Chapter Text
There are voices.
They rose him from his slumber, filling the night with noise, echoing down the halls and rushing into his cell like water into cupped hands. The stone ledge which services as a place of rest scratches beneath his claw-like fingernails as they push themself to their feet, pale white lines the color of bone. The cell is covered in them- some, like the ones just now created, are accidental. Some are purposeful, his desperate attempt to mark how many days it has been since he has felt the sun on his face. Some were created in various wild fits of rage, talon-scores into solid rock. On one end of the cell, there are the beginnings of a hole dug into the rock floor, the start of a tunnel he had begun but never finished. The guards had done surprise rounds and he had not had time to replace the small chest that had been covering it before they caught it.
His stomach still holds the phantom pain from those three days without food. When he closes his eyes, he can still feel the suffocating darkness of solitary. It represses his instinct to dig, to escape, to tear and shred his way out of this rock prison. They miss the sun, desperately, with every fiber in their being. They want up, out, away, far, far away. To the end of the horizons and the beginning of the worlds. He longs to feel the salty spray of the ocean against his hands and the warmth of the sun against their face.
Instead, he is trapped. He is locked away. He hides behind a mask of his own making, a disguise crafted from the bones of the ones he lived beside. They call him the Mad Dog. He is not a dog, nor his he mad. He is a son of wolves, and he longs for freedom and sunlight, only they were imprisoned in a cold world of unnatural metal and damp stones, kept captive by the will of a mind goddess. Better a deity than a Sheith’ora, at least. How anyone could let them live was beyond his understanding. They killed gods for no reason, slaughtered innocents and ruined lives. They would appear, only to cause mayhem and havoc, and then vanish away so the after-effects could not influence them.
The world was crazy for keeping them alive. To let them survive onwards, to continue breathing. To not cut them down on sight. To not finally resist them. To not destroy every single Godkiller. They were monsters, merciless and cold-hearted. Synonymous with suffering and destruction, they did not care who lived or died as a result of their traitorous butcheries, heartless and cold to the humans who they viewed as lesser, inferior creatures, something to simply get around or to trample beneath their feet, a mere roadblock in their path of mass-murder. The Husking of Alerion had caused the toppling of the entire nation of Aethercadena, displacing millions of refugees and starving thousands who tried to help reclaim the country. The Husking of Netherum had left their country in shambles until Queen Soul had taken over, the grief sweeping the land and pausing production for days. The Husking of Gamgibian had caused the mental health of another deity to plunge, rendering them more or less useless and broken… and… the other part.
The part he didn’t talk about. The sad part. The part that broke a little more inside of him every time he thought about it. The part that they tried to fix and mend with anger and an oath of vengeance, but never fully filled the cracks or stopped the shattering of his heart like threads of glass. The part of that story he never could tell, the part of the tale that he avoided like the plague, the part of the fable that made him punch walls or people when it filled his mind. Grief was the mother of rage and tears. It made him dangerously unstable, made him escalate between howling and sobbing, fire and water, sun and moon, ember and ice, his twin natures spawned by his human heritage and feral bloodline.
His sister had always controlled them, or maybe she never had them in the first place. She was calm and collected and serene at all times, a smooth wall of steel that blocked out the chaotic emotion she did not need, those of pain and grief and anger and hate and despair. He had never seen her cry, not once, until the day his father died. That was one of the reasons why he left, the realization that they weren’t all perfect and that, the longer he was around Hope, the more his own natures would appear and affect her own. He did not desire to ever see her cry again.
The voices raised into a crescendo, almost akin to an argument, one with words not audible to his ears, even as sharp as they may be. Lyric-less music, silent shouts, cryings of anger wordless and nothing more than needless, unnecessary noise. And yet, they make him pause, make him pace to the edge of his cell and peer into the dimly lit gloom, letting his eyes adjust and change, for there is something about those voices, one sounding strange and alien and unfamiliar, like a song that no one knows, the rushing of the river against rocks, or the brisk dance of the breeze across plains as wide as the world, endless and boundless and unyielding.
