behind it, no more sand came flying to cut at his armor and the cloth around his face. He looked upwards at the sun, and for once, felt thankful to see it. Taking in a long breath of clear air, he took off the white linen scarf, and felt the sun clear on his face.

Duncan slumped to his knees, thankful to be finally out of that atrocity. He knew several good people who had perished in sandstorms like these, and while he hated this place with all his heart, dying in a sandstorm wasn't the way he wanted to go. He sat there for a few moments, feeling his strength returning to his limbs—first the legs, those things that had carried him through the sandstorm, feeling almost completely numb by now. All he could feel in them was a burning sensation, and the movement of his own blood. He looked up at the sun and pulled his hairband out, letting his black locks fall down the sides of his face, freely swaying in the dwindling winds. However, he wasn't given all that long to catch his breath, before he realized that someone might not have been as lucky as him, in this sandstorm.

It was just a little brown dent in the distance, but it was all he needed. The land here was endlessly flat, harboring only mile after mile of desolate landscape, earth so crisp that it was riddled with cracks and dust that seemed to go on forever. The only company that a soldier like himself would meet out here was the occasional passing tumbleweed... so what he looked upon now was definitely not an every day sight.

He quickly stood up, ignoring the pain in his legs, knowing that he didn't have time to dally. What lied in the distance looked distinctly like brown cloth with someone underneath it. He grabbed a hold of the metal flask at his belt, and gave it a shake. Still a few drops. It would have to do.
“I'm coming! Hang in there!” he called out, his voice lost in the wasteland void, though he hoped for all in the world that whoever laid there, could hear him. He set into a steady jog, breathing heavily, his legs on fire. And when he finally came close enough and looked down upon the bundle of brown cloth, he saw how it was breathing heavily too.

“Hey... hey you. Are you alright?” he asked. Whoever was beneath the bundle of cloth was hidden completely; it was a very small person, though, and probably a child. Duncan knew these native teachings somewhat, and knew that all children were taught to just sit down and turtle up if they were alone in a sandstorm. And that was exactly what this kid was doing.

“The sandstorm has passed now.” He said, trying to put more emphasis on his tone than his words. He knew the natives couldn't speak the common tongue anyway, just like most soldiers couldn't speak theirs. There was the occasional diplomat that went to their tribes to trade water for food or weaponry, but they were rare, and he knew for a certain he wasn't any. So, with a little sigh, he drew out his sword and peeled off the robes of the child. When the face peeked out to look at him, he quickly regretted ever doing that.

It was a girl. No ordinary girl, though-—it was that girl. He had dreaded seeing those gentle green eyes again, and the helpless stare that he felt digging right into his heart, and beyond. He stood up abruptly, staring down at her as she sat there, arms wrapped around her knees, wearing the same poncho... the one he had seen her die in.

“You need to kill her, Duncan.” Lex's voice came out of thin air, it seemed, but as he snapped his gaze to his left, there he stood. He was wearing the white lab coat that he never seemed to take off, but he wasn't wearing his bird's mask this time. His face, pale and elven smooth in comparison to the girl's, was distorted in spite, his lips peeled back in an angry frown, and his eyes allowing no debate. But Duncan's eyes didn't linger on his face, that which he held in his hand drawing far more of his attention. Just looking at it made him feel sick to his stomach. That gun... that damned, sinful gun.

Duncan looked between Lex and the girl, and he wanted to run away... but he knew what Lex said was true. The girl had to die. She was infested-—infested with demons. It was for her own good. Before he even realized it, there he stood, gun in hand, pointing it at the girl. Time didn't seem to matter, yet every second felt like an eternity as he stood there, staring into the girl's green eyes. It was the exact same look as before, that he saw in them. That look of pleading helplessness... the confusion. She didn't even know what was going on. She didn't even know she was going to die.

“I'm so sorry...” Duncan whimpered. He didn't want to do this, but he knew he had no choice. In the end, it all played out as it had done before: he pulled the trigger.

BANG!

