The Vultures Feast

The blood of Ethandun waters growing discontent.

The second battle on the field of Ethandun had raged on for a day, and on the same field where his brother died, King Alfred had secured victory.
The Danes and the Norsemen were scattered, broken- Ubba had gone back to his ships, Halfdan to his kingdom. As he broke the will of the heathen forces, Alfred pushed his army forward to chase them, never stopping to take the spoils of battle on the corpse-strewn field they had left behind.
Yet little did Alfred know of the consequences that this small decision would lead to, for some of the trinkets on the heathens that died on that field carried much value- and as the vultures came to descend to feast on the dead, they would find those trinkets very delicious indeed.

Brother Eadweard, A History of the Great Heathen Invasions, 890

The smell of hundreds of dead men hung heavy over the sodden field of Ethandun, as Dane, Norseman and Saxon alike lay dead or dying on the battlefield. The armies of both King Alfred and Halfdan Whiteshirt had left a day ago, but the corpses they left stayed where they had died on that fateful morning- much to the benefit of Edith.
Clad in a simple peasant dress and with a white cloth tied around her brown hair, the young woman was not one of great beauty, but of great wit- though her father and brothers worked as tanners and her mother and sisters worked as seamstresses and launderers, Edith had seen opportunity in the spoils of war left over from the dead bodies of soldiers and heathen warriors. There was always a trinket left among the sea of corpses, a pristine steel sword or axe scattered among the rusted spears and pitchforks of the rotting dead.
Luckily for her and for other “vultures” like her, the soldiers who defeated the heathens on the field of battle- those of the force belonging to the newly crowned King Alfred of Wessex- had been forced to move on early, leaving a treasure trove of steel, gold, and silver to find in the pockets of the dead.
She found it hard to ignore the smell, however- though after her first “vulturing” on the field of Ethandun half a year before, she had almost grown used to the fetid stench of rotting carcasses on a battlefield.
The first trinket that she found that early morning was a beautiful ring- one taken from a particularly rotted Dane. It was a small gold band with a particularly luminous stone placed on top, shimmering with light as she held it up to the sun. She smiled as she took the ring and put it on her ring finger, the fresh find promising her more loot to take and sell as she wished.
The next hour fulfilled that promise, and more: She found necklaces, more rings, amulets, silver daggers, and even the golden tooth of a particularly well-armored Norseman, which she pried from the disgusting mouth of the heathen warrior and tucked under her dress.
Then, as she bent to search another soldier's carcass for trinkets, she heard the sound of an earthshaking rumbling from the distant treeline- one that she hadn't heard in all of her life.
Her eyes moved skyward, to where a far-off giant in the figure of a man walked north, away from the battlefield. It seemed to shine a radiant energy from its body, its bronze body shimmering in the dawn light as it walked across the forest, its feet thundering as it passed.
Instantly, a thought came to Edith's mind as she looked upon the gigantic radiant construct, forced into it as bright and vivid images flashed into her mind.
A tall and inspiring monk preached to the masses, reciting Latin phrases and drawing his hands up into the air as he converted a crowd of people in his mission for God.
That same monk giving alms to the poor, becoming a symbol of Christian charity and generosity as he gave up his earthly wealth to follow the divine way.
Then, finally, the monk's body appearing to King Alfred in Wessex's darkest hour, becoming the harbinger of Christian retaliation against the heathen menace.
As her eyes shimmered at the radiance of the titan, her mind soon came to know its name: Saint Cuthbert, patron of all Saxons. She smiled as the bronze giant passed, taking his holy visage with it, its beautifully sculpted face surveying the world around it with intelligence and holiness that could've only been bestowed by the divine.
Then, slowly, it retreated into the far-off distance, leaving Edith with a story and a memory to share with her family for years to come.
“Mighty thing, isn't he?” said a voice behind her, masculine in tone.
Edith turned to regard the stranger behind her, reflexively hiding the heavy knapsack fastened to her dress as she looked at the man before her.
A young man in a fine green garb greeted her, his long hair course around his forehead as he raised his hand in a gesture of peace. Edith could not help but look upon the bow and arrow clinging to the stranger's back, telling her all that she could know at a glance.
This was a well-to-do man, hunting for pleasure in the woods near Ethandun- a noble.
And no noble may see a corpse thief and let her live- at least, without taking a finger or two.
But the nobleman showed no signs of being a threat, and so Edith turned to greet him, bowing down as her hands covered the knapsack at her side.
“M-mornin', m'lord,” She said, as she bowed down, her grey eyes still locked on the stranger before her as her light brown hair fell past her head. “What brings you to the battlefield of Ethandun?”
The nobleman grinned, looking at Edith with nothing but kindness as he slowly stepped closer. “I have been hunting in these woods for deer, though our pickings have been slim with the battle driving the game away.” He looked past her, gesturing to the corpses at her feet. “You have been hunting too, I assume?”
“Uh…” She said, stalling for time as her brain racked itself for a response. “Yes, m'lord. I'm looking for my…” She coughed, discreetly stepping away from the nobleman. “My father's corpse.”
“Your father's corpse?” The young nobleman said, cocking his head to the side as he looked upon Edith. “He was a soldier, I suppose? Another peasant called up by Alfred to fight in his war against heathens?”
Her legs began shaking beneath her skirt, though she forced them to stop quivering as she looked up at the nobleman. “Y-yes, m'lord.” She bit her lip, making sure she looked as small as possible before the nobleman. “M-my father hasn't come back home yet… ever since he was called up by Ealdorman Aethelwulf with the rest of the peasant fyrd.”
The nobleman turned his head to look around, scanning the field full of the dead.
Then he looked back at her, his expression frighteningly neutral. “I am truly sorry for your loss…” He said, looking up at her expectantly for a name.
Edith's heart raced in pure fear as she mumbled out a name, bowing her head again as her hands started shaking. “It's… Aethelflaed, m'lord.”
“Ah, Aethelflaed.” The noble noted, putting his hands on his waist as he hewed closer to her. “I'm sure my father will pay just recompense to your family.”
She looked up, her grey eyes plainly expressing the terror in her eyes. “Your… your father, m'lord?”
The noble grinned slightly as he unexpectedly took her hands. “Yes, my father- Lord Aethelwulf, ealdorman of these lands.” His eyes strayed to the ring on her hand, where the beautiful stone remained perched.
He smiled even wider. “Where did you get this ring from?” he said, hewing closer and closer as he spoke.
Edith stayed silent as a meek lamb as she stared into the nobleman's eyes, frightened now beyond measure.
The nobleman turned her hand on its palm, examining the stone on top of her ring. “This…” he said, his tone marking a point of recognition. “I know this stone from the monks' books.”
Then his expression turned almost manic, obsessive. Dangerous.
Now terrified beyond measure, Edith clamped her fingers of her other hand over the ring, as she pulled it out from the nobleman's reach.
The nobleman's eyes widened in surprise and recognition, then slowly… to glee.
“That's the ring of Eluned, Aethelflaed.” He said, his voice low as his smile changed from joyful to sinister. “Do you know it? The legendary ring from your pagan folk tales?”
Realization dawned on Edith as her eyes widened and she began to step back, her foot slowly landing on the corpse of a Saxon peasant.
He stepped forward, smiling. "It is said that when you cover it with your hand, the wearer turns invisible to the eye…" He slowly licked his lips, his sinister smile growing wider and wider as he spoke. "Do you even realize that you are invisible right now, girl?"
The nobleman's eyes met with hers as he looked at where he knew she would still be, reaching his hand out as he stepped forward. “Give it to me, corpse thief…” he said, his voice now sing-song and malicious. “Give it to me.”