And there stands a man in the middle of the hall, tall in the usual Enderlands guard way, like a sapling willow. He seems to wait for something impatiently, a tapping foot against the floor as his head repeatedly turns away from Wolf and back to facing the far wall, as though anxiously tossing glancing looks towards the guards door. The prisoner likes his nervous energy, for few of the wardens and prisonkeepers possess it, if any at all do. It is as uncommon as snow in Netherium, new to his being, refreshing, in some way, to see something uncommon and unique after the months of being trapped within the cell, deep underground.
There is a soft, muted clang of metal against flesh, followed by a thud of bodies against the ground and a quiet pattering like rain as a second figure appears out of the gloom. She is smaller than the first, and moves as though she is in pain or stiffness, an uneven gait as she sways slightly, a new branch in the wind. A faint outline of light emits from her skin like a fuzzy aura of a god, nothing more than a mere reflection of brilliance. Despite their unsteadiness, there is a sort of predatorial grace that lines her movement, as though they are ready to leap into a battle. Dangling from their hand is a ring of keys, glinting softly in the lantern light.
They speak in soft tones, one side a typical Enderlands accent, the other the unknown speech he had heard earlier. The keys change hands as the Enderlands guard-figure heads towards the first cell in the row, the door creaking open slightly as he unlocks it and swings it open. The second figure, the injured woman, entered the cell as the guard moved to the next one, unlocking it, swinging it open, and moving on. There is a slight noise, then the woman emerges from the first cell, followed by another shape, and enters the second cell. Three emerge. His eyes widen as he realizes what is happening, understanding the way the sleepy confusion on the prisoners’ faces is joined by blossoming joy and tentative hope.
They were releasing the prisoners.
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“You’re insane!” Centross tossed back at Chaos as they swung more cell doors open. The Godkiller vanished inside, shaking awake the occupant and gesturing out to where the other prisoners stood. In the beginning, they had taken the time to tell each one they were escaping, but as it stretched longer, they had simply begun letting the other prisoners explain it to the newcomers. Perhaps it helped that Chaos did not have guard or prisonkeeper clothing, that she was dressed in something closer to traveler or Fableon spy than anything else.
They were in the part of Anderian’s prison reserved purely for political-related prisoners- soldiers, enemy residents, possible spies, those taken captive in hopes of becoming a bargaining tool. It was only part of the whole thing, according to Centross, only a mere fraction of a system so strangely ordered and detailed it made little sense to anyone but the Queen. A single labyrinth of winding corridors, single rows of cells and solitaries, branch and split, double-back and return, corkscrew and repeat, loop and fork. It was a maze, an unending maze designed to be difficult to enter but even harder to exit. In Chaos’s opinion, they should’ve created it to be impossible to break into, which would save any possibility of escape from either intruder or prisoner. Centross had simply picked random paths and ran for it, hoping that anyone searching for them would find it difficult to follow.
Centross flung open another three doors, quickly pulling the occupants out. “We don’t have much time, Cha!” he warned as the prisoners staggered into the growing crowd of confused and yet desperately hopeful people. “You were out for a while, it’s honestly surprising that they haven’t sounded the ala-” He was cut off by a shrill and yet steady noise from far above, slightly dimmed by the distance and the stone, a tone something like the chiming of a bell and a strange, unfamiliar avian creature. It vibrated through the walls, buzzing along the floor. The half-freed prisoners startled back, surprise, shock, anxiety, and fear flashing through their eyes and changing their expressions. Centross swore under his breath. “Great,” he muttered. “I just HAD to say something.”
