Cuts, cuts, and cuts. Holes, holes, and holes. A body riddled with memories of war and unending strokes of a man's folly. This carrier of the relics and cause of a man's vile acts sat down an ancient, dead log eaten by moss and mushrooms of old. On a flat, cold rock sat a lad of fortune, a lad betrayed by the unfair fates. A lad betrayed by his blood. His brother.
Crescent flame licked the forest brume deep in the night. Fervid was Dismas's rage. His hope of escaping the life of error waned as the fire slowly inhumed itself in the embers of titian hue. Slowly, a lachrymal rain trickled down their ichor and dirt-painted skin. And so, the fog grew vivid, dimming the lucency of the weeping stars and the newborn moon. Even so, they never moved an inch. Never sought to find a shade, never thought of warmth, for their heart burned with newfound rage and grief. For them, these were the only shelter they knew. They clung upon this, hoping to see the end of this painful journey.
"Who's... Nestor?"
"My son."
"How... old was he?" arrant he.
"Twelve..." Darion looked upon the curious lad, "... about you, how old are you?"
Dismas snickered, hesitating to reply to the man's question, "I am... fourteen."
Obscured by the dense fog, Darion replied with a slight nod.
"Why did you call me Nestor?" Dismas's eye met with Darion as his dreary vox trailed out his lip.
"I... don't know... I don't know..." Darion shook his head after he spoke, dumbfounded he was by that phenomenon.
Perhaps deep inside him, he saw a glimpse of his son in Dismas's soul. A core of white, obscured by a dirtied life. The rain ceased, and the sun came. It felt like minutes, but only hours passed. So much has happened the betrayal of Gestas was unexpected, more so to Dismas.
"You know how we can meet the lord of nightmares and dreams?" Darion said as he slowly circled the unlit fireside.
"I know a person who can help, an arch-paallein. Last I remember, he spends his time at Ganidyn," Dismas's eyes spun as Darion walked in circles, following each movement he made. As if a viper tempted by a flute.
"Then we go now... only if ya had 'nough rest," Darion's feet stopped from treading its gyrate path.
Dismas snickered, a bit insulted but flattered from this hulking mass's concern, "We journey now."
And so, they did. They tread the woodlands, arriving at the region of Blaenux, and at night, they reached the city of Ganidyn. Ganidyn, the great city of Emperors; Wreathed in impenetrable white walls, the castle walls gleamed as if the house of the Sidgir — the elder gods. Merchants, emissaries, and aristocrats come and pass the city. The busting inner walls puts other capital cities to shame, and that's only the poorest district. Such great care was put in this place. The swept footpath, mounds of spices, organized stalls, and a busy street that never felt void. The shout-loaded air felt not chaotic, but a sense of peacefulness and lief laced with it.
"Ain't that nice, right, lad?" Darion pats Dismas's shoulder.
In return, he shrugged and moved forward, leading Darion to the arch-paallein's tower, "Right, we're nearly there."
The city, filled with different districts and streets, felt impossible to navigate. Each stretch felt labyrinthian; the winding roads seemed to intersect from block to block. But it took no time to reach the arch-paallein's building. Rust climbed the cylindrical tower — making it distinct from the whole city — and yet, it felt that the embedded metals weren't rotting. Orange specks of dust fell ever so slightly as the vibration of their steps reached the murky-white bricks. Something about this tower exudes eerieness as if it produces a queer breeze as it goes over through its sides. It was fragile yet bound — a paradox of place. "Here we are," Dismas looked at the black door; rot did not visit it. The wedges and holes one would commonly see from doors aren't present. Everything was tightly and precisely constructed, and it felt almost claustrophobia-inducing. And beneath the orbital, gleaming doorknob of gold, a void space presents itself in the form of a keyhole. Before Dismas could knock, the door creaked, pulling away from them, and what emerged was a stern man. Wizened eyes stared at Darion and Dismas as if anxious someone would come — the end or a catalyst for recursion or someone important. "Come inside," The arch-paallein's coarse voice enticed them to walk towards the dimly lit hallways of the interior, with that, the only exit closed.
The outside breeze left, and the warmth of each lit candle replaced the cold. Eerie sounds of banging and clashing steel echoed the hallways. Dismas and Darion's eyes were erratic, looking at every corner of every room and hallway they tread. Though wary, Darion's rash attitude negated every worry.
