Eclipsed [Part 2]
A GoldenAge Double Mint Oreo co-authored by mira-eyeteeth.
Part 1 can be found here
((It was meant to be fun times! It was meant to be short Oreo Adventures in Space! Then Mira and Alys got a hold of it. Not only did it grow exponentially…but we may have thrown in a teensy bit of angst.))
He stood before the gates of the prison. His hand grasped the hilt of his sword as he positioned himself before the deepest shadows, his eyes wary. The rest of the soldiers stood in formation behind him; he’d told them he would be the first to approach the area. He had to be the first. There was no way he was going to let someone else deal with this; this was his personal battle.
Too empty.
Slowly, Kozmotis moved toward the gate. Each step was a deliberate placement of his foot. The gravel beneath his feet crunched, the sharp stones almost seemed to pushing up through the thick sole of his boots. All his senses were hyper aware. The dead air of the desolate planet seemed to cling to his skin as he advanced. His eyes darted around the bare landscape, alert for any hint of movement. Muscles tensed, ready for the slightest indication that an enemy was hiding nearby. A single sound. A shifting shadow. Anything.
His caution was unnecessary.
Out of the darkness at the gates, a shape materialized. Its presence was only distinguishable by the lack of anything around it. It seemed to exist within a void that absorbed all light and gave back only an abyss. It was nearly formless, the only distinction was between it and the natural darkness almost like a corrupted halo behind it.
Fear. It was nameless, formless, but Kozmotis felt it rolling out toward him. By now it was second nature to block it out, it didn’t touch him, couldn’t touch him. There was nothing left for him to fear. His eyes hardened further, if this was the best that this thing could throw at him, then it would not have long to regret what it had dared to do to his twin.
Clenching his jaw, Kozmotis raised his sword into a defensive stance, ready to retaliate. This was no different than any battle fought before, with one important exception: he was here for revenge. They had been taught to never let their emotions get the better of them in a fight with the Shadows, that it was so far beyond dangerous it was practically suicidal. That seemed unimportant now. Everything seemed unimportant now except for the angry desolation that burned in him. Kozmotis' reason had fled him back on the ship, as soon as the world had fallen out from under him and he had vowed vengeance. Now he hung on to his composure by only a very thin thread.
The thing slid closer. As it left the gateway and crossed the desolation toward him, Kozmotis could swear he saw it detach itself from the shadows. Strings of blackness oozed and undulated around the form, weaving grotesquely. Shifting his weight, Kozmotis adjusted his hold on his blade, ready for whatever the thing could throw at him.
He watched it closely, and felt a slight unease stirring. It didn’t move like a person should. And not like any fearlings he had seen either - they were usually fluid and smooth in their motions. This... this thing had now taken on a vaguely humanoid shape, but as it moved, it seemed to twitch and jerk like a puppet on tangled strings. No part of it remained still for even a moment and the movements seemed largely disconnected with each other. One leg would swing forwards in a mockery of an army-style march, and the next step would have it slowly drag its foot off of the ground as though it was mired in thick, clinging mud. A clawed hand shot out and then raked back through the air, as if trying to drag it forwards. Swirling, flickering darkness surrounded it, and the overall shape of the thing seemed to warp and shift and waver, like it was not entirely there. The head of the creature was bowed, though it twitched from side to side as though it was looking for something, or trying to shake off fleas.
The unnaturalness of the thing’s motion only enhanced the gut-wrenching feeling of wrongness, of dread and terror and decay. The aura took Kozmotis like a punch to the stomach, driving into his already shattered reserves of composure. It felt like nothing in the universe would ever be right again. That darkness and void and fear oh sweet sweet fear would cover everything everything would be theirs all theirs.
Kozmotis snapped back to his own mind and realized with a sinking sense of horror that the connection between him and his twin wasn’t just gone, it was a gaping hole. It had become a void that was filled with roiling blackness and a terrible, unrelenting hunger. That was when the creature’s head snapped up to fix him with burning eyes, and Kozmotis caught sight of the thing’s features, marred though they were with shadow. “Pitchiner?” he gasped.
The thing’s face split open in a gash of a smile. “No,” it hissed in a million different voices. "We are not you. You are not ussss." The thing that had taken his brother's body spoke in a dissonant cacophony of sibilant voices. Its head jerked back and forth nauseatingly, its glowing sulphurous eyes fixed on Kozmotis, only on him. "We are...the Pitch Black...behind the starssss."
