"I want every last member of the clergy to be out here! There will be no cowering this night! We face this bastard head-on!" Theodors roared. His voice was being amplified through some carefully woven magics, and his orders were being dispersed accordingly. His words were being echoed by practically all of the conclave -- including Macario, whom he would be working alongside.
"To every condemner, a glorifier! To every inquisitor, a cleric! Pair each with as many paladins as we can!" he continued. The Legion were handling their own scurrying of forces as night fell.
All of the humans were being sheltered within the cathedrals closest to the center of the city. Gold-armored paladins formed protective rings around them, a handful of clergy among them. Some human guard were with them too, but the vast majority of the humans who were more martially trained were elsewhere.
The walls were alive with activity. Ballistae were being loaded for the larger demons sure to appear, almost every single defender was holding at least a crossbow or a polearm, everyone was getting as prepared as they could. In anticipation for the coming of the Betrayer, the inquisitors and condemners had received more specialized training on how to quickly subdue and neutralize anyone who may be succumbing to madness. It was techniques being pioneered by Lazaro that would help them see the light of day, if all went well.
If. What an ugly word.
The Saint herself walked among all of the defenders even as the last light of day faded. Each that she touched felt themselves bolstered and renewed, ready to face the coming dark. Humans and vampires alike bent the knee to her as she passed.
Darkness fell like a headsman's axe. And with it came a dreadful screech that echoed throughout the mountainsides.
All of the vampires of Torrezon heard it and felt it. A twisting of the innards, a pull, a call.
My children, came a dreadful, whispered voice. It is time to free you from your false imprisonment. Come! Come and join me! Else you will find yourselves dying for nothing!
"If we die, we die on our feet!" Theodors roared. A number of curses were spat into the dark, accompanied by the stamping of feet and crashing of armor. "You are the ones who would see us enslaved! We will be more than meager beasts!" The old cardinal grit his teeth, then raised his hands to the infinite void above him. "Alta Torrezon! Show him what we're damn well made of!"
Shapes began to drop out of the vast blackness that had consumed the sky. Not a single star shone. All sources of light -- flickering torches, candlelight, everything but the divine light surrounding Saint Elenda herself and some of the clerics who had been preparing -- went out. More screeching followed. Bats by their thousands, accompanied by things far larger than simple flying mammals, descended upon the city.
"Legion of Dusk!" came the call from High Marshal Vazante. "To the last! Fire!"
---
The seas raged.
The Legion vessels had been staying closer to shore, wishing to provide reinforcement by land at a moment's notice if necessary. This meant that they were putting much trust into the hands of the Coalition to pick up the slack and help keep any of the encroaching heretics from reaching the mainland. Many had gone off on their own pilgrimages, it had been said, and many were expecting to return tonight.
The calling did not make it easy, but they would hold.
They'd have to.
Even if many of those heretical vessels began to open their decks and allow some of the greater children of the dark god who flew to claim the heartcity to join the fight in the skies. They were hungry. They were powerful.
I set the hammer down. A delicate blade lay in front of me. A perfect size for a dagger, forged by hand, with love. A birthday gift. I picked up the handle and carefully integrated my new and improved shield generator.
Some waste of effort. She won't even be here to take it. Or use it.
I picked up the adhesive. I took the newly forged blade and set it into the handle, making sure it was properly set before letting go. Letting go.
Let go. I can't. Why did she have to go?
The adhesive set. I held up a dagger, carefully engraved with my traditional Brokers emblazoning. The blade, an acid etch with Leta's name and my initials. The last we'd ever be together.
She was just her age. A little older. She died with no one to save her.
I wasn't there to save her. I failed. Again.
I took the dagger and stabbed it into the table. And I wept. I didn't know what else to do. She was gone. I looked at my handiwork. I gazed over at the pressure chamber nearby, the work-in-progress that it was. And I felt so worthless. Alone.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. Shadowstep. "Hey, Dad. It's been a while. You've barely eaten." I looked into her eyes. She stared right back, full of concern. A look I hadn't seen in years. It had always been pity and contempt. Anger. Resentment. Rightfully so at times. But for so long, no one really cared like she did.
I held her tight again, only letting go when I had found my center again. "I'll. I'll be right up, Shadowstep. Just finishing this up for Leta." I showed her the dagger. "...I think I'll... hmm." I picked up a carefully woven leather sheathe, dropping the dagger into it. "Here." I handed it to my daughter. "No point in letting it go to waste. Take it."
"Dad, it's okay, I know what it means-"
"No. Take it. Please." I pressed it into her chest. "It would mean a lot. I don't want to have it sit there, worthless and collecting dust. Please, Shadowstep. Please."
