Chương 270: Stormshand
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Johnny Caldwell
Gazing down at Bonfire, I feel tears of rain cascade over my body, dyeing me with a deeper chill every moment. Yet as I meet eyes with the younger man, my heart catches in my chest. He looks... happy.
How can he be happy after all this?
Such an odd man. Though, I suppose I'm happy, too, even though Marshall is dead. That's because... Darkstep is too. Her skull is burned, crushed, and ruined; meanwhile, her chest is caved outward from an internal explosion of flame.
I crouch down beside Bonfire and tap her body with my fingers, merely wanting to confirm her death for myself. Darklight flickers out as if in agony from Marshall's falling rain. An even more exhaustive smile hangs on my face as I see it. It would appear there are ways to suppress Darklight on a wide scale. All we need is the strength of Marshall Travis. I wipe my eyes clean of water, and then, inhaling a deep breath, I stand. And when my knees lock, I draw Fate Sealer with all my swiftness and unload six rounds into her shattered skull, gifting two or three to her chest as well.
"Stay dead."
Leaving my rival of more than one decade a goodbye, I reload Fate Sealer and spin it back into my holster before turning my attention to the unmoving Bonfire. It seems the man is lost in his thoughts. Sucks. We need to move. I want to see how Marshall's corpse looks and if any of the dead Angels have a complete enough body for an Arca. Some deep portion of me knows that Marshall will not leave behind an artifact. I don't know why, but I know.
Shaking my head, the brim of the hat on my head sliding water off its top without pause, I reach down to help Bonfire up. And with the offering of my hand, he takes it, his hand still warm despite the brewing storm. Once he stands beside me, I tell him what's going to happen.
"We're going to check on Marshall's dead body. The final attack from him created this storm, and I worry that the demons or Pygmies that survived took his corpse for the Arca if he creates one."
He shrugs, spitting on Darkstep's body before exclaiming.
"Damn. That old man sure was crazy. This storm? That includes the hurricane earlier?"
I nod back at him, affirming his thoughts. Then, I grab him and pull the man of fire toward the south where Marshall was last seen. We must be fast, or else the storm will continue to pick up. And then, we'll be caught in a hurricane with an army not far behind.
Bonfire doesn't refuse my directions, but the man is slowed, his feet stumbling and injured. Sighing, I ask him a question.
"Did Darkstep form an artifact?"
The man shakes his head with his answer.
"Nah. I don't think Motherbound can."
Makes sense. Ray still hasn't formed one, and I don't think he will anymore. What a bummer. We trudge on in silence through the downpouring rain that only continues to expand in speed and force. Ether coats my legs as I force our way without pause.
As I traverse the desolate ruins of the once-mighty fortress, battered by the wrath of a recent hurricane unleashed by the General's final cataclysmic attack, my every step is impeded by the tempestuous storm that continues to ravage the land. The skeletal remains of shattered walls and crumbling structures stand as solemn remnants of the devastation that has befallen this place. Soon, they will be the only things left here. With all this destruction, no one will take over this place, for rebuilding it all would be a waste.
Each footfall echoes with a sense of melancholy as the wailing wind whips around me, carrying fragments of debris and whispers of despair. Every step strikes at my heart; corpses of fallen soldiers are a commonality, many of which are ruined beyond investigation. I hold out some hope I may find a live soldier near the wall, but that hope is slim. The rain pours down relentlessly, casting a veil of obscurity over my surroundings as if nature itself mourns Marshall's sacrifice. Yet, I know the truth. The Gods of wind, storm, and the sky care not for the General. He forced this phenomenon into being, his strength sufficient to bring rain, wind, and thunder. Godlike strength is not impossible for mankind. It is only the few who are willing to give their all who can wield it.
In my thoughts, a strike of lightning lands only a few hundred feet away. The crash doesn't surprise Bonfire or me, but we pause for a moment as the fire battles against the falling rain to only lose.
With every advancing step, the ferocity of the elements intensifies. The howling gusts become an orchestra of sorrow, their mournful symphony drowning out any semblance of tranquility. The rain, driven by the gales, pelts against my face, a constant barrage threatening to freeze me with its cold liquid and send me backward. Yet, I raise an arm to cover my face as Ether flows through me, and I pull Bonfire to keep up with my gait. He keeps himself warm with soft flickers of flame that are quickly quenched.
