The Golden Trial

[Security_ 2287]

Spoiler

 

 

 

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⎝༺─- . ─–⊰●⊱–─ . -─༻⎠

 

A boat rocked on steady water, rippling the still water of a sea cave hidden along the coast. The waves did not reach here seemingly, as the only waves born were that of the rowboat’s wake. The wood groaned as it touched land, arriving just before a yawning cave outlined by thin cracks of sunlight cast from the sea cave’s veil of shrubbery and volcanic stone. Ebbing heat flushed from below, howling with winds that harkened in warning. 

 

The path for absolution started by venturing to the depths of a cavern. Amusing, he thought, akin to the Titan he did so revere might he find, by chance, the key to his salvation in a lightless place. Well, not so lightless, as a lantern within his grasp spurred to flickering life. He was in search of a crystal, the reagent that would be melted down and combined with steel for daemonsteel. The system narrowed, until for one section, the old herald had to crawl through a musty space that trickled with water from cracks that lined the stone ceiling. It was rank, though this bothered him little. Preconception would not cloud his objective nature, one which was constantly refined and corrected. The heat was immense, for he was in the depths beside a volcano of the ashlands which shook the very earth in rage at times. It threatened to collapse, should Fate will it so.

 

When the narrow passage finally widened back to a cavern, the glittering sparkle of his prize announced itself - and so, he went to work. The lantern was dimmed and set afar, he would remember where the deposits were by the faint glitter of their contour. Wrapping the end of a pickaxe in cloth, he carefully chiseled and tapped away the daemite crystals, caring not to spark nor inhale the fragments that glittered in the air. Alas, a cough, a wretch. It was abrasive to the lungs, and he doubled over, hacking out what he could until enough of the ore was gathered. The darkness of the wall moved, and the openings that had once trickled water were now in full weep. The cracks seemed to yawn, and as swift as his old feet could did Alrei run. The narrow passage was nearly submerged, requiring him to press a cheek against the rock, and measure his breathing. Scrambling from the cavern, it was not until the light of the outside world refracted off the farthest cave wall that he saw a shape. Illuminated solely from behind, it was a figure he had not seen in decades yet remembered it as the back of his own hand. 

 

Levski

 

The brother of the shadow, the place once called Casimir. Just as much a memory as a physical tether, it threatened to bring Alrei back, an attachment to a family he had long lost. Not lost, intentionally left. First for their protection, though later out of necessity- for, Wick was a tether to the world. A distraction. How could he serve the Titan, if a family would demand his time, his memory, his life to hide his Love for an Ever Burning God.

 

And it was there, standing before him, the figure that would bring doubt to the mind of the untethered. For, he was not untethered. No matter time, nor the whelming, for witnessing the vessel as a collection of memories, words, ideas, that which makes a man a culmination of all that came before him, it mattered not. He could bleed a thousand times over just as every vessel has, yet there remained a crack. An imperfection. Some primal, insurmountable part of Alrei, a dead part, a human part that had resurrected itself turned to Levski.

 

His brother was immutable, unchanged since the last day he saw him. Their mother always said they had the same eyes. His were youthful, unclouded. Alrei’s were tired, covered in cataracts and lined with age. The Fire that swelled in his heart almost subsided, a hand twitched as though to reach out - yet, he did not. He could not. 

 

The Fires of Azdromoth burned ever brightly in Alrei, and if not for his form he would be swallowed in its furies. The brands etched into flesh swelled, and the notion of Casimir began to burn away. Tears wept from Alrei, yet he knew not why he wept. Sweat dripped from his brow, and a head touched the earth. To the lantern flame the man fell genuflect. He blinked, and raised his head. 

 

Levski was gone.

 

.- ─ ── ── ────.-──.  ⊰●⊱  .──-.──── ── ── ─ -.

 

༺─-.──  ───── ۝ ─────  ──.-─༻

 

The fires of the forge danced upon the glistening skin of the elder. Sweat fell from a brow, the uncomfortable nature of the smelting process ignored as the fruits of his labor were all that remained on his mind. The coals were red, the air sweltered, visibly snaking about the currents that bellowed into the lower halls of Alemdrom. It created a howl through the caverns, what might have been a cry to call the descendants of Dragur to nest. It was pierced by the rattling of chains, a crucible redhot was raised to reach the molten metal. Slag was consistently skimmed from the top of the daemonsteel mixture, tossed aside to be used for pig iron and lesser steels. Clearly, the steel was not as pure as he thought. Affects lined the wall; candles, a coin, and the head of a battish beast. The candles were beginning to melt, wax wept off their sides. What purpose they would serve had yet to come. Days passed, removing slag, replacing coals, and pouring the metal alloy into ingot molds. Daemite sparked, heating the mixture, and over and over again it was burned to be as pure as it could be.

