The sounds of death subdue. Just how many millions had died right before their eyes? And what had they done? Nothing.
They had only looked from above, detached from the death that they caused through their revolution. What had been the crimes of the Sharan that had remained in Anavasii?
They had remained loyal to the enemy, to Kalma.
Ignar gritted his teeth. What had they done to reach this point? To become so... so unresponsive to such devastation? How many lives were they supposed to sacrifice so that they might achieve their ideal of freedom?
How many innocent lives was it alright to slay to lay the foundation for equality?
Did those who had died even have any value to them, for were they not still loyal to their tyrant?
Ignar shook his head. He ought not to think of such things. For if he did, could he reach their end goal and achieve what the others wished him to do? The other Nine Magi clearly saw what he had seen. On their faces, there certainly were different expressions, but the masks they wore hid away what there ever might be. Ignar could only hope that they felt as disgusted by all this meaningless bloodshed as he did.
He could only hope that they, too, saw that those who had just died had as much value as did he and the rest of the Nine.
He hoped that they too felt ashamed, for in that moment they could do nothing, for if they had done something, then everything would have failed...
He glanced at his comrades, and perhaps this did not go unnoticed. Did they see past his own mask? Could they see his eyes? Could they see the doubt that he held within? Or did they just see a mirror of themselves?
"It is what must be done." The Oracle proclaimed, her voice did not waver as she spoke, yet one could imagine that beneath her veil, there'd be a sorrowful expression. She must've seen this too. All of this. To her, it had already happened. To her, it all happened once more. To see past time, to what might be, how does one live with such a burden? One could only wonder.
"Their lives have bought us valuable time. Now... we must end this." She continued and hovered closer, placing her hand on Ignar's shoulder to reassure him, to sway him that there was no need for doubt, for this was the only course of action that they could take. That through this injustice that they had witnessed, freedom might be achieved, for she had seen it all...
Ignar felt shivers forming in his spine, a reaction of disgust that wanted to show itself, but he managed to remain as he was. The Oracle's hand departed, and they all knew that it was time for action at last. They set flight toward this new mountain that had emerged.
It really wasn't just a mountain, nor a temple, nor a monument to a million lives lost. It was much more than just these things that you could clearly see; it was more than its apparent sentimentality; it was more than what it would represent for as long as there were Sharan alive. By all means, this mountain formed from a city, and its many lives were dead, but it was much more than just death. It was the lack of mercy. It was the beginning of a second apotheosis. It was what he wanted to construct. It is what the rest of them were against. It was what the revolution tried to stop.
A temple built from the skulls of the believers. And now, millions of them lie dead under its shadow.
Kalma had already achieved his desire. Had he not?
Its stem was formed from a black rock that could be found beneath the earth; through it ran veins of minerals and crystals, even veins of magma that at times bubbled and broke through the black stone. And as one's eyes observed the rest of this unnatural creation, one could see where the ruins of the city, its streets, and buildings, became the primary material of this mountain, of what remained of Anavasii.
The white bricks of buildings, crushed together, one could at times see whole sections, a doorway, a window here and there, and often more gruesome visions than one might ever want to see, yet needed to. Crushed Sharan had become a detail one noticed if they only paid attention, and their blood became just a small painted area; none would see if they observed from way too far away. And at one ridge, there rose a ruin of a temple, its facade welcoming believers in, only to show them a mixture of brick and corpses, of death and destruction. God had forsaken them, even when they had just moments before prayed for his forgiveness.
Shame instilled itself with the birth of a new memory, forming regret. This image would remain with him for the rest of his life, and Ignar couldn't help but pray for the forgiveness of the dead as he flew past annihilation: "Forgive me, for in part, this is what I've done."
And to imagine that I used to abhor war. I hated it. I never wanted there to be a war.
But it is not easy to remain an idealist.
It is easy to look from atop a safe haven where no evil can place its hands or will near you. It is easy to say, from so far above, that resistance should always be without violence and that all wars and revolutions are evil just on the basis of violence and the possible deaths that they will cause.
