"Then let us revel in this divine irony," Ignar said. "Once a god, now I crawl—a flagellant begging not for salvation, but for judgment."
"The divine, in all its irony, pleads with the mortal for forgiveness."
He chuckled. "Is there anything more fitting than this?"
Kanrel found no humor in his tone. In Ignar's eyes, he saw only a flicker of wilted hope; a yearning for something unnamed. His mind filled with visions, all of them born from Ignar's shadow: the field strewn with bodies; Kalla, headless upon the carpet; Kalma towering above them all, and Ignar's lover, ash spilling from her lips as she died without a sound. He saw N'Sharan, the dream they had failed to save, its fall laid bare: Ignar descending like a hawk, swift and certain, the executioner of their age. Walls crumbled, skies blackened, and from the ruins rose nothing but dust. Kanrel saw the end of it all.
He saw Ignar's own hand in that ruin. The Atheians he judged and condemned. The cities reduced to dust. The innocents taken in silence. And beyond even that, creeping at the edge of it all, came the Veil—whispering horrors older and greater than Ignar's crimes. It pulsed with memory, swelling with pain. It sang of torment, of civilizations broken and consumed. The Nine Magi had tried to forget. The Veil had not. It reminded them both what their truest sins had been.
And over it all loomed Kalma's shadow, vast and inevitable, casting both their crimes into context. Reminding them that, despite all Ignar had done, despite the blood and fire, he would never be Kalma. He would only ever be like him—never quite the same, never quite as evil.
"No," Kanrel said. "I suppose there isn't, but I do see a greater irony."
"Which is?"
"You have already received your judgment, have you not?"
Ignar spat, "From those who had no right to place it onto me?"
"From those, whose complacency is as major a crime as are my actions?"
"From those who first guided, voted, and at last demanded me to do their bidding?"
"Do not mock me, mortal," he spoke through gritted teeth.
Kanrel's brows furrowed. "It is not what I meant…"
"Then explain yourself," the god urged.
"You can see your judge all around you: the Veil itself. Are their voices not enough of a condemnation?"
Ignar managed to shake his head, "If they were here of their own will. If they hadn't been of Kalma's creation... then yes," he sighed. "But alas, even though they are here, they truly aren't, even though we can hear their voices, even feel and see them around us, even the things they went through—they aren't real."
"Not like you and I are, at least."
Yet, Kanrel could feel its touch; he heard their voices, "And that's why you need me to be the one to judge you? Why me?"
A faint, sad smile curled on Ignar's lips, "Because you have gone down the same path as I have."
Kanrel's brows furrowed further. He had only gone down this path because he had been forced to by Ignar, no less. "So I am another one of your victims?"
"Not only that, Kanrel, but you are also a victim of the others, the rest of the Nine. Have you not blindly believed in their creed? Have you not lost something precious to you, just because they demand it?"
"I am certain that you are able to name a tyrannical act they partook in or were complicit in, one that has happened long after my imprisonment."
"Kanrel, wouldn't you say that you and your kind are victims of ours?"
Kanrel's brows twitched. The Fall. Their dominance over all of humanity, although subtle to the unknowing eyes, but Kanrel knew... all of the Priesthood and even the nobles of the Kingdom knew just who truly ruled over them... It wasn't the Herald nor the King, but the Angels from atop their mountain home... And oh, there was one thing above the rest that he could remember: the rebellion that had occurred a few hundred years back. A decade of war, bloodshed that could only end with bloodshed. There had been camps for years after... the fighters were slaughtered, one by one, leaving behind their children, who then became 'the Nameless.'
If only the Angels had stopped it, the rebellion, the bloodshed, and the evils that were committed against those who had been deemed the losers of said conflict. But they did not. There was not a word from them. Only silence.
"I don't want you to judge just me. That would be easy. What I want from you, Kanrel, is a judge who would place all of divinity under judgment, for we have done as much to you, the Atheians and the Sharan alike…"
"You and I have seen too much, Kanrel. The real question is no longer what we've witnessed, but what remains of that we've not been forced to."
"We've seen an innumerable number of choices, options, and decisions made by The Nine. And not one of them has been good; what we've seen is murder, genocide, and tyranny. Not once have the Nine Sharan, your Angels, shown the other side of their duality."