 

Once the steel was refined, it was hammered. Repeatedly did the ring of a hammer against daemonsteel pierce the roar of the forge. It hit with a defined, tact strike, a strike that had been done a hundred, no, thousand times before. The man was half blind, viewing the world through a misty haze, yet he needed not his vision to feel where each strike landed. One side flattened on the head of steel, beginning to widen into an axe head. A hundred times, a thousand times, the hammer struck. The steel was hard, yet not to the point of preventing some flexibility in the blade. On the axehead he hollowed a hole, fitting in the draconic coin that was beside the candles. A coin given to him by Saburo, which reaffirmed to Alrei that Fate had already been decided. The other side of the daemonsteel lump was left as an ingot, thus he would begin to bevel corrugations, making it a facet of a hammer that might have been a large meat tenderizer.

 

With a chisel he carved into redhot daemonsteel, and only when it cooled after tens of minutes of work did he stick it back into the forge. At the very top, horns twisted into a single spike - a spearhead crested above the two heads. A flathead tool was then hammered to give the horns rings of age, sparking in ember with every strike. He followed along the axe head, and thereafter the hammerhead. Inscriptions were inscribed, details and textures were carved, hammered, bent by the anvil, twisted and turned as needed. Two rings of daemonsteel had been bent and forged, looped through both ends of the poleaxe’s head as to give it Song, to jangle and sing with every flourish and strike. Days, even weeks had passed unknowingly. He knew this only by the ashbread, to which he had carried a basketfull down when he first began, which was now reduced to crumbs.

 

The head of the battish beast was burned, and a prayer to the Titan was offered. The ash was mixed with oils that then lined the hilt of the weapon.

 

His eye burned, the world appeared a shade of gray, only pierced by the most brilliant of reds and orange flames. That lone eye grew weary, smoke inhaled, and at times the only thing which woke him up was the pressing heat of the alloy burning so close to him. The head of the pollaxe rested in the forge, for he had been working cold steel for so long that his fingers buzzed in numbness. So he awaited, patiently watching the alloy warm from low reds, to fiery oranges and brilliant yellows. He waited, and he waited, and in the blink of an eye, the world was dark.

 

A lone man was standing in front of Alrei. He needed not to look up to know who it was. The brown boots, the gray pants. A satin red and gold uniform, stately, almost reminiscent of the novellan Balian. A missing right eye, opposite of Alrei’s, with a singular gaze that commanded its attention. A silvered mustache sat like a caterpillar atop his upper lip, a style that echoed resolute in the fashions of all youth in Idunia, a then-Numendil. 

 

The Tar Anorhil stared down at Casimir with a look of utter disappointment. Long ago a similar look was held, yet this one held rage, contempt. It held the furies and the insanities of the templar curse in the ire of a glance. No words need be spoken, for the balled fists and the furrowed brow relayed all too well that Casimir had failed. What good is a man who leaves his country? His faith? Who would not die for a King, or for a Pontiff. A father figure the Tar was, one that the young Wick had long looked up to for wisdom in faith, of how to best keep his peoples, of how to make a life in the bridge Kingdom of Numendil. 

 

And Casimir wondered, was he on the right path? He, who had given up his station, his safety, his family, his life for the Titan. A life of servitude, the hardest path, so that he may serve, and may, by chance, find salvation. A salvation denied by living in Numendil, by slaying pagan mothers, or burning the apostate with no love. They would say he served a kobold, not the Titan. They would say he betrayed his country, yet its soul betrayed itself long ago when Ser Uther fell, and Caraneth lay defeated. They would say, with words, with ego, with the darkness that lapped from every tongue and pierced every eye, the reasoning - nae, the excuse, that they were right. Casimir knew he was not right, for there was no need to be. He only needed to be.

 

Casimir looked down, and saw himself on the path. He looked up, and Anorhil was no more. 

 

Alrei slit the throat of Casimir, coating the gold in crimson. Red wept until it was a burning flame of a forge.

