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The figure’s feet floated down towards the shattered earth, settling down gently. With a weary sigh, they watched as Ifan and the others laid, unscathed on a pedestal of pristine cobblestone. Turning, they acknowledged Fendrick with a glassy stare and uncaring face. They stepped towards him, the cold wind following them in their wake.
“Who are you boy? You stand before me, unharmed by my power. Speak.”
Fendrick stared back, his mouth struggling to form words or sounds.
“Let me get a closer look at you.” The figure placed a hand on Fendrick’s chin, their bloody fingers leaving a smear of red on his face. They caressed his skin, finally placing a supple fingertip on his forehead. Their eyes flashed a brilliant white, and they seemed overwhelmed with sensation.
Fendrick could feel the invasive nature of their magic, crawling around his memories and brain like an unrelenting millipede. Sweaty and pale, he fell backwards, separating himself from the figure.
“I see. You are a mutant containing cells of my sibling. That the humans would stoop so low. Experimenting on their young and sullying the purity of a fellow Warren.” The figure stepped away, turning their back on Fendrick. “And you. You cast magic without stealing from the planet, like myself. And are able to utilise magic that can cancel out even mine.” They walked towards Ifan, before peeling him off of the others and holding him by the scruff of his neck. Placing a fingertip to his forehead, they attempted the same scrying magic on the prince.
Thron, what have you done?
“Gideon?” The figure dropped Ifan and stumbled backwards. They placed a hand on their temple as pain pounded in their skull. Taking a moment to recover, the figure returned to Ifan, hoisting him off of the ground and pushing him up against the pillar of stone. They placed their fingertip on Ifan’s forehead once more and delved into his subconscious over again.
You have murdered thousands of humans, Thron. And have decimated miles of Eden. The life of a million innocents was snuffed out in an instant.
Gideon, for what purpose do you inhabit this human? And you truly have the gall to judge my actions? After what they did to me? To our siblings?
I had hoped to continue our purpose, Thron. To teach the humans how to act as stewards for Eden, to guide them towards salvation and to ultimately provide sustenance for the Weaver.
While the humans harvest the planet’s lifeforce, and use up the very energy we had hoped to cultivate? They are a lost cause, Gideon. They murdered Tehir, transformed me into a tool for their sick machinations and lead to this… stagnation.
We work on the scale of millions of years, our existence eternal and unending. Your worries are naïve, borne of a feeling of betrayal by the very people you had hoped to shepherd. This reality is an extension of your failures, Thron.
My failures? The humans experimented on me, severed my soul from my body and unleashed the lifeforce of the planet. Without our intervention, that act would have caused irreparable damage to Eden, ending their entire pathetic species and all other life on the planet, and would have meant complete failure for the Warrens.
Our intervention? So quick to attribute yourself to your siblings’ successes.
You sanctimonious—
Your failures, Thron, meant we had to sacrifice our very beings to protect our flocks. We live on as mere shadows of our former selves, barely affecting the path of humanity instead of forging their path with impunity, as we were meant to.
And how do you hope to exact your will on the humans? Through this fool’s bloodline?
This fool’s bloodline has conquered half of the planet, forged alliances with most of the civilised throngs of humanity and has ushered in a near unprecedented period of peace.
Yet the humans still sap the lifeblood of Eden each day, despite this fool’s bloodline.
Do not let perfect be the enemy of good, Thron. With more time – centuries and millennia – the humans will fall back to our will. And Eden will be back on the path the Weaver so ordained.
You always did believe that unification of the monkeys would lead to our success. But don’t you see? Their gathering has always led to the poisoning of Eden, and the death of Warrens. Look at the human stood there. He contains the cells of Freya. Once more the humans have played with our siblings’ life, for their own selfish gain. His people hoped to control the Wells, the magic, the lifeblood of the planet. They manufactured him for that end, using our sibling, Gideon. Don’t you see how futile it is to trust these foul creatures? You cannot hope to control them all, they are like a plague, a scourge on the planet. Sever one malformed tendril and ten reform in its place.
Freya yet lives. Though their cells may inhabit that human, they still stand tall, watching over the forests to the north.
They grow weaker by the day. The humans of the forests, the elves as they like to call themselves, abused Freya’s body – ushering in what they called ‘The Great Fallout’. They caused yet another calamity using our power, yet you still hold out hope for them? Do you not see how naïve you are, Gideon?