"And without fair judgment, they shall remain in their fortress above the clouds, tyrannical in their nature, and indifferent to your lives, and the lives of the Atheians," Ignar said, his tone filled with something more than just the torment and the regret of before. It was impassioned, filled with idealism, lacking the cynicism Kanrel felt most at home with.
And so, he had to raise an eye. "And how am I to do that? With what right, other than one made-up?"
Ignar scoffed and replied without pause: "Why should Man not judge god for crimes against life itself? I blame myself for the godhood I claimed, even if I did not seek it freely."
"Blame my brethren, who stood idle as your people, the Darshi, fought against the Wildkin, facing peril. They offered aid only when it served them, then returned to their thrones above the clouds, untouched by the ruin they left behind. Did they not?"
"Let there be a trial, not like Hartar's, built on lies, but one borne of truth. You, Kanrel, have seen it all. You are the witness, the victim... and the judge."
"Tell me, Kanrel… do they not deserve death as much as those they condemned? We could debate whether the penalty I seek is just for eternity, but I know we'd arrive at the same end."
"Would you not rise against a king who enslaves, who rapes and murders under the pretense of divine right? Would the people not storm his throne and see that justice be done? Why should the gods be spared what even kings are not?"
"Kanrel, let us storm the castle, if not in flesh, then in judgment, and give the world the justice it has long been denied."
Ignar paused for a moment, his gaze set onto the human that stood right there, just a few steps away from a god, only to continue with what seemed like the sentence itself: "Kanrel, here, you represent all of humanity and even the Atheians, whom the gods chose to thrust into darkness, condemned into eternal imprisonment as well as servitude in the case of the Darshi, your people."
"The others aren't here to hear their judgment, but at least consider it. To go through and think of the things that you've witnessed. And then place your righteous judgment upon us, the gods you believed in."
"Condemn us for our crimes."
"Judge us for our deception."
"And announce what we deserve."
"Death, Kanrel, know that we only deserve death."
Kanrel's brows wavered. His eyes twitched as he searched Ignar's face—all the expressions that it had shown to him: despair and torment; regret and guilt; hatred and love; and oh, sadness so deep, so perverted that it mixed grief with hope. Their gazes, as tears ran down Ignar's cheeks. Was there anything else the man behind the mask of a god wanted?
"What I want is simple: absolution. Someone to free me from what I've become, even if I know I don't deserve it." The Sharan behind the falsehood of godship spoke.
"I've come to realize that I was never ready to live and then survive life without something greater than me existing. I should've never gone against him. I should've accepted the bliss of ignorance. I should've stayed where I belong, as nothing more than a slave who serves his master." Despite everything, the son still yearned for the father.
Ignar tried to lift his limbs, "These chains... I deserve them. They are what I am."
"I do not deserve to be absolved. I do not deserve to be redeemed. I do not dream of true release, for I am not worthy of such a thing. Not in my own eyes."
"Kanrel, what I deserve is death…" Ignar muttered; their gaze had fallen, tears still running down; their lips parched, their body fragile and malnourished.
Then, they lifted their gaze, sharpness had returned, and an earnest request parted his lips: "Would you grant this only desire that I have?"
Kanrel swallowed. He understood... and hated that he did. But how could he? Why did he have to see himself in this chained being; this forgotten god... this murderer who had long been serving his sentence...
Why now? Why again could he feel himself standing in front of a mirror, before someone who shouldn't be so much like him... Kanrel shuddered. It scared him. And for a good reason. For if he found a piece in Ignar, and not just a piece but so much more, then he could certainly find himself in Kalma as well... he could see himself in tyrants and murderers. It ought not to be so.
Through gritted teeth, he spoke. "What you want is not a judge, but an executioner. You want me to be what you were to the other Magi... You want me to serve as your sword as I sever life from you."
"You take your crimes and place them onto me, begging that I repeat them."
Ignar stared at him, "Forgive me, Kanrel, but it is the right thing to do, it is the only thing you can do."
