Mhaieiyu

  Arc 3, Chapter 14

  The Me the Heavens Made

  His plummet was inevitable.

  The young boy had seen battle in the form of one man—a Celestial man—whose mind gorged on brutality and sleep if nothing else. This sir was a disgrace to morals: not driven by mayhem nor madness, path or plight; simply a rancorous urge. An urge that slept just under his skin, or a frustration that desired exit once in a while, and what a perfect dummy for such a cause the twisted angel had been appointed.

  A defenceless man whose body would break, and then unbreak, to be broken again. Of course it was actually a boy, he found out — he was told as much when he was first tasked, but he’d dozed through the details, never one to revel in burden; a disgrace to morals and to his flock. It was amazing his wings hadn’t been severed sooner, allowed to stay only by ruling of that previous Skyborn Major — the same that permitted this unreason to take place. And for what purpose, she asked herself?

  Her name was Aquila, the grey-feathered Hawk that watched the arena from a higher ground, hidden behind panes of an impossibly strong crystal glass. She’d asked herself that question several times now, and again each time she watched the young Emris get pummelled within an inch of his life, or well past what a mortal’s body could endure. To Tygrith’s vile satisfaction, no amount of damage would spell an end to the Guardian’s life — he by no means possessed the power to fell one such as he. But until the boy learned, Tygrith could relish unbridled in the pain he inflicted.

  Emris struggled to rise to his feet, his experiences thus far teaching him the futility of languishing in his agony. Whether it splintered his bones further made no difference, he just had to keep himself mobile. Tygrith offered the boy a modicum of mercy today, entirely due to his sluggish composure. His speed and interest were lagging, but his blows were still destructive forces nonetheless. Emris hadn’t yet developed much power for his own, but understood basic defensive manoeuvres, criss-crossing his arms to take the worst of Tygrith’s wrath, though it ached the muscles in his forearms to a point he couldn’t bring himself to fight back. Twice he had cast his birthright shields, and twice they were dispelled without much thought. His one true purpose was so delicate that it developed a well of grief in the young Guardian, his guard too weak to even protect himself. The day’s session ended with a whistle, seconds after Tygrith had pushed Emris’ brains out his temples with a hammer-fall of his fist.

  The ruthless ‘mentor’ departed the room with an uncouth look on his face, casting a single glance toward the overseeing angels whilst strictly avoiding Aquila’s gaze. With an unceremonious wave he was out, back to his life of laze.

  Two Celestials of short hierarchy descended toward the broken Guardian and made an effort to accelerate his healing with their light-becoming magic, that of the Illuminative kind, before shuffling him off to his quarters barely conscious. Aquila watched this, a hand unknowingly pressed against the crystal, which noticed only when one of the overseers ushered it off, as not to stain and disturb its transparency.

  “You look morose, Bladancer. Please, you mustn’t ill your mind with these sights,” a pleasant voice gently said behind her.

  Aquila had no need to turn around. The seniority in that voice belonged to one alone. With an awkward smile, she nodded. “It is my duty to watch over the young during their practising years, Chairman Apollo. I just can’t fathom this method.”

  The old archangel joined her in sympathetic quietness, uncertainty hanging from their necks as they watched the arena be cleaned in earnest. Its fine, soothing sands had been morbidly carpeted in all manner of unmentionable matter. Apollo lowered his head, no doubt ashamed of the present.

  He didn’t turn to face her either when he said, “I have nothing to offer in this regard, it is not in our own good to question the Skyborn’s ways, feeble as that may seem…”

  Aquila didn’t respond.

  “Perhaps there is some light in this, Aquila? Something we humbler folk cannot see?”

  “My mentorship must be flawed if this is the correct way forward.”

  “Please, don’t shed tears,” Apollo hushed softly, holding her hand, “We must withhold our reservations and make peace with this. The Skyborn mustn’t be questioned. If you have any animosity for this, please, direct it toward me and the Principalities.”