She took it, looking back at me with so many emotions. So much I couldn't read right now. She signed back, "Thank you. I'll take good care of it. Love you, Dad."
"I love you too. I'll take you to dinner again. Be right there." I stood up. Scared. Unsure. Loved.
The first thing I had learned about mortality was about anger. Wrath. Fury. The need for revenge.
I was ancient already. My interactions with mortals – true mortals, not planeswalkers – had been limited. But Sakai’s Saiba Futurists had found me, forced me into their technology, and experimented on me. They wanted to see if they could make kami mortal. To force us closer to the mortal realm and sever us from the spirit realm, from our home.
They did not succeed.
Koda and I found each other. He had enough strength left to use his technomancy. I had enough strength left to take over. He was so young, so hurt. So angry. We bonded, our fury towards our shared captors fueling our escape in our first fusion.
It was the first time I tasted blood. We tore a security guard’s throat out with our teeth and kept going. Back then, we didn’t know that Koda was half-oni. But we would have done it regardless.
I learned other things about mortality after we escaped and remained bonded. I met other mortals. I made friends. So did Koda.
And then I learned about how much it hurt to lose a friend.
The sword in my hand glowed obscenely in the darkness of the Longest Night. Under most circumstances, I would have retreated to the shadows that made up my being. But this was not most circumstances. Leta was dead, and it was my duty to avenge her.
I used limbs made of shadows to drag another demon from the sky and cut it open with the glowing sword. Light flashed each time, burning demons faster and leaving smoldering wounds in the split sides. Elsewhere in the city, Koda was fighting the incorporeal, the Pontifex had returned to give others a second wind, and the earth rumbled as Swift – and maybe others – turned the very land against these fiends.
I didn’t care about that.
I yanked another demon down and cut her open with a horizontal slash. For all of their boasting about eternal night and blood, they died just like everything else. The Fomori invaders had put up a bigger fight in the spirit realm than these cowards did. Even still, they had made the mistake of taking my friend from me.
Valentina Vazante awoke abruptly. She attempted to sit up, but pressure on various points held her back, kept her laying. As her vision adjusted to the brightness of the room she was contained within, faces swam into view. A glorifier, the same one she had seen on the wall. And a condemner.
Feeling slowly came to her. Her chest was bandaged. Her arms, legs and head all restrained. She knew what this meant.
A condemnation of a dangerous individual.
"Why?" Was the first word out of her mouth. The glorifier rushed to her side.
"Cap- Uh... Vazante! There has been much afoot. You need your rest." The glorifier attempted to exert a calming aura, which fell onto a furious Val.
"I may not have the authority anymore from what you said. But I demand to know. Why?"
The condemner stood tall as he came into Valentina's view.
"Everyone saw you, using unholy magics of other planes to nefarious purposes. Cardinal Ayere himself has ordered your condemnation. And demotion."
"He will not have that authority for much longer." Val spat.
"Silence, heretic." The magic seeped into her. Even if she wanted to disobey, she could not.
"You will be investigated for ties to the Betrayer. And the new threat he brought with him. I will leave you for now Vazante, to reflect upon your sins."
The condemner strode out of the room, leaving it significantly darker.
The glorifier shook his head. "The Cardinal insists you used that magic of yours to aid the Betrayer. Any fool with eyes can see it was anything but. However petty of a squabble you have with him, I'd recommend you hold your tongue while you're condemned for it."
The glorifier left too, plunging the room into total darkness.
"Is the horse ready for him?" High Marshal Guitirre had the reins of his own steed wrapped around his hand, and his eyes were kept to the slow, sweeping shadow that was beginning to pass over Torrezon. The sun had sunk beneath the horizon, and its last fading rays were fading fast.
"Yes, High Marshal."
"Vazante?" Guitirre looked over at his Marshal. "Ready?"
"Yes, sir," Arturo said. A bit of cosmium had done him well, but he still looked like a stiff breeze might knock him over. Guitirre would recommend him for a high commendation when this was over.
If they both survived, naturally.
"You can get us all the way to Alta Torrezon, yes?"
"Yes, High Marshal. One way or another, we'll get there," Arturo answered. He held his moonsilver spear in one hand, looking back to the omenpath. A few of the Champions were warily watching Koda-Haruko. Arturo had told them to stop being stupid, that he wasn't a demon, that this was an oni-kami bond, yes they are different, he was from a different plane, and for them to focus on what was more important.
Cardinal Sirocco had given each of them blessings in the hour before dusk, and she was now situated on her own steed. She was not going to accompany them all the way back to Alta Torrezon, just far enough to dive back towards Austello once the pontifex was safely retrieved.