His eyes flung open, and he rushed up in his bed. His mind was a haze, caught somewhere between the dream and reality, still not sure how to tell one from the other. He looked down at his hands, at the moonlit blanket over his legs, and saw how his arms glistened with sweat in the same silver glow. His entire body felt sticky, and with good reason. He breathed rapidly, trying to get as much of the cold and nightly air inside of him, to cool down the burning sensation in his stomach. After a few quick breaths, he calmed down. His body realized that he was safe and sound, and began to breathe normally. He closed his eyes for a moment, and let out a long sigh. Another nightmare.

He slung his legs out the side of his bed, and felt the dusty floor under his bare feet. He looked forward and saw the moonlight that fell in through the open window, in through the swaying curtains. A cold wind invaded his room, and tingled on his bare skin. He welcomed it.

Looking around himself, he tried to take in as much as he could, just to make completely sure that he wasn't still in some dark crevasse of his own mind. He stood up, only clad in his undergarments, and picked up a small toy from one of the drawers of his room. He smiled a little. It was an ancient little thing, from years long since passed. A little stuffed cat, only the size of his hand, and with paws that could be posed in any way the user wanted it to. One hind leg was gone, though, as was the right eye of the poor thing. He felt the toy properly through, all the dust it had gathered, the softness of its woolen texture... yes, he was indeed in reality. Putting the thing back, he sat down on his bed again, and put on his clothes.

However, he was only halfway clothed, before the image of that little girl appeared in his head again. He felt a cold chill in his blood, and stopped what he was doing. He closed his eyes, and tried so hard to forget. To forget the look she had given him-—those green eyes, so full of fear and bewilderment. If only... if only he could have told him what was going to happen to her. But she just sat there, confused and frightened, before he put a bullet between her pretty eyes.

He sighed, and shook his head. He knew he was going to take that memory to his grave, whether he wanted it or not. The Wastelands were long gone... but still, the war always came back to haunt him. He gazed out the window, into the silver-tinted horizon, where the hills danced and the grass bowed to the wind. And while he knew that the war would always be an undying echo in his mind, he feared it was not going to settle with just that. Not with a demon army on one side, and a government that wanted to silence him on the other. He remembered asking himself if he could ever live a normal life... at this rate, he knew the world wouldn't let him.

He rose from his bed, and stepped up to the window. He had put his shirt on now, and his denim trousers too. He felt the cold breezes brush against his cheeks, and gently pull at his hair. He looked over the town of Casserton, and heard the river in the background. The panorama of straw-roofed houses and green hills was a spectacular sight from his room, which was on the third and highest floor of his mother's home. He could see everywhere from the tallest estate on the very top of the great slope, to the river-houses at the very end. He could feel the nostalgia bubble up inside of him... but there was one place in particular he knew he had to visit.

He cast a glance down the window sill; true enough, there was the ladder that he had once made with his father, to make quick descent directly from his room. Slinging his legs over the edge, he prayed that the ladder would hold, as he made his way down, quiet as to not wake up the others.

When he dumped down below, he felt the grass tickle at his ankles, and the soft earth give way underneath his weight. He looked in through the windows and saw his mother, sitting in her rocking chair, bathed in the humble glow of a candle that was about to die out. He smiled a little. She was sleeping soundly with a book on her stomach. It was a relief to see her peaceful like this, despite what he had told her yesterday... his smile disappeared. It was a shame he had to tell her. She had probably expected great stories of victory and brotherhood, but all she got was the disillusion of what really was going on, and the news that it might be coming right to her doorstep. That wasn't what a mother wanted to hear, after seeing her son for the first time in years. But it was the sad truth, no matter how you mask it. With a little sigh, he turned around on his heel, and set off into the town of Casserton.

All the lights were out now, in this town. Night was at its highest, and everyone had gone to sleep... well, nearly everyone. Duncan jogged through the streets, the smooth and wide streets, looking in through windows and trying to recognize it all from those years ago. He had to admit, it had changed a little. The little tobacco boutique on the corner had given way to a shoemaker, and the toy store that he remembered spending many hours at was disturbingly abandoned, full of cobwebs and dust. All the toys were still there, as if the owner had just thrown up his arms one day and shouted “No more!”, and left for another life. That, however, was highly unlikely.

