Shadow of the Abyss

On impulse, Ruen bolted forward, holding his dagger in a reverse grip; he struck like a serpent, his blade curling towards his neck that tipped towards his shoulder, back to the jugular, missing short of drawing blood. He smiled, seeing the target of his lust dodge.

Altair was arguably the prettiest thing he had ever seen. He was tall, his gaze sharp, his brows sharper, plumped lips and pale skin that was sure to blemish at the slightest touch. He had to have him, if only once.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

"Has anyone ever told you you've got the eyes of a wolf," he said, dagger swirling into semi-arcs, spewing a fountain of sparks into the air with each bind of their blades. "Cold with calculation, even in desperation." he licked his lips, managing to slip past Altair's near impenetrable defense, and nicked just above his shoulder blade.

It would have been deeper if not for his surecoat and Almighty Resistance.

"What's wrong? Open those sweet lips of yours. Sweetmouth, flank him."

Sweetmouth bounded left in a half circle to Altair's flank, his sword flashing like a blue sheet of thunder. But to his amazement, Altair moved without so much as glancing at him, his body weaving past the thrust aimed at his ribs. Murder flashed across his face.

"Slippery bitch!"

Sword light spun like blossoms, dancing through the air, demanding blood. There was a desperation to his sword; one Altair saw that said he needed to prove himself, to prove his worth to Ruen.

"Stay still!" he snapped.

Altair did not pull away but rather stayed close to Ruen. The way they fought showed a clear lack of teamwork, much less comradery. The way Sweetmouth's sword moved, if it were to accidentally lop off Ruen's head, Altair had no doubt he would be estatic. At the same time, Ruen seemed reluctant to harm Sweetmouth.

In a few breaths, the two were tripping over each other's blades. It made it easy for Altair to dodge and parry, taking the time to gather himself. The soul exhaustion he felt was heavy, weighing him down, down, down, into the earth until he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes.

He bit his tongue to keep conscious, savoring the blood in his mouth. None of this had gone as he had planned, but the ending still held the possibility of being the same. He felt even worse, feeling the insanity of the Ninth Form taking over his mind. For each breath he took, the azure skies were becoming stained by blood.

'Let go,' a shrewd voice resonated through his mind; it echoed across his sea of consciousness, shaking the Vale Lake. Enticing, if not alluring, the voice he knew to be his own spoke, 'Give yourself to me. You'll die if you don't.'

"Who?" Altair asked, unaware he had spoken aloud.

Ruen saw an opening. He ducked beneath the incoming sword of his dearest, stepping in on Altair; his knee struck like a battering ram against his abdomen, knocking him to the ground, and the air out his lungs, his stabber skidding across the earth.

"You were that tired? Ruen asked; he looked at Sweetmought, his lips pinching together, "Dearest, when I'm done with him, I'll deal with you."

"Y-Y-Yes…Thank you," Sweetmouth stammered with a forced smile.

Altair was drowning, drowning in a world of blood pooling around him, emaciated arms stretched from the ocean, dragging him down down down. He flailed, his Mana flaring uncontrollably.

Suddenly, Ruen kicked him in the gut until he curled like a bow. "The fuck you shaking for?"

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Altair did not feel any of it. He was drowning. Blood was invading through his eyes, mouth, and nose through his very pores, consuming him alive. Labored breaths filled with panic bubbled through the blood. He turned left, then to his right, his desperation rising, yet only the red welcomed him.

'It's an illusion! An illusion!' he swore, gargling on the blood penetrating his throat. He closed his eyes, focusing his will to return to his battle. He had to leave. Had to survive. Had to…

'Is it?' the voice returned.

'Silence!' He hadn't the time for conversation. He was in battle! If he could not awake, then… "I need… I need… What was it?" He blinked, his thoughts slowly leaving him. He didn't know. "What is going…"

"Let go," the strange voice said. "Let go, and I'll handle the rest. Just let go."

The weariness that he'd forgotten of returned. It was heavier than before. So heavy he simply wanted to… sink.

