The Blind Valiant

MISTIMED BROTHERS.

The two of us were crawling through the orchard outlying the temples; the trees of spring ripe peaches, sun baked vineyard grapes and budding willows scratching at the blue skies with their branches.

 We were playing our usual afternoon game; a reenactment of a long since forgotten war. It was a game I was always talked into playing with Marchosias.

 It was more Marchosias’s favorite game because he always managed to convince me to play the role of the enemy. Always on the losing end but I was never bothered by that.

 We were brothers; two halves of the same fate as the Old Ones liked to remind us, twice born and doubly doomed was what their guardian said with deep gravity.

I drawled out loudly in what I took to be a bloodcurdling scream of madness, hands stretched out in pretense of calling the Right Palm..

Marchosias was somewhere among the cluster of dahlias and daffodils because it threw the perfect camouflage to his dark complexion and messy hair.

Besides I had already spied him hiding there, bidding his time to claim his victory. I reached closer and then saw him leaping out with a wooden makeshift of a machete which he'd spent last afternoon crafting.

 My brother hollered fiercely, dark eyed alight with the frantic excitement we’d both shared when talking about our future of combating Divines and their Noirish followers.

“Be gone, vile demon! Begone but first tell me where your fellow traitors is so I may send them after you!”

 I couldn’t stop myself from exploding into laughter, my hand over my mouth, even when I knew Marchosias would be angry for my breaking out of character.

“Fiorenze!” He groaned with frustration, shaking his head. “You were supposed to attack me.” He poked his wooden weapon into his left side.

I giggled back. “I am attacking you with my laughter.”

Marchosias, not so amused, narrowed a frown at me and dropped his wooden machete before lunging at me.

 I anticipated his reaction as he always did, separating my legs to hold my body for his impact like their guardian had taught them.

 We tumbled over into the shrubs surrounding them, tousling in the grass with jabbing elbows and flailing legs in their struggle against each other.

Marchosias had me trapped underneath him, my hands pinned at my sides, and he stared down with elated bright dark grey eyes of their long since dead mother.

He grinned victoriously. “You have no chance, Fiorenze. You never did.”

I returned a smile of wicked mischief. Then I executed a misbalance spell which I had learnt just this morning, Marchosias’ eyes widened as I threw him over and reversed our positions.

 “What were you saying again about telling you where my master is?”

I grinned down, chuckling at his closest friend whose face flushed from embarrassment as he struggled futilely.

“Hey I’m the Fell.”

“And you kneel and recognize me as your superior and serve me cherry cakes forever.” I regaled with a maniacally delivered laughter.

 Soon even Marchosias joined the laugh and shoved him aside. “You’re such a lout.”

I shrugged, “If we’re two halves of a whole, then you’re half lout as well.”

 My brother snorted and threw tufts of grass at my face. “Maybe we should create a spell to separate us. Divide our destinies.”

 “Never, I’ll still find you. We will never be apart, Marchosias. I swear it.”

‘I’ll find you... never be apart... two halves of a whole...’

Marchosias.

                                                 ~♤~

Marchosias…

 Nausea and pain of both body and subconscious, came and went in ever-tightening whirlpools which he was continuously drowning in.

 He could see only a blur of colors and sounds around him. He was conscious that he was in his rooms, the physician that had been sent to him made sounds that slammed in his head like a hammer on anvil.

 He was aware that he was clinging to the barest minimum of wakefulness and the still tarrying presence of the nameless Fell who had fought him.

Kyrillos might’ve spoken through the night, asking for his name but he wasn’t sure if that had happened or he had dreamt it up.

Slowly, the world ceased its spinning, the whirlpools of nausea and pain lessening until they were only ripples in the tide of his blood.

 Kyrillos could breathe again. With a loud gasp he opened his eyes. Peeling paint and dank stony walls, scurrying of rodents and insects through the cracks and up the skylight streaming down on him.

Something’s wrong... different...

