Chapter 12: Mistress

Othomo flexed his fingers. He missed Foe. He labored long in Thrond's forge, working alongside him to learn the craft of weapon smithing. The intimate knowledge he gained there fermented in his mind over long years of sleep, rolling end over end through half conceived realms tapestried by the clouds that preceded the great citrinitas of stars. He strode over shapeless plains on lands unwarmed, pondering over the shapes of death and injury, carefully considering the vagaries of dominion that take place in warfare. When first he came to Tartary for his part in the chorus, he channeled aether and wind and the life saving curse of night through his living greatsword. Dark lightning shot from Foe's quillons when he thrust the sword tip down into the ground, and waves of blood and night sliced through the armor of spirit when the weapon was swung in a full arc.

A sword is no tool, but an instrument of sorrow. An axe can fell a tree, and the Mortal who wields it can now build a shelter or kindle a fire. A sword is made to kill, with no other use. So why does the dark bringer need one? Because those who stole the lights have taken up weapons to stop him, and he must present an enemy to his enemies. Othomo is a bringer of dark, and Foe is a bringer of defeat. This is why Arun took it to lay across his lap. When their swords collide and undo each other, only their axes will remain, and with or without the agreement of the lovers, the stolen treasure will be freed from their chains.

Othomo walked slowly down the long stair to the kiln. Seven halls of thinking were built into the earth, each housed within its own gemstone cavern. They tarried as long as they could in each, the child pawing at the different colored walls and the reliefs carved upon them.

Could be a boy, Othomo mused, watching the creature scamper and crawl about. It was such a strange thing to him, Mortal birth. The Mighty were what they were to be at their inception, with only their experience bearing the mark of youth. When Thrond was an infant, he was a mountain. When Archimonde was an infant, he was a glacier. When Othomo was an infant, he was a storm battered wall that bowed to no wind.

When Yuluru was an infant, she was the epitome of beauty and life. Many thought Yuluru plain next to her wilder sisters, but to the relentless shadow, she was perfection.

While his body was locked in this moment, his mind wandered to days long past, and teased visions of possible tomorrows, while his mind from times ahead journeyed back to this moment now, reflecting sadly how much joy this scabby, dust covered little rat once brought to his lonely heart.

After the gem caves they found themselves descending an impossibly long pathway so high Othomo was little more than an ant in its vastness. Statues of beings older than Itara and Oroboron flanked them on both sides. Sat tall were they, that the disembodied luminescence lighting the hall could not reach the tips of their fingers. These were creatures who came from Radiance long ago, whose purpose and nature was scant understood. Only one did Othomo know by name, though he'd seen others passing by while he wandered the strange wasted regions of far Tartary. There were lands beyond the reach of Arun and Selenne, and the light of their crowns, lands where there was darkness so deep that even Othomo felt unnerved by it.

They passed the old man of the hills last, across from the nameless Wailing Beast that laid the eggs of death deep under the mounds of the Dreaming City, eons before the Mortals were woken. The child hurried past them.

He worried if the creature would be safe at the kiln. The temperature down there was extreme, and from the defaced message scrawled on the emerald tablets Thrond wrote his notes on, it did not sound as if he would appear as a friend when they met. Much was left unsaid in his note, but Othomo knew his old friend was unwell. Still, he wouldn't harm an innocent child, would he?

The chamber of the kiln was dark, the once enormous and roaring blaze now a glowing ember no larger than a Mortal city. The long walk down had given time for him to pool energy from Hadeon. He would need it, should he find his friend in no state to talk.

If he could still speak, would he have written?

The kiln still fountained a great deal of power, but Othomo had no wish to take from the already fading world above him. The Pillars of the Seasons, erected in the outlying regions to make up for the ever dimming Sun, gave precious little power anymore. The world needed all it had for itself. What Hadeon sent from the void would have to revive Othomo, who slumbered long in a frozen pain.

They moved slowly to the kiln and Othomo touched it. It felt cold. The child reached for it, but where it stood there was only empty space. Othomo lifted the little beast in his hands and held it close to the dying ember. It pressed its hands to the world's old heart, and its hands glowed, showing the bones and veins beneath the skin. After a moment he put the child down. The kiln seemed brighter where its hands had touched. The weapon then drew his eye. She was a bardiche with a long haft and cruel blade. The steel was black, with some dark green and bronze painted on the highly ornate haft. The blade bore a strange device; a white serpent coiled about an egg ringed by golden laurels. The haft was formed in the shape of many flower stems with lotus petals wrapped about. She was beautiful and deadly, like Noctis. He took hold of the haft, and that's when Thrond woke.

Mistress grew in size as the giant lumbered to life. He'd become immense in his madness, greater even than before. He emerged from the wall of the chamber, a charred and blackened golem of burnt stone, and lifted her off the ground. A massive metal spike had been driven into his forehead just above his brow. Could he speak, he would not likely say anything that Othomo wished to hear. He pulled from the inannis and ohr coursed through his limbs, welling into glowing violet orbs around his hands. He was ready to use his full power, hurling grenades from the void and crushing force from the sky that yearned for his promised ascension. His own native gifts would serve him little in this deep crypt of stone, so he would rely on what his brother gave. It would serve. Hadeon was strong.

Thrond was now many times the size of Othomo.The child was frightened of him, cowering behind Othomo's leg. He kicked it away and nodded for it to hide behind the kiln, which it did. Thrond's first blow came after the child was safe and nearly sent Othomo to the ground. He managed to leap away, and sent a blast of crushing wind, followed by a gaping door to nowhere beneath Thrond's feet.

Thrond stomped, but Othomo dodged, then struck his fist into Thrond's foot. A shockwave ran up the forgelord's leg. He staggered, then rose his foot and stomped again. Mistress dragged on the ground as he kicked and stomped, each time landing his foot nowhere near Othomo. Eventually he wore himself out, landed on his knees with a ground shattering quake, then slumped down and toppled over.

Othomo went to his friend's head and rolled it over. Phosphorous tears came from his gemstone eyes, and now, standing so close, Othomo saw that beneath his granite nose was a plate of burnt metal the size of a castle gate, crudely made and bolted onto the hollow where his jaw had been torn away. All around the muzzle were scars of deep black scoring, the mark of Arun's flames. Mistress fell from Thrond's hand and began to slowly shrink. Wounded as he was (he was burnt all o'er), Thrond did not die from any battle. No, the Mortal injury was struck from within.

"Thrond," Othomo said, his right hand resting on the giant's brow, "you go where I cannot follow." No more words came, though he stood there a long while. When he could, he hoisted Mistress over his shoulder and turned to leave. The weapon was shockingly heavy for her size, heavy as the inannis in Othomo's chest. The child helped him carry her up the long path to the surface.

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