Chapter 35 - Hell beyond hell (Pre-final Evolution arc)

　　"A warrior of the blood does not rest easy," said a faint but familiar voice, stately and remote—there was a certain dignity to it. "For each moment of repose, the shadow of darkness stands to lengthen. What will you do when the light fails at last to illuminate?"

　　Dazed and uncertain, the prince pried open his eyes, saw the ghost of a memory standing before him—his august grand-uncle decked out in full regalia, royal blue velvet edged with golden filigree.

　　Gustave Blackrose, the warrior-poet.

　　The symbol of the senior branch shone on his chest—the silver-studded medallion with on it the old Blackrose symbol entwined with the new. A wilting rose vine wrapped around the low golden crown of a duke.

　　A dream, then. But not some self-made concoction, no. This was a true window into the past. All of it real but gone, save for the memory.

　　"..." Wordless, grand-uncle Gustave stared the prince down, to see if he would wilt or flourish under pressure—there was always the mental battle to look out for, with the warrior-poet around.

　　"I had the strangest dream," said the prince, and he heard himself say it like he had all those years ago, with the voice of a child—the princeling he had been. "There were gob..."

　　"Dreams can tell us things," Gustave broke in, ponderous as ever. "Mostly, this one tells us you`re late for breakfast." He gave a big smile, parting his petit handlebar moustache over his thin lips—the man had a penchant for appeasing other nations, having adopted the stylish quirks from the Verdillune empire to the west. The warrior-poet is a diplomat first,` he was known to remark; only when earnest negotiations fail does the sword get unsheathed.`

　　The prince got out of bed—the memory played itself out; he was stuck inside his own mind, a captive onlooker. His body went to the mirror, beheld itself draped in the royal blue of his line, a finely tailored tunic and trousers to match.

　　"Here." Uncle Gustave held out the ceremonial white cloak of the heir, and the prince donned it, studying his image in the mirror. He was a boy of about twelve, not quite endowed with his teenage frame—at fourteen he was tall as a full-grown commoner, and at sixteen already he stood well over six feet.

　　"Come," said Gustave, "Why are you are testing my—your mentor`s—patience?" He sighed but it was playful, not quite real.

　　Real, the prince thought, casting a final glance at his boyish face as Gustave dragged him off. Down to the last detail, all was true to form. A memory proper.

　　The prince moved slowly, not at all unencumbered by his festive garments. Clasped at the throat with a brooch of gold, the white cloak was heavy, made from a thick brocade weave meant to confer the weight of impending rulership, and...

　　"And done." Gustave placed a thin circlet of gold on the prince`s head, letting it rest lightly upon his brow—it was less a crown than the promise of one.

　　The dream was still on track, the reliving of a day that stood out in recollection.

　　His father Bartold`s coronation. One week after the abdication of grandfather Byron, king of the Blackrose—the man had grown too cynical and sickly to go on. Too forgetful. The gravitas of the monarch had gone from him, his ailing mind, and it was in the kingdom`s best interest...

　　Gustave pulled the princeling by the hand. "Come, the oaths of fealty are due to commence. Breakfast..."

　　"Can wait," the prince cut in. "The marquis Venr鬽e cannot." He knew it to the letter still, what Gustave had said all those years ago—here was the defining formative moment of his early adolescence. To see his father crowned.

　　But by speaking out of turn he had tarnished it, the sanctity of the past—he had somehow taken agency, ripped it from the princeling`s mouth.

　　Gustave grimaced, a hard and mean look flashing past the warrior-poet—it did not quite take hold. He pulled harder on the princeling`s hand, and the room whorled away, a vortex that ripped at both vision and cognition—the truth of the past seemed to the prince less certain. As though his mind could not now retrieve the moment after.

　　--

　　When the quaking within ceased and the world in the dream took solid form once more... the prince saw his father. Freshly crowned, sitting atop the Blackrose throne, gem-encrusted gold in all its glory. He held a ceremonial staff in one hand, Dicebolg in the other.

　　This was again real, as far as the prince could tell. He was quite certain it was.

　　His grand-uncle Gustave kneeled before the new king, then rose at the latter`s command, taking the staff and handing it to Garanech II, magetower archmage at the time, a low-bent man of little scruple.

　　Then the warrior-poet bent again before the king, and it was Bartold who rose from his throne, holding Dicebolg high.