 He tried moving but found that he had been tied down to a slab of rock. Hands cuffed down to his sides. Naked on cold rock.

All alone with the dark. It seemed like years had passed since he had been awake, since his felt the innate rush of clarity and not the aching battle of his consciousness against the Cleansing.

 Marchosias. I must get to him.

 But at that thought, a chaos of faces and voices rushed at him, splitting that clarity back to madness. Kyrillos groaned, his teeth chattering in agony as he twisted and struggled to leave the stone table he was on.

 But his joints were fused to rusted iron. ‘Lestair is dead...’ ‘They see you as the second coming of Lavinia…’

‘I’ll still find you. We will never be apart, Marchosias...’

 ‘We are Noirish first; heirs of the Lemegeton before anything else...’

‘Fiorenze, Marchosias... you are twice born and doubly doomed... two halves of a whole... you must never be separated or taken.’

Memories clashed against each other like lightning bolts striking each other, searing through his skull. He didn’t know which was more painful; the falsity of a memory wickedly imposed on him or the other which revealed the oaths he had broken.

 A shaft of light broke through from the right and Kyrillos turned to see guards entering from a door in the stone walls. It was the red flickering of torches lined up at the walls of the corridor leading to this room.

 It was enough for him to realize he was somewhere underneath the Reliquary.

 “Let me out of these chains! Why are you keeping me here... my father will have your heads!”

 The guards instead clicked his shackles tighter into the chair’s receptacle so he was locked down. Every one of his movements were watched. They guarded him like one would a deranged animal, not what he was.

Kyrillos squinted at them, vision bleary and nearsighted. Sweat dripped from his eyelashes, he tried to sniff, but his nose was clogged tight with congealed blood from nostril to nasal cavity.

And he could now sense the layers of manæ someone had permitted to be embedded into every bone of his body, to restrain down to the stone.

 “The Madrigal is the one who ordered for you to be kept here and thus.” One of the guards answered with a wicked smirk.

What? “No... that’s not true. I’ve done nothing...” he tried at the chains again but then a jolt of agony wracked through him like a bolt of lightning.

 The guards laughed, clearly amused at his predicament. “Y’know they say the Mortimers are a family of unscrupulous sorcerers, capable of anything that gets them power. But I didn’t think they’d turn against their own blood.”

 “Ye think they be going to gut ‘im for some wicked ritual?” another snickered.

“Who knows, this one has nothing of their formidable magic.”

 “Maybe that’s it. They don’t suffer malekins; what’s worse than a Fell but a Noirish without a drop of power.” They laughed some more and Kyrillos took a tight breath after the excruciating spells on the chains had lifted.

 No they can’t... Father wouldn't do this... it cannot be true.

But when he looked at them, he saw the familiar green and silver colors of their uniforms that told him they were Mortimer guards.

 The panic turned into something volatile and with the helplessness which his restraints and situation put him in, his body seemed to reverberate.

 Something wasn’t right. Kyrillos had sensed that from the moment he had woken up in this deep dark hole chained to the table like some sacrificial lamb.

 But this was a different kind of wrong. His entire body seemed to be convulsing out of his control. And then the guards too felt it.

One of them took a deep breath as if to sniff the air that was suddenly coalescing with manæ.

 The others turned with gaping eyes at Kyrillos and they froze.

 Light was seeping from Kyrillos’ body- all around the edges, escaping from his pores and trailing along his skin like a lover’s caress.

 The light was a purple so dark it was almost black, and at first it formed a cloudlike shroud that clung to him for a few seconds.

 For a moment he seemed to shimmer. The guard closest to him shook his head in disbelief and staggered back. “What in the name of the Divines?” And as if this words had been the detonation trigger, the dark violet cloud exploded outward.

 Snap. The front half of the closest guard’s forehead came off. Something metal hit the wall and Kyrillos just stared at the startled horror on their faces, mind not processing why his face was suddenly gone.