Once filled with the promise of light, the day, ruined by the arrival of Azra, now descends into oppressive darkness. The sky above is a canvas of brooding gray, the sun now obscured by heavy clouds that broil with vibrant energy. The atmosphere crackles with an eerie tension as if the air holds its breath in anticipation of what lies ahead.
And as I look forward, searching the undercarriage of the storm, I find a figure seated by where Marshall's corpse should be. Not that I can see his body from here, so this is only an assumption. Squinting, they appear human, if only with extraordinarily long hair nearing the middle of their back. Far longer than any woman I've ever seen other than a few Estatesmen. Though, those dainty women wouldn't survive a minute in this storm.
Confused, I wade my path through the wind and debris, getting closer and closer to the supposed human with each footfall. Almost a full minute passes of the enduring zephyrs until I get close enough to gauge the figure entirely. Meanwhile, Ether roars to life within my form. I only killed one Angel today. I'm itching to catch up to Marshall's pace.
An elderly man, weathered by what feels like the weight of countless years, sits beside the ruined corpse that finally enters my vision, his eyes fixed upon the darkening sky. I can't help but ignore Marshall's decrepit, burned, and obliterated body in favor of this old figure. Wrinkles etch deep lines upon his face, a testament to the passage of time and the burdens he carries. Deadeye's Gaze examines his form only to find no Ether at all, the human enduring this storm without a modicum of the legendary substance.
What? Is that even possible? I have to use a half dozen skills just to not fly away into the sky from all this wind. How is he... How the Devil is he doing this?
My thoughts halt as I see the old man bring his head down to gaze at the body of Marshall. The General's corpse is ruined, so disgustingly destroyed that he is a stain of liquid flesh on the stone. I've seen much in my life, yet at the sight of Marshall Travis like this, I almost hurl up my breakfast. Yet, I don't, as the old man beside him seems to combat that feeling.
I sense a profound sorrow and perhaps regret in his presence. There is an air of ancient wisdom about him as if he has witnessed the ebb and flow of history itself. I don't know where these thoughts come from, but they arise nonetheless, as if implanted by the air itself.
I draw nearer, my footsteps softened by the rain-soaked ground with Bonfire isn't not far behind. The old man's gaze returns to the tempestuous sky as though searching for answers amidst the swirling chaos and remains there even as I near. His eyes are hidden from me by his backward-facing body, but I can imagine his appearance. Even still, I see his back. It is bent, beaten by time into a curve. And beside him lies a cane in one hand that he grips with white knuckles.
An unspoken understanding passes between Bonfire and me as I glance back at him with a focused squint. The idiot, for all his flaws, nods and understands the moment's seriousness. I don't know who this old man is, but he can't be normal. Bonfire slides behind me, covering his form with mine. Smart if a tab bit cowardly. He's done enough fighting for the day.
And in only seconds, I stand in quiet reverence beside the old man, peering down at him. The ancient man remains motionless, his gaze unchanging, refusing to even peek at me. The pupils of his eyes don't leave the storm clouds above.
He looks... familiar. But... I can't quite put my finger on it. He's... who is he?
As the storm rages on, the weight of the atmosphere hangs heavy, intertwining our shared melancholy. The rain continues its relentless assault, the rhythm of its descent punctuating the silence between us. At this moment, time seems to stand still, as if the world itself holds its breath. No demons or invaders strike below the pouring waters above. Only silence perpetuated by dripping droplets and thundering lightning exists today. The battle is over. All that is left is...
I sit beside the man, placing my ass on a pile of rubble only inches from the dead General as I gaze at him, too, with Deadeye's Gaze. Yet, no Sigil or Ether seems to remain in his form, all of it already dissipated. I then follow the old man's gaze upward as Bonfire sits beside me, the younger man using his Ether to spark a cigar that he has to relight in the storm constantly. The smoke only adds depth to the rain.
And as we sit, the storm intensifies, casting an eerie glow upon our bodies. The water strikes the ground with such impetus that rocks are moved, rivers grow amongst the rubble, and I have to use Ether to shield my skin from the liquid. The moment that I can no longer gaze upward at the undulating clouds because of the water's force, my heart worrying for our way back, the old man speaks. Every word is quiet, yet undeterred by the thundering bangs of water and lightning. It's as if within the domain of this man's presence, he reigns without equal, not even to nature itself.