　　The king knighted the kneeling warrior-poet, brushing the dark blade on both shoulders. "Arise, sir knight," Bartold said in a solemn tone, sounding hollow almost. Not at all the loving father the prince had known.

　　"My tireless devotion," said Gustave, rising. "Always."

　　"Swear it again," the king exclaimed, louder than before. "Swear it on the sacred sword."

　　And the warrior-poet took firm hold of Dicebolg, turning to the crowd—nobles from all around, old blood from Lothunc and Rhianmere, and new-forged peers, penniless most, beholden to the crown.

　　All applauded as Gustave held the mighty sword without a hint of strain—the blood was strong in him. Ten long seconds passed, and the king reclaimed Dicebolg, bade the warrior-poet gracefully depart.

　　Two lines then formed: one with all the cadet branch Blackroses; they thronged before the king. The second line was comprised of all others in attendance, those without the Blackrose blood; they would swear to the archmage who had sworn already to the king, holding the gilded staff of ceremony—none of them could touch the dark blade, not without mortal peril.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author`s consent. Report any sightings.

　　The prince watched it all now as he had then, the faceless Blackrose cousins, relatives from afar, sweating as they awaited their turn. First among them was the bald earl Jannis, a minor Blackrose in name, but he had harkened to the call under king Byron, defending the northern border from feral goblin hordes. See here what loyalty begets.

　　Earl Jannis swore the first vow, kneeling, then arose with ardour, grabbing Dicebolg by the hilt as though zeal might shield him—it did not. The sword singed its mark in the fat of his hand; the man trembled but withstood, a wide-legged stance so as best to bear the burden. Enduring for the ten seconds of duty, his whole body heaving, fierce once, the prince had been told, but big-bellied now from peace and wine and the passing of time.

　　When at last it ended, the king nodded in approval, taking Dicebolg from the brave and scorch-marked hands—hellfire itself would not bloat and blacken the skin as did the darkest of blades.

　　As a boy, the prince had loved it—the pomp and parade, all the right kinds of dutiful splendour. The force of the sword he would one day inherit.

　　All the lesser Blackroses swore the oath twice. Those of the diluted blood. Most of them wore a magiguard gauntlet, though the howls of their terror pierced through to the core. A handful refused and rescinded the name—they were called Blackrose no longer. Forced to the shame of attending the second line, they swore on the staff to the archmage. Worthy no longer of bowing directly to the king.

　　And then the grand finale. Once the two lines of nobles had taken their seats, sworn true to the new king... the prince was called to the fore. His body kneeled like it had then—there was nothing he could do now to change the past; to interfere meant to tarnish.

　　He bent and swore, his young brittle voice rising over the masses, this great silence of the watchful there gathered.

　　The dark blade gleamed as his father regarded him gravely, passing Dicebolg from king to heir—it was not the son per se, but the prince who grasped the hilt.

　　Proudly, the prince turned to the audience who bore witness—not a half breath out of pace, so in line was he with the sword that would be his to hold, in life as in death. The weight beyond lifting.

　　Inside the boy`s mind, the dreaming prince tried to abscond, to break free of this sword and its dreaded hold. Though he knew he should not.

　　Still, he fought with all his mental might, vainly trying to revert what the future would bring. Had brought.

　　His hands let go and so did the boy`s, releasing Dicebolg to the bitter earth. A hard clang echoed through the silence.

　　The fool he was... again he had interceded, broken the spell of the sordid past—it was not then the spell of doom the prince knew it now to be; for the boy it was joyful. The first time he had touched the blade of his heritage. Its timeless burden not yet revealed.

　　Then the boy looked up and the memory shattered.

　　The lost souls of hell were there, boring their baleful eyes straight through to the heart of him, the virginal soul that had now been scathed. Fierce and fanged stares they gave him, the green-grown bodies of the damned—all the Blackroses gathered, made singular under the righteous curse of god.

　　Goblins. The wilting rose marked on their forehead.

　　A sinful vitriol reigned, for even the king was made subservient. His father turned before his eyes, a salivating greenskin looking ready to pounce, claws out and writhing with fury. His gaze scarred by an irreverent hate.

　　The prince felt the fear as the boy might have done in so surreal a circumstance. He ran and cried and he was captured. Flung to the ground by vile green hands, scraping him bloody and raw.

　　Howling in fear and then in rage, the boy sounded more and more goblin.

　　"Stop," he yelled, though to no avail—the horde rent him flesh from bone.