Edith looked at the nobleman in fear as her hand stayed firmly clamped over the ring. Her legs were frozen in place as she looked on, her heart turning to ice as the young nobleman's arm reached out towards her.
Then, she heard a voice. “Lord Aelfric!” a distant voice said, as a man on a horse came out from the treeline, holding a bow at the ready in his hands. “We thought we lost you!”
The nobleman they called Aelfric shook his head, then reached his other arm out. “I've found a relic, Ecgberht!” He shouted, his voice loud as it echoed off the trees. “This peasant woman has it!”
Then, Aelfric leaped straight at Edith, causing her to fall back with a scream as her body landed on a mutilated corpse with a sick squilch. As she did, her right hand fell from her left hand, causing her to become visible once more in an instant.
Aelfric turned to look at her from only a meter away as he landed, looking back at her with a hunger in his eyes as he lunged forward towards her with a growl.
Edith dodged his hand as she lifted herself on her arm, placing her hands on the dead bodies around her as she started to scramble away from the nobleman in front of her.
“GIVE IT TO ME, AETHELFLAED!” The nobleman shouted as he lunged again, his arm almost grabbing hold of her skirt as she came to her feet and began to run across the corpse-strewn battlefield.
“She has the relic, Ecgberht!” Aelfric shouted from behind her. “Use that Godforsaken horse and chase her down!”
Edith turned her head as she ran across the battlefield, seeing the man on horseback immediately heed his lord's order. With a cry, he spurred his horse forward, moving to intercept her as she ran towards the end of the battlefield.
Behind her, Aelfric had come to his feet as well, running towards her with the frenzied speed of a starved wolf as his boots crushed the bodies below him. “AETHELFLAED!” He shouted again as he steadily gained on her. “GIVE ME THE RING!”
I'm not going to make it, she thought as her legs carried across the field. I'm not going to make it. I'm not going to make it!
Her knapsack full of trinkets jangled at her side as she ran ever further, her feet landing in the spaces between corpses as she ran for her life. She looked to her right and saw that the man on the horse, Ecgberht, was rapidly moving towards her. She looked behind and saw the same with Aelfric, as he loped off after her with victory in his eyes and hunger in her smile.
I'm not going to make it. She thought again. I'm not going to make it.
She combed her mind for a way out, one that could ensure her safety, one that could-
Edith looked down at the ring on her finger, and made a split second decision as her hand moved again to clamp over it. In the same moment, she threw herself to the ground, joining the other corpses on the field as she hid among the dead.
An eternity of a few moments passed, as Aelfric ran past her and Ecgberht came to the edge of the field of corpses.
“Do you see her?!” Aelfric shouted from afar, as Edith closed her eyes and hoped they wouldn't find her.
“No, my lord.” Came Ecgberht's answer, which was followed by the loud, frustrated cry of Aelfric as he kicked something soft in anger.
“Fuck!” He shouted, the swear passing through his lips almost naturally. “My father will have my fucking head for this, Goddamnit!”
“So long as we do not tell him-“
“He will know, Ecgberht! He always does!”
This was followed by a silence, then a barely audible “Yes, lord.” from Ecgberht.
Aelfric let out a snort of frustration, then a sigh. “Get me my horse, Ecgberht. We ride back to my father.”
“We can only hope that he is in a good mood after bedding that Dane whore of his, lord.”
Aelfric let out a nervous laugh. “I hope to be in a good mood soon once I get back home to my own damned wife.”
Ecgberht grunted his assent, then spurred his horse away from Edith as he presumably went to fetch his master's horse.
Edith lay there for a few minutes, waiting.
And waiting.
Her heart raced in her chest as she waited, her eyes tightly closed as she kept her hand clamped on the ring. Eternities passed as she slowly waited for the right time, her mind filled only with the primal feeling of pure unceasing terror.
She thought of her father, already exhausted from a few hours of tanning, the smell of animal dung permeating the air in front of their house as he expertly practiced his trade.
She thought of her brothers, the twins Osbert and Uhtred, going out to the fields to gather the dung needed for their father to tan. She could remember laughing at them as they complained of smelling like shit, and complaining even harder when the time came for them to help their father.
She thought of her mother, washing their smallclothes in a nearby lake, her belly already large again as she carried their youngest sibling. She remembered her easy smile, her soothing voice, how she'd always embrace her when she'd cry and scold her when she was up to no good.
Lastly, she thought of her sisters. Mildred and Hilda were both still young, five and six years her junior, but their bond as sisters were as strong as blood could be. They used to play on the fields when they were younger, chasing each other past the fields of wheat as they ran down the path to the village where their parents made their living.
Her heart swelled as she thought of them, living simply in their little hovel near the forest. She thought of Aelfric coming down on them in the dead of night, accompanied by his men as they searched for her. She thought of her sisters huddling together as a man stood over them, his axe held high in the air. She could almost imagine the smell of her mother's blood as Uhtred sought to staunch the bleeding from her chest as the house burnt around them and the scorching thatch roof buckled and fell.
In that stretching eternity in the field of corpses, Edith silently cried.
Then a few minutes later, she slowly rose to her feet, taking her hand off of her ring for a moment as she gasped in relief.
As she began to step away from the corpses that she lied beside, she took the time to catch her breath, her heart slowing as she felt her blood settle.
Then, she heard a far-off twang! in the distance, as an arrow cut straight through her chest, sending her falling to the ground.
As her head meet the damp soil, she coughed as blood began to fill her mouth. She struggled to breathe as she crawled slowly forward over the corpses she fell upon, trying to get away from the noblemen that would most certainly be on her soon.
Then, she heard the heavy footfalls of Aelfric as he walked to where Edith was, crouching down beside her with a smile on his face as she looked up at him.
“Give me the ring, Aethelflaed.” He said, his voice now gentle and kind. “Please.”
She was struggling harder to breathe now as the sharp pain in her chest grew ever more agonizing and the taste of iron in her mouth grew ever stronger.
In a last act of defiance, she tightened her fist as the nobleman reached toward her hand to pry it from her fingers, his pulls forceful as he cried out in anger and frustration.
But Edith still held her fists tightly shut, even as the nobleman grunted in anger as he pulled and tugged on her arm.
“Fine,” he said, out of breath. “Let's have it your way.”
He put his hand to the sheath attached to his belt, pulling out a large hunting knife.
Then, he pulled her hand closer to him, eliciting a long cry of pain from Edith as he slowly cut her ring finger off with the hunting knife in his right hand.
“There,” Aelfric said, holding her severed ring finger with his thumb and forefinger. He took it the ring from it with his other hand, licking his lips as he felt the ring hit his palm.
He patted her head gently, a wicked smile on his face as he did so. “Didn't need to be so hard,” he said, gleefully.
Aelfric then stood up, dusting off his shorts as he looked upon Edith's dying body with disgust. Then he turned away from her and left, his heavy footfalls sounding ever more distant as he moved to join Ecgberht.
“Are we good, my lord?” Ecgberht said, holding the reins of Aelfric's horse.
Aelfric took the reins and saddled on the horse, looking at Eadith's dying body in the far distance as he smiled once again. “Yes, Ecgberht. We most certainly are.”
“Do you think that we will we be ready to take on Alfred when the time comes?”
Aelfric laughed. “With three relics now under our fellowship? I have no doubt.”
Ecgberht looked past him at Edith's dying form. "How about the woman, lord?"
Aelfric let out a snort of dismissal. "Leave her to her fellow vultures. They'll know what to do with her."
As the two men galloped away on their horses, Edith cried with despair, the wound on her chest and the stub of her finger bleeding profusely as she looked vacantly in the distance, her expression blank.
As the darkness fell upon her, she could still hear the rumbling in the distance as she died, vibrating down deep into the ground.
Edith was long dead when the vultures came to make their feast an hour later.