"Let go… I'll take care of the rest… let go."

***

"Take off his clothes," Ruen ordered.

"R-R-Ruen, ain't it weird? It's so quiet. Somethings wrong." Sweetmouth exclaimed. " can't you hear it? The fighting stopped. Let's just kill em and—"

"Are you stupid? Look at him. Do you think I'm going to give up on a piece of ass like this? It's worth it." Ruen snapped, pointing at Altair. He stopped, noticing that Altair had stopped writhing, yet it was his finger that was trembling. "Huh?" he lowered his palm, but the shaking lanced up his arm, spreading through his body like a plague.

A step backward became one, then two, then three, and before he knew it, he was nearly three meters away. But the shaking would not stop.

"Ruen?" Sweetmouth said, turning to see those strange, burning red eyes staring back at him.

Blood-curdling laughter came from north to south, from east to west, echoing from the Young Lord's lips. It crackled like a wraith cry. He covered his face with a palm, his laughter consuming the bailey. Soldiers who had heard of Nox De Nier's presence and came racing out of the manor one after the other froze one by one.

In the forest, with a palm around her mouth, Tasha stood fully constrained by Iliana, gripping a standing mirror with her other hand. Around her, Altair's Pale Knights stood frozen, bound by some unseen power.

"The Ninth Form is such a beautiful thing," Iliana said. "Let's just see what my disciple is fully capable of when you turn off all inhibitions. Afterward, you can complete your mission."

Reluctantly, Tasha had no choice but to nod. She wasn't quite sure who this was, but the sensation she held was even stronger than her Father.

"Good Girl. Now, shall we watch? Something is happening."

When the Vale King's laughter finally ceased, the world fell silent. Fear punctuated the bailey, stretching on for miles on end, well into the city and beyond. As if something had sucked something precious from the air, men, women, and children held their breaths. Babes cried, their bodies turning pale, the whites of their eyes flickering with shadows.

He rose, a palm passing through his hair, as his gaze landed on Sweetmouth, then Ruen. He smiled a smile that withered the grass a hundred meters beneath his feet. A baleful aura that held the wails of all those slain by his sword cried an ocean of resentment.

The Vale King chuckled and opened his palm. Sarrin bounded from off the earth, from where it slid into his palm. Omniscience flashed through his eyes for the briefest instant before he took a step forward.

No one saw how he moved or how he appeared, but in the single momentary instant, his boot came in contact with the withered grass he was in front of Ruen. The first, second, and third stances of Grave of Night merged.

"Fallen Order," The Vale King intoned, walking through Ruen as if he were a vaporous existence. It was unknown what he cut or how many times he cut, as no one saw Sarrin move.

Ruen did not move, did not think, as force beyond his imagination rend the infinite void. He faded, lacking even the honor of becoming mist, his existence forfeiting the right to exist.

The Vale King covered his mouth, trying to stifle the maddening laughter that threatened to spill from his hand. He shuddered, his laughter coming through.

"Was it too much? Yes! Yes! Too much, far too much!" he threw his head back, bellowing in laughter. Suddenly, past, present, and future flash across his mind, throwing him into various periods of existence that seem to overlap with each other.

"Envy!!" He shouted suddenly. His laughing expression was replaced by a shattered one. Tears, black as ink, poured from his eyes. "Sister… Iza… Iza…" He turned, and there beneath his gaze rode Primal Death, riding his pale horse through the wheels of time.

"He's gone mad!" said a man with a red cross engraved on both sides of his temple. "Sepeth, save us all."

The Vale King seemed to have heard, for his gaze snapped towards the man, a smile returning to his face.

No one saw when his arm bore through the nameless man's forehead, bathing his comrades with his brain matter, or when Sarrin's blade roared like a mighty dragon, painting the bailey red.

Sweetmouth fled, his feet not stopping, even when he had all but one remaining. He hadn't even been sure when he was cut. But even if he had hope or crawl, he was determined to live. He ran and ran, and ran and ran, haunted by the laughter of that devil.