　　Then the fear faded, and there was only the sacrilege. The hellish strong urge to maim and kill—when all hope for better had faded... it was better to be torturer still, than the one bound on the rack.

　　"Stop," the prince called, with the voice of command, a mere boy no longer. His body turned green and strong, the way it had been before, in the brutal duel last-remembered. Neatly prior to the end, when his skull had been caved in by that bastard bone-warrior—but at least he had won. At any goddamn cost. That rat bastard was dead...

　　But what about him, the prince?

　　Was he bound now to a dark limbo, reliving shards of his haunted past?

　　He stood up in the dream, staring out at the vacant-faced masses, the goblins bent to his bidding. Here was an army alright, but where was that archfiend, Gorkon? Also here, in this warped realm of mind and memory?

　　"Have at me, you foul bastard," cried the prince, and the goblins scattered, bewildered by this challenge lain at the feet of the divine, the one last god living. The taskmaster of hell. Faruikis former. Gorkon.

　　And from the rift between dream and dire dead-faced reality, the god appeared before him, clad in the simple white robes of one so exulted in sin that nothing more was needed—no armour in hell could provide more protection... the green skin of the taskmaster was absolute. His will shall be done.

　　The prince reached for Dicebolg... but too late—the god was at his throat. Blindingly fast, the difference incalculable. Man versus one from above, a being from a higher order altogether.

　　"You have slain my sacred groundskeeper, little Blackrose," hissed the spectre of Gorkon—he was not fully there, but only in essence. He heaved the prince up, one hand around the neck and not an ounce of strain. "I might have shown mercy to thee, after the conquest, your reclaiming of Dicebolg. But now it will not be so. You will do as needed, free of mind until I, Gorkon, see fit to break it. Once your aid is required no longer, and my great brother hath arisen... then I will take from you everything—your precious few friends, this hobbled traitor and the mage with the low mark of Truor鷖t... all but a sliver of the self will be ripped from them, and for all eternity will they wander my halls, knowing what they were and are not. The greatest torment lies in faint remembrance. Prepare yourself, Blackrose. The next time we meet..."

　　"Speak more now that you have a tongue still, coward Faruikis." The prince tore free from Gorkon`s grasp, felt the royal blue course through him like never before. Lightning cracked through the air, emanating from the wilted rose-mark on his flesh, this crass emanation of aura. A hate so pure it could fell the devil. "All I have known since my fall is fear. You think it frightens me still, to know this emotion, the quickening of heart and a fever of mind? I spit on it. Fear is my slave. But it is your master. Before my life ends, I will show the world below that a god can bleed. YOU, TOO, WILL BOW TO THE BLACKROSE."

　　Gorkon snarled, contorting his vile and great visage—it was both at all times, both goblin and god. And the prince simply stared, eyes hard with hate. Not a breath lost to fear.

　　Then the taskmaster turned away. "You are bold, little prince. I will savour the taste of your anguish. Rest now. Your skull was shattered by your own dismal doing, challenging my groundskeeper."

　　"And winning," intervened the prince.

　　"And winning," said Gorkon. "Here is your prize. Your broken body was carted from the brink of death back. By me, the god you renounce. Think on that, little one. I have seen fit to place you inside the chamber of final evolution—harken to it, for this is your greatest challenge yet. Convince yourself for now that, indeed, a god will be smitten down by thee—the rage and true belief will see you through this ordeal. It will be hell, but know that you have brought it upon yourself."

　　"I am in the egg again, so soon?"

　　"Too soon. You will burn alive and be transformed... to a goblin lord or to bitter ash—your resolve alone is decisive. Three of my greatest seers are here to guide your roiling mind. They will maintain the spectral bridge I have conjured; it links the world without to your world within. Dare not fail now. I will be the one to crush your throat and your last living dreams. Return to me a worthy enemy. Keep yourself and the mark whole. The latter is sacred."

　　"How long will..." the prince started.

　　But Gorkon`s form vanished from the plane of dreams.

　　The prince blinked and the world within shifted.

　　"Tally ho," he heard roaring in from behind, and he saw before him the twisted gate of Landsbury.

　　No, gods, no. Not this.

　　Some fair distance beside him stood Gael, fierce and devout and a creature beyond beauty. As she had been that day and every day.

　　And the prince was swiftly proven wrong. His heart and his mind, they knew fear beyond fear.

　　Once was hell and it was not enough. He was here to again behold the death of his beloved.

　　Hell beyond hell.