In A Time Of Darkness

by Gregory James Knoll

  * * * * *

  The cracked stone steps narrowed as Grahamas ascended, the world seemingly growing smaller with every inch he progressed, complete silence all around him. As the Champion took it all in, he felt like he was living the dream that had started haunting him only recently. Except, there was no thunder, no clouds that would bring about lightning.

  There was only...peace.

  The sun, by chance the real one, now hovering directly above him, raining a golden light upon the dull gray-structure beneath his feet. Along either side of the stairs was a thin smooth railing elevated only inches above the rest of the structure, narrowly a foot wide, then it sunk back into the temple. Carved onto the face of it, as with the archway he traveled under to enter this world, was the saying "Believe In Yourself" written in Highlyian.

  It was a term he now held onto as he climbed further. According to Vlaros this was the final test—that of Faith—and it was to be the most difficult. The Champion had spent every step trying to imagine what he would encounter, depicting different scenarios with every one. He had already battled his mentor, rushed through a game that normally required patience and time to avoid a destructive wall of fire—and he had won, despite his opponent having a window to his thoughts. Anything was possible now—Sayassa was capable of it—and any danger was imminent. This however, was oddly serene.

  He was miles above the ground, either way he looked—be it left or right—his gaze cast out on the sprawling landscape, coasting over the bumpy, soft green of the tree tops that ended long after his vision had. Behind him the trail became only a cream-colored streak, as thin as a needle from this height.

  His peace, however, was not to last. The higher he climbed, the further in the staircase narrowed, drawing the railings in along with it, so close they now threatened to rub against his ankles, confining him to one area. His legs felt as though they had been punctured in random places by white-hot pokers they were so fatigued. His lungs pulled harder and harder for air, but the deeper he breathed the less he seemed to actually gather. His arms hung lifelessly at his sides, not even the strength to lift up if they wanted to. He hoped, prayed, that a fight was not in store for him at the top; he would be at a crippling disadvantage.

  He was pushing himself, perhaps too hard, to make his way in a suitable amount of time, and he strode even harder once he saw the end, the final step only several above the one he was already on.

  Six long, painful strides later he reached it, and finally rested, allowing his eyes to work rather then rest of his body. They stretched along the massive flattop on the top of the temple. Pure, brilliant white marble, with defining, sporadic, dark gray lines. The floor was seamless, not made of tiles or platforms, but one unending piece that stretched for over one-hundred fifty yards. The marble soaked up the sun, then returned it just as bright. For a time, the entire length of it was illuminated, scarce, random patches of black shadows chasing across it caused from the clouds that passed by. The moment his feet had settled completely, one dark heavy cloud loomed, not moving as fast as the others until it stopped directly above him, completely blocking the sun. The land grew shrouded, the marble losing its luster, the world around the temple too blanketed for him to see. But as if the sun was too strong even for that, it broke only one hole through the cover. It concentrated and hammered through, creating a single, pinpointing beam directly in the middle of the temple.

  "This is interesting..." Grahamas whispered, as the moment the sun struck, a tiny golden glint reflected back at him. He did not have to take another step closer, move another inch to know what be the cause. It was what he had endured so much for.

  Stolen Fate.

  Though his legs still ached, his body was still drained, the moment he saw it he practically charged. His wits were still about him, still waiting for a trap, or a danger to present itself, but he could not take his eyes off it. The closer he got, the more detailed the sword became.

  The blade was stuck directly into the marble; a polished, sterling silver that went nearly all the way to the hilt, but hooked out, then drew back in to create a thinner line of steel that disappeared into the guard. The top part of the hilt that faced the blade pointed up in three different segments. The edges curved out and away from the horizontal guard, then inward to a sharp point that stopped two inches above the guard. Between the edge and the blade, a second set. These were straight and much smaller, almost resembling fangs. The third set was the shortest, yet most intricate, and part of a grander design on the sword. Like the outer edge, they curved out then in towards the blade, but these did not stem from the guard, rather draped over it. They were much wider, extending out above the guard—as well as below it. Neither of these had a smooth surface, they were carved, the outer edge a thick border, inside the teardrop shaped curves were several more thin lines giving it the appearance of a dragon's wings. On the face, between the blade and handle, the wings attached to the dragon's body, raising above the surrounding area, designed with scales in several places, as well as the spiked spine common of the actual creatures. From its body, the neck extended up unto the blade, wrapping twice around the thinner steel that connected it to the guard while the head of the dragon rested at the beginning of the indented middle. On the other end of the body, the tail wrapped around the handle three times, then ended with a sharp, heart-shaped point. Beneath it the sword's grip, made of a bright, royal blue sapphire with black leather strips crossing all the way to the base of the sword. The pommel’s design were four sharp points that came out, drawing out from the handle then curving back in, half a foot away from the handle, split down the middle—two on the left, two right. Like the hilt, and the dragon upon it, it was a brilliant, glinting gold color.