Soon after, he came to a stop. He had jogged through the town, through all the districts, seeing the slow change from large, boastful slope-houses, to smaller, humbler river-houses. However, when even they had begun to disappear, there was only one thing left to see. And he was standing before it right now.

'Casserton Cemetery', the sign above wrote, all covered in mold and moss. It wasn't tended all that much to, it seemed, and he wondered why. If there was anything here that needed to be tended and kept clean, surely it was the place where you buried and kept your dead. He shook his head slightly, and ignored it, as he stepped inside.

It was dark here, now that the lantern posts of the streets were long gone. There were two of them at the entrance of the cemetery, but darkness enveloped the one who ventured inside. Even so, in the moonlight, he could see it all quite clearly—-or was it just old memory guiding his way? All the tombstones, some of them humble and small, others great and boastful with angel sculptures weeping over them. He figured these had to be some of the wealthier folk, since they had the money to boast the size of their pouches, even in death. There was a slight mist over the cemetery, as was so common for places like these, and he felt it tickle around his ankles. There was a great mausoleum as well, in the middle of it all, which was strictly reserved to all mayors. He remembered it being built, though, and the mayor who decided it had to be made was still alive. So, it was completely empty, so far. But pretty nonetheless.

However, as he made his way deeper into the cemetery, through tiny paths that wound between all the graves, there was one particular tombstone that caught his attention. He smiled as he saw it. This was definitely the one. It was nowhere near as boastful as some of the greater ones, but even so, he could almost recognize it by its smell, at this point. He crouched down before it, and looked at the little bush that grew at its side. He remembered having planted it there himself, and it had grown quite a lot since he had last seen it. Someone must have tended to it. However, whoever did, seemed like they hadn't tended to the tombstone itself... for it was covered in a thick layer of dust, like that you would find upon old books in forgotten libraries. Duncan reached forward, and wiped away the dust, so the name became clear in the moonlight.

'Kendrew Montgomery Ross', it wrote. He smiled. It was a long time since he had heard his father's name, or even read it. Yet here it was. He sat down by the grave, legs folded under himself. He took a long breath of the cold cemetery air, and closed his eyes. He whispered a quiet prayer, one to Morrin, the god of death and slumber, before he folded his hands on his lap and began to speak.

“Hello... father.” he began, his voice quiet and solemn, as if he didn't want to disturb the other dead around him “It has been too long since we spoke. I hope you'll forgive me for that, but as I am sure you know, I've had no option to visit your grave for the last few years. But, here I am. I just wanted you to know that mother and I are doing alright. We're pushing through... we miss you, though.” he chuckled quietly “I remember all too clearly the fun we used to have when you were still alive, and I was but a little boy. The ladder we made together, the book you gave me... I've treasured its lessons, and taken them deeply to heart, you know. 'Know thine enemy', right? Thing is... I'm having a little trouble figuring out who that is. It's all just a little... hazy, these days.”

He shook his head “But I digress. I hope you're doing well up there, in Morrin's arms. If I'm lucky, maybe I'll get to meet you there, once my time comes. Wouldn't that be great? Anyway... rest well, father. I'm going on quite the trip... and I'm not sure if I'm going to return. If I don't, know that I won't ever forget you. Mother sure hasn't, and I won't either. Even if you can't be by my side, you'll always be with me, one way or another. Of all the shrines I've had, and all the prayers I've spoken on the battlefield... you were always the one I really worshiped.” he finished with a little gesture of his hand in reverence of Morrin, and opened his eyes. He didn't sit up quite yet, though. He wanted to enjoy the silence for a little while longer... but a certain someone saw it fit not to let him have that.

“That was... pretty.” Duncan snapped his head towards the sound of the voice and saw, bathed in the moonlight, Rose. He had instinctively reached for his blade-—even though it was still in his room—-but he calmed down when he saw her, sitting there, on one of the larger tombstones. Her legs dangled over the edge, and the weeping angel of the tombstone she was sitting on seemed as if it was weeping for her, for some reason.