In the hollow walkways of the deepest caverns over the King's throne, where none dare tread (and none certainly do), faint laughter and cries can be heard. But no, these aren't the voices of the King: those are much quieter. ##ffffca

When I look at the goings-on in downtown Alagadda, I find that every single street here is the central street, and there is no downtown.
Every corner shifts between marvelous feasts, unspeakable bloodbaths, voluptuous orgies, or more often than not, combinations of the three.
Food of the greatest quality, made by (and sometimes from) Alagaddans is served around the clock.
Sounds of music and cheer, crying and fear echo in everyone's ears. Party goers big and small, of every gender and sex, join in the fun. So have I.
The unending fornication drove me to assume the population was booming. In a normal city, one would be right, though numbers matter not here. I wonder still, how could it be that in such a vibrant cityscape, there are no children in Alagadda? It would be foolish to suggest that an entire country was sterile. And it would be wrong to suggest that any individual in Alagadda was incapable of reproduction. Though, it would be an effective method of mating with any given Alagaddan… Then being murdered by them, then all over again a few times for good measure. To be honest, that was my favorite weekend pleasure here since I came.
It is never quiet in the streets of Alagadda, yet, all activities seem to be in an eternal standstill within the castles of the nobles and the King. Quite frankly, most buildings in Alagadda are empty, with the residents out on parade. The rest are largely the in-side-out kind of places, where the parades march around, over, and inside in spirals of dance.
In the hollow walkways of the deepest caverns over the King's throne, where none dare tread (and none certainly do), faint laughter and cries can be heard. But no, these aren't the voices of the King: those are much quieter. Out!
These are the voices of children. But how can that be? There are no children in Alagadda. Stop!
I listen carefully and look further. The laughter leads me through the endless corridors of the King's palace and out back into the parades. Why? Now the parades' sounds are but distant drumming, while the children's cries grow louder.
I follow the voices which echo in the empty holes of my mask. Ahhhaaargh‽
I have felt clarity for longer now than I have in the past two millennia. This runs on for far more than just a moment, and it has overstayed its welcome. Investigations are not an Alagaddan's business. Perhaps I should return to the celebrations. Too late.
I walk again among the celebrating masses, touching the unfamiliar smooth cold skin of another. In the heat, I feel their body and hope that my vertigo and euphoria will return. But the figure walks away, leaving me unnoticed. I hear not the music, but the laughter and the screams… the screams… the screams. That terrible pain in my ears. I yell, I lay down on another and try to confide, but they see me not. Lonesome be and thus will begin your end!
"Why am I alone? Why can't they see me?" I've been talking for hours, they just can't hear me! I return to the palace, surely the king will see me. Not yet, the king will see you surely, but only after you repent.
The children scream in my head, it throbs and the children laugh, they scream to me. As my heart breaks, they laugh at my empathy. The children scream and torture me. Then they laugh at my slowing haste, my faltering advance to the palace. They are not, yet they mock me and my being, my mind and body's strain. "There are no children in Alagadda." I hear myself say, but my voice is faint, the children laugh at it, overflowing and drowning out my confusion. A fool you are and the worse kind!
I look up at the King's gate and ask the guard, "Can you hear the children's screaming?" I wish not to hear the answer. The guard tilts his head in confusion and says, "There are no children in Alagadda". This I know, though his words concern me. I have no proof nor merit to disprove him. A tear burns my cheek, lonely and confused.
I walk away alone with nonexistent voices shredding my consciousness and find myself at the precipice of the tallest of the towers of Alagadda. I walked the halls of this unused church, not one minute before I stumbled on the roof. Falling to my knees, the wind chills me to the core. I clutch at my stomach and remember the child that was there before. My heart shrinks. Not a thousand years of hearing these children's screams will replace what is gone. My pain is not the screams, but the reminder that there have not been, and will not since There are no children in Alagadda.
I grow tired of these children who lay siege to me and my roar grows louder in the dusty bells above me.
"Who are you? You live not! You are not! By what power then do you war with me? What wrong did I do to receive such treatment?
Answer me and stop this madness! May the king's wrath be upon you!"
I yell at the city of vice and none hear me. Through my tears I see them, the children of Alagadda, like clouds of flesh they curl in mid-air, these unborn fetus ghosts of countless infinities. They fill the airspace and they loom around me.
I hear answers to my questions, though I know not who answers.
My stomach turns to mercury and bubbles up my throat.
They are none. They live yes. They are not. By the same power that lets you live. Wrong you've done not, and none war with you.
This torture you receive is yours for your journey to seek them.
Answer they won't and cease they shan't.
Your fate and your doom, to never live free of torment, and none else as well who looks for children in a childless place.
So sayeth the king, go and receive your final judgment.
The floating ghosts disperse.
I fall from the tower, and my broken bones shiver when I rise again. I return in shame and with great guilt to the palace.
The guard lets me pass and I enter through the King's gates.
The foggy chambers echo with the sound of teardrops trickling from the ceiling into pools of blood that gather on the floor. I pass through these chambers and descend into the labyrinth of the King's palace. The children are screaming at me, begging me, pleading and commanding me to turn back but I deny them, continuing onwards. You know nothing of our pain! You hear not our voices but their echoes in your feeble mind. Meet with the king for all we care, we have not forgiven and nor will he, and soon you will see, none search for children in this city.
I come upon the pool of tears gathered from the King's weeping; I see the bodies in the water and walk over the bridge. The children's screams echo from underneath me from the orifices of the dead. The caverns underneath me quake, I hear his pain.
At the end of the bridge stands the ambassador, and they mock me:
"In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders of every glove that laid him down or cut him"
Til I cried out in my anger and my shame
"I am leaving, I am leaving"
but the fighter still remains.
And they mock me yet again: "Those voices you are hearing are yours, simple and plain.
The King won't save you from your torment and pain."
The ambassador laughs as I cry and kneel, the crows join the children and they sing and feast on my tortured soul and corrupt my brain.
They scream, they scream, and they scream again.
Aaaaahrguhgaaa!
I ask them, and in my desperation, I forget who stands before me, "Who are these children that scream in vain?"
The ambassador giggles and replies with the answer I know to be true, yet can't believe: "You know something's happening, but you don't know what it is, do you?", the cruel blank face contorts in a blank grin and a bellowing laugh pierces my ears.
There are no children in Alagadda. They tell me again and again. Soon they grow bored and leave me be, with the voices and my loneliness. The ambassador is gone, and I stand back up again.
The children of Alagadda repeat my sins and ridicule me for my foolishness as I descend to the deepest cavern. We know, we've seen it all, yours is with us now, and you may not hear him calling you mother, for you never heard his voice, but you recognize it. Don't you? don't you dear Mother?
I enter his dungeon of terrible torture, and the King is in his throne. Some things are ever-changing but always stay the same.
The king speaks not, but the weight of his presence, his madness, and his pain push me down. My lip shivers as I notice a familiar voice within the screams, though I know not from where.
I beg him for salvation, from the children who are screaming, screaming my name. Now you will be judged, you have seen the naked corpses of the children we once weren't! And for your curiosity, you shall be judged. You mother of nigh and none, our maker and our killer and our accursed harbinger. There are no children in Alagadda and thus it will stay. And you in this matter have no say.
I notice they grow quiet, not silent, not gone, but they wait for me beyond the entrance. The voices dare not enter the chamber, and I smile for a moment, turning to thank the king.
But my joy is cut short, for the walls of the dungeon roar and thunder as I fall to my knees. They mock me and they bid me leave. I stare back at the door and I hear the children laugh, waiting for me to return. I dare not move but cry to my King who sits still in his prison, his throne of pain.Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!
I tell the King of the children and pray he permits me to remain; I wait for his answer an eternity, and another, and another again.
As eons pass and I lay unmoving, the King gathers his voice, and the children gather courage. They grow closer and they scream in my ears yet again… Until finally, a horrid sound of crushing bugs and dusty grinding teeth joins them, crushing my lungs and freezing my heart. Wet gurgles of long-forgotten serpents wriggle in the King's damned voices as they fill the room. So sayeth to me the king in his halls of damnation with his voices of doom:

T̟h̆e̾r̦e̴ ͉̬a͔͛r̭̅e̜̯ ̊ͥń̊̊ö̓ͅ ̴̨̖c̵̮͇h̨̻̀i͋̇̽͌l̖̃͂͟d̷͕̦̗r̢̰̱͠e͖̣̾̏ǹ͈̺̭̗ ̸̨̖͎̈́i̢͓͓ͧ͡n͎̹̐ͯ̑ ̵͓̼͈̝Al̵̢̬͚͂͆a̢ͨͧ̍͘g̴̶̛̦̍̓a̗̹̓͆ͭ́d̺͕͇͎͒͢͠d̶̢̟̰ͦ̈ͬâ̧͕͡҉̢͡ .̧̺͕̒͆͆̚

Hahah haah ha ha!
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We Are The Unborn Children of alagadda.
We scream for our names are imagined, we scream till they stop.
WE ARE ALL THE CHILDREN OF ALAGADDA.
And the fool who thought of us is now punished, dead and done.
She exists less now than us. In a moment she will be forgotten her and our cage will be quiet once more

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Previously

Lake Baikal, Siberia
Day Four of SCP-610's Containment Breach
"This is commander Ibrahim Croshaw. Re-containment impossible. Requesting nuclear bombardment, Overseer Command, please respond."
Static was the only response the radio gave. Like the last three days. The flesh had somehow melded itself to the radio tower, but he had hoped the signal would still come through somehow. Occasionally, words in an unnatural tongue came through the radio, some Sarkic speech.
The worst part about it was the quiet. The giant, screaming heads only appeared once every couple of hours to disgorge their fleshy matter, but beyond that, nothing, except for the sounds of hellish moans from what had once been the hospital tent. They thought that they could at least alleviate the suffering— they had been wrong.
"This is commander Ibrahim Croshaw. Re-containment impossible. Requesting nuclear bombardment."
He didn't even notice when the flesh started to crawl out of the microphone. Even if he did, he wouldn't care. He just kept repeating the message, and when the flesh overtook his vocal chords, the message still repeated.

In a dark room in an undisclosed location, a woman, a man, and a computer monitor watched the world end.
"We've never seen this behavior from 610 before." O5-3 spoke from the other side of a secure connection. "It's shown some intelligence, but nothing on this scale."
"Have we considered nuclear bombardment?" D.C. al Fine steepled her hands together. It felt like such a stereotypical thing for a GOC representative to say, but it seemed like the best option. "The lake itself has already been contaminated. Radiation poisoning can't hurt what human population remains."
Adnan, a representative of the Horizon Initative, shook his head. "The political situation of the world is fragile, and eyes are watching everywhere. If anyone who didn't know about the Triumvirate—"
"Such as the President of the United States—" O5-3 offered.
"Saw a nuclear explosion in Russia, they'd assume it's either an unsanctioned test, or an attack." He leaned back in his chair.
"We could enact the Penzance Protocol." O5-3's monitor printed out a description of the protocol— using a Combat Zeppelin's modified Scranton Cannon to rewrite local reality. "Erase it from reality."
"Too risky." Adnan waved his hand. "Lake Baikal vanishing off the map would tear the veil down. However…" Adnan took out his phone. After struggling with the screen, he accessed the universal texts. "We do have some artifacts related to the Mekhanites which we might be able to use."
"The amount of Akiva radiation in the area is negli—" al Fine began.
"'Akiva radiation' is a nonsense term, like 'Humes'." Adnan snapped. "You can't quantify faith into some numbers. If the Mekhanites believed that their artifacts can combat the flesh, then it's worth a shot."
"I agree." O5-3 coughed. "There might be a few issues with the usage, however, considering recent events."
"You lost some, didn't you?" al Fine played with her headscarf, rolling her eyes. "Let me guess: the Xbox kids?"
"…and a relic related to the Xia dynasty. One day they were there, the next they weren't. By all accounts, the former walked out of the site with no impediment, and the latter was…" A modulated laugh of disbelief came from O5-3. "Was stolen by a monkey."
"Truth be told, we've got some LTEs whose remains have vanished as well." al Fine rolled her headscarf around a finger. "The… thing that the Horizon Initiative liquidated in the middle east back in… 2013? We had some of its remains in storage. Now it's all gone."
"Between all of this and their seizure of SCP-2217… the Mekhanites believe it to be their end-times. And I'm inclined to agree." O5-3 paused briefly. "So, what course of action do we take?"
"Let's put it to a vote." al Fine tapped the table before her, and a bank of monitors lit up on the far wall, showing five of the other six other members of the Triumvirate's central council. Samuel and Bernard, the other two thirds of the Horizon Initiative's tribunal, both looked tired. O5-8 and O5-11's screens were occupied entirely by emotionless numbers. The Secretary General sat, stoic.
al Fine frowned. "Where's General Barnshard?"
"Indisposed." The Secretary General shook his head. "He's in the hospital. His pacemaker began acting up."
"We can do a vote with eight." O5-3 spoke sagely.
"Very well." al Fine cleared her throat. "This first vote vote is to determine whether or not we, the Triumvirate, will commence nuclear bombardment of Lake Baikal, in an attempt to cleanse the Flesh that is currently overtaking Foundation containment."
Five minutes later, there were three votes for this measure, five opposing.
"This vote is on to whether or not to rewrite local reality using the Penzance Protocol, erasing Lake Baikal and SCP-610 from the area. All in favor, vote now."
One in favor, seven against. al Fine could practically hear O5-3 shaking with rage.
"All those in favor of using artifacts related to the Mekhanite faith in an attempt to combat this threat, vote now." Adnan nodded.
Another five minutes. Four in favor, four against.
"Fuck." al Fine rubbed her face. "We need a tiebreaker."
O5-3 remained silent for several moments. Then, their monitor flickered out, the number upon it vanishing.
"Typical." The Secretary General rolled his eyes. "Time of crisis, and they throw a fit over not getting their way."
O5-3's monitor turend back on. On it was the face of a man, his skin made of bronze, his eyes iron, his hair carbon fibers. Were he ever human to begin with, his face may have once been considered Phoenician.
"Bumaro." al Fine hissed.
"That's not possible." Even through the voice modulation, O5-8 was aghast. "That's a secure Foundation connection. Nobody could crack into that."
"You who call yourselves the Triumvirate. Look to the sky, and you will see hope gliding down upon wings of steel and light. Be not afraid. We come to cull this infection."
The screen flickered, and then the message looped.
al Fine's phone rang. It was one of their agents in NORAD. Shaking, she picked it up. Her eyes widened as the other end described what they were seeing.