But then I ask you this: What is someone whom I oppressed and humiliated to do?
Should they just hope and wait for the mercy of others or for their freedom to be given to them by someone else? Should he just hope and wait for, who knows, maybe a thousand years, and hope that at least his great-great-grandchildren will be set free…
Now, up so close, the consequences of my, of our actions... Could any of it ever be worth it? We never gave them a choice. We forced freedom onto them, as if that is what they all wanted. We plunged them into the midst of war. Between forces, neither of which could they ever fight against. What are the innocent to do?
Does so-called freedom, or whichever ideal you fight for, demand the deaths of millions? Is such a cost something we ought to pay?
This flower... yet to bloom, this thing we call freedom... won't it wither either way? Is it something worth not only dying for but also sacrificing your own sons and daughters, your neighbors, and their families...? It ought to be, right? For how else are we to live with ourselves if none of it was worth it in the first place?
Kalma's temple, his greatest construct, not the one that lay in ruins, but the one that now stood at the forefront of everything, as the middle of the world. As proof of his greatness, as proof of his magnificence. His court remained whole. Undamaged by his own devastating abilities, by his own crimes against the Sharan.
The temple stood on top of the mountain, ever imposing. Ever grand in its existence. A seat of absolute power, now one that claimed to be of infinity.
The walls around it still stood tall; the palace grounds were still unharmed, with gardens in bloom and trees with fruit in them, awaiting the filthy hands that might one day feast upon them. Then the square, which was overlooked by the balcony above it, but this time, their god was not there to oversee them, and beneath it, the grand doorway was wide open; the steps that they would have to take were clean and untouched. Not a soul had withered here; no lives had seemingly perished at the Court of the Almighty...
The Nine Magi descended and stepped onto the stone path that would lead them indoors. Ignar looked around; it had not changed. Everything was the same; the only difference was the lack of lives that were around. This temple of Kalma, this place that Ignar had once called home as well... It had become like the memory Kalma had shared with him, only this time, it wasn't a hut made of mud and clay, but instead, one built from marble stone, garnished with gold and red. And there was no lonesome apple tree, but a whole orchard of them. Yet... no one that he loved. Kalma remained alone.
Ignar gritted his teeth as they stepped onto the stairs. Here he had taken so many laborious steps, in his arms a bundle of cloth, and within it a head... his own father... He had held tears at bay as he had stepped inside and made eye contact with the creature that had commanded him to commit patricide.
They stepped inside, Ignar as their leader, to lay their gazes upon their enemy. The man they had all once called god, their king, their emperor... the Dragon...
Kalma sat on his obsidian throne. He held no recognizable expression, for his scales covered such things from his ancient face. Only in his eyes was there something, even when they remained so white and dead. They leaned against the throne's armrest, their hand forming a fist on which they placed their jaw.
But in this court, there wasn't just him and the Nine Magi... at the steps to his throne, on her knees sat a woman; she held her forehead against the first step, kowtowing. She shook in what could only be imagined as fear or reverence.
Ignar halted... He knew this woman, and she knew him. They had bonded; they had loved each other... She had been his solace... Only she had held him after Ignar had presented Kalla's head as the head of a traitor before Kalma.
If only they could see beneath his mask, then they all could finally see what true fear looked like... How can a man not fear the loss of their most beloved?
Yet even then, he forced himself to walk closer and closer until, at last, he came to a halt at the halfway point. He tried not to look at her; instead, he placed his gaze on Kalma, who had a slight smile on their lips. There was nothing one could hide from him...
"Ah, my son... You have returned at last!" The god mocked, "Long I have waited for your return, long I have missed you, and so has this whore of yours…"
"Pray tell, have you come to beg for forgiveness?"
"Has realization finally breached that simple and foolish mind of yours to recognize that none of you can ever go against my will?" His voice boomed in the court, then he chuckled, without humor, and at last made sure to notice the rest of his enemies.