Kozmotis' hand clenched on the hilt of his sword. He could feel it, the thing was bending its will toward him. Anger. Fear. Despair. The emotions rolled over him, looking for chinks in his resolve, any weakness to exploit. But he wouldn't give in, he couldn't give in.
"You could be." It spoke again, causing Kozmotis to shudder, the sound grating against him, setting him even further on edge. "Come. Join ussss. Join him. He callsssss, callsss for you. The Light. The General. Hiss brother. Hiss...love." It cocked its head at an unnatural angle, those eyes still pinned on Kozmotis, holding him immobile with horror. "He criessss." Another parody of a grin split its face. A familiar face. Pitchiner's face.
No. No! This thing wasn’t Pitchiner. No spark of his brother remained in this creature. The black void where their bond had once stood unbreakable was testament to that. It only looked like him, nothing more. The taunts were lies, attempts to deceive him, to weaken him. He wouldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t let that happen.
They had always been told that anger was a weakness, but Kozmotis had stopped caring about what they had 'always been told', none of that mattered now. He donned his anger like it was armour, wrapping it around himself. He'd heard enough. Without a sound, Kozmotis shifted his stance, hefted his blade, and closed.
The metal of his blade gleamed brighter than the faint light from the distant stars could account for. There was a reason that Kozmotis and Pitchiner had been called the Golden Generals; there was a reason that they had been heralded as heroes; there was a reason they had been chosen to guard the gates; and Kozmotis was going to remind this thing why that was.
The thing - not Pitch, it wasn't Pitchiner - tried to jerk away, but Kozmotis didn't let him. His blade met flesh - could he even call it flesh? It was shadow, not Pitchiner, not his brother - the light along its edge cutting through the blackness. Cleaving it cleanly, though it met with more resistance that Kozmotis had come to expect from Fearlings.
There was hiss of pain. It could feel pain. This revelation was more rewarding than Kozmotis would ever admit. He snarled as his grip shifted minutely. His wrists flexed as he altered the arc of the blade. Pulling it back, he moved smoothly into the next movement, coming from the opposite direction to hit it again. It would know more pain, he would make it feel the agony that now encompassed him.
And then it would die.
Despite the gaping hole in his very soul, this was one thing he knew how to do: fight the darkness. His training took over. His movements, muscle memory now, moved him swiftly from one attack to another, giving the Shadows no chance to counter. The jerky movements of the shadow being were jarring in comparison to Kozmotis' practiced and concentrated attacks, his fluid movements effortless. Pitchiner would have been able to keep up with him. Pitchiner would have been able to counter his strike with a well practiced parry. Pitchiner would have danced this battle with him, a gleam in his eyes as their movements flowed together. They knew each other too well, there would have been no upper hand. No, what he was facing was not Pitchiner. There was nothing left of Pitchiner. The thing had no chance to do anything but try to wrench out of the path of the blade. Kozmotis didn't let it. He wouldn't let this abomination keep his brother's face!
He advanced, and it retreated. The collection of fearlings backing away from the singing silver. The body beneath the darkness twitched and dodged bending unnaturally. Its arms flailed through its own shadow, fingers working for something not there.
Triumph swelled through him. Kozmotis had arrived too late, but still just in time. This horrific possession was incomplete, the things crawling through his brother had yet to figure out any way to retaliate. The body was used to physical offensives, but the shadows relied on mental onslaughts to drive their prey to insanity. They could not adapt to tangibility quickly enough. All he had to do. He swallowed. All he had to do...was sever the head. Pitchiner’s head. His brother’s head.
Kozmotis raised his sword to charge, crouching to kick off, but the thing hunched over, hands disappearing into hair blacker than it ever should have been. He couldn’t help but pause. Fingers smudged gray pulled and ripped as a screeching cacophony erupted from the writhing mass. He cringed from the sound, forced to step back.
It looked up again, eyes wide and glowing, head tilting to the side in that same disjointed manner. Then, it stood. It straightened its back, hands at its sides, fingers still reaching for the darkness as it swirled up its limbs. The shrieking dulled and folded in on itself, and the creature stepped forwards. Not slid or skittered, but stepped like a man.
Arms lifted and twitched like it was in pain before folding behind it’s back. Spine straight, head curiously to the side still, it’s face split in a jagged grin to speak.
“Kozzzzmotissss.”
Only, it wasn’t the death rattle of a thousand souls. No, this time they condensed, they quietened themselves and Kozmotis broke into a cold sweat.
It was the voice of his brother.
Pitchiner’s voice dripping with decay.