Near the shores of Lake Baikal, a sniper sat in a clock tower, contemplating a pair of pills in his hand. Cyanide. Quick, relatively painless. Better than being overtaken by the things below. Rationally, it would be better to die from poison than live through an agonizing existence as a creature of flesh.
Humanity, however, is inherently irrational, thanks to a pesky thing at the bottom of a box. He wasted his last bullet six hours ago, trying to shoot a head that may as well have been made of rubber, yet the pesky thing told him to save himself.
All in all, Agent Domovoi was not a religious man. His family had brought him up Orthodox, but as far as he was concerned, the idea that an all-loving God could allow the Flesh to exist, to continue shambling through the streets below, was absurd.
From the east, the sun rose, as it is wont to do. Domovoi stood, continuing to contemplate the cyanide pills in his hand. It shook, and he let them drop. He couldn't. Even in a time such as this, some part of his brain told him that life was better than death, that there was some glimmer of hope. But if there was any, he didn't see it.
A shadow fell over the sniper. He turned away towards the sunrise, and looked up— a massive object had come over the town. Domovoi squinted, and looked through his binoculars— he expected a Combat Zeppelin, come to enact the Penzance Protocol, or else just plain nuclear bombardment. He had seen one final sunrise. It was some comfort, that the world would continue to spin.
What was above him was not a Combat Zeppelin. It was larger, and made of stone. On its underside, there were runes in something which looked almost Grecian, but slightly off— Domovoi guessed that this was all that was keeping the mass of rock afloat.
Then, from the lip of the rock, people jumped. Dozens of them— men and women alike. Domovoi let out a startled gasp, waiting for their eventual impact, but it never came. Some of them sprouted wings of hard light and glided down onto the ground below. Others extended cloth membranes and propellers, drawing what seemed to be gattling guns from out of their chests. There were some who plummeted to the ground, but they fell with purpose, hammers or spears in their hands, ready to crush or puncture the flesh below.
He heard the sound of a propeller behind him, and turned around, falling over with a small scream. Behind him was an angel made of brass with six arms, wings of fabric and wood, inspecting his fallen rifle. In the process, he had trod on the cyanide pills. "What the fuck?!" He swore in Russian.
There was a click from the brass angel, who replied in a modulated voice. "Be not afraid. We come for your salvation." One of his hands was extended down to Domovoi.
Shaking, the sniper took it. He didn't expect the metal to be so warm. It was then he noticed what the angel was doing to his rifle— it was being reloaded, with far more rounds than should have fit. The magazine appeared to have been replaced by one made of bronze.
The rifle was spun between the six arms in a theatrical manner, before being handed back to Domovoi. "I am not suited for such modern weaponry, but I have modified it so that it more effective against the spawn of Yaldabaoth." There was a click, and then the angel's propellers restarted. "Consider this an olive branch. Thus spake Legate Colt."
With that, the Legate flew to the street below. All three of its left arms merged into a single limb, and fire started emanating from it. It took Domovoi a moment to realize, but Legate Colt had just turned his left arms into a massive gatling gun.
He looked back at the powderized cyanide pills, and rubbed his face. His hand was on his rifle, and he put the scope to his eyes, blasting a hole through a shambling mass of flesh that had been about to strike Colt down from behind.

Closer to the edge of the city, a Mekhanite battle chorus sounded. It was discordant— for the first time ever, the hollow, bell-like chanting of the Orthodoxists were intermingling with the harsher sounds of the Maxwellists. Drowning them both out were Greek hymns recited by those who had given themselves to the Broken Church.
The chains that Legate Trunnion had in place of hair were pulled towards her weapon— a spear made of magnetite. Originally, it was intended to smite Maxwellists during a conflict that had broken out in 2005, but now, it was finding a very different use.
She drove the spear into what may have once been the head of a mass of Flesh as it charged her, turning the grip on it counter-clockwise. As she did, pieces of iron from the surrounding buildings were drawn towards the Flesh, cutting it into ribbons.
St. Hedwig's weapon was less practical, though no less impressive. Surrounding her was a flock of drones, configuring themselves into new weapons as the situation demanded. One moment they were a series of flechettes to carve themselves through an approaching wall of flesh, the next had them forming a barrier to protect from some form of bloody discharge. Hedwig walked through the carnage, stoic, looking almost bored. Trunnion was surprised that she didn't have a phone out.
Then, Hedwig paused, a scowl on her face. "Dammit."
"What?" Trunnion asked, stabbing her spear through the eyes of five flesh-creatures.
"The Foundation are trying to access a satellite I overrode. Should I let them in?"
Trunnion's brass lips turned into a smirk. "Let them see our great work unfold." She cranked the handle of her spear, and a building collapsed down on top of an approaching mass of gore.

"What. The fuck. Is that."
al Fine stared flabbergasted at the satellite feed, showing a giant mass of rock floating in the sky above Lake Baikal. Thousands of bodies were flying off of it, and on the mass of flesh below, smoke and laser blasts could be seen.
"The Temple of Kythera-on-the-Lake. A vestige of the Mekhanite holdings in Russia, before they disturbed the Flesh." Adnan gaped. "It… appears to be flying."
"No shit it's flying, Adnan!" al Fine looked at the text scrolling across the bottom of the screen. "…I take it a Maxwellist hacked the feed."
The text, completely green, read "Hi! We're doing your job for you. #ScrewTheFoundation #SuckOurCOGGOC #PrettyFlyForAHIGuy."
"Fucking Maxwellists." O5-3 snapped.
"So much for decorum," al Fine rolled her eyes. "The Coalition has troops in the area."
"Deploy them." O5-3 growled. "Don't let this escalate any further. Shut them all down— pseudo-Sarkic, Ticker, Hummer, whatever, just get rid of them."

"Since when can they fly?!"
Admin-Priest Markus of the Spark cleaved through a horde of fleshy creatures who had produced membranous wings to combat the aerial bombardment. His ceramic blade broke on the bones of the last one. "Wan fuck me. Cheap Prometheus weapon."
A Tinker-Cleric of the Cogwork Orthodoxy ascended next to him and offered a steel blade. "Well well! The 21st century isn't all it's cracked up to be, it seems."
"Sometimes the old ways are the best." Markus admitted as he took the blade, spinning it in his hand. "Nicely-balanced."
"Forged it myself in my own body!" The Tinker-Cleric confirmed, his brass and cloth wings parting to reveal a large cannon. He removed it from his back and took up a firing position. "Name's Ford!"
"Markus." He hefted the blade and looked his fellow Mekhanite over, tilting his head— Ford's left wing had a rather large tear in its membrane. "Want me to patch that up?"
"It'd be appreciated! I've lost a fair bit of altitude!" Ford managed to hover in mid-air while the fingers of the Admin-Priest printed new cloth into the seam. "I think I recognize your face— aren't your parents among our number?"
"Mom and dad went to your church, I think." Markus smiled as he wove together carbon fibers.. "I was a rebellious kid, and the Orthodoxy has… kind of strict doctrine when it comes to living in the 21st century. Still, I'm one of St. Turing's hands, so I can't complain too much."
The patchwork finished, Markus looked to the southern horizon. Vehicles emblazoned with UN insignia— including a not insignificant number of tanks —were crawling over it. "Hedwig protect us."
Ford refrained from making a comment about idolatry as a pair of binoculars emerged from his forehead. "I'm afraid she has nothing to do with this. It's the Coalition."
"They don't use electronic gear when dealing with us, so hacking's not an option."
"And I can taste the stink of beryl-bronze from here. They mean to exterminate all life, not just the Flesh." Ford frowned. "…has it just gotten… very quiet, all of the sudden?"
Markus turned and tilted his head. They had been talking for a good two minutes. The sky had been crawling with flying flesh, but now, it was all falling to Earth. The air smelled of ozone.
"As much as I would love to feel Her touch," Ford said, "I do believe it is time to, as the young folk say, skedaddle."
"Nobody has said that since the 50's." But, Markus agreed on principle, and started flying back towards the temple. Ford followed, and a thousand other pairs of wings flocked behind them.

"They're retreating?" al Fine frowned. "After all that? What the hell?"
"They're heading back to the temple. Something's wrong." The Secretary General frowned. "They may have a weapon in the temple that they intend to use on our forces.""
O5-3's monitor let out a modulated scream of "God no!"
"What's going on?" al Fine's head snapped to the O5's monitor.
"A massive electromagnetic anomaly just manifested in Greece. It's… being reported as a giant… giant mass of lightning. It's originating from 2217, and going… god knows where."
al Fine sank into her seat, feeling faint. "T-the time isn't right. It can't have been summoned already."
Adnan began to pray. al Fine joined him. O5-3 simply sat in an undisclosed location, stunned. They had lost.

