Location: Ankhuria (past), Caer Glas Keep (present) Notes: Someone gave the right guy the wrong ring. Mentions: @alucardrakul @faelortianyou @haelimthewatcher @vicoya Do you feel remorse?
A man holds a sword to his neck. Riandur is young, he's filthy from the days of travel into the Ankhurian sands. Rian's lips are burnt, his skin is cracked – dry, desert heat – unfamiliar to an Elvhen who had spent his whole life in the forest.
"No." The word is not as strong as he'd hoped it would be, but it's the final word of a dying man, who would always get the last laugh. Sentenced, in chains, they burn, his power flares, and nothing. It was like being silenced, or cleaved perhaps – he had only heard about that in passing, day and night – no matter how justified the blood on his hands was, at least to himself, nothing would change how he felt.
The sword comes up, and it flies through the air –
Riandur sits up. The calm of the keep settles into his bones, but as usual, the room is empty. He'd taken to sleeping in the furthest corner of Caer Glas, where he'd set up a desk, a map, and little to nothing else. The cot itself was enough to give his back a horrible night's rest – something about getting old – and for a moment, the mark on his hand tinged with the pain of something else. The ring.
There was a stir within his blood-
His hand was dull, gray, as it had been for a few weeks now. Some sort of finality, Riandur could understand that much. Standing from his seat, he felt compelled, the crossbow sitting on his desk finding a place in his hand as he exited the room.
Caer Glas was quiet, as it normally was. It had been reclaimed by the nature around, strangled by the Blight until the Legion had made it a home once more. Symbols of the Griffons, of the armor they so proudly wore – dark as night, fitting for someone who had it growing as such in his chest.
The commander was no stranger to such a feeling. Old habits had always died hard, hadn't they? His own atonement had come in the form of the Joining, and still, as he moved to stand and look over the ramparts, the silence was enough for the darkness to fill Riandur's mind.
His dreams as of late were filled with the dead. The old, dying Band of the Red Hand. Elrohir looking at him, a mirror image. His past life had walked this path. Ecelrich had turned to the dark one, their powers had been aligned – and some sick, twisted idea that maybe Rian was the wrong one in this situation. He'd seen the past, walked through it to awaken what was lost. The red hand on his chest pulsed, like it wanted to ground him, yet still, Riandur stayed rooted to the spot in another way.
His eyes reflected a dark, necromatic flame – the same that he'd seen bind Ecelrich. The dead would rise at his command, more and more as others fell. Friend or foe, it didn't matter.
Riandur leaned forward, gripping the edges of the battlements in his hands. Stone dug into his palms, but it did nothing but press the image forward. More and more would rise, who would stand against him? No one. The Legion owed him everything. From the last hold in the North, to this Keep that grew stronger and stronger, from the mark on his hand that could burn the Blight out of people – he could do it.
A voice sounded beside him, but all the Legionnaire could think about was the blood. The thrill had never left him, it persisted – year after year, right choice after every difficult decision. He'd collapsed the tunnels to ensure no one else was dragged down, to hell with those who had been taken. That wasn't anyone's job but his own. He would've turned away the refugees, let them all die on the road if it meant the stronghold would stand.
The voice persisted, and Riandur's hand went to his knife. It met its mark, in the throat of the person who had come up beside him. Crimson flowed easily as Haelim attempted to get words out, but Riandur couldn't hear them. He couldn't even see it. The Witcher's body fell, and he could hear someone else. Vicoya. Her scream was enough to pull him into movement. Olympian magic thrown his way, shrugged off as Riandur pointed his crossbow and met its mark in her heart. Blood was her power, but death was his.
"Shh. Can't you hear it?" Riandur held little emotion in his voice. They'd all make a powerful addition for the Legion, in death they wouldn't be free.
There was a stir within his blood And the dreams lay thick upon him. A call did beat within his heart. One road was left before him.
They would answer to him in this life and the next.
He thought of Tianyou, of how he'd have to say goodbye to him eventually. What would he think? He would understand Riandur's power. The noble Elvhen of Avalon, pulled back to a weak, dying father and a duty. Riandur had never offered to fix him, never offered to attempt what they all had before. It was like the idea had easily slipped away. Let the Blight take everything. It would take Riandur from the other eventually, and their soulbond would be shattered. Unless – he was a promise away from immortality. The Calling blazed easily in the green of his gaze, in the heat of his ribcage – until Alucard was there.
He met the other's gaze from across the space that remained between them. Riandur lifted his crossbow again, the very one that Alucard had made for him, only to find it cleaved from his hand.
The Drakul said nothing, but another swing of a sword and Riandur's hand only caught the other's wrist. Bleeding, he met the eyes of his brother, and a choked laugh left his lips.
"Though the darkness calls me down, You know we all are dying."
The voice didn't sound like his own, but this was right. It was correct. Riandur hit his knees, laughing like the time he'd done so before in Amon Sûl. Yet now, it was Alucard's sword against his neck.
Do you feel remorse?
The answer was in Riandur's eyes, the same as it always would be. But for Rian – at least it would be his brother who felled him. Alucard's sword raised, but it never came. Vicoya's staff pierced clean through Alucard's chest, eyes green as Riandur commanded her from beyond the grave–
Riandur woke with a start.
The calmness of the rain hitting the stones outside the room was the only thing that told him he was awake. The weather had turned sour as of late, Spring in the Silverlands with rain that never ended. His hands were shaking, scrambling to stand and ensure that it was all a dream. And it had been, but none so clear as this – none so lucid.
Rian always fought, telling himself that no one would make him do something he didn't wish to. Yet now, now he could feel the blood rushing through his head, the whisper of how a dream was just another path forward. And how all things could be made true.
Hear the rain upon the leaves, above the sky lies grey. A shred of blue would be denied. Alas, he could not stay.