"For how else can you leave this place? How else can you release the Atheians from this prison? How else will the Veil be subdued? How else will the rest of the Nine be placed under judgment?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know the answer, Kanrel. I am the seal—the weight that holds you and the Atheians from the world above, from the sun, from the life you've longed for. I keep you from the true rain that would not carve painful memories from you. It is I who is the barrier between you and your family, and even your chance to regain an appreciation for life itself."
"And all you would have to do is a killing, not even murder—call it mercy, not toward me, but the Atheians; call it righteousness, for if there is such a thing as an afterlife, I'll be doomed within death's darkness, and never again shall I arise. Purgatory is what I shall receive after death." So adamant were his words.
Yet, still, Kanrel doubted. He didn't want to make such a decision. He didn't want to be forced to kill another, even if it weren't a human; even if he were only killing another murderer... But what else could he do? Surely, the vote had been cast. He imagined a trial: Ignar, the criminal, voting for his own death. The other Magi, the Veil, even the Atheians—they would all agree. Only Kanrel stood undecided.
Truly, the vote had been cast, and its outcome was obvious.
Kanrel's whole frame collapsed. He felt so impossibly small. So unable to go against what he, despite his morals, thought to be the correct thing to do. Not the right thing to do. Not the moral thing to do. But the correct thing to do. It would satisfy all the parties: the jurors, who would vote 'yes,' the murderer, who wants to be executed, and... it would satisfy Kanrel's desires as well.
This decision was the only thing that would bring him closer to home.
His voice was gentle as he spoke at last: "What am I to do?" his gaze met Ignar's again, and he saw the almost serene smile that sprouted onto his face.
"Firstly, you must keep in mind that one wrong thing will execute me, but will also cause the death of the Atheians as well as you." Ignar's voice was so soft, so determined.
"You have the magic that you need. You hold it within you. The very thing that you have deemed evil, yet holy at the same time. Nullifying magic. The Holiest Form of Light."
"If the seal did not exist, I would allow you to use it on me. I would let you release it at me, and I would simply die. I would stop existing…"
"But, if you were to do so, the caverns themselves would collapse, burying the Atheian cities beneath the rubble, and you with them. So instead, you will direct it at the chains, destroying the seal that keeps the Atheians from wandering back to the lands they came from." Ignar said, and as he did, Kanrel could hear the chains rattle; within them, he could feel the magic...
"Look at me, Kanrel," Ignar demanded, and Kanrel again placed his gaze on the Chained God. "This will cost you; it will hurt you; it will be more painful than anything that you have ever experienced. But it's something that you must do, so that you might yet save all…"
"Do it one chain at a time; do not overextend yourself... I will be here with you throughout the process…" Ignar offered Kanrel a brave smile, "This isn't something that you will regret... and if you ever find yourself doing so, know that you have saved millions in so doing." They were the words he had needed the most. They swelled within him, bringing forth the confidence he usually had. He could do this. He could save the Atheians. He could find his way back home. All at the price of some pain, and the life of someone who wanted to die...
Kanrel gritted his teeth... he began forming the first spell. Within, there was a calmness he hadn't experienced for what felt like ages. He recalled the code. He would give it everything—his knowledge, his pain. He would go beyond himself. He had to be brave, even when deep down he knew that he had never been so afraid.
He didn't want to do this, but he had to.
"Be not afraid," Kanrel whispered to himself, as the world became hazy, as light sprouted from his hands, a light fantastic. One could not look at it, as through its whiteness it fractured into all shades of color. His teeth gritted, he pushed it toward one of the chains at Ignar's feet.
The light touched the chain. It hummed, then screamed, then shattered—darkness exploding like spilled ink. But it wasn't the chain that screamed. It was them: Kanrel and Ignar in a choir of unimaginable agony, now shared by the two, together. He looked at Ignar and saw black tears that flowed down his body. The god grinned wildly, "Again!" they yelled through their sharp teeth. And so Kanrel prepared to do it again, and again. One down, and a thousand to go...
He didn't have to do this, but he needed to.
- - - - -
It hurt. Each chain broken was like a new nail pierced into his mind. And each time he formed the code for True Light, his mind fought against it. There are a thousand alternative things he could do. That he would rather do. He'd rather burn to death than break another chain. And seeing Ignar's face made it worse—after each chain he broke, some part of him seemed lost. As if something was more wrong with him than before, like the thousand years he had spent chained here had been more pleasant than the pain he now had to suffer through.