Robert Bumaro stood in a cave beneath what had once been SCP-610's containment site. Before him was the bottom of a large eye; the pupil and iris were a good one-hundred feet higher up. They didn't even bother focusing on him.
"Seems that the Blind Idiot does, in fact, possess eyes." Bumaro tapped the membrane with the head of his hammer; it hissed and steamed on contact with the alloy. "Hmm. Soon, you will have one less. But will it be enough, I wonder?"
Robert Bumaro sighed. Soon, it would be time to cast off his stolen name. It was almost a pity— he had gotten used to being called Robert. It sounded strong. But Bumaro was a name that had no meaning to it whatsoever. Still, the prophet would soon shed the face and name he stole. As it was written, it would have been unrecognizable to most, but he still had it etched into his right arm, as a reminder of who he was.

"Odd how the end of the world begins at the start of the year." Bumaro rolled his shoulders. "Mother works in mysterious ways."
He felt the air around him reek of ozone. It was time. He raised his hammer high. A blinding light encompassed the prophet as he struck the hammer upon the eye of the great Blind Idiot Demiurge. The cornea melted on contact, and the vitreous fluid evaporated within, covering Bumaro in a wave of unholy gore.
Above, flesh curdled and boiled. Hellish shrieks poured forth from the Flesh that Hates as the beam fried whatever resembled neurons. Stimulated by holy electricity, skin began to reform back into its original shape. Extraneous hearts were disintegrated. Eyes that had been melted and sloughed from their sockets saw once again, and holy light greeted them.
The light passed, and with it, a sound of thunder echoed that should have deafened or killed all who heard it. Most were left reeling from the force of the blast, their ears ringing, but were otherwise intact.
The Flesh that Hates became the Flesh that Hated. In his tent, Ibrahim Croshaw began speaking another plea for nuclear bombardment, only to hear sobbing from outside. He stepped out to find clean Earth, and his fellows, whole once more, holding each other.
Others were among them— not Foundation agents. Men, women, and children, all looking confused, many naked. They were speaking in Russian, and it slowly dawned on him that these were, somehow, the people who had called this place home before the Flesh had emerged. It had never occurred to him that there was a time like that.
Croshaw put his hand to his head in disbelief, and felt the cold impact of metal on his scalp. On his right hand, this thumb, middle,and index fingers were solid steel, but still had sensation, dexterity, and all else that could be expected from organic material.
He snapped them experimentally, and saw a jolt of electricity erupt from his fingertips. He let out a soft laugh of disbelief, and rubbed his face, tears flowing freely.
Above all of this, Agent Alexi Domovoi rubbed his eyes, holstered his rifle, and lit a cigarette. The pesky thing at the bottom of the box had been right, for once. He had seen a sunrise, and, he hoped, would see several more.
Alexi Domovoi looked out onto the town square, unaware that his left eye had been replaced by warm silicon. Even if he was aware, he wouldn't have cared.

O5-3's screen crackled again, and was replaced by the image of the Prophet. It spoke, a soft smile on his face. It wasn't smug— if anything, it was welcoming.
"It's not too late, you know." Bumaro sighed. "This is our world, as well. We both want the Flesh to end. And we can help you; we can help each other. Come to the Anvil. We will talk, and we can save this world."
O5-3's number came back on screen. There was silence in the room for several minutes, before he spoke. "…we've gotten reports of Mekhanite activity around 2217. They're… lowering their blockade. Inviting Foundation forces onto the island."
"What just happened… you— we can't contain it, can we?" al Fine put her head in her hand. "At least a dozen countries, maybe half a billion people, would have seen that giant bolt of lightning, arcing across the sky. I don't even think Dark has enough resources to contain this."
Adnan stood. "I need to make some calls. We have some Shepherds in Greece who would like to observe whatever sort of… meeting is going to take place on the island."
al Fine nodded. "I… need to make a call as well. The Prime Minister of Greece has asked to be updated on the situation regularly, and this is a very large update. And Russia will want to know that the Flesh is gone."
O5-3 apologized quickly and turned off his monitor. 8 and 11 followed, and the entire Council was roused to an emergency meeting.
The date was January 4th, 2019. The end of the world had begun.


« Act I - Scene II | Demasqed | Act I - Scene IV »

Act I - Scene III

Jazz's house, which is set with a coffee table, central sofa, and two recliners. Jazz is pacing back and forth behind the sofa, visibly distraught, having a wordless/mumbling conversation with herself. After 10-20 seconds of this pacing, she goes over and sits on the chair further towards stage-left, sadly facing forwards at an implied television, and picks up a remote from the table. She clicks the remote once, and a spotlight goes up backstage center on a reporter holding a microphone, facing straight out into the audience.

TV REPORTER
Claims by the aforementioned "SCP Foundation" that the disappearance of North Korea was caused by pockets of "untapped thaumatergic energy" have thus far been met with extreme doubt, so while we are still unsure of what caused the incident, with many believing it to be a secret military weapon, and many more claiming it to be an act of God, what we're sure of is that we need to be alert. For Channel 12 news, I'm Natasha Fliers.

Jazz clicks the remote, and the spotlight on Natasha turns off. She twiddles her thumbs for a moment before her phone begins vibrating. Reluctantly, she picks up her phone and turns it on.

CHANDLER
Hey, Jazz?
JAZZ
Hello?
CHANDLER
It's Chandler, from Site-96. Do you mind if I talk to you for a second?
JAZZ
(visibly uncomfortable)
Yeah, sure, of course.
CHANDLER
So, I know you must be really distraught over what happened, I totally get that, and you're totally allowed to be sad and stuff, I… I just do… have to sort of ask you to maybe… come in… to work? Just for a bit? I- I know you're super sad about it but you… you were on the team responsible for this thing so ummm… it'd be super cool… to have your side of things… and reports and stuff…

Short pause.

CHANDLER
Look, it's… it's actually a little more serious than I'm making it out to be. We found the source of the problem, and it appears to have been… well… it seems like one of the thaumic engines was set way too high and… that's… that's what caused the flare-up.

Jazz gasps, her face in complete, morbid shock.

JAZZ
I… I did the final check… I signed off on all the engines… I…
CHANDLER
No- no, Jazz, I'm not… I'm not accusing you of anything it's… I mean… nobody blames you, you just… you… gotta talk to us. The public's been on our ass about getting answers for this whole mess and we need the full story, or else we're in deep shit, alright? That's all, I'll see you soon.

The phone beeps, and Jazz turns it off, placing it to the side. She sits alone, head in her hands for a moment, before beginning to hyperventilate, followed by standing abruptly and grabbing a pillow off of the sofa. She screams violently into the pillow for as long as she can sustain, until the scream turns into sobbing as she slumps onto the couch. Laying down across the couch, clutching the pillow to her chest, her sobs get quieter and quieter until she has fallen asleep.
A ticking sound effect plays to imply the passage of time. After a short pause, Brimley Opencoat, Jazz's boyfriend, walks in from an invisible door to the room stage-right. Brimley is on the phone.

BRIMLEY
Yeah man, I dunno, it was okay, but like, nothing special, yaknow?

Short pause.

BRIMLEY
Bro, if you wanna get peed on, like, that's your problem, dude. I'm just not about that life.

Short pause.

BRIMLEY
Ahaha, yeah right, whatever man. I gotta go. Later.

Brimley turns off his phone and places it in his pocket.

BRIMLEY
(shouting)
Yo, babe! I'm home!

Jazz wakes with a start, nearly falling off the couch. Brimley, just now noticing her, walks over.

BRIMLEY
Oh, didn't see ya there, babe. How's it chilling?
JAZZ
(yawning)
Fuck… what time is it?
BRIMLEY
Half past I don't give a fuck? Why are you asleep anyways?
JAZZ
(ashamed)
I… I shouldn't… it's fine. I don't want to make a big deal out of it.
BRIMLEY
Okay, cool beans. Speaking of which, wanna grab tacos? Cause like, I'm really in the mood for tacos.
JAZZ
Maybe… I don't know if I'm up to it to be honest.
BRIMLEY
What do you mean?
JAZZ
I… something happened at work.
BRIMLEY
(sarcastically)
Okay… can you be more vague?
JAZZ
I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I just… I messed up. I messed up really bad, and it's all my fault, and I feel so awful…
BRIMLEY
(looking at his phone)
Uh huh…
JAZZ
I caused so much pain… so much suffering, and all because I'm a stupid fucking piece of shit. I'm terrible and… and… and… and I didn't mean to but… I should have checked the gauges again, and then maybe… maybe…
BRIMLEY
(still looking at his phone)
Right… Yeah…
JAZZ
I just… I don't think I can handle being in public right now. Being outside.
BRIMLEY
(walking over to Jazz)
Hey, hey, babe, don't worry, everything you said… it's all okay, you know? Like, how about we go get some tacos and talk this over, ya know? They're not called "talk-Os" for nothing.
JAZZ
I really don't think I-
BRIMLEY
No, no, no, like listen, it's totally fine, right, because like, it's basically therapeutic to face what you don't want to do. It makes your emotions work better, you know? So we should definitely go, because Queso House closes in like 20 minutes also and all that… but you know, mostly for you.
JAZZ
…
BRIMLEY
So like… is that a yes? It feels like that's a yes.
JAZZ
(sighing)
Sure. Fine.
BRIMLEY
Haha, that's the spirit. You'll see, nothing works better for psychotherapy than some pork carnitas and shit.

Brimley gets up and walks towards the door. Jazz sighs heavily.

BRIMLEY
Did you say something babe?
JAZZ
No, nothing.
BRIMLEY
Sick.

Brimley walks quickly offstage. Jazz picks herself up, sighing once more, before reluctantly following.