While I still hold what little influence I have, I have to have hope for them, Thron. Without their success, the Weaver will destroy Eden, with us in tow.
Now we see the true face of Gideon the Self-Righteous. Holding on to your own life in the stead of our greater purpose. This planet should have been harvested centuries ago, and now you speak of waiting even longer? We had already spent hundreds of millennia raising these apes to the greedy, power-hungry creatures they are today.
Your impatience wrought this outcome on us all! Your siblings, your fellow Warrens have suffered because of your actions! I have tried my hardest to keep us alive, to allow us to move on to the next world, whole once more! You speak of my sanctimony; you forget yourself, Thron!
My impatience? My flock betrayed me for showing them a sustainable way to extract Eden’s power for their advancement. And what do they do to repay me? Use the magic to enslave me, enslave our siblings. For more. To indulge their reprehensible avarice. Surely that transgression should have earnt your rage, your fury, the wrath and indignation of all Warrens? Instead, you shield them from their stupidity, protecting your flocks from the calamitous outcome of their blind ambition. I merely plan to right our wrongs in placing our trust in these creatures.
My flock did not deserve eradication for your flock’s missteps. Nor did Freya’s, or Michael’s, or Horadrus’.
But don’t you see? Freya’s flock are about to commit the same atrocities as my own! They sought me out with the intention of claiming the Wells for their own. And all this after nearly killing Freya! After all they did to protect their flock! How much longer do we have to wait for your flock, Michael’s, or Horadrus’ to do the same? Let me end their species’ existence and we can rectify our mistake in trusting them. The mistake we all made.
While you hold this ambition, I will do all I can to stop you. Please, Thron. With a fully formed Warren walking Eden once more, we can steer the humans down the correct path. You can close the Wells, and we can work together to fix their mistakes. Think of all the good you can do, Thron. Do not let your impatience be our end once again!
I’m sorry, Gideon. If you align yourself as an ally of humanity, then you will find yourself in my opposition.
Thron, please! Do not take out your wrath on innocent humans! They do not deserve this end!
May the Weaver forgive me.
Thron placed their hands on Ifan’s temples, exerting an growing pressure on his skull. The bone began to fracture in their fingers, his unconscious breathing becoming erratic and unstable. Tears fell down Thron’s cheeks, and with a silent prayer to the Weaver, they increased the pressure once more. They closed their eyes as they felt the skull waver under their grip and readied for their victim’s demise.
Then, Fendrick’s blade passed through Thron’s chest.
Blood bubbled up in Thron’s lungs, and they felt their grip weaken. Their arms fell back to their side, before gripping at the steel puncturing their chest.
“You are delaying the inevitable, human. Stop this farce. Or do you wish to die before your friend here?” Thron pushed the blade back through their chest, and their skin crawled back together, the wound sealing back up immediately. They turned to face their attacker, staring into Fendrick’s furious visage. “To think I have to kill the vessels of two of my siblings this day. Please do not make this harder than it needs to be, boy.”
“Ifan! Ifan, wake up!” Fendrick shouted to the prince.
“Your immunity to my magic means your death will have to be more painful than I would have preferred.” Thron placed their thumb into their palm, before transforming their forearm and hand into a sharp blade. “Return to the planet, Freya.” Thron lifted their arm to the sky and swung down towards Fendrick.
He parried the first strike, stepping backwards to maintain some distance, his feet struggling with the worn and rocky ruined terrain. “Prince, wake up!”
Thron continued their assault, pressing Fendrick further and further back. Despite their dominance, Thron still couldn’t break down his defences. Strike after strike was blocked, and it was clear to Thron that Fendrick was becoming more and more used to the terrain. With each blow, the distance he had to fall back was minimised, and soon Thron found themselves locked in an exchange of attacks, with their human opponent standing toe to toe with the Warren.
“Enough!” Thron struck out once more and locked blades with Fendrick. As the struggle commenced, they began morphing their skin, its surface bubbling with excitement.
Fendrick noticed the change and recognised the Warren’s attack. He assumed they were attempting to use the very same ability that bested the troll guards, an eruption of quills from their body. Fendrick parried away Thron’s sword arm, and closed the gap, stepping closer to the Warren. The unusual attack surprised his foe, and with a split second of advantage, he planted his sword in their side, leaving it there and tumbling backwards to some semblance of safety.