“You must really have loved your father.” she said, an odd and alien sympathy in her voice. Though faint in the darkness, Duncan could make out a little caring smile on her face. Was it real? He couldn't quite tell. He slowly rose from the mossy ground, and brushed off his clothing.

“I did... I did.” Duncan confirmed, casting a slow glance down at his father's grave “It was many years ago, though, since I had last enjoyed his company. I was just a boy, really, blissfully ignorant of the rigors of adulthood... running in tulip fields and chasing butterflies all day.” he said with a little smile of his own. However, when he looked back at Rose, he saw that she obviously didn't have much to contribute on that subject... and with good reason.

“I can imagine.” she stated quietly, her gaze falling to the ground, seeming like she was trying to understand what childhood was like. Duncan opened his mouth, wanting to apologize for bringing up such a sensitive subject, but he was interrupted “How did he go, then?”

A little befuddled by the sudden question, Duncan didn't answer right away. His mouth closed, his eyebrow quirked, and he looked back down at the grave. He sighed, scratching the back of his head “I remember it like it was yesterday... even though it happened way before I could call myself a man; way before I enlisted in The Crusade. It was in the middle of the night, that my mother woke me up to tell me that my father had fallen ill, and was sent to the medical center...” he shook his head “I've never seen a man die so fast from illness. He seemed alright the day before, but then, in the morning... no more Kendrew. I wasn't even allowed to see him—-my mother was probably afraid that it would scar me. And, chances are that she was right. Still... it isn't easy going to bed one day with a father, then waking up without one.” he took in a quick breath, and looked over at Rose “But I don't mean to talk your ear off. Mind if I ask what you're doing out here, in the middle of the night, in a cemetery?”

Rose let out a quiet snort, scooting herself off the tombstone “I would've said that I was doing the same as you, but when you began praying, I reconsidered. I just wanted a breath of fresh air, really. I don't sleep often... and the night is so quiet, usually. I don't like missing it.” she wandered about the place, crouching down by tombstones, reading the names, the last words, eyes so full of curiosity.

Duncan's eyes lingered on her as he moved to one of larger tombstones, one even a few inches taller than himself and with an ominous gargoyle on. He leaned up against it, arms folded across his chest, merely a meter or two from Rose. He tried to smile a little “You seemed to sleep well in the cart, though. It was a long ride too, and being awake that whole while could prove... tedious.” his head inclined at her, and he let out a breath from his nose “You even said that you dreamed... about your childhood, no less. I overheard you speaking with Ramund about that... but I wonder: was it true?”

Rose sat there for a little while, crouched down by the tombstone, her mouth silent and her fingers tapping anxiously at her knees. Clearly, she hadn't expected Duncan to have heard this. She sat down, unto the mossy pathway, looking up at the moon.

“...No.” she confessed “No, it wasn't. Of course it wasn't. I just didn't want to say that I had a nightmare... again.” her shoulders sagged, her head lowering in shame “Ever since I lost my powers, I've been having these strange dreams... nightmares. It's why I haven't been getting much sleep... I don't want to go back to them. And they're always the same. They start with me, in a cold and dark room with walls I can't see, wrapped in a straitjacket and tied down at a table. And then, one by one, demons come in and steal a part of me. A leg. An arm. My stomach. The pain always feels as if it is real, and it never wakes me up. I try to scream, but my mouth is gagged. I try to close my eyes, but they are peeled open with metal pins.”

Duncan felt ice run through his veins as she told about her dreams... it sounded as if she was all too familiar with these things “In the end, I feel so... violated. I'm left as a vestige of my former self, and all I want is to get my body parts back. It's only when they come and pry out my eyes, that I wake up.” she chewed at her lips, and stood up, turning to face Duncan. In the moonlight, he could see how red circles had shaped around her eyes... she was on the verge of tears.