End Scene

« Act I - Scene II | Demasqed | Act I - Scene IV »


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F.A.Q.

{$doesthisfixthebug}

Jon Corderoy wasn't a good person.
Long ago, he did unspeakable things. He stole, murdered, and abused the corrupt systems he lived in. Even after the end of the world, nothing changed. He still was the same piece of shit he had always been. If he was honest though, he didn't care.
But none of that mattered now.
"Blinking!", his radio exclaimed, to which he responded: "All clear!"
Even though no one wanted this job, it had to be done. He looked onto his right, where the next watchtower was situated. That one was Jeremy's. The bastard was even worse of a person than he was. But then again, no one "nice" ended up as a member of the Watch.
Jon Corderoy wasn't a good husband either.
Long ago he cheated, hated, and had no love for the one he married. Neither did she, to be exact. Even after the end of the world, nothing changed. Jon remembered the day it all began. Or, rather, the day it all ended. He came back from work if you could even call his profession "work." The TV was on. No matter what channel he chose, every broadcast possible was about one thing. “The sculptures," they called them, "SCP-173." At first, Jon didn't believe it. It all seemed just like a dream, as nothing like that could ever exist, right?
But he was wrong.
The moment they attacked his home town he left everything and everyone behind — the only thing that mattered to him was his own life. And now the town he guarded is all that was left of two continents.
But none of that mattered now.
"Blinking!" This time, he was the one to repeat this mantra. "All clear!" came the response. Now, Jon had only one purpose in life — to watch. As the Watch guarded the town, humanity could flourish. Even though people such as Jon were useless to society, the society they hated so much found them a new goal. To watch over the city, making sure that the Sculptures won't decimate what was left of humanity. No one here knew if there were any humans left except for them. If Jon was honest though, he didn't care.
However, Jon Corderoy was a good guard.
Now, he was useful. Now, people respected him. And now, people needed him.
Jon didn't know how long it has been this way. Three years? Six? Maybe even twelve? If he was honest though, he didn't care.
But there was one thing that Jon Corderoy cared about. His duty as a member of the Watch. It was something more than a job. It was his entire life. As long as they, the outcasts society hated so much, watched over the borders of this city, they were safe. As long as murderers, burglars, and rapists survived, so did humanity. As long as they watched, everyone was safe.
And that was all that mattered now.

More From This Author

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Ralliston's Works

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SCP-6936 (+69) •

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Ralliston's Authorpage (+191) •

Artwork: Witches on the Moon (+37) •

Public Release of OPERATION: WITNESS Materials (+140) •


On and on the struggle went, as Melbrecht cleaved through the multitudes of unprepared soldiers with his spear in his right hand.
The night was alive with the sounds of screams and the smell of burning tents and men. Each of his fellow Templars and neophytes had taken the liberty of splitting up and causing as much discord as possible, adding to the already substantial inferno caused by the High Priestess by setting fire to even more tents. Each man they saw they immediately took the liberty of killing- and it was in this slaughter that Melbrecht seemed to thrive.
Already, after seven minutes of pure battle, five men lay dead behind him. The five Templars and ten neophytes who had followed him to the fray had killed twenty-six more behind him- mostly D-Caste and groggy artillerymen, though a few Omega Guard and men-at-arms were scattered amongst them.
But already, more men had begun facing them armed and prepared- no match for the fury of Melbrecht and his Templars, but still harder to surround and kill compared to their unprepared companions.
Yet on and on the Grandmaster and his Templars fought- their pains and injuries forgotten, their fury and skill rediscovered.
“Grandmaster!” A distant voice shouted from the distance, and Melbrecht turned to the source of the voice, roaring with spear in hand.
A figure on a horse wielding a torch and a spear reared up in front of Melbrecht, and at once he recognized the man as none other than Marshal Garvin.
“Ploughing through these bastards, Grandmaster?” The Marshal said, a smile on his face. “You and your Templars look as if the battle fever has come upon you.”
Melbrecht greeted him with his own horrifying smile, his beard wet with the blood of his adversaries and his face splattered with gore. “How about your militia, eh Garvin? Done torching tents and running down camp followers and D-Caste?”
Garvin's smile went from jesting to nervous in an instant. “Of course not!” He said back, his lip almost quivering. “We've killed our fair share, t-too you know.”
Melbrecht chuckled loudly at the Marshal's distress. A coward as always, he thought. “Seen the Lady while you were riding around camp?”
Garvin slowly looked up at the sky, wincing as he saw another green explosion of fire in the distance. “I haven't seen her, but I most certainly have Brightdamned heard her.”
“And our dear Doctor Cardinal?”
“We've heard him ring the bells to rouse all three parts of the army.” Garvin gulped. “It may be time to fall back, Melbrecht.”
“Fall back?” Melbrecht laughed. “We aren't falling back until the Lady says so, Marshal!”
Garvin began. “But the army-“
“So long as your horsemen do as they're bid and set fire to the camps and the Lady does as she has planned and kills Cardinal Asser,” Melbrecht said, the thought of relishing in the battle plain in his face, “they will be in chaos long enough for us to retreat and for them to turn on each other.”
Garvin straightened up in the saddle. “Are you sure, Grandmaster?”
Melbrecht's voice became a bellow. “Of course I am, Marshal! Trust in the Lady, why don't you? This is her plan!”
Garvin instinctively reared back. “I…” his reply came in a low mutter, almost a whisper against the noises of the battlefield. “I hope you're right, Grandmaster.”
Melbrecht stepped forward. “What?” He asked.
Without replying, Garvin rode away, shouting orders to his men in the militia as the bells in the camp finally rung.
“Spineless son of a whore,” Melbrecht said, tightening his grip on his spear.
Then, he started moving forward again, all thoughts of Marshal Garvin forgotten as he speared another unarmored Omega Guard through the throat.

Jaelen woke up on the bed of the High Priestess an hour after Melbrecht and Sigurrós left him.
Though the injuries on his face had long since healed, he still awoke with the feeling of a painful pulsing headache that threatened to split his skull open on both of his temples.
He lay in bed awake for a few minutes, as the agonizing headache slowly subsided and the events of the evening came rushing back to his head in an instant.
“Servant!” He shouted as he slowly got up from the bed, putting on the smallclothes laid out on the foot of the bed as hurried footsteps came running to the bedroom.
But who entered the bedroom wasn't the small form of one of the servants, but instead the tall, thin figure of Guildmaster Raetor, his forehead beaded with sweat.
“Brother Jaelen,” Raetor began, gasping for air.
“What is it, Guildmaster?” Jaelen asked. “Where are the Lady and the other councilors?”
“Outside-“ Raetor answered, coming into the room. “The Grandmaster, the High Priestess and the Marshal have all sallied out of the west gate. Why, I do not know, but we-“
“What?” Jaelen exclaimed, his eyes wide. “I need my horse, we need to head outside, assist-“
“Brother Jaelen!” Raetor shouted sternly, gripping both of Jaelen's shoulders in an effort to make him listen. “We have more pressing problems to deal with. I have not seen Lady Maera since before dusk, and the nobles…”
Raetor breathed in deeply. “The nobles have cast aside their allegiances to the High Priestess and are on the way to the Brightshome.”
Jaelen drew back, shocked. “What… what's happened?”
“The nobles have demanded we give over the High Priestess to the Doctor Cardinal and are coming here to apprehend her.” Raetor turned away, pacing as he spoke. “They do not know that she's outside, and will certainly turn the Brightshome on its head looking for her inside.”
“Can't…” Jaelen let out a sigh of frustration. “Can't you call the militia to block them on the Way of Ardam?”
“I can't call the militia, brother monk,” Raetor replied, turning his head to answer Jaelen. “And even if I could, they're too embattled on the walls to devote any more men to the pacification of five of the eight noble houses.”
“Then call the guildsmen, Raetor!” Jaelen said, anger and irritation plain in his tone.
“I may be able to do that, brother monk…” Raetor replied hesitantly.
Jaelen drew up close, keeping his eyes level with Raetor's. “Then why will you not do it?”
All at once, the sullen and composed guildsman exploded with pent-up frustration. “Why will I not do it?!” He shouted, pointing in the direction of the Spirit Quarter behind them. “Because it will bring direct conflict between merchant and noble, destroying any harmony we've achieved between the affluent classes!”
“We cannot tell men to fight against their betters for the sake of ourselves, for the sake of the High Priestess! It is selfish, it is inviting chaos, and it is destructive to everything we've built and rebuilt, monk!”
At this last outburst, Raetor breathed in deeply, his composure returning to him as he straightened up and maintained his airs.
“Brother Jaelen,” he began. “We cannot afford a conflict between the merchants and the nobles. If the Lady Maera were here, she would be on hand to quell the dissent- but she is not.”
“We are the only two councilors left in the city,” Raetor continued. “We must strike for a solution that would keep harmony and peace within while keeping the enemy-“
“Where is your loyalty, Guildmaster?” Jaelen asked, his voice low.
Raetor took a step back, the question catching the old merchant off his guard. “Why,” he began. “To the city, of course.”
“And who leads the city, Guildmaster?”
“The…” Raetor let out an audible sigh. “The High Priestess.”
“Then do you know what to do when a group of dissenters, smallfolk, noble, merchant or outsider, rise up to depose the Lady?”
Raetor sat down on Sigurrós' bed, resigned.
“I do.” His answer came, defeated and outmatched.
Jaelen took a nearby stool and sat opposite from the Guildmaster, making sure his eyes met his as he spoke.
“You were right when you said that we are the only two councilors left in the city, Raetor,” he began, his voice slow and low. “But it only makes our responsibilities all the more important. Melbrecht and Garvin are outside, fighting the enemy at the foot of our walls. Maera has gone, nowhere to be found.”
“We are the two last men in this city who could contain the fires that threaten to consume it from within and without. You hold considerable power as Guildmaster, able to direct the efforts of one entire quarter to the city. Now, the time to use that power is at hand.”
The young monk put his good hand on the shoulder of the Guildmaster.
“Can I count on you to keep the Lady's peace?”
Raetor slowly stood up, his face drawn and dark.
Then, in an instant, he looked at Jaelen with renewed resolve.
“Yes, dear brother. You can.” He answered, his voice solemn yet full of purpose.
Jaelen smiled as he stood up. “Then do what you must. I shall join the battle outside in the meantime.”