Darkness came for them. There was no stars in the sky to greet them as day became night. There were subtle clinking of armor as Champions brought their weapons up, ready.
"Contact!" one shouted as the omenpath began to flex and swirl. All eyes became trained on it and the blood-covered man who walked through.
A man who bore white bat's wings on his back and a great spear held in one hand. Strange clothing also covered him, but he had a more determined look in his eyes. The Champions bristled. Guitirre looked down at him, gently soothing Aster, who was growling.
"Pontifex Fein," he said by means of greeting. "I do hope you do not intend on telling us that we have been fighting in this war for nothing and that we're joining with the great maniacal bat-thing attacking us tonight."
"No, High Marshal. Far from that," said Mavren. "I am here to save our home, not force us to kneel before him. I will explain these," he flexed his wings, "in time. But know that I am ally and friend, not foe. Speaking of..." he took a step to the side of the omenpath. "I do not come alone."
No, that word wasn't enough. This was everblack. The things voids were formed from.
It was open yet suffocating. It was endless yet felt too close, to tight, too small.
There was no ground to walk upon. No walls to touch.
There was nothing.
Until, feeling a weight in one hand, you make something.
---
Another clash of a blade ringing off armor. Another slide of boots on slush on stone.
They had been fighting for hours. The ebb and flow of the battle around them sometimes forced them apart, but they always returned to match blades soon after.
One fought with a grin on her face and with practically reckless abandon. The other fought with measured precision in each blow.
"As dreadfully serious as always, Andreas," the Antifex laughed as her sword rang on the shield of the other. "What, you can't enjoy this?"
"I will take no enjoyment in this, Vona," the High Marshal replied, shoving her back and following with a swing.
Vona snorted. "Too bad for you. I am enjoying every second." She let the blade ride across her armor, letting her get in close enough to batter her shield and find an opening to stab her sword into. Salinas hissed and smashed the champion's face with the edge of her shield as she disengaged, feeling a chnk and watching Vona recoil.
"Cheap trick," she said, black ichor trailing from the wound. The High Marshal's own nose wrinkled, even as the wound began reknitting itself.
Her regeneration was coming from the blood around them. Salinas had noticed it the first time she had scored a hit across her wings, slicing one of them nearly in half. There was hardly a sign of the damage left behind.
Salinas, on the other hand, had no such crutch. The glorifiers helped where they could -- from a distance, of course -- but she was still bleeding.
Vona knew it. She knew it. Only one would be walking away.
---
Light.
You see light.
You feel light. Warmth.
You move towards it. Somehow, you don't know how. It doesn't matter.
You see someone there, out on the edge of your perceptions. You know her. The glow is coming from her.
She's talking to someone. You don't...
... recognize him. You can't understand what they are saying at first.
Until, of course, you speak.
"My Saint?"
The words surprise you, as does your voice. They sound clear and crisp. A contrast to the dark, suffocating and thick.
Her eyes turn toward you. They are as bright as the sunset. His eyes do too. In them, you see the silver of moonlight.
"You've brought another," he says, looking you up and down. "I don't recognize you."
"I did not expect to be followed," she says. You sense something behind her words. They are tense. Annoyance? Disappointment? Sorrow?
"My deepest apologies." You dip your head and bow, surprised you still have your body about you. You can hardly feel it.
You are more surprised to see your old vestments.
"Well, I do not mind speaking with an audience," the moonlit man says. He looks back to the Saint. "Where were we? Bargaining, yes?"
Bargaining?
"I would not call it bargaining considering we hold the upper hand." There is a cold fury in her eyes.
Laughter from the other. An easy smile on his face. He has fangs. "Do you now?"
She looks to you, looking down to a point at your side. "I do now."
You look down. The weight is a spear.
You nearly blind yourself looking at the concentrated power of an interplanar sun.
---
"Tighten up!" Guitirre shouts. His skymarchers closed ranks around him, preparing for another wing of demons.
That's what they had taken to calling them. Wings. Or flocks. Whichever.
They caught them and deterred them or destroyed them outright. Most of the demons were meeting their blades and blows now that a coordinated effort to better protect the skies was being made. Guitirre didn't blame Sarria or Vazante for not taking control there -- the only other versed enough in their particular arrangements and formations was Salinas or Arguel, and they were south.
But he was here now. He could give them more of a fighting chance.
Aster was still below, growling and barking but not doing much else. She was growing tired. He didn't blame her, they were fighting for quite some time now.
How long until dawn? Would they see it?
He ran a traitor through with the rapier he held in hand, his dancing blade catching a spiked chain and allowing its wielder to be taken out by other soldiers. Blood coated him, as it did all others fighting close to him. Some his own, some not.