  Aquila wiped her eye and looked down at the old soul. She could see in him the same sadness, but understood he couldn’t express it. With a little smile, she lowered herself to caress his back. “It is alright. I could never shower anger on such a gentle being. If this is how it must be, I will endure it, and make my apologies to the Guardian afterwards. It is a shame though. I’m sure he would have much preferred to spar with the featherlings.”

  “Speaking of which, I’ve heard good of the selection for this Guardianship?” Apollo murmured.

  “Yes, the Bow has been picked, and the Sword is nearly chosen. One Lyth and Erica for the latter. Two fine young girls, each a spirit unto their own.”

  “A female entourage, I see. It has been long.”

  “Indeed. I have confidence they will serve him rightfully. This staying true,” Aquila grinned, “there has been a surprising turn of events among the candidates. A bit of a late bloomer, I will admit…”

  Apollo’s curiosity made itself evident when his tired eyes opened once more.

  “I divine Dear Mother intended his to be a Swan, but he has embraced his Hawkness, and to no disappointment, either.”

  The sound of a third being entered the room, putting an end to their conversation. This other person’s presence overwhelmed the senses and demanded acknowledgement from the elder. It was a Celestial of significant stature and blinding white radiance, adorned with many a shining and great wing. His face, too, was devoured by the light, though forever a smile could be gathered if you looked past the glare. It didn’t take long to deduce the magnitude of their significance.

  A few words were exchanged between he and the old one, whereas the lady charged with steering the youth to battle kept her gaze on the now empty and clean arena. Apollo wished her well before departing, urging her to rest. Aquila nodded to him. She refused any reverence to the Skyborn.

  Tygrith was the name that had slit in gashes across the young Guardian’s mind and soul. Ever since the day he first heard that name, Emris was plagued with the excruciating daily task of endeavouring to survive that demented wing-blessed. No amount of effort was sufficient. Emris’ private life had been compressed into figuring out how best to stay Tygrith’s advance. Nothing else occupied his mind. In doing this, Emris understood the depth of this assignment: he was being forced to intuit his technique in a brusque, natural fashion. Damned be all if he didn’t wish to be under Aquila’s guidance instead. Her blissful, encouraging and still strict tutorage was vastly preferred, but no matter how many times the youngling insisted, his superiors wouldn’t have it. He could approach them without effort, be greeted in kind, but these pleas fell to the deaf alone.

  Emris stopped relying on others for salvation. The Celestials had taught him not to bother. Their gracefulness was spared for those deserving, or truly needing, perhaps. Though it hurt—it hurt so much—Emris was technically at no real risk of danger; that is, his life was safe. The Guardian’s blood could be spilled a thousand times over.

  So here, in his enviable silver-and-topaz room, after his dinner, Emris dedicated sleeping hours toward self-defence. With each passing day he would sit and contemplate the many ways his ‘mentor’ had crippled him, and thought of inventive ways to overcome them. Emris knew his torment wouldn’t end until he could prove he could overcome his assignment — until he could outdo that slovenly brute.

  The sound of his bones, he remembered them.

  Idealising, conceptualising, strategising. He’d experiment over and over. He had to. What else was there to do?

  The tears at his innards, he still felt them.

  He could push aside his knuckles and duck under, or swivel after parrying with one of his weak guards, or push through the pain and deflect the harassment. If he timed Tygrith’s hands, Emris could surprise him.

  But his eyes had been ripped from their sockets before.

  No matter, he could listen for cues.

  But his ears would ring from the blows to his head.

  It’s alright, he thought: I can time it.

  His mind, spilled over the floor, couldn’t piece together any kind of arrangement.

  No matter what he came up with, no matter the confidence he owned for tomorrow, he would be disproven. Tygrith would see a feeble rebuttal and crush it to ash. Of course he could — he had hundreds of years of wisdom versus Emris’ few. How long had it been, since he was born?

  How long had it been since he was awoken from inert flesh?

  Why did he have to be so different? Athena, his predecessor, had bested her trial and left this tomb of violence at age six. She was so effective, she barely needed instruction. Was that why he was being put up to this?

  Was that why he was being put up to this?

  Was that why he wasn’t being given instruction?