On the roof of a rich boarding house in the Spirit Quarter, a cowled figure sat and waited, looking around nervously for any sign of the message she was waiting for.
Then, from up high, a raven landed in front of them, carrying a small piece of parchment tied to its leg.
The figure leaned down and took the small scroll from the raven's leg, unraveling it to see the message contained within.
Open the doors to the churches, it said, written quickly and messily in pitch black ink. Call the clergy to gather and worship at the altar of the Almighty.
The figure quickly scrawled a reply into a small scroll of parchment with a quill and a bottle of ink and tied it to the raven's leg. Then, they gestured for it to fly away, quickly securing their hood on their head as they made their exit from the establishment. They saddled their horse and rode for the Spirit Quarter, where a hundred nobles and their retainers were gathered and ready to strike at the heart of the city.
Lady Maera headed for the crowd awaiting her command, preparing to save her city from the enemies within and without.

Sigurrós had laid waste to a third of the camp, killing countless D-Caste, Omega Guard, men-at-arms and a few Templars as she combed the tents for a sign of her quarry, flying through the air looking for the distinctive white armor and helmet.
She had set fire to large tents and small tents, men young and old, soldiers who tried to face her, and all of the trebuchets which had wreaked so much havoc on the city that she led.
She had reduced a third of the siege camp to cinders, burning multitudes of soldiers and D-Caste as they slept and as they ran.
Yet for all her efforts, for all the slaughter and death, she had found not one sign of the man she was truly looking to kill.
She wanted Asser Clef- and Asser Clef alone.
She tried her best to not mind the fire, the smoke, the screams of pain and agony, the smell of burning flesh and fabric.
She set all her fears and memories aside as flames issued from her fingers, killing dozens with each burst as she flew down and set tents and pavilions alight in the dead of night.
After half an hour of killing, she was at her wit's end.
She had slaughtered so many, yet found no sign of the Cardinals' tantalizing white armor.
Then, in the distance, she found a figure standing amongst the flames, his cape billowing as the wind blew south. He was a tall man, clothed in white chainmail and steel, his helmet forged with dragon wings on either side- the helmet of Saint Ardam. In both of his gauntleted hands was a bastard sword made of a red steel that glinted in the firelight, its tip buried into the sodden ground as he waited for her.
“Have you had enough of slaughtering arrow fodder, witch?” Asser Clef called out, his voice cold and hard. “Are you ready to face down a true warrior of Bright and be destroyed for the heretic you are?”
Sigurrós slowly flew closer, her robes being blown by the air as she faced down the Doctor Cardinal from afar.
“I'm giving you a chance to flee, Doctor.” She called back, her tone barely concealing her veiled anger. “We both serve the same god, the same Foundation that He set down centuries ago. I am a priestess of His word, of His procedures. Lay down your arms and let us talk of peace within our church!”
Asser smiled within his helmet, amused. “You claim to serve the Lord Jack with all of your heart and mind, yet reject it with every part of your failing Expunged flesh. You are just one more Expunged to kill, one more abomination of the world to contain and imprison.” He relished every word as it came out from his mouth.
“You are just another anomaly.”
Sigurrós slowly closed the distance between them, hewing closer and closer with each moment that passed.
Then, she spoke, her voice amplified all around them as her form became clothed in malefic green fire.
“I. Am. Not.”
Then in an instant, she flew down, her right arm quickly gathering her concentrated fury in the form of fire as she gathered it in a ball in front of her, making ready to obliterate the warrior in white with a single blow.
“I…” The fireball at her fingertips turned from orange and yellow to green.
“Am…” The surrounding area began to light up like the midday, as the ball burned hard and bright in her outstretched hand.
“NOT!”
The fireball in her hand became a sun in miniature, burning hot as she let it fly towards Asser Clef, certain to connect with his form as he stood his ground.
Then, he jumped into the air, bringing his crimson bastard sword up with both hands as he lifted it above his head and brought it down on Sigurrós' outstretched arm.
The blade severed her hand at the wrist with a sickening schlik, cleanly cutting through the flesh and bone as she flew through the air.
Then, everything happened in an instant.
The fireball flew into the distance, connecting with a tree and exploding with a flash that rivalled the sun.
Her severed hand fell, the stump where it used to be glowing with a red light as the Scrantonum blade cut through it cleanly and quickly.
The fire that clothed her body dissipated, leaving the camp around them in darkness.
The white-clad warrior landed on his feet, his crimson blade splashed with Sigurrós' blood.
Then, suddenly, she fell- crumpling to the ground as her face met the soft soil.
Behind her, Clef laughed quietly- a mirthless sound of pure triumph as he held the sword in his right hand and admired the witch's blood splattered on the cold metal blade.
She felt him take a few steps towards her fallen body, his steps heavy as his greaves crunched against the grass.
“What did I tell you, Sigurrós?” He said, his voice taunting and triumphant. “You are.”
Sigurrós tried to crawl away, the stump of her right arm bleeding profusely on the grass as she used all her might to get away from the warrior closing in behind her.
She whispered an incantation, and turned up on her back as she desperately let loose another ball of green fire towards Asser Clef, which he casually absorbed with a flick of his crimson sword.
She let loose another, then another, then another, each blast ever more desperate as Asser Clef deflected the last and absorbed the next.
Then, he was on her, bringing his boot on top of her belly as he pinned her helplessly in place.
“By the grace of Jack Bright, our lord and savior,” he whispered. “I consign you, witch, to your rightful place.”
Then he raised his blade with both arms- and brought it down with force, tearing through her belly as the witch-sword cleaved through the middle of her torso with ease.
Then, he pulled it free, her blood going off in an arc as he tore the sword off her body.
Sigurrós' head fell to the side as she struggled to breathe, her eyes staring off into the distance as she began to fall into the abyss.
She could hear her heart beat in her ears, impossibly loud against the fading light of the living world.
Then she heard the distant sound of hooves and a quiet crash! as she heard footsteps near her. A pair of arms gathered her up slowly, and lay her gently on the back of a saddle, as a familiar face came into view.
Jaelen, she thought, smiling to herself as she begun to taste iron in her mouth.
Then, the horse lurched, galloping quickly towards somewhere else as Jaelen drove the horse forward with all his might.
“Follow the horse!” A distant voice said, deep and cold and angry. “It has the witch!”
She smiled as the dull sounds of the portcullis began to close, taking her into the city limits as hundreds of people from the Altostown noticed her presence and began to stare at her as Jaelen took the horse down the main path, towards the beckoning light of the Brightshome.
Then, she closed her eyes, falling into the abyss as the darkness consumed her.

Meanwhile, in the Way of Ardam, two crowds gathered on opposite sides, led by two opposing members of what had been the city's council.
“Maera,” Raetor said as he sat atop his horse, a shortsword at his side. “Don't do this.”
The lady's face was solemn, in contrast to the angered expression of the hundred armed nobles and retainers who sat behind her. “I must.” She answered simply, her blue eyes meeting his from across the space of the winding Way of Ardam.
“What do you hope to achieve?” Raetor said, his hands gripped tightly on the reins of his horse.
Maera sighed, her breath visible in the cold autumn air. “Peace, Raetor.”
“Do you honestly hope to achieve peace through this? Storming the Brightshome with the nobility backing you?” Raetor said, his tone angered yet still low and composed.
She was still composed. Tranquil. All too noble. “I do what I must, Raetor. If we hand over the High Priestess, we can-“
“Hand over the High Priestess?” Raetor grinned sardonically, looking away. “This is treason, Lady Maera. Do you understand?”
Lady Maera bit her lower lip. “This is for the city, Raetor. Do you hope to achieve the peace we all want through killing the army outside while they assault our walls?”
Raetor leaned forward on his horse, his teeth gnashed in anger as he fought to keep his frustration from coming to the surface. “Where is your loyalty, Maera? The Lady has fought to keep this city safe, to keep it alive and well. And now you strive to give her away to the Foundation? After everything she's done for-”
“Yes!” Came Maera's answer, her composure broken. “Yes, Raetor. That is all I want!”
Raetor's reply came biting and cold.
“Then you are lost.”
Maera breathed in deeply, her anger lost and her face tranquil. “I'm done speaking to you, Raetor.” She said, her voice quiet.
Then a far-off explosion sounded in the distance, lighting up the night like a rising sun in the west.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Raetor drew his sword. “People of Arnven!” He shouted, thrusting his blade in the air. “Kill the traitors!”
At his command, the forces of the merchants of the Agathan Quarter surged, screaming their battlecry as they fell upon the surprised nobles and retainers.
The Battle of the Way had begun.