Light of dusk, he was growing tired. All of them were. He wondered if Arturo would even be able to stand upright long enough to fight whatever was attacking his home.
The demons never tired. But they knew that all of them, even those with the gift, did. His swings were getting sloppy. Skymarchers were falling out of formation without him shouting to keep them in line. Each pass of a deathdrinker or a bloodletter left him more and more drained.
Other varieties of demons were filling the air with smoke and ash. It gave the illusion of fighting in a burning grave. Perhaps they were.
He flew back to dodge a thick, cleaving thing -- he could barely tell what the weapon was -- following through by stabbing his assailant through the head. His weapon had gotten stuck in it, and so he had to follow the body down as he pried it free, grunting when a demon tackled him into the side of the wall as he flew back up. He bashed them with his forehead, smashing them in the face with the basket of his weapon, then kicked the body away.
Others had spotted him and would be coming to give him a hard time. The traitors remembered him. The demons just saw an easy snack.
They wouldn't be getting one.
---
"That? You think you have leverage with it?" the moonlit man chuckles.
You look back at him, and you blink away the light. Your Saint speaks again, her voice devoid of the mirth of the man.
"It can kill."
"Can it now?" he asks. He now looks at you. "You can kill with it?"
"I already have."
"Ah, that priestess, yes?"
You do not know how he knows that. He must read the confusion on your face.
"You don't quite know what this is, do you?" he says, voice soft. "She's never explained. Nor have I."
"Tarrian-"
"Elenda," the moonlit man says, dipping his chin and raising his brow. You blink in confusion. You know that name.
"You're-"
"Yes, Venerable Tarrian," he says, elaborately bowing. "The very same one that you and yours saw fit to censor."
"I do not understand." You feel your brows furrow together.
"Because Elenda never saw fit to tell you how she obtained the gift," Tarrian said with a sigh. He gestures to the darkness around you. "Allow me, then, to fill in that gap. You stand now at the literal bounds between life and death, my friend."
You follow his hand, looking beyond your Saint, beyond her... her enigmatic demeanor, into the everblack.
And then... you see. You see the balance, two scales set even to each other, and you realize that you are standing on the fulcrum.
"How-"
"Mavren," your Saint says to you. You feel your voice die in your throat. Tarrian laughs.
"Ah, let him speak. Let him learn. He deserves to know some things, no? Especially since we are trying to bargain. In fact, I won't speak another word until he does," he says, turning those silver eyes to your Saint's own gold.
You look to her for permission, bowing your head in deference. She is your Saint. Your sun. Your guiding light. You've dedicated everything to her.
She stares at Tarrian for a long moment, then finally turns those eyes to you.
"Very well. Ask your questions."
You give a bow, extending your free hand. A symbolic gesture.
You open your mouth to speak your stifled question.
---
Salinas is falling.
She was shoved from the wall after she parried and left herself too unbalanced.
She lands, heavy, on a pile of ice-covered bodies. She groans as she feels her ribs crack from the weight and strain. Vona laughs, leaping over the edge, landing lightly on her feet nearby.
"Come on. On your feet!" she says, grinning. The High Marshal growls at her, pushing herself off, muttering a small prayer for the paladin she had crushed. At least they were already gone.
She gets back into a defensive stance. She feels a spear of rib somewhere it shouldn't be, and her vision was fuzzed. Vona flies at her.
---
"Now that that is out of the way..." Tarrian places his hands on his sides. You feel confused. Uncertain. Even with this knowledge, you--
"Let's talk practically, yes?" he smiles, and his smile reminds you uncomfortably of someone else. The silvered eyes, the strange insincerity of the smile itself...
"You want Torrezon. That is not happening."
"Mhm."
"We can kill him."
"So you boldly claim," Tarrian says with a sigh. "So many have, you know. I heard them." He lifts his chin in one direction. "Many champions who despise him still."
You notice your Saint tense slightly. "This is different."
"Show me," Tarrian says with that unnerving grin. Those eyes turn back to you, and the smile widens slightly. "Go on."
You do not know what to do.
Except... you do. Somehow. And you're doing it. The weight, it is a staff -- a spear -- something not forged of your home, yet familiar as though it were. Your hand is curled around raw, concentrated sunlight.
You point it towards Tarrian. You feel its warmth. But you feel other things wrapped inside of it too.
Rage. Hope. Comfort. Acceptance. Wanderlust.
Family. Friends. A sense of belonging, of community. Home.
You realize you are holding more than just sunlight. You are holding belief itself, distilled into this one weapon.
You pull back your arm.
"Wait!" he says suddenly. Hands up, knees bent, smile wide. "Don't shoot the messenger, right?"