 Snap! Snap! Snap! The sound made from two fingers twisting together. Red mist geysers into the air from the heads of the two other guards, spraying Kyrillos’ face.

He twisted his face aside from the spray of brain matter and blood, not hearing the shattering noise of the chains at his joints.

 Kyrillos staggered off the table, stepping around the mess but halted at the sight of the six guards who had rushed in to the response of the noise.

 With look around at their dead comrades, they wasted no time and frantically pulled their weapons out. “Primus guards; on your knees, hands up!” one of them raised a sword to his neck.

 “Please... I didn’t do anything... My name is Kyrillos Mortimer...”

“I said hands up! Somebody curse his hands so he cannot do any sorcery.”

 But I can’t do sorcery. I’ve never done it in my life!

 But before one of them could warp manæ to cut off the mobility of his hands, they too dropped to the damp granite floors, leaking pools of blood to puddle with their comrades.

What the hell?! I need to get out of here... if my father really was going to kill me...

No, no he wasn’t. He wouldn’t!

And yet as he stole one of the guard’s clothes and left the cells, rushing up the steps of the narrow corridors and into what he- thankfully- recognized was the Reliquary’s western riadh on the first floor, he was conflicted.

 His subconscious adamant to convince him to survive, threw the last thing that had happened before he had woken up here.

The attack during the gala, an invasion of lichts and Kinship agents... deaths and casualties on the guests. And on him.

 I died? His hand inched up to his chest where the knife had struck and he felt the scar and with a glance down he saw that it was healing too quickly. There was only one sort of sorcery that could revive the dead.

The Left Palm. That Fell had turned me into a licht?

 That would certainly justify why he father would want to examine and possibly kill him.

 Kyrillos was suddenly distracted from his thoughts as soon as he got to the private study room and saw his aunt. “Oh by the Divines, Kyrillos?” Lady Severa rushed to her feet and went to embrace him, concern washing over her face.

 “Aunt Severa, there’s something wrong... s-something bad has happened.” He panted heavily, eyes wide with panic.

 “Yes I’m aware. The gala was a m******e, we’re still having the streets scoured for the culprits...”

 Kyrillos shook his head, breathing fast and hard. “N-No, no you don’t understand.”

 “Kyrillos, are you alright? You’re shaking.” He brushed off his aunt’s hand from his shoulder and in a long drawn out breath he narrated.

 “I... I killed some of the guards. I woke up in a dungeon under the Reliquary; chained and I didn’t know what was going on and they said it was per Father’s orders.”

“What? Why would Manfri order anything like that?” Severa frowned.

But Kyrillos continued, part in hysteria and part delirium. “I... I just panicked. I swear I-I didn’t mean to... but I killed them all without moving a muscle... I think it was manæ.”

 Severa stared at her disoriented nephew and shook her head with deep worry. “Kyrillos, this doesn’t make any sense. You’ve had not an ounce of sorcery ever since you were born. You didn’t kill anyone.”

 She reached out to hold his face, “Yes I did. Trust me.”

“Oh my darling boy, whatever you think you did or you saw is just some traumatic aftereffects from the attack.” And she embraced him, palming his back in consolation. “Your father would never do anything to harm you.”

 Kyrillos rested his chin in the crook of her shoulder, leaning into the hug. “It... It h-happened so fast...”

 “Shh, you need rest. It’s alright.” Kyrillos took in a deep breath of relief at finding a familiar face to the chaos of the last few minutes.

 He smelled Severa’s scent with the intake of air; henbane, rosemary, sage and... a taste of something salty.

 Then Kyrillos started to choke; the air thinning in his lungs, his heartbeat thudded louder than normal and pinpricks of acute pain struck at every side of his skull. He started push away from Severa but her arms held tighter around him, holding him for her sorcery to take hold.

 “N-No... can’t b-breathe.” But his aunt didn't move to release him and instead her scent got even stronger as well as the assault. “Se-Severa... what...”

 The panic returned, the haze of incandescent violet licking along his skin and then exploded.