"You both have come far... but it is not enough. It is never enough. Even the pinnacle is not enough. This world just takes, takes, and takes, never stopping. If there is to be freedom, to be peace, we must leave."
The old man's head falls, his gaze meeting mine as he continues, my heart frozen in my chest from his voice alone. His presence bears down upon me, the weight comparable to a thousand poundages. I've never felt this feeling before... It's like that of the Mother Below. Is this a God? Who? The Devil?
Why would he be here? Is he here for a deal?
My thoughts matter not as the old man's words cease to halt.
"A hundred years I've fought in the shadows, moving from continent to continent, delving more profoundly than any man in history. However, I left west of Tornridge to the other ancient blood. And yet, I've found settlements upon the poles, the ice eating away at them over the centuries, vast nations upon the deep seas, constantly warring for scraps of land, and even a whole continent where the one below reigns supreme, tiny factions of sentient all that resists her while the darkness slowly devours them. I did what I could to help them, staying to learn and grow with each civilization, hoping to find the way forward. Alas, for nearly a century, all I found were minor improvements, but nothing that points upward."
Every word slams into my mind as the gears slowly turn, my thoughts gradually realizing who sits before me. And as he speaks, the pressure only builds until I realize that the rain has stopped, the water paused in the very air around us, hanging like an act of a God. Bonfire gasps beside me but quickly hushes himself in favor of the old man's words. Even the dumbass knows who this is. We all do. Not a being alive doesn't know him. Not a being alive doesn't fear him.
"Many thought me incompetent and lazed—better that than they know the truth and the darkness that hides behind that honesty. I've been searching for the path to Godhood, the steps sealed for millennia by the one below. She slows our growth, weakening us at every step of the road. Yet... I found it. I found the way above."
Vincent Harvey, the oldest human alive, aged beyond a hundred and fifty years to some, turns from me and stares at the sky above. The most powerful human to ever live sighs as his shoulders sag, a weight eternally placed upon his shoulders growing too heavy for him. At the young age of nineteen, the Prime became an Angel, and two years later, he succeeded the previous Prime after their death. A genius beyond geniuses, creating countless skills, feats, and legends from the age of thirteen when he entered the Hunters, falters beneath a weight.
"I simply do not know if I am capable. Yet... I already have gotten so many killed to reach this point. Another Dominion, far, far in the west, so far that they've seen the ocean to our east, sacrificed their life as an Augur to find the next step for me. Without the one below, we should instinctively know the next phase for our Sigils, yet she manipulates those connections with her power, making Gluskab's act necessary for most. But for me to rise... I need to create a Wasteland. I need to form one befitting that of a God."
Finally, the Prime ceases his words as the world continues to pause for him. The pressure upon me hasn't faded a lick, yet as I watch Vincent, a man I've loathed all my life, lay out his heart, pity streams from me. He has given his life to humanity just as Marshall did, only in his own way. In the shadows, Vincent served, exploring all that this world had to offer for a way forward. To him, a path forward was more important than keeping us safe. At least that explains why the Estates grew so badly in the past century.
Vincent was capable of doing what none else had ever done.
He went east and sent Killian west. They, together, explored, discovered, and learned things no one else ever could, coming upon a terrible truth. Simply being on the same planet as the Mother Below incites weakness in humans, stripping us of gifts and talent.
Yet... a burning question remains in my head. What is a Wasteland? Why doesn't he think himself capable? He's the Prime, for fuck's sake! If he can't... then... we're so fucked. We're so supremely fucked that we might as well roll over and die.
The words roll out of my mouth before I can fasten them to reason.
"How are you not capable?"
A low chuckle breaks a few droplets of rain near my head, shattering the water upon my scalp. Bonfire beside me slaps his face clean of liquid as Vincent speaks.
"It is not an ability question. I can make a Wasteland. I've spent many years preparing, gathering, and assimilating for the chance. The worries are about what comes before and after, young man. The Lords will not want to see me rise again, as it already takes both of them to hold me back. The Warmaster and the Creator will likely join them, placing me at a disadvantage."