"Will you listen, then?" your Saint asks. Tarrian looks between the weapon in your hands, then your face, then your Saint. The smile turns up slightly.
"I am listening, Elenda. Let us discuss terms."
---
He rushes through the tall towering spires of the Cathedral of Dusk, cold wind biting at his face as he flies. He has a number of demons on his tail and they've been painfully agile. Guitirre dips lower to avoid something long and spiked whipping past. The diversion had been necessary, he reminded himself.
That squire shouldn't have been there.
And now he was being chased through the city by a pack of hungry beasts. He's faster and more agile than most of them -- the funestus and bloodletters had to peel off or be picked off -- but there were plenty of smaller ones that were able to keep up with him annoyingly well.
He wove himself through a tight space between a steeple and a wall when his eyes caught something; a glorifier was being hunted. Guitirre didn't spare a glance at the demons tailing him before diving down, hard and fast, right into its back, smashing it like overripe fruit against the cobbles. He disentangled himself from the corpse and the mess, wincing as he felt something in his shoulder feel slightly out of place. He looked up at the bastards that were following him, preparing to have a go at them, before he realized they had redirected and flew off elsewhere. He let out a sigh, praying they wouldn't be too much trouble for the other defenders.
"Are you alright, lad?" he asked the glorifier. The cleric nodded, looking tired and shaken.
"I am, sir. Thank you." He looked at the High Marshal's shoulder. "Allow me."
"You have others-"
"You saved my life, sir," the glorifier said with some measure of finality. "It is the least I can do."
Guitirre allowed himself a smile. "Very well, little preacher. Do what you must."
---
"You are not in a position to be demanding much," Tarrian was saying. He kept looking between you and your Saint. "While that thing could most certainly unmake me, I still doubt it would unmake him."
"It does not have to. Ensuring he is kept in a state of perpetual agony also works for our purposes," your Saint says. She says it with such ease that it makes you glad you are not the subject of her words.
"And those purposes are...?" Tarrian makes a circular motion with one hand.
"Containment if we cannot have him destroyed outright," your Saint says, crossing her arms. You realize that she is still adorned the very same way as she had been before, yet you are different. Your mind tries to recall Tarrian's explanation of this place, but it comes up...
... fuzzy. Blank. And yet he said it only-
"Right, yes. Containment," he's saying. He's nodding as though it's obvious. "You think this can contain him?"
There's a pause. A hesitation. You can feel it, as can he. He laughs.
"It is a start," your Saint says, looking at the weapon. That is what it is now, not just a simple spear. That word doesn't feel good enough to you.
"A start is all we need," you hear yourself saying. Now you have both of their attention, and you feel the supremely uncomfortable sensation of drowning.
"He will break free of any prison you devise for him now. He knows of them already. Again, he is still a god. And you, my dear friends, are close, but not quite there." Tarrian has that strange grin on his face. Your skin crawls, but you refuse to show it.
"Then we will construct a new one." There is a look of calm determination in the way your Saint holds herself.
"While he is at your gates?" Tarrian's brows raise. His hands are steepled together.
"You said this was bargaining," you hear yourself say. "I think this is becoming more of a negotiation."
"Hmm..." Tarrian rubs his chin. There is a short beard there. His silver eyes turn away, into the darkness before he turns back again. The smile is back. "Very well. You want to stall for time then, yes? Cobble something together for him?"
"If that is what we must do to get him off our throats for the time being," your Saint replies cooly.
Tarrian smiles at her. It scares you how sincere it seems this time.
"What will you give for that time?"
---
Salinas is in pain. Vona has been able to score more and more hits and grazes, just enough to go from annoying to a worry. She still feels her broken ribs keenly, and she had to replace her weapon twice now in the fight.
Vona was toying with her. She was delighting in this. It was a challenge rather than just being a slaughter.
But Salinas knew that she was starting to grow bored, and she was never more dangerous than when she was bored. Her first set of servants were evidence enough of that.
After all, that's why she was sent off to Ixalan. To get her away from here.
Even as the High Marshal tired, even as she parried and twisted just out of reach of lethal strikes, even as she could wound her and watch those wounds reknit and feel some level of despair, she kept flicking her eyes upward. She thought it was bloodloss or something being cut deep inside of her that was making her dizzy enough to hallucinate.
Vona started to notice. She growled and closed the distance between the two, now fighting where merchant's stalls were usually set.
"What are you looking at? Hm? Are you expecting some divine savior to reach down and pluck you from this?" she asked. Her voice was roughened. She was tiring too, even if she was doing a better job at not showing it as easily.
