*COMPLETE* Allayria promised to do what it takes to stop the Jarles, to make the ugly decision. She thinks, at last, she understands what the dynast meant. The lesson earned from the top of that lonely cliff and given the dark murky water below.
It...
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It's so much easier being a monster.
Breath pushes out in cloudy puffs from the nostril slits of this mask, this container of metal and ash. The armor holds everything inside, an exoskeleton to shield the weak flesh, a mask to hide the shameful face.
It's easy to forget he has a face inside here.
He doesn't need one, not anymore. The cold, iron veneer is enough for all that he is good for, all that he is worth now. People crumple before him, and whether it's from blows or merely fear, it no longer matters. He's just another black horror thundering through this chaos.
They crawl like ants, these people, these things. They wear red and paint buildings in it, scrawling scribbled shapes and antler crowns, but he wears black, and it doesn't matter what they draw when he arrives. It doesn't matter what they say, what they call him. Words have no place in his world anymore.
They run like leaves from the wind, scattering in a rush of fluttering, scrambling, and scuffling, and he just follows, the heavy saber hanging at his side, like an appendage, a mutated limb. He follows, and he swings.
And he swings.
It's easier this way, almost a relief to shut everything else down. If he just stays inside here, if he never leaves, he never has to look back. Only forward, to the next threat to the Queen.
He feels the phantom touch of her slender fingers on his neck, a weak allowance, a shuddering, crawling mistake, and he shakes it off.
"I'm staying, I'm staying with you..."
No.
The ants are flocking now, flocking to a building whose sign hangs in tatters, the only words remaining being "Westling" and, ironically, "Obscure." This was one of their hideouts a long time before—before—and it seems there was something left in it to unearth still.
He'll bury it, and them too.
Their only warning is the one outlier who turns around, the one who sees it coming and shrieks, like the warning call of a watcher in a flock of birds, a foal at the edge of a herd. And then there is fire, and metal, sharp and burning white-hot, cleaving through like oars through water, branches through wind—
Some resist it, some lift their hands, conjure flames of their own, blades at their side. He can see it, how the Skill flows to them in stuttering, spluttering gasps, like hands grasping at river water, precious liquid seeping through finger seams. Theirs only ever dip into the river of Skill; his hand always remains in the river now, turning slowly into river weed.
They don't understand that it's not just an ability now, a talent. It's all that's left in here, this humming undercurrent of wordless connection. It's the only thing left allowed.
There's one ant in the firelight, one rounding up a dozen, directing them with the point of a long, tanned arm. This thing in the smoldering armor might have recognized this ant in a different lifetime; he knows him enough now to change course, to set sights on him and charge. There's something clutched in the prey's hand—a letter, a missive—and it seems to sense the dark presence descending. It turns, long, black hair sweeping around, dark eyes fixing on the looming form, and something soundless amidst the clashing and screaming issues out of its mouth as the surrounding hive buzzes louder.
The Protector hews through another swath of rushing bodies, keeping that one ant in view, hacking harder, moving faster—
It's swift, a sudden whoosh of ember and crackling, as something larger than a man, thick and aflame, slices through the air in front of him. It's a beam, a core foundation from the school that burns behind him, and a network of logs and columns follows, the frayed branches of structural support crashing down on the major trunk's collapse in front of him.
Through the burning webbing he watches them, seizing and hauling bags, glancing frequently back, faces and limbs slick with sweat.
They flee into the darkness, these spindly, two-legged things, taking with them the one with the letter—news from their bloody leader, news from whatever dark hole he's lurking in. The Queen's Bloodhound straightens up, cutting through the quenched flames. He marches out, sword already swinging, fire already burning at his fingertips.
It's so much easier being a monster.
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A/N:
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Chapter notes: The Westling School of the Dutiful Obscure was first referenced in Paragon's "The Things We Never Wanted to Know;" Fae promises to stay in Prodigal's "A House Covered in Blood."