Chaos rattled the lock on the cell door, trying to turn the key. “C’mon, c’mon,” they muttered, attempting to get it to move in the corroded, rusted metal. “Open, already…” They shook it harder, now unable to move the key within the lock or even take it out again. Giving up, they pulled out one of their knives, hacking through the iron band and snapping the whole thing off. Inside, the cell inhabitant, a blond-haired man in a Netherium uniform frowned, fingers twitching as though searching for a sword.
One of the prisoners, a broad-chested man wearing the remnants of a Fableon uniform, muscled his way to the front of the group, glaring at Centross and the Sheith’ora, who was assisting the Netherium soldier. “You damned people are gonna get us all killed!” he snarled above the alarm, a relatively-thick West accent obscuring his words. “It’s better to be locked up than recaptured escaping and stabbed! And you,” he said, focusing on Centross, “you probably work with the damned queen! You wear her uniform and you talk like them all too. Was this a part of some kinda plan? She needed some excuse to kill us all?” He lunged for the soldier, gripping his shoulders and shaking him. “YOU’RE GONNA KILL US ALL-”
Chaos thumped the hilt of one of her knives down upon his head, sharply cutting of his outburst of ire and desperation as he crumpled to the ground like a torn piece of cloth. For a moment, she studied his fallen body with a mix of apathy and regret. “Let me make something clear,” she said, turning to the other prisoners, raising her voice so they could hear above the still-ringing alarm. “We’re not here to kill you, or to give Queen Anderian a reason to kill you, or to do anything involving you specifically. We are not, however, here to exclusively save you just for the sake of saving you. We are here to cause chaos, confusion, and hurt within the realm of the Enderlands. If you knew what exactly I am, you would regret ever pondering the idea that I might side with filth like a god. Centross may be one of this country’s souls,” they gestured to the knight, “but he is held by honor and oath to serve and help. Now, if any of you would prefer to take your chances with the guard yourself, feel free to leave. You will not be missed. And, for those of you who choose to stay and follow us to freedom, I offer a pact of mutual respect. If you do not try to kill us, harm us, turn us in, betray us, or hinder anything we do, we will do the same for you. Now, since you have all proven with such gusto that you do not desire to be caught, I suggest we leave.”
They paused for a moment, waiting to gage the reaction of their newly-freed acquaintances. A flash of suspicion, a hint of disbelief or discomfort, but an overall, generally positive response. Centross dipped his head to Chaos, then quickly led the way down the passageway, Chaos falling behind to cover their rear. They turned a corner to be greeted with a loud snapping of iron, like a lock being pulled apart, followed by a slow creak. “Hello?” Centross called, his voice echoing through the halls, reflecting back at him like an eerie ghost’s voice and accompanied by a low, feral snarl. “Is anyone down there?” he voiced again. “We’re here to help, but we don’t have much time- we triggered an alarm by killing Perix and Haeihaei, so if you want us to help you, you have to make the choice now, or else stay here.”
The growl sounded again, two bright yellow eyes flashing from a cell in the dark like twin beams of sun. “A Sheith’ora,” the shape said softly, voice filled with menace, eyes flicking towards Chaos, who joined Centross, hand on knife hilt. “So, your filthy race has decided to show their faces once more... Bold of you to assume I’d accept your help, after what you did to Vikesh.”
“Listen,” Chaos snapped, still high on adrenaline, “I don’t know what the Sheith’ora have done in the past to you or to anyone else, but we do not have time for this. My people have already paid for it in blood and fire. Now, are you coming with us or not? Because I can assure you that the queen and her fellow deities will not be show you the same courtesy of letting you free as I will,” she said, gesturing to the gathered people behind them.
The yellow eyes narrowed, suspiciously, a slow blink covering the glow for a moment. There was a shifting of cloth, and she caught a glimpse of dark hair and pale fur against a silhouette of a large figure. “No. I think not. Whatever happened to your filth of a people, it wasn’t enough. Not to atone for what happened.” The hulking shape turned away.
