Arthion is fighting his brother. both blades stained with each other's blood. The long hair is tangled in blood and mud. Exhausted yet fighting, both mages fight until the darkness of the night turns into the crimson of the morning.
Dragons dead on the ground, their masters bleeding to death. Both armies were defeated but not giving in.
The two brothers lie on the hard ground, trying to grasp their breath.
-Look around you brother! Everything is dying. There's only blood and ash! There's nothing left.-
-I still have Power left!-
And with swift moves, Arthion stabs his own brother in the chest. Pushing the blade into the chest until the handle touches the skin. Tears run down Arthion's cheeks, mixing with blood.
Pain now resides on his face.
Killing his own brother was never a choice. Until he saw the madness in his eyes.
Falling into his knees, the Mage looks at the blade stuck in his brother's chest.
He never noticed how much alike they looked.
-My brother....... You could never understand the Power.-
With pain in his heart, Arthion looks at his brother bleeding to Death, breathing in all the pain and sorrows of the battle around him.
-I have learnt to live without it. But you left me no choice.-
Confused, the Mage is looking at his chest, his smiles fading, he should be able to heal that wound.
-You cannot heal this wound. My sword was made with the Ancient steel of our ancestors. Its magic is more ancient than us. No magic of yours will heal you now.-
The Mage slowly falls on the ground, inhaling the last breath of a lost battle, never meant to be won.
Arthion's eyes are full of sorrows. They are watery with tears. They look around the battlefield. Hoping to see the end of it.
The winged creatures are on the ground. Some are holding down the enemies with their clawed feet. Some are holding on to their wounds. Some are badly injured but still standing.
Beasts and humans alike. They all lie on the ground.
Their armours are stained with blood and mud.
Their bodies exhausted from the battle. Swords broken and scattered.
Dead dragons lie on the ground, the light leaving their eyes.
Smoke, ashes and pain are the only things to breath in the air.
Arthion looks around this scene of Death and senseless pain caused by a Mage dreaming of power.
In the distance he can still see Ariel and Mefistofel fighting together.
With swords and magic. With Power and Love.
The most amazing Power to be seen in this world and beyond.
The greatest courage.
The greatest Love.
Ariel the beautiful witch yet deadly.
Mefistofel the brave warrior yet born from Darkness.
The battle is not over yet
Still one enemy to fight.
With a slow and gentle gesture, Arthion pulls his broken sword out of his brother's heart.
With a heart full of pain and sorrow, he watches his brother disappear into a black cloud of dust and dark Magic. Only the jewel that once sat on his neck remains.
"Goodbye brother. Have Piece."
He picks up the jewel.
He knows who to return it to.
As he picks himself up, the Cursed ones appear in front of him, ghostly remains of what once were man.
-We have kept our word. Now release us.-
-The battle isn't over yet. We still need you.-
-We agreed to defeat the army. We did not agree to defeat HIM. we cannot defeat Death with Death. Release us!-
Arthion sees the truth in the ghostly words. They are dead and they cannot fight the one who controls Death.
With sadness but with honour, he has to let them go
-Your oath is fulfilled. You can go. You can have Peace.-
Saying those words, the ghost's face has a slight smile on their decayed features.
For a brief moment, they return to their former glory: magnificent warriors with beautiful golden armours, their swords intact and their banners flying high in the wind. They are once again the greatest army that ever fought.
They vanish, carried away by the wind, to the place where souls can have Peace.
