Respite

Death and Conversation III

(The previous two warnings were a bit premature, things get really graphic now. Promise.)

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"He's not going to lose, is he?" Melzri leaned forward from atop the balcony. "Should we intervene?"

Viessa made a complicated face while Dragoth perched himself on the railing with his arms.

"Let them be," Kiros said, waving a hand. "I want to see how this plays out."

Seris bit her nails, shifting uncomfortably on her feet. Her eyes followed their movements with intense concern and consideration. The gears were turning in her head, an expression of consternation etched on her flawless face. No one in the high box knew exactly who she was worried about, though. 

As for the people in the stands and those watching from afar, there was something about the fight that made their hair stand on end, something that sent shivers down their spine, and caused hearts to thrum in exhilaration. 

It was like a fever dream. Far too long had their reality been defined by the gods who had given their lives shape and purpose. For as long as they could remember, their reality was what their Sovereigns told them it was. And now, that very same reality was being reshaped, redefined, by a single mortal, against every odd imaginable...

It was a feeling no one ever thought they would have needed to feel. For they have already accepted their own fate and their own circumstances. To even consider such a possibility would be to reach beyond their mortal bounds...

And yet... this feeling was undeniable.

No one would ever admit it out loud in fear of scorn. 

But as they watched their strongest Scythe being brought to their knees, every man, woman, and child from the poor to the rich; every unad, Named Blood, and High Blood alike; they together in unison, at least for the duration of that battle, felt something they had not felt in a long time.

Hope.

Cadell covered the entire arena in a thick cloud of smoke and Decay-infused wind. The murky smog permeated the floor, casting shadows and blighting out the sun.

"Damn lesser..."

Arthur was the calm to Cadell's storm. And whether it was a gale of Decay, a rain of black metal, or a downpour of Soulfire, he weathered that storm with unwavering resolve and resolution.

The end result was a foregone conclusion.

From the shadows, several large spikes exploded upward, all aimed at Arthur. Some pierced his legs and arms while the others jutted out in front of him, holding his body in place. Cadell formed a lance of pure black void in his hand and hurled it like a javelin. It penetrated his stomach, making him lurch as the edges of the spear began to extend outward.

Arthur fell limp. His head dangled precariously as he hung from the spikes.

"It's useless."

His monotone voice echoed out in the wake of heavy silence.

In the middle of the mist, his body began to burn like a purple bonfire.

Cadell huffed in frustration and shot more spikes at Arthur, but the crackling of flames ate away at the spells. Wherever they touched, the fire of Destruction disintegrated the mana-fueled metal until nothing but the lance remained.

As his limbs were freed, Arthur grabbed the handle and slowly slid it out from his waist. He looked at the offensive object and turned his gaze back to Cadell.