“They’re dead, you idiot!” the Godkiller shouted, resisting the urge to throw a knife at his head. “Why do you think we’re here? Why do you think we came to kill Anderian? Why do you think we’re risking our necks? It wasn’t to come rescue you- this is just our way of fighting back. You know what? You can stay here. You can rot in the prisons.” She turned around, brushing past Centross and beginning to walk away, down the hall, but couldn’t resist turning around to toss back one last thing. “They were my family,” she spat.
The shape in the dark sighed, vanishing into the shadows. Chaos thought he was gone until his voice carried back softly, “And Vikesh was mine.”
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The sun was rising.
It had taken the entirety of the night, or, at least, what had been left of it, to safely get everyone out of the palace. Guards had been blocking most exits, and, as the prisoners had been unarmed, the responsibility of incapacitating the soldiers fell to Chaos and Centross, the weapons from those roadblocks now distributed around the group. Several tussles had taken place, leaving most of them with wounds or injuries of varying degrees. Two freed captives had been killed, a traveler no one knew the name of and a Enderlands turncoat named Madril. Several others had been lost, their current statuses unknown: Thiay, Serondask, and Zolmos, among others. Most likely captured or killed.
Once they had fled from the confines of the palace via killing the Northern Gate guards, the group had made a hastened dash through the city, pursued by yet more soldiers. At least fifteen innocents had been killed, caught inbetween the two parties. Yet more blood on their hands, yet more lives taken in the war between the gods and a grief-broken Sheith’ora. Centross wondered how many more would be killed; how many more would suffer because of this. And yet, how many more would die if they failed? How many more would bleed to death because of the battles between the nations if they did not kill the deities? Fifteen or fifteen million- which was worth more? Did it matter, if some of the casualties were Fableon? No, not to Centross. Once, it might’ve. Once, he might’ve decided that the war was a better path, even though his own people would die, simply because Fableon soldiers would fall with them. Now? He was not sure. Now, he thought that fifteen million was far too high of a cost to pay, no matter the currency.
And perhaps that was why he had chosen to knock the woman out up in the Stronghold, why he had chosen Chaos over his own people. Because Chaos did not hold the prejudices and the hatred for the other countries like his own did. Yes, she despised and rejected all deities save for Kinaxus, but there were far fewer gods than mortals- twenty immortals to close to thirty million humans. And she had a reason, a viable, understandable reason to loathe them. They had slaughtered those they loved. As for Centross’s people- they hated just for hatred’s sake, just because of a border and a different leader and a different lifestyle or color of eye or hair. An entire war built on that
He stood, surveying those they had freed. Close to a hundred and fifty or two hundred, by his estimate- most were high-ranking soldiers, or commanders, or politically important, the few others travelers or civilians. Even here, even now, weary and injured and on the run, they kept their distances from each other, kept separate from those of another country. Netherium-folk helped other Netherium-folk, but they did not bind the wounds of the Fableon captives. Wanderers stood apart from all, even each other, but they cast suspicious looks upon the Enderlands prisoners, the traitors of the land.
Chaos looked over them too from beside him, a hint of a frown on her face. She had wanted to keep going, to get as far away as possible, but Centross had stopped her, had convinced her to let the group rest, for they were weary and wounded. Even then, her agreement had been disapproving and hesitant, and she seemed desperately impatient to continue moving. “We need to move,” they muttered at Centross. “Anderian’s most likely already on her way towards us- I didn’t free these miserable people just to have them die on the queen’s sword.”
“Hey.” He crossed his arms. “They’re tired. Remember how difficult it was for me to travel those first few days? It’s worse for them. They’re not used to moving, having been trapped in those cells for gods know how long. Besides, I’m quite tired as well, and don’t think I didn’t notice you favoring that leg! You’re still suffering from the Trace, aren’t you?”