"So I sit above a herd of sheep, I as the great shepherd, and I can see for myself just how much you all are afraid; beneath your masks, there lies just terror. How brave of you to find yourself here, standing, and not on your knees…"
"I do not know if I ought to be proud or simply offended."
"Have I raised you to become so brave? Or did you just not understand... Could you not see what I mean and what I have achieved? What I have created…"
"Tell me, Ignar... Is this not what you wanted from me?"
"Did you not beg to become of my blood?"
"Did we not share a vision for this world, one where we could rule together, a god and his son?"
Each sentence was like a judgment he placed upon him, and even when he let his gaze go from one Magi to the next, he still dismissed them. They did not matter. They were nothing before him. Nothing.
Ignar's body trembled; his feet wanted to give way. Back then, back then they did. They did so many times. He was nothing before this creature. He was just a boy and nothing else before a god. A dragon...
"Did you not wish to become death? To become like me? Did you not wish to be loved forevermore as a son of a god?" None dared to give an answer to his questions, to his accusations.
Kalma scoffed, "Still the same... Still so blind. All of you! None of you could ever see what I can see; none of you have seen what I have seen!" He spat.
"Your so-called Oracle... even she has but a fraction of my divinity; what she's seen is just one singular timeline of what could be... I have seen them all... I saw them at the moment of my ascension to godhood." He straightened on his throne and looked down upon them, at last attentive to all of them.
"You only see the death I've brought. Yet you refuse to see the lives that I've allowed to exist."
"All of this," he proclaimed and gestured loosely around him, "everything and all that we have, that we had, that we will have, does it all not exist simply because I allow it to?"
"Because I gave it permission to exist?"
"Even now, I could deny it. I could refuse existence itself, not just yours but everyone's…"
"From the beginning, I could've hunted all of you myself. I could have brought all of you to justice; I could have tortured your loved ones right before your eyes and then forced thousands of years of torment upon all of you."
"Alas, I did not…"
"Because it does not matter, none of it does…"
"You're all too blind to see... too foolish to understand…" he spat.
"Our crimes, they are different. Your defiance is the cause of all of this."
"The millions that have died, and the billions that will die…"
"Are they not deaths that you have caused?" He let his gaze go from Magi to Magi until he once more placed it solely upon Ignar.
Kalma chuckled. Now, there was some twisted humor there. "I will show you something that your little oracle could never see."
"For what you have expected, or seen, is one possibility, where Ignar here duels me until we both die, but only after the rest of you have channeled your powers into him."
"You could win, and the world would be safe from my wrath." He scoffed.
"But death…" He shook his head. "What could I ever know of death?"
He seemed genuinely sorrowful for but a moment, before continuing his bitter speech:
"How could an infinite creature, one who is practically immortal, ever know of another infinity?"
"I cannot die unless I so will."
"None can slay me unless I allow it."
"None can defeat me unless I concede."
"Not even time can take me away…"
"Only I can."
"I have only ever seen it happen; I have only ever caused it to happen; I have only ever been a witness to it; never have I truly experienced it."
He sighed, "I envy you, fools of limited time. Only you may ever know how horrifying the thought of death truly is. Only you know its value."
"Death... I know nothing about it, yet I feel that it is time for me to see it for myself…" Kalma spoke, his words withering away, as if they had been just thoughts, said out loud and meant only for himself. His gaze saw not what was before him, but something that was deep within his mind. That lasted only a moment. A wide grin, sharp and toothy, covered his face that had waxed and waned between contempt and sorrow. "But before I do, I shall show you and set you upon a course most likely after my death…"
He stood from his throne and, step by step, reached the woman at his feet. He lifted her, forcing her to face him finally. His dead eyes scanned the puny woman, and then he spoke, "I have never loved; I have never longed for such a thing, or at least I do not remember such a thought passing through me."
"And so I wonder... to lose someone you love, what would it feel like? Would it be as great a grief as the day you killed your own father?" He twisted her head around, observing her from all directions.