"I don't need a divine savior, Vona. I just need to kill you," Salinas answered, grimacing as she raised her shield to block another strike. Vona growled again, deciding to look up herself. Her expression changed, then. Salinas realized she hadn't been hallucinating.
The sky was growing lighter.
Dawn was coming.
Salinas had her shield up and ready, and tried to take advantage of the distraction. It was a risky gambit, but it was her only good opening. She thrusted her sword forward, going right for the throat, but Vona was faster, slipping right inside her guard and stabbing her own sword right through her body, from under one arm up and through her collarbone on the other side. Salinas let out a choked grunt, blood already welling around the blade. Her grip slackened.
"Even if that light is coming," Vona hissed. "You will not be there to see it."
"Then I'll drag you into the abyss with me," Salinas said. With her fading strength, she raised her sword and stabbed down.
---
You feel fear. Horror. Sorrow.
"My Saint," you say, your voice breaking. "You can't-"
"If this is what must be done, then so be it," she says. There is that cool determination about her. You find yourself positively stunned. The grin on Tarrian is even more genuine.
"Very well. I think he will be happy with these terms." He claps his hands together. "One year. No battles between now and then. You will be able to lick your wounds and scramble for a solution before we return. But!" He grinned wider. "Remember, we will be doing the very same."
"We will be ready," your Saint says.
"Oh, as will we." Tarrian nods. "Do not fret, little one," he says, addressing you directly now. "All is not yet lost. Take what time you have and use it wisely and well."
He gives a wave, and you feel yourself falling, and falling, until--
---
Guitirre watches the sky growing paler. He finds himself incredulous at it. There's already cheering and screams of the horrid damned to join them.
And then he spots something he wasn't expecting to see; Pontifex Fein, falling from the darkness. Guitirre quickly thanks the glorifier who had been tending to him before he immediately leaps into the air in order to intercept him.
He catches him before he smashes onto the hard stone below, bringing him to the ground carefully.
"Pontifex Fein?" he asks. The body stirs. The eyes blink open.
And then, Guitirre sees nothing but light.
---
When dawn finally graces the continent of Torrezon, it illuminates the sheer amount of damage and horror left behind. Bodies of traitors remain while the true-blooded demon and children of Aclazotz are slowly unmade in the cleansing light.
Soldiers and warriors all over the continent and even in its adjacent seas rejoice at the sight of the sunrise. Some even begin to dance or peel off their armor, not even caring for the frozen winds that accompany it.
The Darkest Night had passed. The days ahead meant more sunlight, more daytime, that the depths of winter were behind them. Now was the time for growth, for recuperation. For the naming of a new Venerable, who would also lead the Church of Dusk as pontifex.
It was hardly unheard of. A few of the past predecessors had been canonized in their lifetimes before they passed on. An address would be made at midday, but for now, his first edict upon his return was simple; "Let us mend our wounds and clean what we can."
---
And so, they did. Cardinal Theodors had called for the killing of all traitors left behind, but some had begged for clemency. Pontifex Fein was willing to grant it conditionally, and so they were instead all bound and chained for later interrogation. The pontifex had informed the cardinal that he would like a private word, but only after other matters were taken care of.
---
Guitirre met with the other High Marshals to do head counts on who was left and help organize the wounded and walking. Aster was remaining at his side, though she was whining and begging for attention and food. Sarria had brought a bit of dried meat for her to quell her, cooing about how adorable she was. Guitirre and Vazante exchanged very amused looks, considering this was a man who usually hated seeing mastiffs in the barracks.
"I thought they were dirty, slobbering little beasts?" Guitirre asked with a smile on his face.
"They are," Sarria said gruffly. The big man pushed himself up off the ground and gave Aster a good pat on the behind.
"Right." Guitirre nodded as Vazante snickered. Sarria glowered at them.
"This one happens to be very endearing."
"Whatever you say, Bitores."
"Oh, please, your husband is the one who actually likes the mutts, Catarina," Sarria said with a snort. There was still a glimmer of amusement in his eye, and the three exhausted commanders shared a small laugh.
Once things were a bit more stabilized, he'd go onto the network and see how the Storm Fleet and the rest of his Coalition allies had fared.
And, hopefully, he'd be able to hear from Arturo.
---
Lazaro nearly wept with relief at the coming dawn. He sagged against the stones of the shelter his brother had made. Danjikisei had poked its head out to watch the sunrise, or what little of it the kami could see from the shelter.
"I t . . . i s. . . " it said. It tilted its head. ". . . n i c e . . ." it landed on. Lazaro nodded.
"Nice," he agreed. "Relieving." He then looked to his brother, his sons, and his father -- fathers, really -- and came forward to bring them all into an embrace.
---
Austello held.
Cardinal Sirocco was covered in filth and blood by the time it came, but by the blood of the Venerables, it came.