Thron fell to their knee from the blow, and blood rushed out of the wound. But their attack was already primed, and the spikes rose like a rash from the Warren’s body. Thron was enveloped in their defensive shroud, unaware of its success, and left recovering from the unexpected wound.
A cluster of spikes met with Fendrick’s shin and guarding forearm, piercing him repeatedly and burying themselves deep within his skin. A few bored their way into bone, eliciting a pain unlike any he’d felt before. Through gritted teeth and after releasing a wheeze of agony, Fendrick pried himself from the shell of spikes, falling onto his side. He pulled himself away from the Warren, his blood soaking into the unsullied soil. “Ifan! By the El’dorei, please come to!” Please, thought Fendrick. The pang of desperation overrode any anger he had for the murderer of his mentor. Pained and dying, he knew the only chance he had to survive was to place his trust in his foil.
The sound of a hundred spears piercing the ground nearby finally brought Ifan out of his bleary-eyed haze of unconsciousness. His head pounded with pain and his vision had yet to right itself. A wall of afterimages filled his view, the crimson ball of spikes ahead of him melding into a melange of blood covered disorder. He righted himself, pushing up against the stone pillar behind him.
“Ifan!”
A cry for help followed by a muffled exclamation barely reached Ifan’s ears, and he wondered what situation he had wound up in. Fragments of the morning clattered through his mind like drunken memories. Fire, panicked people, a mass of bodies, a bloodied angel of death. The final image pressed into his mind, the angel’s visage confounding his idea of reality. Gideon. Their face felt familiar, like an old family member met and forgotten during his youth. He’d seen interpretations of his God’s, Telric’s, messenger before, on stained glass and ancient tapestries, but the real thing was harrowing. Their blood-soaked body and the malevolence of their gaze turned Ifan’s stomach; even the memory was enough to temper his heart rate.
A pained groan from behind the spiked dome snapped Ifan out of his spiralling descent into awe-ridden madness. He looked at his skin. The angel’s spell, the sun. Ifan remembered the heat, and the sickening radiance emanating from the miniature celestial body. He remembered protecting Rhian, Angharad and the elf, Kolt. His skin was tan and in parts red and peeling. Struggling to stand, he felt the strain on his body and the stiffness of his limbs.
Don’t die.
Ifan heard the words from an unknown source echo through his head. Was it his own will, pushing him to struggle against his fate? He pressed his fingertips to his temples and concentrated on the voice’s source.
He needs your help.
Ifan snapped himself out of his delusions, and pushed forward, swaying back and forth like a drunk. Steadying himself, he pulled the prayer beads from his pocket, and mustered up his inner power. His eyes shone a brilliant white, and with a prayer to his God, he went about healing the damage his body had sustained. The magic crawled over his skin like a swarm of hungry larvae, eating away at the damaged tissue and removing the painful discolouration that had occurred due of the radiation. Before long, Ifan felt more like his old self. His head still felt cloudy, and he could feel another bout of fatigue setting in, but the physical pain and disorientation had eased, and he was ready.
As the prayer finished, the ball of spikes ahead receded, folding back together to reveal a downed Fendrick, bloody and panicked, and the angel at its centre. Ifan pressed his finger to his lip as he caught Fendrick’s attention, and his unexpected ally stayed quiet, watching in horror as the angel creature pulled a sword from its side.
“You are such deceptive and pernicious creatures. To think that my siblings would shelter you without even admonishing you for your wrongdoings. I shall put an end to you and your kin for your perversion of the Weaver’s graces!” The angel swung the sword above its head, and with two steps forward made to strike at the downed Fendrick.
With a spear of lightning, Ifan pierced the angel’s chest.
The tip crackled with electricity, and the smell of burnt flesh filled the air. Ifan held the spear’s shaft with two hands, each shaking as he pulled the head back through the angel’s body. The angel let out a breathless and pained sigh as the blade slipped back from between the creature’s wings.
Fendrick mused. The wound had struck true, and unlike all others he and the trolls had dealt, this one was stubborn. The skin surrounding it bubbled furiously but couldn’t reseal the hole. They had a chance.