"I suppose she is beautiful. And her fear, her tears... she must feel honored." It was silent for a moment.
Ignar tried to get up; he tried to release his magic in all its glory toward this creature, this demon that tormented him and the rest of them, but he could not move. None of them could. They were not allowed. Kalma was too overwhelming. His power is infinite.
But somehow... the woman managed to shake her head, and on her lips, she drew a denial—her own damnation.
Kalma furrowed his brows. "No?"
"You dare defy me even when I could still allow you to exist?" His expression changed; all Sharan features vanished for a moment as a mask of rage covered them. From his hands, a dark substance emerged; the wailing of millions of lost lives formed a choir within the court, their voices echoed within the mostly empty hall. A haunting presence that then caught her... that touched her, that burned her... Divine fire... She perished and burned into ash. Like sand flowing down an hourglass, what was left of her spread on the floor.
Kalma shook his head and placed his gaze on Ignar, who shook, tears running beneath his mask, muffled cries that he could release.
"Curious," Kalma muttered, "Perhaps you did not love her as much as you loved your father?"
"How disappointing... How tragic for her." He shook his head once more, "But it matters not. Her life was meaningless after all, and your reaction is proof of this. Your love was futile, something you had for her only because of need."
"This, too, I shall never understand."
"Death and love, and even the lack of love."
He sighed, "But I suppose it is now time…"
Kalma let his gaze roam freely from face to face as he spoke:
"You think that you'll win. You think this ends with me. And you will believe that the price is justified and thus necessary."
"Billions will die today, yet some will live, you among them, but only because I will allow it…"
"You achieve your goal, but with a great cost."
"You find a home for our people. For them, you shall build a city. A new people. A new truth."
"A promise of freedom and equality. A vow that there shall be no more tyranny."
"But rot sets in faster than stone can settle; tyranny returns. And it wears your faces."
"And you will do what I have done today. Why? Because it is inevitable."
"Because once you taste eternity, you begin to forget love. You forget kindness."
"But you will never choose to depart from your immortality; you have tasted its fruit with your filthy maws, and you can no longer give it away…"
"And when the day comes when your people will rise against your tyranny and lack of compassion."
"You will deny them."
"You would rather slaughter your people than give them what you had promised."
"And none of you will be brave enough to die like I have chosen today because all of you will still remember what it felt like to fear death…"
He stopped, and looked at Ignar, his gaze eternal and addressed only him as he whispered the next few words: "Tell them, when I am gone, that you were the one who killed god."
Kalma stood before them, the ashes of Ignar's beloved at his feet, and he spread his wings, black and scaly. A proof of his immortality, then he spoke:"Behold! For through death, I am become eternal—I am the first dawn of all history, and I shall be its bitter dusk!" His voice boomed through the court and from the mountain atop which they stood. His voice carried through the lands and reached the ears of all living beings that lived on this continent. Then...
He burst. His body burst into darkness. His physical existence stopped; his scales became nothing; his wings did so as well; his eyes would no longer see this world nor the next; his will had become eternal, for death claimed him at last, and oh, how death had waited for him for so long. A black smoke formed and began to spread, a gas that attacked all living beings it touched. Like a trillion upon a trillion ants, it spread everywhere. It ate everything that lived in its way, making those who had died by its will become one with it.
Like ink on an empty canvas, it spread in swift strokes. And as it passed the Nine Magi, it screamed, it roared in the pain of their forced, continued existence... Forevermore, their screams could be heard by the living who came in contact with it. Forevermore, this smoke would traverse the world. It had come, and through the will of Kalma, it poisoned the very ground beneath it.
It was a sea of darkness, of blackness, a thick smoke that veiled everything beneath it...
This was the Veil, and this is how it had become.
Yet, Kalma did not die. He was unwritten; taken apart and spread. His bones became the law of this new world; his breath became the Veil, and his soul the chorus of screams which would damn the actions of their god and the fools that dared stand before him, instead of begging for his forgiveness.