The Antifex had fled. There were Legionnaires who were calling for her to be followed, to properly rout her, but High Marshal Arguel had told them to pull back. Overextending would get more of them killed. They needed to assess damages.
And so, they did. The older cardinal helped direct the clergy where she could, and let the secret out that Pontifex Fein had indeed returned, and should be in Alta Torrezon.
"By the color of the sky, I think he made it," she said. The smile she wore faded when it was revealed who one of the casualties of the siege was.
The cardinal rushed to where the body was found, kneeling next to it and letting out an anguished cry. Word was spreading throughout the ranks of defenders like wildfire. High Marshal Andreas Salinas was dead.
But there was something strange about the body. It was the first thing Arguel noticed when he approached.
Vona left her sword behind.
---
History will remember this as many things. The Darkest Night, the Longest Night, the Darkest Hour, all manner of things are already passing through the mouths of the humans and vampires alike. But all that I wish to be remembered was that this was the night where hope prevailed.
I will not be so naive to say we won. This victory is but a temporary one. A greater battle and greater war will follow, but for now, we have earned a reprieve. Time to rejoice, to heal, to try and clean and prepare ourselves for the true victory to follow.
Especially knowing what will follow that victory. I fear for what may follow afterwards.
But, this morning, I do not let such fears darken my thoughts. Instead, I will mourn for those we lost, and celebrate those who are still with us. This will be a fragile time for us all. Many great lessons will need to be learned. And they will be. But for now, I think we've all deserved a rest.
You set down the pen, leaning back in your chair. It creaks a little under the weight. You still wear the chiton you were given during your journeying, your wings folded a bit awkwardly, but comfortably enough. New and more fitting attire would be commissioned, but for now, it would do.
Your mind drifts to Dhazdoro, Menea, and Malkonia. Dhazdoro was speaking with the Saint, and Menea and Malkonia were helping the wounded. You were going to pay them a visit and thank them for their aid and tell them you are even more in their debt.
A smile crosses your face, even if you know that statement is not entirely true.
But then, a knock. "Come in," you say.
It is a young acolyte. Newly blooded, more than likely.
"I am sorry for disturbing you, Venerable-"
"Pontifex still works," you gently correct. "And all other monikers thereof. I do not wish to assume that title just yet."
"Right, yes, my apologies, Pontifex," the acolyte says, dipping his head. "Cardinal Ayere is ready to meet with you when you are."
Your lips draw into a line. You drum your fingers on the desk. There is a stack of papers next to them, as well as a small, slim volume.
You nod. You ponder for a moment, then look back at the acolyte.
"I think I am ready for him now."
The acolyte nods, and ducks out of the door. A few moments later, it opens, and the cardinal walks in, bowing his head in deference.
"Pontifiex Fein," he says, wearing that smile you find so familiar now. His silvered eyes are slightly narrowed. Cautious. Afraid.
"Cardinal Ayere," you say, lacing your fingers together. "There is much to discuss."
The gates grinded against ice and frozen blood, opening just wide enough for the retinue to get in. Guitirre had signaled for their arrival to slow so they wouldn't go crashing into something once they were inside. All along the walls there was cheering and rejoicing, and a redoubling of the fighting efforts.
Paladins and soldiery alike raced to meet the entourage, though may paused and hesitated as they saw the massive gorgons as well as the minotaur. The Champions dismounted as one and immediately took up a defensive arrangement around the pontifex as he, too, got off his horse. Guitirre quickly undid the holdings on Aster, then lifted her up and off as he prepared to take stock of what was happening.
Demons and traitors alike started to rally and focus on their new target, but that made it all the more easy for them to be shot out of the sky. Guitirre's legs were already mist and he was back into the thick of fighting, all the while calling for his skymarchers. Dozens began to join from the assembling crowds below, taking the fight to the encroaching heretics and traitors. Aster barked and bit where she could, staying as close to her master as she was able.
Mavren spread his wings. "High Marshal Guitirre," he called. "Cut me a path."
Guitirre glanced over to him and saluted. "I was wondering if those wings would be functional, your grace," he said seizing a traitor by the throat and using his dancing blade to skewer them through. "Legion of Dusk! Up and through!"
"Menea, Hythonia, Dhazdoro, I ask you go with the Champions and ensure that the cathedrals have not been breached," Mavren said as he slowly lifted himself into the sky. "That is where we should be keeping the humans who cannot fight this eve. The night is not yet over, and I do not know how many of our own have been able to defend them." He looked north, where the silhouette of Aclazotz among the northern mountains was only seen by the light of his own eye. There was a woman standing before him, her black hair billowing like a cloak, golden light surrounding her. "The Saint needs me."