Kozmotis blanched, his sword falling just an inch. And that dip was all it needed.
The pose of the creature broke immediately as if unable to hold such a human form any longer and the beast lunged at him, arms long and jointed grotesquely, fingers barbed claws. Kozmotis had no time to parry or defend himself, his shock dulling his reaction time. All he could do was fall into a rolling dodge, trying to scramble away.
Kozmotis desperately clawed for his composure, for the calm, resolved center that he fell into while fighting. Not Pitch, he told himself, It’s not Pitchiner. It’s not and it’s using it against you don’t let them win. You can’t let them win - but his own attempts at reassurance were cut short as sharp fingers hooked under the plates over his shoulder, wrenching him back towards the creature.
Twisting to the side, he tried to yank his armor free of the grip. He swung his sword blindly with one hand, not able to see the thing behind him. He might not be able to see it, but he could feel the looming presence at his back. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, every cell of his body shrieking its protest against the proximity to such wrongness. The strike must have worked. The next thing he knew, he was tumbling forwards, the shrill screech of protesting metal signalling that his armor had been ripped clean from his shoulder.
Spinning around into a kneel, Kozmotis faced his enemy once more, ragged puffs of breath forcing his almost-fear back into check. It wasn’t fear. He was fearless. This was merely surprise. Bringing a hand to his shoulder he tried to feel for damage. Fortunately it seemed than any damage had been done only his armor and not himself. His adrenaline pounded so thickly in his veins that he idly wondered if he’d even feel any pain any way right now.
The Not-Pitch thing was grinning, a dripping, vicious expression. Its eyes were fixed upon the stolen piece of metal, rolling it in its hands. Shadowy tendrils skittered over the bright designs inlaid into its once smooth surface. Each had been given to him, to them, a badge of honour, symbols of their deeds. Its very touch polluted the memories ingrained into the symbols, but none of that mattered. All that mattered now was that its distraction gave Kozmotis time to stand and regroup. What exactly was it doing?
He was about to shout for its attention and to put it out of its misery once and for all, when the plated metal blinked out of existence within its hands leaving behind nothing but shadow. A rasping rattle sounded from the pit of its mouth and Kozmotis watched, horrified with himself and his inaction.
His horror turned near physical and his stomach dropped to his toes when that thing, that disgusting parody of his other half, held out one arm, it’s hand disappearing into opaque blackness. The gloom gathered to its hand as the perpetual smile fell away.
Voices whispered and cried their condemnation, white noise filling the air and Kozmotis knew that he must act now or perish.
With a shout, he leapt, sword first, into the swirling shadows to kill his former brother. He swung his gleaming blade precisely, years of training and experience honing his skill to near flawlessness, even as his mind grew messy. He voiced his anguish using it to fuel his determination, his task, his last goodbye.
But metal clashed against metal. Shrill screaming erupted in the darkness and the shadows fell away revealing what had stopped his blade.
Pitchiner - no not Pitchiner! It couldn’t possibly be Pitchiner - had shadows pooling at his feet, his uniform stained the darkest colour of ink, his skin smeared coal black. In his hands, his scythe. His star silver scythe shining through the darkness, knocking the shadows of his very being into submission at his feet.
The curved blade of the white metal blocking Kozmotis’ sword, their edges grinding against each other. Kozmotis’ eyes wide, matched perfectly by the abomination that stole his Pitch’s face. The thing looked...shocked.
A whine threaded out through its gash of a mouth and it’s blazing eyes dulled as it looked down and away from Kozmotis. Kozmotis followed the gaze, momentarily stunned, their weapons still interlocked. Its hands that gripped the shaft of the bright scythe were smoking, the dark gray skin looking lighter from the contact alone.
For an instant, those hands looked almost human, a stinging reminder of the man who had been smothered by the shadows. Then the thing hissed and the darkness gathered around it once more, swirling down the creature’s arms and pouring over the star silver like ink and blood. And the glow of the weapon, designed to always keep the darkness at bay, dimmed, flickered.
Impossible. Kozmotis thought, frozen for a moment in shock. Star silver was supposed to be flawless, stalwart, incorruptible. Like the Golden Generals? A derisive voice in his mind asked. Kozmotis gritted his teeth and broke away from Pitch just as the darkness creeping up the scythe’s blade started to lap at his own sword.