“Do you know what that's like, Duncan?” She asked, but it was clear that she knew the answer “Every time I sleep, the same torture. I never hold my eyes closed too long, in fear of having to plunge into these nightmares again. It's... maddening! And I who thought... I was mad enough.”

Her voice was shivering; shivering like the cold of night, but it came to an abrupt end as she felt Duncan's hands clasp around hers. She was cold-—deathly cold, as if she had never been alive. He looked into her eyes, those that glimmered with tears in moonlight, and smiled. Softly, kindly, a smile to tame the most distraught of hearts. Their eyes met and lingered for a little while in one another, drowned away in quiet looks, entire minutes passing with only the song of cool breezes of night to be heard. After a little while, Duncan shook his head slowly.

“You're not mad, Rose.” he said, finally, his voice carrying surprising sincerity and sympathy “I don't believe you are. I think you're hurt, though-—badly. Wounded, even, and scarred to a point where it could be mistaken for insanity. But deep inside, Rose, you are still you... somewhere in there, you can find the child that you can't remember being. And, in time, we'll find out who that is. We'll find out who your father was, who your mother was, why you are who you are... our childhoods are the foundation of who we are, and you have been so unfortunate to lose yours. Of course people would label you as insane—-it's just so much easier! And when nobody, not even yourself, know who you truly are, who can blame them? But we'll solve that mystery, Rose...” he held her hands a little tighter “Isn't that what you're here for, after all? You don't follow us, simply because you have nowhere to go... and I know you're not out for heroism. No. You just want to know who you really are, don't you?”

Duncan remained silent after that, and he could see how no more words were necessary, anyway. The look on Rose's face told loud and clear that he had struck something, deep inside of her. She didn't flinch from his touch, didn't back away... she just stood there, stifled, unsure of what to say. She swallowed and rubbed her eyes with her free hand, her voice still stuttering as she spoke “It wasn't supposed to be like this... you weren't supposed to get so close.” Duncan felt his heart sink at her words “You need to leave me alone, Duncan.” her cold hand slipped from his, and she turned around, her body jittering and her hands clenched together in fists “You need to leave, and never come this close again. I only hurt those who get too close to me... and if you knew what I am like on the inside, you would know that it is for your own best.”

“But... Rose, I—-“

“Just stop!” she snarled over her shoulder, her teeth baring and her fists clenching 'till her knuckles were icy white “You are waking up things inside of me that should have remained asleep 'till the day I close my eyes for good. Don't you understand? You're playing with the fire here, and if you get too close, I won't be able to stop the burn. We're allies, Duncan. Nothing more. The moment that we get to Nightweald and find my memories... we're going each our ways. For your own good, never forget that. I promise you: I won't.” Duncan was left in bitter silence as he saw her stomp off, quickly disappearing into the darkness. He stood there, locked in timeless pain, unsure of how long. For a moment, he thought he had actually reached into her... like the time he did, at the inn before Westport, gazing out over the river. But this time, all he got out of it was a cold lump of ice in his stomach, and a sour taste in his mouth. His arms sagged down his side as he let out a disappointed sigh. Maybe it was pointless. Maybe she was a lost cause. One thing was for certain, though... she was a mystery. And here he thought he had begun to understand her. The fool he'd been.

Stuffing his hands down his pockets and saying a somber farewell to his father, he took his bitter leave, and tried to get some sleep before the dawn.

As night grew old and tired, the shadows had no choice but to give way for the first sweeping brooms of light, as the sun rose in glory over the world. Its light fell upon everything, everywhere, and everyone. Dogs woke and began to bark at one another, and the birds sung their praises in the trees and in the sky, where the stars shyly hid themselves once more, outshined by the sun. The sun, glorious and great as it was, reached all the way to Westport too, where the shadows were thick and the streets gloomy; it reached to Retby, where mud and cattle reigned; it reached to Aegon, where the smoke still stood in great plumes, and demons roamed the streets; and it reached far north, past the thousand puddles of Rimnoll, over the dark woods of Nightweald, all the way to the great city of Godshill.