Yet the Angel of War and Peace prayed to Kanrel between each chain broken, as tears poured down their face, as screams of pain escaped their lips; their torment was greater than Kanrel's... "Please! NO MORE!"
"NO! Do not listen to me! Continue! BE NOT AFRAID. BREAK THEM ALL."
"MERCY!" the god whimpered, and Kanrel whimpered with him.
And when the god cried, Kanrel cried too. And when he laughed, so did Kanrel. And when he wanted to give up, Kanrel almost gave up, but each time Ignar pulled him back into this torture. Each time they almost stopped it together, they continued on. The chains broke one by one. At first, it was swift, but soon, it felt like hours of torment before he could break another.
And the god whimpered as the chains broke; as they rattled with his cries, releasing dark liquid as they were severed from existence. They cried with that same torment, but with pleasure instead of pain.
This torment became a mantra. Two unwilling creatures, a god and a man, stuck in the purgatory of their own making. A repetition of the same thing, each time expecting something different, but only ever releasing the same pain felt once before, but never did it feel less than the last time, never the greater, always the same...
Just how long did it take? If Kanrel were to look back on it later, he would not remember. His mind wouldn't be able to handle such a memory. This was something better to forget. Something to be blocked away and never to be dealt with. Let it rather haunt him in his dreams. This was something one never wants to face ever again. Better to remain broken for the rest of his existence than to relive this pain once more on a fool's quest to become whole again.
They both were bloodied and covered by the shards of the chains, the dark liquid that burned as magic swelled again within Kanrel, as he released it onto yet another chain, and he was met with the same pain he had felt before. As another duet of screams filled the globe. As tears, they could no more cry. Laughter and screaming became the common tongue between them. There was no end to the pain. There was no end to the chains, or so it felt like.
They kept going.
And as what felt like years went by, as soon as a million prayers and useless pleas for mercy soon redacted had been voiced, as their screams of pain reached the final chain, Kanrel did not know that it would be the last. He didn't care. He didn't want to. He couldn't. He never could. But neither could Ignar, who still wept and begged, still screamed Kanrel to stop and to do it again. To strike them both with that same nail that bore deep into their minds, into their flesh, into their existence.
Again, like thousands of times before, he collected his magic, his hands shaking, his figure broken, his eyes swollen with tears he could no longer cry; with darkness that boiled on his skin; with an Angel that violently shook as screams still parted his lips. He released the final code... he let the truest form of light touch the chain, and he let it mingle with it, a dance of death that soon ended in an explosion, a shattering. Ignar still screamed, and so did Kanrel. If only it would end. If only the pain would just... stop.
Silent. It became so silent...
The final chain broke. Darkness rushed out, free at last, knocking him down as his world convulsed. The globe fractured in half, its roof collapsing into nothingness. Pain struck him like fire scorching from within, burning the breath from his lungs, severing his mind from all else except torment. Then it settled. Kanrel gasped for air and struggled to his knees. Dust veiled the full extent of the destruction, and around him, the Veil still existed, suddenly motionless...
The realization struck. Coldness filled him. He had killed god. Ignar was no more.
Tears broke through. Kanrel wept.
He brought his face to his knees and let his tears flow freely, shivering in the dark. He felt so alone... He had only done what he had to, nothing more, nothing less.
But a mighty voice murmured from out of sight: "Do not cry, Kanrel. Rejoice... for you have saved me."
The debris was swept away by a powerful wind, blinding Kanrel for a moment. When he opened his eyes... Kanrel saw him: in all his glory, he stood. A gilded creature, a monstrosity with grotesque features that hid away true beauty that had once existed on their face. Large golden wings emerged from its back, with a tinge of black that crept between its scales.
This creature looked down on him, on that grotesque mask of a monster, it wore an expression without shame. An expression of dominance. Once blue eyes had turned white, the dead expression of a god met Kanrel's gaze. Shivers ran through Kanrel as he felt the daemon's presence... how it saw through him; how it saw within him; how it knew so much of him. He felt disgusted, but above all else, he was afraid. His body shook, and he could do nothing about it. His eyes wavered, and he found himself wanting to place his forehead onto the floor, and kowtow as a sign of submission... but he held his head high and kept his eyes directed at the daemon.