  Because of Athena? Because of Athena? Because of her? Because of her, a natural-born, he was subject to this? But he was humble flesh. His own skin wasn’t his own. This body was a wingless copy of someone else’s. His hands and arms, destroyed countless times by that man, weren’t his to command. He was borrowing them.

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  Emris didn’t exist. He was a copy-cat. A disgusting Chameleon lookalike. If he reverted to his core form, he would fit on a dinner plate. ‘So how, Aquila?’ he thought to himself. ‘So how, ______?’

  ‘And why did you make me, ______?’

  To see how easy it was to do what Victus did.

  “I’m getting tired of this shite,” Tygrith moaned unto no-one.

  Another day above the yellow glow of those tender sands, once more matted with just blood upon blood. Emris had tried yet again to come up with something, only to have his shallow hopes crushed by a kick to the side so fierce it tore a rib, piercing his lung and heart.

  The supposed mentor looked down at this and, for once, gave the impression that he was genuinely disappointed. “I ain’t feeling it, nay. Borboris, Fluere!” Tygrith snapped his teeth to say, his foot still pressing on the boy’s squashed leg. “Tell those pompous fuckin’ Principalities I’m takin’ leave for a few. Been at this for too long.”

  The two Celestials called, sitting by the top of the staircase to the sands, sidled each other with a look. As the male fidgeted to speak, Fluere stood up at attention and said, “I don’t think that’s an option, Tygrith. The Guardian’s training carries priority——”

  “I don’t give a shite,” Tygrith’s derision flared, “The blighter’s not going anywhere. Haven’t seen a lick o’ progress since I started this racket. I’ve had it.” Turning his back to the whole, the slob made way for the back exit to his quarters, fully intent on hibernating an octave or more. “Just tell the boss his lab meat ain’t cutting it and send me a real fuckin’ Guardian.”

  The slam of the door behind him echoed around the expanse of the room, falling especially heavy on Emris’ ears. He realised then that his assumption was incorrect, that he wasn’t safe in the slightest. The impossible task of defeating his teacher had a time limit. He had to do it, but how?

  His mind poured, not responding to the soft remarks of good effort from his Celestial peers as they picked him up. His every thought clung to those words. If Emris didn’t succeed soon, the considerations for his termination would only grow. It made sense. The Guardian’s importance as the shield of allkind couldn’t be underestimated. The people needed his invincible aid. Emris was far from invincible. He would soon be replaced.

  For the next nine days and nine nights, Emris dedicated his every conscious moment to the effort that now carried a lifetime of significance. Motivation to live carried him forward. His muscles would burn and his bones would fall apart in his own bedroom just trying to piece the blueprints to his survival, and so it was alright. He was immortal until the Celestials decided it was enough.

  ‘Until the Celestials kill me.’

  The stray thought hit the young man as hard stone. He could endure anything and survive, that much he knew; it was only them who posed a threat to his existence. If not for Tygrith’s judgement, he would be able to live on. If it weren’t for the people’s need, he could live without fear. It wasn’t his enemy that could do him in, but his own ward and his own creed.

  The Celestials would be his killers.

  Emris’ training paused. He stopped shadow boxing, or imagining what tactics Tygrith had used. He stopped idealising combat mechanics, deflections or techniques to best him. A state of catatonia took over his body.

  He sat on his bed. Tygrith alone wasn’t his concern, but the entire flock. The whole Legion could plot against him, and he knew there was no overcoming that. So, instead, how could he survive this? How could he survive them? Must he prove the impossible just to earn their favour? And what if it wasn’t enough? Sweat began to bead from his fingertips. His pupils, pinpricks, danced around the possibilities. The probabilities. The experience of death, a sweet kiss away. He couldn’t afford to stay still for every second contributed to his judgement the passing that would soon overcome him the poor praise of his supervisors the disdain from his tutor the Skyborn and his radius of influence they would all soon cast him away as unnecessary insufficient and irrelevant.

  That a new Guardian should take his place? Awful, this couldn’t be.

  To be granted life only for it to be taken away? Abhorrent, please don’t.

  Truly, Seraph of Death Selena, what an awful plight you have bestowed us.