Here it was seen climbing over the mountain peaks in the distance, gilding their snowy caps and their grassy facades, and the great valley at their feet. The rocky expanse swept far into the horizon, jagged and spiky, full of shards that seemed as if they had been chipped straight off the mountainsides and tumbled into the valley—-nowhere near as smooth as the plains to the west, and with no trees like the valley to the south. But still, it had its own beauty... especially thanks to the golden crown in the midst of it all: Godshill itself.

The reason it was named as it was, was quite clear, even from a great distance away—in fact, it was near impossible to miss. The city was built upon the mountain slopes to the north, around a strange formation in the earth that seemed almost like the horn of a rhinoceros, sticking out of the mountain itself. Thousands upon thousands of steps climbed unto this majestic hill, and at the very tip of it, was the so-called 'Angel's Ascent'. Rumor and stories engulfed this strange building, but all could agree on how it got its name. It was from the tale of an angel who fell from the heavens, and lost her wings. She was tested by all five gods, one test for each god, to deem her faithfulness and devotion. It was only after the fifth test, given to her by the king of the heavens and the god of life, Lyrras, that she was given back her wings. And on that day, she ascended back to the skies-—atop this very hill. In her name and honor, faithful disciples built a great church where she ascended, and thus gave it its name. It was a marvelous sight, its great marble structure glimmering like a diamond in the light of dawn... and Lucius had quite the view of it from his office.

He sat there, fully clothed, in his chair. It was a pleasantly warm morning, with birdsong to wake him up, and golden sunlight that slipped in through his sky blue curtains. His soft hazel eyes beheld that beautiful church atop the hill, quietly letting himself appreciate its glory. His soft lips were spread in a comfortable smile, and his long, golden hair tied into a ponytail. He hadn't dressed for anything formal, and had chosen his preferred shirt and trousers of silken thread, and leather shoes that gleamed with thorough polish. His feet were slung up on his desk, and he saw how they shined so beautifully in the morning glow.

His eyes fell to a mirror in the wall, and he saw that even his face, so smooth and handsome, seemed to shine. He smiled, and lead a gloved hand over his smooth-shaven chin, his soft cheeks... truly, this was a face meant to be adored and revered; a masterwork of gods, no doubt. These hazel eyes were the ones that the people would look into and awe. This was the smile that would set young maidens' hearts ablaze. These were the hands that would lead this world to victory. And this was the tongue that would fill the people with hope, and have them cry out 'Deum, our savior!'.

His eyes lingered on his hands for a little while... and he wondered. If these were the hands that would lead this world to victory, how could it be that Aegon had fallen? Could they have failed what they were created for? He clenched them together, and his smile disappeared for a little while. His hazel gaze then moved to his desk, upon where parchments and books lay stacked, and his curiosity grew. He pulled his legs to him and brushed aside the parchments, giving way to one book in particular. Through his silken gloves, he felt its rough cover, and its title carved into the leather. 'A History of War', it was. He hesitated for a little while, licking his red lips... but then, dismissing his reluctance, he flipped open the book and paged through.

He had read it many times, and knew most of it already. The book told of great leaders, leading their people to victory and greatness, either through strength of force, or wisdom of tactics. It told of King Olaf, the great man who, almost a thousand years ago, drove the ice trolls from the mountains, and invoked The Mountain's Blessing, to create those who would today be known as Mjaln. It told of Ethella the Conquerer, who lead a rebellion against the oppressors of the High Elves, the Fae, and founded the enchanted jungle of Elfwood. Ethella in particular, was quite the glorious leader. How she fought back the mad Shogun Kyonin, who sought to kill all Myaani too close to his home on the Yantsu Island. She was a great woman, no doubt. Ethella the Conqueror, they called her. Ethella the Great. Ethella the Liberator. But what about himself? Lucius the... nothing.