The Godkiller gave him a look, one that usually meant ‘stop talking or there will be a tree branch heading towards your head.’ They were not the most enthusiastic about being worried over or having people giving them concerned glances. Stubbornly, they pressed their leg firmly against the ground, as though wanting to prove that they were not, in fact, in pain. Centross did not care. He had betrayed his gods to save her and had carried her half-dead, unconscious body down into a prison. He thought that entitled him to a BIT of worrying. Which reminded him…
“We didn’t get to discuss what happened too much, but… are you sure you’re going to be okay? You nearly died in there, from that Trace of Perix, and you’re pushing yourself a bit too hard, I think. It wouldn’t kill you to take a break, you know. In fact, it might kill you NOT to take a break.”
“Traces don’t work like that,” she snapped, pacing back and forth. “At least- they usually don’t. I’ve never experienced or even heard of one being that intense, and I Husked Epros, of all gods- a Primordial! You’d think that void’s Trace would be the worst, but nope! It’s the stupid illusion goddess’s. Actually, I think it was that woman’s fault, the one who was with Haeihaei? The one who wanted you to betray me? If she was not, in fact, lying about being a Priestess to Epros, she’s probably the reason it was that bad, if you look at the facts.
“Priestesses are pretty rare- only a few deities have ever had them. Kinaxus, namely, although Anderian had a Cult going for her at one point. But Epros? No. Never wanted one- despised the idea, actually, if you believe the ancient scrolls. They hated the idea of the whole thing, temples, priestesses, religion, and all. Priestesses were usually chosen during their childhoods, known for exhibiting strange behaviors or abilities when young. They would be inducted into the Ath’hala, trained and taught by the elder priestesses, learning how to conduct ceremonies and sacrifices, how to consecrate and cleanse, how to oversee festivals and solstices, among other, more mundane things such as pouring candles, lighting candles, tending the sacred fire, memorizing associations of flowers and colors and birds and plants, and so forth.
“But that is not the point. The point is that the main sign that a child can become a priestess is the fact that they elevate the perception of a god’s power. Auras are more easily sensed, their power can be felt more deeply, the effects of that deity are far easier to be aware of and it has a much greater effect on the individual. If that woman wasn’t lying, if she really is a priestess of Epros, an unprecedented type of priestess, that would explain why the Trace had such a great impact upon me. Rather than simply giving me a few hallucinations or spatial acuity issues, it tricked my brain into nearly killing me by telling my heart I was dead, because, to my mind, I was dead. Getting me out of there- you most likely did, in fact, save my life, Centross. And I owe you that. Blood debts are serious in my culture, all oaths are. I owe you, now and forever, until that debt is paid.”
She turned to the crowd. “They’ve rested for long enough.” Raising their voice, they yelled, “Alright! Now is where we split. You’re freed, you are no longer prisoners of the Enderlands. You can go home, or travel to somewhere new, or do whatever you want. See your families. Return to your houses. Whatever you do, do it quickly, for Anderian is not a patient or forgiving goddess. She will hunt you down. Chances are, she’s already doing it. If you have no place to go, or if you want to continue assisting us in killing gods, you may come with us. But, if you choose to join us, I do not want to listen to you attempt to convince me not to Husk them. I want fighters, not those who think they can stop me with a pretty speech or a nice voice. I am a killer, not a politician. You cannot sway my opinion. If you are going to try this, or if you are delusional enough to truly believe that they’re good and just and fair rulers, leave, for you have no place with us. I’d get started, now, if I were you, for Anderian is most likely hunting us already, and I do not think you are desiring to be captured again.”
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His breathing is rough and unsteady as he claws the lock off, fingers aching and bleeding. Slowly, he eases the door open, vividly aware of the shouts and voices from nearby. They stumble through the darkness, exhaustion and pain taking over their body now that the anger and adrenaline had worn away like a rock in water. His mind is clouded, and yet he knows one thing: Today, he has seen a Godkiller. And tomorrow, if he survives the night, he knows that he must stop her, whatever the cost may be. Formerly, it was Vikesh. This time, it may be his own life.