The Beast of the Apocalypse: All in a Day's Work

"Sorry pal."

Hard eyes, granite face, hewn body.  Forged in the flaming pits of Hell, born from a womb of shadows. Nothing of sorrow in any of it.  Empty words.

"I win. You live."

Yellow eyes glinted with cool contempt as the Son of the Fallen One held the vanquished warrior at the point of his own spear. He reached down and plucked the Crown of the Golden Army from the elf's fair head and, with one final smirk, turned his back on his foe and sauntered over to his waiting acolytes. The Right Hand of Doom had sealed the fate of the magical races and he was smiling.

A frenzied tide of rage - thick, black and choking - crashed through the defeated Elven warrior and a millennia's worth of ruthlessly forged self-control was annihilated in one searing instant of fury. Blind instinct guided his hand to the silver dagger at his waist; desperation drove him to his feet, propelling him forward as he snatched at the slender chance to change the course of Time and save his people from the vast, yawning pit of oblivion to which the one called Anung un Rama had just consigned them.

He reached the red Beast of the Apocalypse in two swift steps and raised his hand to strike the killing blow but another wave of fury tore through him, stopping him short. Not mine, he realised with a start. For me!  His surprise vanished.

Ice-cold pain sliced his heart to shreds. For a fleeting second he thought it the usual pain that struck whenever he was reminded of his sister's loathing for him. He was wrong though; the agony which pierced him now was in no way usual. But then again, perhaps it was.

A warm, wet feeling seeped out from his heart, trickling down his chest and soaking through the thick, gold padding of his surcoat. The red silk beneath felt clammy against his skin, and the Elven warrior lifted his hand to his chest. The dagger fell from his other hand, clattering to the ground as he looked down in disbelief. He raised his head and turned around.

"Nuala!" Four thousand years' worth of hopeless, aching love in a single word.

His eyes lit on his sister: his beautiful sister. The betrayer of her House, the slayer of her people - his  House, his  people. She was standing on the dais, looking down at the knife stuck deep in her own heart – his heart, surely. With her strength fading fast, she pulled it out and looked up across the distance. Her golden eyes met his one last time and then she sank - slowly, gracefully - to the ground.

He turned away, unable to bear the sight, and fell into the arms of the waiting demon. Staring into pale yellow Hell-born eyes, he spoke. "The humans - they will tire of you."

The Son of the Fallen One looked away.

"They have already turned against you," continued the Elven warrior as, with his life fast ebbing, he made one last desperate attempt to give his people something – anything – to hold on to. "Leave them!" he urged the demon. A wave of pain bit deep and he drew a steadying breath. "Is it them, or us? Which holocaust should be chosen?" Another breath, shuddering now. More words, his voice no longer steady. "We die... and the world will be poorer for it."

With his last ounce of strength, he pushed away from the demon and turned back to the dais - and the supine form of his sister. As he stepped forward he knew he would not reach her side. He never did; there was not even that.

"Nuala. My sister." The last words he ever spoke; it was something at least.

His body was racked with exquisite pain as the transformation began. For a fleeting moment he remembered how he had once hoped his soul might fly on the wind with dragons when he finally passed from this world. But there were no more dragons and he was no longer certain he had a soul.

However, as his eyelids lapidified and darkness closed in, one final thought whispered through his mind like a benediction. The Crown survived; the Golden Army could not be destroyed. Some one of his kind might one day find them and use them again, the ancient Gods be willing. It was the merest breath of hope but it was hope all the same. He had done all he could for his people even to the bitter end, and so he died, shattering at the last into a thousand pieces.

Some moments later, a brief flame flared in the cavern but it soon died away too, leaving only a formless, already-hardening puddle of gold. And though the soaring walls of the vast chamber seemed to reach to the Heavens, there was neither sun nor wind nor sky, neither dragons nor angels, and the broken remains of the last prince of Bethmoora lay shrouded in darkness.

The demon turned and walked out into the light.