He hefted his blade to slay the creature before it could wrest any more good from the world, but as he moved to step forward, a terrible, soundless shriek ripped through the area. It was not something that was heard by the ears, but sensed instead by the spirit. It was the sensation of tearing, of sudden gaping emptiness where there should have been substance, of the laws of nature being warped beyond the breaking point and it ripped through Kozmotis like a lightning strike. And just as suddenly as it started, it was over and Kozmotis was left gasping and swallowing against the bile rising in the back of his throat.
“It... looks better now, don’t you think?” the creature asked in a sickening, disjointed parody of Pitchiner’s voice, stroking a hand along the blade of the now-tarnished scythe. The metal gleamed slickly in the dim lighting, but the reflections that danced over its surface were not that of the surroundings. Instead, terrible, grisly images of torment, of terror and suffering and loss flitted and twisted along the metal, soundless screams and hopeless, despairing tears. The faces of the people in the reflections were familiar, family and friends and oh stars, Seraphina...
Kozmotis swallowed thickly and tore his gaze away, feeling sick to his stomach. He could not afford to falter now, no matter what happened. He would prevail, he would protect the Golden Age from evil, he would fulfill his obligation, the duty of everyone in the Golden Army. He had to.
The screaming continued in his mind, driving his thoughts to distraction. Kozmotis tried to focus, tried to block out the noises. It had once been as easy as breathing, to stop the influence of Fearlings in his mind. But the screams continued, in fact, they grew louder. It was only then that Kozmotis realized the sounds weren’t just a mental effect of the creature’s presence. He spared a quick glance behind him. He hadn’t come alone. This wasn’t just a battle between him and the thing pretending to be his brother. The rest of the soldiers he had arrived with were being besieged by amorphous shadowy monstrosities; a desperate battle being fought between the forces of light and darkness. He was only facing one aspect of that darkness, but he had no attention to spare for his comrades.
He quickly snapped his gaze back to the creature wearing his brother’s face, only to discover it was…
Gone. Vanished into the darkness like a ghost. Kozmotis gritted his teeth and stood ready, all senses on high alert. The thing wasn’t far, he could still feel that aching void of connection with his twin completely undiminished by distance.
The sudden sensation of the hair on the back of his neck prickling afforded him only barely enough warning to whirl around and bring his sword up to parry the sweep of his quarry’s scythe. The star silver blazed with light as it clashed with the corrupted metal, as if protesting the change in its counterpart as violently as Kozmotis wanted to. He stared into the gash of a grin across the monster’s face and snarled back in defiance. He pressed forwards, striking mercilessly at the creature.
The thing was faster now though, more sure of itself. With every passing second, the thing seemed to adopt more of Pitchiner’s style, more of his skill. The flourishes, the strikes and the blocks, they all echoed his twin perfectly and that pained Kozmotis as much as the screaming of his muscles as he met the creature blow for blow.
The twins had been evenly matched the last time they had sparred all those years ago. It seemed to be the case now as well.
Only now, it wasn’t Pitchiner. And it had other tricks up its sleeve. The thing took full advantage of the abilities it seemed to be picking up as it went along, blinking in and out of the shadows; Kozmotis was barely able to keep track of it. As the battle progressed, his chest heaved with exertion, sweat dripped down his back under his armor, and the thing didn’t seem to be winded at all. Soon Kozmotis was struggling to keep up with the blows being rained down upon him, fighting just to parry the glittering, razor-sharp scythe, trying to keep it at bay instead of pressing his advantage.
Everything went wrong when the thing feinted, flickering into tangibility once more, scythe raised. Kozmotis brought his sword up to intercept the swing. Instead, it drove the butt of its scythe into Kozmotis’ middle, driving the air from his lungs and knocking him backwards, his mind reeling. He stumbled and would have recovered but for the darkness that suddenly roiled around his ankles and pulled him backwards to the ground with a crash. Kozmotis grunted and tried to roll back to his feet, only to find that his limbs had been secured by shadowy bonds, the shining sword still in his hand rendered useless by lack of leverage with with to swing it. He wrenched desperately against the darkness even as the thing stepped up to his prone form.
The creature grinned savagely and raised the scythe over its head to deliver the finishing blow
Kozmotis couldn’t move, held down by chittering shadows. He could only watch helplessly as the dark reflection of his twin brought his demise. Defiant to the end, he met the creature’s sulfurous eyes with his own golden ones, wishing that he could have at least said goodbye to his other half. “I’m sorry, Pitchiner...” he whispered as the blade swung down.
(*Special thanks to Zinfandelli for help with that fight scene, and to linddzzz for that wonderful dialogue which got stuck in Alys' head, begging to be used.)