The War For The Pallid Throne

Death of an Engineer

Death isn't the same for them. The gods and goddesses of war wax and wane going through periods of inaction bound to their mother's will. An engineer's soul takes time to heal, scabbing over and forming nasty scars that blister and bleed. Their true forms are like the surface of the moons, filled with craters battered and bruised. They will never forget how they last died and their cravings for vengeance run deep. Ask yourself, what would you do if you had a second chance? The engineers have had many and they've never changed.

13

A blinding flash, an ear-splitting squeal, a sky parting cloud of ash and dust. That was his legacy. Xerxes never felt the impact, never felt his body crash against the rocks or the tiny bits of sharp glass that penetrated his spine. His hearts were beating too fast, mind racing at the speed of light. If only he had anticipated his sister. If only his hive had time to incubate a few minutes longer. If only the fight had been fair.

Persephone never played fair.

The pain hit him now. It was like a vortex bearing down upon calm seas. His fingers twitched, eyes circling from left to right, and his teeth clacked together, searching for something to bite on, anything to escape the spasms in his back.

Where was his tongue?

Where was his tongue!?

He moved the bloody stump in his mouth, swimming in a lake of the plasma between his cheeks. Xerxes lifted his head and grabbed hold of a crooked stone jutting from the dunes. He pulled until his tendons snapped and something slippery gave behind him. Then came the winds, a howling storm that kicked up the sands, covering his body in a thin film of ash.

The plains shook when the last of his strength gave out, and he rolled down the dunes until his head rested upon the hillside. From here, he could see the cloud of devastation touching his mother's soft palate and spreading like a blanket across the horizon. Even half cooked, the blast had spread more than a mile wide, touching the ceiling and gouging a hole in the roof.

The wind whistled through the gashes in his wings, brushing past tattered membranes and tickling the silver hairs beneath his collarbone. Xerxes tried to stand, dragging tendrils of black tissue behind him. His nostrils flared, kicking up sand as he pulled himself forward.

Maybe he got the attacking engineer in the blast. Yes, there was a chance for him to make it out, to rest here for a bit and find his strength. The throne could still be his if only the stars were aligned.

Suddenly, his fingers touched something solid, not like the stone jutting from the dunes, the raining glass, or the porous cliffs of his mother's hard palate. No, this was rough, but with a rounded edge that ended at a point, a talon, a claw, a sharp reminder of his failure.

Xerxes lifted his head to meet Persephone's gaze. She was missing two heads, and her fingers were bruised, with flesh peeling off the sides of her elbows. The gills along her neck were pale, and a few broken fins were twitching along her waist.

"Of course, it had to be you," he said, stumbling over his words with half a tongue.

The orca was her specialty. How had he failed to recognize that before?

"Give it to me," she said, the skulls along her neck clicking their teeth together. "give me the design before it is too late!"

It hurt to laugh, but he couldn't help himself. The sound slipped out like a low rumble, causing his diaphragm to spasm and fingers to curl.