He closed the book, and took a deep breath. All these people were remembered for their great deeds... driving back ice trolls; eradicating the Fae; abolishing shogunate-—the stories were endless! But what was his story? What would he be remembered for, when he passed away? Would mothers tell tales about the great Lucius Deum to their children, and would bards in every tavern sing his praises? He leaned back in his chair, and looked once more at the Angel's Ascent... if the gods were good to him, surely there was something he could do... especially now that a demon army was marching his way. Something had to be done. Something... that could make him a hero.

There was a knock on the door. Three, in fact. Three quick raps of knuckles on his mahogany door, and simply by the sound of his knocking, Lucius could tell who it was. This early, though? He shot a curious glance towards the door, rather suspicious. Sitting up right and straightening his shirt, he raised his voice.

“Enter.”

The door creaked open, and in stepped the short hunchback man, Ferdinand. Draped in his priest-like robes and the hood that covered half of his face, Lucius began to wonder if he either never changed his outfit, or if he had a hundred of these robes. Judging by his smell, he figured it was the former.

“Forgive me, my lord-—I apologize for a disturbance, so early this morn.” he bowed his balding head several times in a row, and Lucius noticed how he was carrying a letter in his gaunt hand.

“I take it is concerning that letter in your hand, Ferdinand?” Lucius asked, turning his chair towards him, one leg slung over the other and his fingers entwined on his stomach “And urgent, I should hope.”

Ferdinand nodded again, seeming like some sort of overgrown mole, bobbing its head up and down “Very, my lord, very. Would you like me to read it aloud?”

He waved his hand dismissively “Not necessary. Simply summarize it for me.”

“As you will, my lord.” Ferdinand nodded again, and cleared his throat with a hoarse, regurgitating cough “It is a letter from your patrols in The Fairlands, my lord, particularly a guardswoman named 'Moira'. She reports that she returned to her post to see the gates of The Wilderness flung wide open, and her comrade mutilated on the ground. She suspects the worst, my lord, and I fear that you must as well.”

Lucius' fingers tingled, his soft lips pursing. His eyes wandered out the window, leaving Ferdinand in a painful, tedious silence. He sighed through his nose, a frown curling on his lips “I do, Ferdinand, I do. I hadn't suspect the demons to settle with Aegon alone... no, that's not the way of demons. They will always want more destruction, as long as something still stands intact. And as I see it, the rest of the world stands fairly intact... that goes to tell how great ambitions these monsters must have.” he looked back at Ferdinand, taking in a long breath. His soft features turned to frustration... but in all his might, he had to keep a smile at bay. He felt his heartbeat rise, and excitement crash through his veins. All of these people... they all thought that the demon army was a bad thing. But he knew better. His eyes glanced towards the Angel's Ascent, and realized... this was the sign he had prayed for. It was in these fires that he would forge his legacy, and become known as the one who fought back the demon menace, while all others failed. He could taste the glory already.

“I hate to have my mornings ruined by bad news...” Lucius continued, trying to keep a straight face “...but you did wisely coming to tell me, Ferdinand. Was that all the guardswoman had to report?”

Ferdinand looked back at the letter, skimming it over with his one good eye; the other one lazily wandered around, as if looking at something entirely else, despite being cloudy white and blind “She says that she has begun taking countermeasures, and urges you to issue orders of evacuation for all the Fairlandish villages. As it stands now, Retby is in grave danger of being torched—-innocent lives will be lost, if you do not take action.”

Lucius leaned forward on his knees, his fingers curled together, eyes stern with contemplation “Yes, I had expected as much. Evacuating the villages would mean arranging accommodation for them to the north, at Moonby Sanctuary... and Westport is out of the question entirely. That fool mayor still hasn't understood what is good for him, has he?”

Ferdinand shook his head this time “I'm afraid not, my lord. He remains stubborn in his decision—we have received no word from him, about what he means to do in response of this demon threat. Do you wish to take more drastic action to convince him, my lord?”

Lucius slowly arched an eyebrow “Like what? Have the Knighthood of Morn march all the way down there and shove him off his throne? No amount of letter doves could ever convince him, and I fear the Knighthood would be the only way... but I am not wasting my resources on that measly old man. If he wants to burn, he will burn.”