Vincent pauses for a moment, a deep breath entering his lungs while I ponder. Even though being called a young man is odd, I ignore it. Is he afraid of being stopped at the peak right before his ascension? Is he a coward? What happened to the Human God Of War? What about the man to never lose a single fight? The man who gained at Sigil at thirteen? The man who killed an Angel while an Absolutionless 6th Sigil? What happened to our monster?
Where is that legend?
As if he detects my thoughts, he refutes them partially.
"I worry not for losing the battle. That is... something I've come to terms with. If I die, I die. That is simply the way it should have been. Even then, I know Eli will come up with tricks to increase my chances. But the consequences should I succeed... they are almost as bad as if I should lose. Many times I wonder if there is even a point to the madness."
I scoff at his words. He must be insane to think that the consequences of success could be worse than losing. Should he not become a God, or anyone else for that matter, the Mother Below will reduce us all to blathering idiots praising her constantly. I point to the man who gave his life as I open my mouth. He can't seriously be disrespecting Marshall like that!
"Winning is always better than losing, Vincent. At least then, we get to decide our own fates and make our own luck. Pick your ass up and get to work. You've got thousands dying for you every damn day. And this one here? This one right beside you? He gave his whole life to defending your people. He did your job. YOUR JOB. So what? You could lament beside his corpse? Cry for a better tomorrow? Get a grip, Vincent. You are strong, so strong I'm sure you could kill me with your pinky finger, but everyone worries about failure. Just because this is the first time it's appeared in your life doesn't mean you give up."
The emotions flow out before I can realize what I'm saying, and at the end of it, my heart spikes with fear. But as Vincent, the eleventh Prime, pivots back toward me, he merely fills the air with crisp laughter. It is a somber chuckle of realization and pain.
"You're damn right. I thought the same thing myself all these years. Failure is not an option—no matter the choices that must be made. I can only hope that you still feel the same way after these next few months. Anyway... I must be on my way. This storm will only get fouler over the next few days until it stabilizes to hold such winds. Marshall's final act touched upon the very essence of Ether, resonating and pulling all of the substance in the vastness toward him. Eventually, the storm should fade... after a few centuries... but this region will no longer be the border of Vallens and the Flats. Stormshand. I like that. That will be its name. And one day, perhaps, we will own it once more."
Vincent rises to his feet, unaided by Ether, as swirls of dust race along his skin, providing him shelter from the winds and rain as they return—his Dominion. No Ether is needed for him to control the sands. I join him, and so does Bonfire, as Vincent delivers some parting words, the man walking directly eastward toward Lawless Lake.
And as the old man speaks, he holds a crystal of Ether into the air, peering at it with his eyes as if it is a wonder delivered by a God.
"Watch out for the coming happenings in Blackreach, along with all the cities under its helm. That is where I shall make my mark upon history. Marshall's Remnant will aid me. I would offer it to you two. However, a crystalized Sirza would kill you upon use. Even I sometimes struggle to use my own."
Then, he steps away, leaving us in the pouring rain. A Remnant? What the hell is that? A Sirza? I can't help but call out to him through the rain as it blocks my sound.
"Is that why you came? For whatever was left of Marshall?!"
I merely see Vincent shake his head as he departs, a gust of wind banishing him into the depths of the rising tempest.
"No. I just came into town from my trip overseas. I was simply too slow. I am here to give my sorrows. To arrive to find a Remnant... I was not expecting that. Marshall exceeded even my expectations. Though... I suppose he always did. But, I intend to rectify my tardiness. For our Wall. They will pay, young man. They will all pay. Over the many years, it appears some have forgotten my sands. About damn time I remind them who I am."
And with a threat to the very world, he's gone, fading into a swirl of dust, leaving Bonfire and me to trudge through the now-permanent hurricane that will exist here. The man beside me curses aloud as the winds pick up, forcing me to Glitch him back to the ground as I struggle to grab him.
"Fuck this shit. Why couldn't he just be an asshole?"
I laugh amidst the downpour, trying not to be swept away. I doubt our ride is still there waiting for us. We'll have to catch up the ol' fashioned way. Yet, I agree with Bonfire.
Things would be much simpler if all the Pillars were evil and institutions that needed to be ripped from the sky. Alas, that is not the case. For, in just the few moments I saw Vincent Harvey, I came to a realization.
He is every bit a monster they say he is.
Only, he is a monster with a heart.
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