He hefted his spear and began to advance with the Skymarchers, the underside of his wings returning stars to the everblack skies. Once they were close enough, Mavren waved off the High Marshal.
"I will take it from here," he said. "I cannot protect you from his influence once I have received his full attention."
Guitirre looked a bit confused, but then he realized that he had barely felt even a stir of hunger since they entered the city. Understanding came to his face.
"Use that strength to save us, your grace," he said, spinning and throwing a diving traitor onto a rooftop below. "May the Saint and Venerables protect you."
"May your arm be strong and swift, High Marshal," Mavren returned. The two then split, with Guitirre recalling his skymarchers to the walls.
---
Aster had been running through the streets as best she could, barking to let Guitirre know where she was, so when he made it to the walls, he only had to whistle to summon her. As he descended, he heard someone calling to him, and he turned to see who it was. A smile came to his weather-beaten face.
"Catarina," he greeted, parrying off a nasty blow from a demon. "Give it to me straight." He leaned in and dropped his voice. "How fucked are we?"
His fellow High Marshal laughed as she slammed a shield into another demon. "Well, Celino, considering that our pontifex has wings and flies now, I'd say are chances are..." She stabbed the one she had just bashed clean through, flinging it away from her. "Slightly better than they were a few minutes ago. At least morale is higher."
"Aye, and bless Pontifex Fein for that," Guitirre said with a nod. "Where's Bitores?"
"Streetside," Catarina answered. "Has been practically all night."
Guitirre made a grunt and whistled, Aster coming up and biting at the hand of a particularly persistent fiend climbing the walls. Guitirre then kicked it right back down again.
"Let's make sure we see the dawn again, eh?" he said, drawing out his other blade from Aster's harness. "What's the old saying? 'No night lasts forever, no storm can rage eternal'?"
"'And in death, life sees its face'," High Marshal Vazante finished. "I will say, if I'm supposed to see my face in these ugly bastards, I am incredibly offended." She slammed her shield into another demon clawing up the walls while Guitirre stabbed one trying to fly over her.
"I am sure your husband will attest to your beauty until the sun gives out," he said with a laugh. "I'll go west, you take east?"
"Aye. Be careful of the elementals, they're friends of ours but have been tossing stones everywhere," Catarina warned. Guitirre nodded and the two broke off, starting to give new orders to the soldiers as they went.
---
As they ran through the streets, the cardinal and his grandson paused. There was shouting. Theodors prepared himself, as did Lazaro, but then he realized why they were shouting when he caught it from the lips of a running messenger.
"Pontifex Fein has returned!" they shouted. "Salvation has come! Pontifex Fein has returned to us!"
He shared a look with his grandson. Lazaro, for a brief moment, saw something in his eyes, but it was quickly wiped away.
"Find Cecurro," he said. "Quickly. I will deal with this." Lazaro nodded and continued running in the direction of the initial burst of stonework.
Theodors watched as paladins, human soldiery, and clergy alike converged on one point beyond the southeastern gate. They were all saying the same thing -- the pontifex had returned. Salvation, at last.
"Rout them!" Theodors was shouting. "Take this opportunity! Send them back to their god! Rout them! They seek the pontifex and we will ensure they never have him!" Darkness billowed about him, and he could feel the ebb and flow of life around him. Any demon that got too close was torn from the skies or halted in their charges before their weapons or claws could even get close.
"Rout them!" he shouted again. "Show them no mercy! Make them regret ever turning against the sacred light of dusk! Kill them all!"
He saw a thing of stars move swiftly through the streets and was about to raise up arms against them when he noticed the entourage of Champions accompanying them.
Extraplanar help, he reasoned. If they weren't, he'd destroy them all the same.
Theodors laughed in exultation as more and more of the traitorous kindred of the dark god looming over the city came, now some spotting him and wishing to see him cut down.
"Come, then! Come, you bastards! Allow me to show you why your god shall fail against the might of the truly faithful!"
"Shadowstep? I need you here for a moment." Gesserith's voice shook.
The young werewolf stepped out from her room. She could hear the tone of his voice that something wasn't quite right. "What happened? Did someone..." She didn't finish. She didn't need to.
"You... you remember Leta, right? I'm sure you saw her around the orphanage. A bit. Here and there." He kept holding himself together. "Haruko. Found her arm. And sword. I. She. How. Leta... LETAAAAA!" He broke, collapsing into his daughter, holding her tight, refusing to let anything else go tonight. "WHYYYYYY???"
Shadowstep simply held him back. Unable to do anything more, she just comforted her dad and joined in the mourning of such a close friend. "I'm here," she whispered.