  Truly, Jealous God Mortos, what a terrible thing you’ve wrought upon us.

  The feeble boy’s stomach turned to knots, his blood slowed to the cold, his heart unsteadied its beat, his fingers locked, his hair messied, his face wrinkled, his shoulders shook, his legs shook, his arms shook, his body shook.

  There was a knock on the door.

  Emris threw himself awake, electricity manning his limbs and setting him in motion in a bang. The heavy clack of his feet on the cold stone made it all the more graceless. From the entrance, a face peered in. A wise face, a kind one. Emris’ tension lessened when his ideal mentor in a parallel world, Aquila, stepped in his residence.

  “Lady Bladancer,” Emris dutifully called, addressing her by her given title: one she’d carved quite literally with her silk-and-weave sword technique.

  “Settle, my little Guardian,” she soothed in kind, watching his eyes cautiously. He was fairly tall, given his transformational nature. “Come.”

  In the presence of his only comfort, Emris was remarkably obedient. His sudden rushen thoughts paralysed; the Guardian rested on a knee and he kept his gaze to the floor, accordingly. He waited, then, for a few seconds. Nothing seemed to be happening, and the tension brewed concern. But not for long. Slowly, the swordstress’ hand buried in the many hairs atop the repaired Guardian’s head. She brushed them, kneaded and scratched his scalp, slid her fingers down his nape. Then, she palmed either side of his head.

  “Aquila?” Emris whispered.

  “Still, now,” she whispered back, a faint crack slipping in her voice.

  He kept still, and let her tend to him. Aquila’s touch was reminiscent to a feeling not granted to the boy: a motherly one. He received this touch and calmed, inhaling deeply. Her scent was one of a misplaced nostalgia, her slightly coarse digits demonstrated the marring common with an experienced duelist. He had no doubt in his mind that her equals were few, and betters a handful. He’d gathered such off the textures alone. Ignorant an opinion it may have been, but true all the same.

  This was pity, Emris knew so. This feeble attempt to give herself pardon for allowing his torment. It was disgraceful.

  “It’s all well, Lady Aquila.”

  But he allowed it.

  “I forgive you.”

  A sharp breath caught in her throat. Ever a Celestial, she covered it up by bringing him close in a solid pull. She kept his head locked firmly in her arms, and begged quietly for Victus above to give mercy to this poor boy. The Bladancer understood that the Guardian would one day loathe Celestials and the Legion as one.

  His plummet was inevitable.

  Emris’ fist rose from the pound of meat with a slick sludge of scarlet, carrying in its riverfall a trail of white fragments. The Guardian ripped his hand from the mess he’d made, his forearm covered in the stuff, whereas his other hugged the better portion of the bike he drove on, still squeaking ecstatically from its sudden stop. Emris looked at his sticky hand, a memory invading his mind. It had been ages since he fled from his home, why was he thinking of it now?

  What was the point of denying his knowledge? The whispers of the King growing louder by day spelt it obvious. Death loomed, he feared. A certain one. One not constrained by moral, as it had been back then.

  Back then, to die would have been cruel. To be killed would be wrong. But now, with time burning short, it became less a question of correctness and more a matter of great urgency. More than once he pondered how selfish it would be to force his life on. He didn’t want to die — an ironic thought, now.

  He unbent his knees, standing up to meet the height of the shattered windows around him. The Crimsoneers had made a hell of an entrance, no doubt. The Galloping had likely been redirected to invade the homes of the innocent. This brutal act, it was obvious who the evil ones were in all this. The Celestials, however, he didn’t vouch for either. He wondered, then, if anyone was actually as good as the veils they’d crowned themselves with.

  Why was he thinking so much? He missed the whiskey, is all. He couldn’t stop now. Emris intended to hop on his bike when a sudden noise grafted new intentions in his mind. He heard a loud flame erupt from the heavens and watched from below. The flame of anger that he recognised. His teeth showed like a predator.

  ? ? ? ?