“Fall back!” Melbrecht shouted as the assembled forces of the enemy army surged. “Fall back!”
“Head to the gate!” shouted Garvin, rearing up in his horse to gather his horsemen to retreat.
Already, three hundred enemy Templars and men-at-arms had assembled, killing many of the defenders' forces as they fell victim to the sudden charge of the Foundation's army.
But as the soldiers of the militia and Templars fell back, even more gathered as the seconds passed- fully armored, prepared, and ready for battle.
At the top of the walls, the remaining archers of the militia harried the approach of the enemy forces, buying time for the remaining Templars and militia to gather near the gate in an orderly retreat.
Then, as the gate opened, a robed man on horseback rushed through the small opening of the rising portcullis, riding to the side of Garvin and Melbrecht as they stepped back towards the gate.
“Where's Sigurrós?” Jaelen asked.
Melbrecht answered. “We saw her Asser head in her direction minutes ago!”
Jaelen's eyes widened, turning to Melbrecht and Garvin. “She's in peril, Melbrecht! I need to come to her aid, quickly!”
Garvin gestured to the assembled wall of shields being harried by arrowfire. “How are you going to get past that, then?” He said fearfully. “We can't break through them on our own!”
A bead of sweat ran past Jaelen's face. “Then…” His eyes landed on a gap in the line, and he pointed to it for the two men to see. “Create a distraction- charge them, keep them occupied.”
“You would have us fight?!” Melbrecht bellowed, his face red. “We are exhausted, Jaelen!”
Jaelen sighed. “Keep them embattled for a while longer! I'll join you once the Lady and I kill Asser!”
Garvin leaned in, his normally small voice frustrated. “What guarantee do you have-“
Then, as if on cue, a large green fireball exploded in the distance, lighting the surrounding field with a bright light to rival the sun.
“Bright damn you!” Melbrecht shouted. He turned to Jaelen, then to Garvin. “We do it. For once, the monk is right.”
“Have your minds left the both of you?!” Garvin screamed.
“Just follow my damned lead, Marshal!” Melbrecht said, readying his spear.
“Templars! Neophytes! Militia!” The man bellowed. “Charge!”
Then, all at once, the force of one hundred fell upon the assembled line once more in a chaotic maelstrom of spears, swords, halberds, and shields.
“Shields down, Templars!” Melbrecht shouted. On cue, the remaining Templars lowered their shields and held their spears at the ready.
“One, two, three- GO!” Then, the Templars drove forward in a single wave of force, thrusting the forward line of the enemy back.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, Melbrecht saw Jaelen jump over the gap in the line, leaving him free to gallop past them on his horse.
I hope you're right, monk. Melbrecht thought, as he bellowed out another order.
“Again!” He shouted. “One, two, three- GO!” All together, the gathered forces of the Templars drove the enemy back, pushing them down the approach towards the gate.
Behind them, Garvin and his forty remaining horsemen looked on as the Templars pushed the enemy lines back.
His lip quivering, Garvin looked back at the militia assembled behind him, and called out his order. “Charge on my order!”
At the front, Melbrecht stood ready to deliver another push. “One, two, three-“
“GO!” He shouted.
“CHARGE!” Garvin bellowed at almost the same time, drawing his lance down as he and his militia bore down on the enemy's unguarded left flank.
Then, a horse jumped the same gap in the line it did earlier, bearing Jaelen and an unconscious Sigurrós on its back.
“We're safe- open the gate!” Jaelen shouted from the top of his horse to the gate, and at his order, the portcullis began to shutter open once again.
Melbrecht turned back to look at him. “What has happened to the Lady?”
“No time!” Jaelen shouted, and he spurred the horse on, going past the gate into the city.
“Damn him,” Melbrecht muttered, raising his ruined hand for all to see. “Templars! We go back!”
At the order, the one hundred remaining Templars reformed and raised their shields, putting their spears on top as they prepared to fall back.
“One step!” Melbrecht shouted, and they retreated by one.
“Two steps!” Melbrecht shouted again, and again they retreated by another step.
Ahead of them, Garvin raised his spear to signal the militia to retreat.
But as the horsemen began to peel off the enemy formation and head back into the city past the western gate, Garvin felt someone strike his horse out from under him, causing him to fall to the ground.
Asser Clef stood over him, his helmet lost and his long silver hair flowing in the wind, a long crimson bastard sword held in both hands.
“Join your Lady, heretic.” He said as he raised his sword above his head and swung down, splitting Garvin's head in two with a single strike.
He turned to the men around him and called out. “Destroy the heretics!” He shouted. “Let none of them escape!”
As the Templars steadily retreated into the gatehouse, the men on the opposite side threw themselves on their shields and spears, killing many as their suicidal charge pushed the Templars back inside and disrupted their formation.
But as the portcullis began to close, the Templars felt a reprieve quickly coming-
Before it stalled in place seven feet in the air, allowing the enemy army to flood inside.
At the top of the gatehouse, having narrowly escaped from the clash on Ardam's Way, Lady Maera held the portcullis open, aided by the militiamen who were afraid to disobey her command.
Harried by the attacking soldiers streaming in from the gate, Melbrecht and the Templars held their shields down and spears up, their bodies exhausted by two endless hours of battle. Their knees were on the verge of buckling under them, their arms aching with old and new pains alike.
“Hold them!” Melbrecht shouted over the sounds of battle. “Earn your names, Templars! Prove yourselves, neophytes! HOLD!”

The guildsmen had won.
But Raetor did not feel that they had.
Forty men and women in all lay dead at the way- nobles and guildsmen alike. After their leader had abandoned them minutes into the battle, the nobles had been robbed of their resolve and quickly routed, running down the way and back into their homes in the Spirit Quarter, carrying their dead and their injured with them as they fled.
The guildsmen, meanwhile, had escaped with a relatively light toll, with only a dozen of them injured and three of them dead. Raetor delivered them to the Brightshome to be treated and blessed, though he could not say the same for the nobles and retainers that were on the opposite side.
As the fever of battle subsided and Raetor went back to the Brightshome, he sat back on the steps and heard the sounds of battle in the distance, as a single horseman galloped down the main way with a broken body perched on its back.
Jaelen had returned- and with the bleeding body of the High Priestess.
“What happened?” Raetor asked as he walked down the steps.
Jaelen gave no answer as he gently took Sigurrós' body from the horse, cradling her in his arms as they ascended the steps to the Brightshome.
“Raetor,” He finally said as they passed the entrance, moving into the Hall of Saints and towards the inner sanctum. “Get me the healers. All of them.”
“We have wounded as well, Jaelen, I can send a few but not-“
Jaelen's cold glare met him. “Send us everyone you can spare, Guildmaster.”
“Fine.” Raetor said as he turned the other way, walking towards the healers' wing.
Jaelen, in the meantime, descended into the cryptlike inner sanctum, his steps hurried and urgent as he held Sigurrós' body in his arms.
Passing into the cold, grey stone room, he laid her out on an ancient stone bed, beside an image of Lord Bright.
His arms aching and tired, Jaelen got to his knees in front of the High Priestess' unconscious body, bringing his hands together as he started to pray.

They held for one more hour- unrelieved, thirsty, exhausted, and tired.
Of the two-hundred and fifty that came out of the gates in the middle of the night, only one hundred returned. Of the hundred that held the gatehouse, only fifty remained standing.
Those who were too injured to endure the never-ending press of the line were taken away by the good people of the Altostown, bandaging their wounds and handing them water, cheap ale, and food as the Templars held them at the gate.
Melbrecht stood for the entire grueling fight, always thrusting his spear forward and back with his good hand as they were slowly pushed back.
In front of them, a growing pile of the dead gathered as Asser Clef threw ever more of the fanatic D-Castes into the gatehouse, wearing down the Templars as the slaughter grew ever more costly.
No member of the militia came to relieve the embattled Templars. The portcullis stayed open even as ever more D-Castes streamed into the gatehouse, throwing their bodies on the Templars' shields without any regard for their lives.
Then, suddenly, the portcullis of the east gate opened, with Asser Clef- their head armored in white with his crimson sword in hand.
Melbrecht looked back and forth, his mind racing as the enemy force closed in from both sides.
“We fall back!” He called out. “Down the main path, now!”
But the Templars gave no sign that they heard. With both sides compromised, many had turned tail and fled, running to the Brightshome and damning those who were left.
The indomitable Templars of the Order of the Horn, pushed into ceaseless battle, had started to break- and with them, all hope for the city to survive.

Sigurrós woke up on the cold stone bed an hour later, the stump of her right arm and the hole in her belly bandaged and treated with sanctified holy water.
Jaelen was at her side when she woke up, both of his hands tightly clasped with hers.
“Hey,” Jaelen began, his relief evident in his voice. “You're finally awake.”
Sigurrós smiled weakly as she coughed. “You weren't at my bedside when I woke up last.”
Jaelen brought his face close to her, their foreheads almost touching as he perched his chin on top of the stone bed. “Blame Melbrecht.” He said, smiling.
“You're the one who saved me?” She said, staring off at the ceiling.
“Yes.” Jaelen said. “It was a close-run thing, but we managed it.”
She chuckled feebly. “I'm a fool, Jaelen.”
“You aren't.”
She met her eyes with his, grey-green eyes to brown. “Three hundred men to three thousand. Ten-to-one odds… I was a fool to think it possible.”
She breathed in, closing her eyes as she did. It pained her even to do it, and the act caused her to wince. “Jaelen…” she began. “Can we talk?”
Jaelen sat back. “Talk about what?”
She smiled weakly, the very effort of smiling paining her as she did. “All… this. I should have talked to you more when I was still well.”
Jaelen's tone immediately betrayed his concern. “No… no. Don't worry about that, Sigurrós. We have all the time in the world now.”
“Do we?” She asked, almost like a child.
“We do.” He replied, his voice soft and comforting.
She chuckled. “I'm…” She breathed in again. “I think this is goodbye, Jaelen.”
Jaelen's eyes went wide. "What?"
She closed her eyes, the words she said paining her as she spoke them.
“I… I think I'm dying.”

The Arnven Chronicles
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