"We're-" and without finishing a sentence, Darion was suddenly interrupted by the arch-paallein, and he whispered, "...here for Xydas... I know."
Dismas looked at Darion, dumbfounded at what happened. How did he know? They thought to themselves while following the magus to the living room of the tower.
"I know why you're here, your purpose, what you will say next, everything," the magus spoke with an equivocal tone.
Is he afraid? Erratic? Anxious? All of the above at the same time? The two eagerly listened for what he will say next. "Each day grows near to the end, and you appearing here, at my doorsteps, means it's marching without pause," The mage sat down on a leather sofa, facing the fireplace as he rambled. "The end?" "Yes... the end, and comes with it, is a recursion. An eternal cycle of pain and sacrifice." "You... you're not making sense." "I know I don't, but in time, I will. Blood will spill upon these floorboards, and rage will fuel the fires that brand the hearth." They listened intently, uttering only when their curiosity got the best of them. The walls weren't much help, as it added eeriness to everything the mage's words. Riddled with plaques and taxidermied beasts' that died snarling. All of them were killed by this erratic mage before them. "All will unfold..." the arch-paallein stopped from talking, looking at the two, dumb-founded, "... where is your brother, boy?" Dismas looked the mage in the eyes and mustered his courage, "He left, he betrayed me, for money." The mage snickered, and it slowly elevated to guffaws. And beneath the shadows of the right corner of the room, a visage emerged, Gestas.
Dismas looked at his brother, his hate mingled in his blood. The adherent bonds of fate were cut when Gestas betrayed his brother. Darion held the lad's shoulder, "Ain't going to fight your brother. This is not my fate. It's yours." Dismas's heart burned more as he heard Darion's voice, his simple yet stirring vox. "I did not betray you, brother. I merely was aiming to get the Kinslayer's bounty," Gestas didn't hesitate. He brandished his saber towards his brother while speaking. "You claim that, but your actions deceive your words," Dismas sheathed two daggers, bearing it tightly with each hand. "Come, brother, it is not late. Kill the blackguard, and let's run. A peaceful life, remember?" Gestas slowly moved forward, still pointing the tip of his saber at Dismas's torso. Tears caressed Dismas's cheeks as his eyes watered profusely. A peaceful place, he thought to himself. A place promised but will never be found; A land that still stands as a mere unmet dream.
He knew to himself that he couldn't be his brother. He couldn't betray the person who stood by him. Although for only a few days, that camaraderie Darion showed felt homely. It gave Dismas someone to follow, an odd fatherly figure, but a guide, it was. Though tempting, he fought his brother to death. Slash after slash, cut after cut. Both were exerted. Their prowess matched, but Gestas was skillful — more cunning and vigorous. So, Gestas lunged his sword towards Dismas. Darion jumped at the sword's way, sacrificing his own for Dismas's sake.
"Sorry, kid, couldn't see you die on me..." Words — laced with blood — spat out of Darion's mouth, "... we stay together, yeah?"
He said as he wiggled out the blade from his pelvis. A punch met Gestas's cheeks. Dismas's knees wiggled from this sight, his eyes wanted to flood, but he held it. He kicked Gestas and pulled out the saber from Darion's pelvis before driving it in his brother's chest. Something inside him whispered. To stab and plunge the sword into his brother's flesh. It wasn't hatred, spite, or malice. It was something thicker than blood; loyalty.
"And today, we dine like kings," Gestas spoke, heaving his last breath to convey an ambiguous message.
Dismas kneeled down as he closed his brother's lifeless eyes, "Rest, dear brother."
Darion stood up, still bleeding from his pelvis. Though pain never concerned him as he limped towards Gestas's cold body. His eyes were fixated upon the unarmed fists of the corpse. Darion kneeled — prying the stiff fingers open — and saw an orb. Its blackness his sight, almost blinding, as he ogled into its boundless hue. His soul slowly pulls towards the opaque glass sphere, devouring it with its festering corruption. Murky white obscuration gradually gorged Darion's — once vivid — iris. But thanks to the magus's interference, his life force wasn't sucked into the orb.
"We must be of haste; we need not pause. For each second, it slithers towards us."
"What is?"
"It does not matter, for now. You must succeed. It is time to summon the Wish-giver. The Great Chalice, Khamend-hur."