 

The weapon was finished.

 

.-───── ──────༺─༺  ༻─༻────── ─────-.

─-──────༺─༺  ༻─༻──────-─

 

Three candles had been melted atop the weapon. One, a gift from Casimir’s sister that was a rudimentary, poor imitation of Casimir himself in his youth. The other, a candle Casimir and Levski had worked on in their youth, a depiction of Gashadokuro - to melt, and burn for the pleasure of those who had bested him. Lastly, a candle made to represent Wick that was crafted when Casimir first landed in Numendil nearly a century ago. A rat, far from his best work. Gold, red, and an ashen white. He had kept these candles for a hundred years, and only now would he obtain the selflessness to cast them away.

 

Out from Tor’Urldar he walked, venturing to the south from the ashlands. Long and arduous was the journey, for he had to avoid the city of Caurost and its fervent zealots of x*n. Through lush forests would he take small breaks in the clearings, eating loaves of ashbread before continuing on his trek. There was serene harmony to the world, for long ago had Alrei accepted his fate. That no matter the twists and turns of the world, he held Conviction. For his King, for his Prophet, for the wise dragons that graced him with wisdoms and proverbs alike. He knew he would be ash, either by his own hand, or that of another. This brought no worry to him, no wish to struggle, for he had served, and he had knelt before the Fire, and knew there was nothing to fight against. He glanced up, and saw the golden mountains that the dwed had long since been chased from. So, he climbed.

 

The summit was clouded, save for the piercing spears of sunlight that impaled the clouds and glittered unto him. The highest peak brought a continuous wind to his ears, billowing his robes and flushing to the wind the ash, twigs, and leaves accumulated along the pilgrimage. The poleaxe was then planted into the earth, the head gleamed in the fragments of sunlight, and the candles atop it were lit. There, he sat, and closed his eyes. He was a stone atop the mountain, a part of the mountain itself. The figures of Russandiel, of Iudas, of every man and woman slayed in wars of covenants and croziers, traces of a past life burned in fires golden. The fires burned the memories to ash, mind swept the ash in winds that coursed as the horns of horselords. The mountain dreamed, and it pondered, until there was no need to ponder, and there was nothing.

 

“This too, is not I.” A mantra was spoken in the nothingness. A blank slate sat before him in that nothingness. It was him. He was One. The One was All.

 

“What do you seek?”

 

“To know thyself.”

 

“There is no self.”

 

“I am Azdromoth.”

 

“Azdromoth is all.”

 

“I see no difference.”

 

“What tethers you?”

 

“I stand on the precipice.”

 

“All do. Only now do you look down, and see that the precipice has always been beneath you.”

 

“Then it is selfless, if I step forward.”

 

“It is selfish if you do.”

 

“There will be no self. All that makes up the ‘I’, names, memories, vessel, it shall all burn. What is more selfless?”

 

“The wish for salvation is selfish, as long as you hold a name. A memory. A tether. You take, and do not give.”

 

“I have burned all I have in the fire.”

 

“All?”

 

“But I.”

 

“Then, burn.”

 

A right hand outstretched. Opposite, the figure outstretched its left hand, and the two met.

 

“Burn, and be no more.”

 

“What arises from the ash will not be me.”

 

“You, are not you. It is no different.”

 

Where the hands met, a fire burgeoned. It lit up the nothingness around them, first at their feet. It was alabaster.

 

“Is this salvation?”

 

“You will know when you are ash.”

 

“Then I know nothing.”

 

“Love with All.”

 

“I am the Fire.”

 

“I am the Ash.”

 

“I am Casimir.”

 

“I am Alrei.”

 

“I am Red-Gold.”

 

“I am White-Gold.”

 

“I am selfish.”

 

“I am selfless."

 

“I am Azdromoth.

 

“Azdromoth is All.”

 

“The Flames shall consume all that remains.”

 

“And from the Ashes the Flame is reborn.”

 

“We are the light cleaved sweetly from its source.”

 

“We will find blessed Asioth.” They spoke as all. They spoke as one.

 

The flame erupted in a crack of blinding golden light, and the world breathed as One. 

 

An arc of lightning coursed, obliterating the candles atop the poleaxe, arcing embers and licking flame to snake through the wooden handle. The noise was of a deafening crack, the heavens split, the metal screamed. It smoldered, hissing.

 

Another spear of gold skewered the earth, and the world grew dark.