"You look surprised... Did you really think that a mere mortal could vanquish a god?" the velvety voice of the daemon teased.
"I find myself almost touched by your grief…" It proclaimed, then sighed. "But it matters not."
"Instead, I ought to commend you, for you have served your purposes well, although at times unwillingly."
"As such, I shall allow you to keep your life. You are to do with it as you please. But our transactions end here."
"Do not think that you can stand in my way; do not think that you could ever stop what I am to begin—no, what I am to finish…"
"You and I, we both agreed upon a judgment: death sentence, and now I shall enact it."
"My brethren, for far too long have they lived in peace. For far too long have they lived freely, as I have suffered beneath the earth, away from light and love alike."
"Darshi, your gods shall die by my hands. They shall suffer a worse destiny than the millennium of imprisonment they forced upon me."
"The prophecy Kalma foretold shallcome into fruition through myhands and because I have willed it."
"And know that many more innocent lives will be lost, for they will never dare to face me head-on. They will keep hiding behind your kind, using mortals as their shield."
"Farewell, Kanrel... Pray to whichever gods might give you their blessings that we do not meet again, for I cannot promise you that you will live through our next meeting." The Betrayed spread their wings, and a shadow fell upon Kanrel, "I will open the way. I hope that you and the Atheians find yourselves above, then you shall all bask in but a fraction of my divinity." The Veil surged at the creature, collecting around his wings, and as he took flight, more attached itself to them.
All of the Veil followed Ignar's flight as he exploded through a cavern wall, vaporizing rock into dust, leaving behind so thick a cloud that Kanrel had to cover his eyes and mouth. He could only hear what happened next: the Veil surged past him, he could hear the choirs of torment within it, the screeches of tortured souls that now rejoiced, they had been freed... but through it all, a grand explosion shook the ground. Never had he heard such a rumbling. And still, the shadows flew past him; still, he had to keep his eyes and mouth closed. And when it all ended, when he could at last open his eyes... he saw it.
He saw past the broken globe, past the atomized cavern wall... he saw the staircase that went on and on, for hundreds of meters... and he saw the light, how it shone onto the staircase as well as the cavern floor.
Kanrel still shook with fear, but he could not contain himself. His eyes swelled again with tears... the sight of such light was enough. He cried because he had tried to imagine for so long what it would feel like to see sunlight again; he had imagined what it would feel like on his skin. But he hadn't been able to. And now that he did see, now that he could almost touch it... it felt like nothing.
These tears were born of frustration. They were through regret and bitter guilt that had crept in. What had he done? What had he released? Would there even be anything left when he at last reached the surface?
A bitter understanding filled him: He had become the fool who thought he could kill a god.
His legs almost gave way as he got up, so he had to crawl to the edge of the globe, and with great effort, Kanrel managed to form a rough, stone staircase with the help of magic. He found his balance and limped down them. He began his journey toward the staircase. It was right there after all, and there was nothing else for him to do now.
He fought against the tears that still pushed through. He forced himself to stop crying. He didn't deserve such a thing. All he knew was that he had released a monster onto the world that he had claimed to love. He only allowed himself to grit his teeth as he traversed further away from the remains of the globe, barely noticing that the Veil had long gone. It had gone with Ignar.
And when he reached it, the very first step. Kanrel found himself hesitating for a long while. Would he have to pay, yet another prize for even this? Or had he already paid the necessary price? He had paid for this, hadn't he? He had given more than anyone had ever given... for this. Another staircase.
What if, after the first step, he found that the ascent never ended? Would the world be so cruel to a man who had suffered more than enough? Kanrel's brows furrowed. On his face remained the memory of tears, and even that he swept away with the dirty sleeve of his robes.
He had come this far. So he would climb these stairs. He'd bask under the light of day once more; he would let rain soak him through. He would be cleansed. And then... and then he would pay for the crimes that he had committed.
Kanrel stepped onto the first step, and so his ascension had begun.