But Severa was more of an accomplished sorceress to be caught in its dangerous arc like the guards had been, her shield shimmered over her body in response.

 The colliding forces tore them apart to either sides of the room, the furniture shattering on impact. Kyrillos caught his breath, his head clearing away from whatever enchantment had struck him.

 “Severa, what are you doing?!” He was replied by his aunt lunging at him with fist of arcing blue flames which she blasted straight at him.

 Kyrillos gasped out and shut his eyes at the fireball but when he didn't feel it hit and burn him to cinders he opened them and realized he wasn’t standing in the open space of the study.

 His back was by the shelves; somehow he had transported himself from across the room in the space of a split second to escape the flames. He even heard Severa’s shocked exhale of breath at his instant escape.

 He looked around the shelves he hid behind and saw her summon another ball of flame, looking about for him.

 “I’m doing my duty, that’s what I’m doing.”

“That’s crazy!” The fireball hit the bookshelf but again he'd vanished from there and was now by another shelf on the opposite end.

 “That’s funny coming from you. Do you really think the son of a Madrigal would be born powerless or that he could suddenly have the ability to do what you just did? To kill near a dozen well trained Echelon guards with just a thought?”

 “What are you talking about?” Kyrillos vanished before she could throw her fireball and appeared behind her.

 Tackling her into a hold that cut off her circulation almost as tight as her embrace had been earlier. “Tell me what the hell is going on?!” Severa chortled but then a dagger from the decorative mantel flew into Kyrillos’ hand.

 He didn’t want to ponder how that had happened only that he started to get some answers. Kyrillos placed the dagger at her temple and shook her violently, his confusion changing him.

“Talk or so help me I will screw a hole through your skull and find the answers myself.”

 Severa breathed heavily and spoke. “I’m not your aunt.”

 “Bullshit! I’ve known you all my life.” He pressured the dagger harder into the side of her head to prove his distaste for her lies.

 “It’s the truth! Your memories have been warped by a Miasma enchantment...”

 His mind was whirling in both shock and dread at those words. “What? Why would you...”

She laughed dryly, “It’s flattering that you would think it’s my handiwork. It was your father- except he isn’t that either.”

 Kyrillos shoved her from him, the dagger still raised at her as he gaped at the smug look of the woman’s revelation.

 “We’ve been replacing your memories; your mind reconstructed with a life you think you’ve lived. It's an impressive enchantment, don’t you think?”

 Kyrillos shook his head, his grip on the dagger's hilt faltering with the barrage of more and more fragments of foreign memories.

 “This... everything? H-How long... have y-you been doing this Miasma... for how long? Why would you do this to me?” his voice had dropped a few octaves.

 “Far too long for it to have broken now. Did you really think someone like you really fit into a family like ours? We Mortimers are the heirs of the Lemegeton.”

 “If I’m not me... not Kyrillos Mortimer then who the hell am I?”

Severa shrugged, “Don’t ask me.”

Kyrillos narrowed a hot glare at her and he was immediately standing a hair’s breath from her, the dagger meeting her neck with a kiss of steel. “Tell me what you know then.”

 Severa groaned a little from the painful cut, a trail of blood slipping down her neck. “If I had to guess, from all the trouble generations of Mortimers have gone through to bind your true nature and memories, you must be fairly important.”

What? Generations of Mortimers?

“And with this display of sorcery you’ve shown, it’s highly doubtful they merely enjoyed the glory of your conversation.”

 Kyrillos scoffed out in disbelief, “What do you mean by generations of Mortimers? Why do you want to kill me?”

 “I told you the enchantment’s been cast for a very, very long time.” Severa glowered back at his depthless eyes. “Besides, you haven’t even begun to see me try to kill you.”

 Kyrillos felt her manæ rippling underneath her skin, being called up for a spell. He waited no longer in releasing his own.

 This time when he disappeared it was in a vortex of crackling dark purple mist and darkness, ripping the space of the room in raucous storm.