Ferdinand nodded again “As you say, my lord.”

“Now, if that would be all, you can leave my presence, Ferdinand. I will contemplate on this news.” Lucius said and turned his chair around, but was interrupted as Ferdinand spoke again.

“Actually, my lord, there is one more thing.” he squeaked humbly, and read a little further in the letter “Guardswoman Moira believes to have found three survivors of the onslaught at Camp Vanguard.”

Lucius' eyebrows rose, and he felt his heart jerk “Excuse me?”

Ferdinand nodded again “It is what the letter reads, my lord. Three survivors, and two of them are of high ranking. Captain Duncan Ross, and Sergeant Ramund Bjornsson, my lord. And they bring with them a woman named 'Rosalyn', from Section 9. She reports that they mean to warn the world of the coming army, and evacuate all on their way.”

No no no, this wasn't right-—who were these three fools to steal his glory from him? He felt his veins run cold, and his teeth gritted angrily. His breathing grew heavy, and for each heartbeat, he felt his loathing grow. He quickly shook his head, his lips sneering “And they are lying.” he growled, sitting back in his chair with his arms folded across his silken chest “None of my soldiers survived the onslaught at Camp Vanguard. These are imposters, Ferdinand, I promise you this. Cultists of the darker forces, I'm sure.” he leaned forward again, dire sincerity in his eyes, and darkness in his voice “These three; they mean to manipulate and create disarray, so that the demons may freely rampage through cities and villages without as much as a speck of resistance. If these reports are true, the imposters must have been in Aegon as well-—and we all know how that story ended. Send out reports to all my men, Ferdinand. I hereby declare a manhunt for these mongrels. See to it that their heads are mounted on spikes before next full moon.”

Ferdinand seemed at a loss of words at first, his lip jittering slightly, but all he could do in the end was simply nod “As you say, my lord... but what of the evacuation of the Fairlandish villages? If you declare a manhunt now, there may not be enough men to hold the demons back long enough for the villagers to rout.”

“Forget them.” Lucius snorted, nose wrinkling “There are more important things than farmers and cattle. If these imposters reach Moonby Sanctuary in time... you can be damn sure it will look like Aegon before long.”

“O-of course, my lord.” Ferdinand stuttered, and quickly bowed a few times, backing out the door again “I will send the doves immediately, my lord.”

Lucius watched as Ferdinand scurried out his door, and closed it behind him. And when he finally was gone, he smiled. His fine set of teeth bared, glimmering in the light of dawn that fell in through his window. He looked up once more, at the Angel's Ascent... he had almost forgotten the taste of greatness.
A shorter chapter this time, and with a look at our good friend, Lucius Deum. I wanted to expand on his character a little, since I felt he was a little... flat. Chances are that we will be seeing more to him, in the next coming chapters; who knows, he may even become a regular character, like Rose, Ramund, and Duncan! We shall see. Stay tuned, and thanks for reading!
© 2014 - 2024 SteenBelhage
Comments2
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It is clear that Duncan will have a tough road ahead after the war. Trauma's are already taking hold of him, and it is starting to show.
Though to see he still tries to go on proves he's not that easy to get rid of. The scene at his fathers grave is a good one too.
Not just his prayer but his talk with Rose too. This time without her being obsessed with death, just more honest.
Then I thought that Duncan was getting through to her but for some reason she closed up. As he said, she'll remain a mystery.

On a different note: It was interessting to see how mister Deum is looking at this. No offence but I think he just made a terrible mistake, and a quite stupid one too. It is clear that he wants to be remembered as a glorious leader, but at rate he'll go down as Deum the Jealous.
In my opinion all he had to do was walk up to our three friends, say 'thanks for warning me', and barge into the fray with an army behind him.
That's all that's needed for him to become revered.

But now hundreds of innocent people, his people, will pay the price for his pride. And I don't think these people will thank him for that.
The race is still on but I think he has to change dramatically or he'll be in great trouble.

As always: A good read, especially the Duncan-Rose scene.
Keep it up, and I'll see you on the flip side.