  A figure of good didn’t seem to exist, even in the heavens. Whether it were devils proliferating their sin or angels carving warriors from blood; the Yanksee Kingdom overpowered by libertines, and a united nation captained by lawless militaries. Financial burden, power struggles, religious contempt. The world had established itself as a feeding trough of individual appetites spawning conflict — but Amar Harvirillian was an exception.

  Here he stood, amidst unkind men and monsters around, the hero of the Ménage. In this square, accompanied and fighting alone, his legendary sword, Omnibia, possessed an angry red aura, fiery with the heat of its unnatural movement. Amar felt sweat fuse his gambison to his skin. His weapon was made for defence instead of offence. This battle would be one of attrition, where the only victory he could hope for is some kind of assistance.

  “I’m utterly flattered to test your will,” the lady Ordained, Aurielle, said, her necklaces clattering in a chime. “Yours is hardier than any giant I have faced.”

  “Your words are awfully kind,” Amar gasped among ragged breaths, “if only you could spare me a moment…”

  “But I can’t,” Aurielle was soft to say in reply, before a new cluster of the damned leapt mindlessly at the hero’s ward. Once more, Amar repelled the lot in due course, a smudge in wind, returning to his post with a more tired complexion.

  “For the Saintess’ sake, Amar, let me shoot her!” one of the Yanskies bemoaned, standing with his heavy rifle in arms. He was about fed up with the Crawlers’ close bites to his ankles.

  “Don’t,” Amar insisted, holding down his barrel. “Observe her wares. She bears Charms, among them a rather stout one. She comes to a battle ridden with rifles, and yet she is the only cultist showing her head to the army. Surely, one of them will prevent her downfall, and the consequences may be too much to survive.”

  The soldier grit his teeth, feeling entirely useless. Amar brought his lips close to his ear and whispered, “Observe the windows and find the others. If any rear their head, keep tabs and prepare to fire if things go awry.”

  “What if they don’t pop out?”

  Another soldier popped her head up, finding a stroke of hope in the Harvie’s words. “They surely need some kind of understanding of their surroundings if they issue a command to their monsters, don’t you think?”

  Aurielle, too amused by the sight of soldiers huddled together, spread her arms forward. “I must insist, treasured ones! We will stand here until your reserves are depleted, after which we will have no choice but to have our spawn devour you. Please, undo this cruelty and accept God into your bounding hearts!”

  Covered in sweat and red from the heat, Amar still chuckled. “I’ll reject that offer, but thank you.”

  Aurielle’s compassion twisted into an expression of a want for carnage. “Then whatever more can we do?”

  A new grouping of Crawlers sprung forth, but matters were worse than first seemed. A shake of the earth alerted that one of the Bulkheads that sealed their exits had broken from its formation, rearing its head to collide with Amar’s guard. The soldiers, terrified, were quick to fire uselessly upon said beast, their bullets ricocheting off its hard armour. Amar clenched his teeth, grounding himself as the beast smashed into the flat of his sword. Though it seemed impossible, the nature of Omnibia forced the creature to halt, even as its plated hooves dragged mightily against the floor, skinning it of brick.

  “Fire at the stragglers, hurry!” Amar commanded, the gravity of their circumstances becoming dire.

  Only a handful of the dozen managed the will to lock their aim on the coming Crawlers, firing at their legs to slow them to a crawl. Try as they might, only one of their guns were big enough to kill the things, feeding their panic, growing their screams.

  Amar steadied himself, a trail of blood trickling from his left nostril and ear. Aurielle’s plan was proving almost too fruitful, cornering the powerhouse by coercing his nature. His heroism—his goodness—would kill him, as this world so prophesied.

  Aurielle watched in earnest, her head tilting to get a better view of the skirmish. “It’s dreadful, isn’t it?” Her twisted smile took a perverse satisfaction that her religion basked in all the more. “Brutal proof, can you see? Look about thee, and observe what you’ve sworn to. Look where it has brought you. Can’t you see it?” Lowering her head and putting out her palms, her lips curled to the edges of her face and she said, “Proof of our sin, of the purpose of our King: let us be renewed and rid of all of them, all of us, and leave only the likes of you.”