  For a moment, Grahamas was in awe, remaining completely silent, both for the brilliance of it, and he swore he heard humming. His eagerness almost got the best of him and he reached out to pull it from the ground. His hand wrapped completely around handle, but before he could claim it, his eyes caught the inscription upon the marble, directly in front of the sword. This, as well, written in Highlyian:

  Only the White Flame May remove this sacred blade,

  All others will fail

  It was such an ominous warning that despite how close he finally was, he failed to pull it free. He only scanned his surroundings, looking again for potential dangers. But with him was still the one thing that had followed him all the way up here—peace. Grahamas could not imagine what else Sayassa was going to unleash on him. No clues, no riddles nor impending danger. Just a simple statement that cryptically foretold of demise.

  "And I am not the White Flame..." Grahamas muttered, somewhat loosening his hold on the sword, then hearing it hum again.

  A rush of wind and a large billow of dust rolling along the firm marble drew his eyes up, and for a moment, he caught a glimpse of something else, perhaps someone. His eyes tried to focus on it but it was too far, it faded too fast. Though he couldn't verify and may even deny it in his very mind, Grahamas believed he saw a transparent, hollow image of Tallvas, the real one, giving him an approving nod. The Champion thought again to the inscription on the arch and the railings, then to the actual trial—one of faith. The previous had been challenges, testing his mind, testing his fortitude. Perhaps this one was no different.

  It was then Graham made a decision. Rather than dread what may come, he would simply deal with what did. Sayassa was testing his faith in his abilities, in his drive and—in actuality—himself, and it knew not how deeply such things ran. Not a second thought was given before a determined grip found its way on Fate.

  It was completely silent as he pulled it from the marble floor. No sound of steel scraping or stone biting. But the quiet was not to last, and the instant the sword had completely removed from the floor, a crack registered in the once flawless stone, breaking down one corner along the slit that kept the sword.

  Grahamas held onto Fate as another rip appeared above the first. Each doubled both in
length and width, then three times their size. More began to spread out, three then four, as the first two seemingly chased after Grahamas. The Champion stepped back, then leapt, drawing away from the increasing fractures, but the further he pulled, the faster they came to catch him. The slit became a gap, then a hole. As the pieces of the floor tumbled into nothingness, Grahamas could not wait any longer. It was obvious what was happening, and apparent it would not stop. He shifted, facing the way he came and rushed back towards the stairs—but those were a hundred yards away. Even now Graham could feel the marble break beneath his soles, his footing becoming less solid. He was sinking. He leapt and tried to close the gap between himself and the stairs, placing his feet on any solid flooring he could find, but the faster he ran, the less options presented themselves.

  75 Yards...

  The gaping hole was almost completely under him, he could feel the back of his boots hitting only air and empty space, marble had cracked completely, every inch of it covered in dark splits that looked like black lightning against a white sky. Random pieces began to fall, some next to him, others in front, and he now had to choose his path carefully. He was no longer allowed a straight line to the stairs, he had to fight his way there. Jumping in either direction when his footing became too shaky, running when it was not.

  50 yards...

  Everything around him had broken away and fallen, creating only a wide trail between himself and the stairs. For a time it appeared that it was to remain stable, but that did not slow the Champion's pace. His arms were pumping, his feet pounding furiously and every breath that came into his lungs felt as though it was piercing them. But he did not stop, did not hold back, and he ran faster than he ever had in his life.

  25 yards...

  The last segment before the stairs broke off. It seemed that the only thing holding up the slab was the piece Grahamas now tread upon. As it fell, everything else went with it.

  With one final effort, and one last chance on firm ground, Graham leapt towards the edge, one hand still clutching Fate, the other reaching out to grab the edge of the temple.

  But he fell short.

  His fingers brushed against it, for a second he had it in his grasp, the next it slipped off. He began to descend, he felt it, then—just as quickly—it stopped, his body jolting, his hand in a strong grip. When he turned his eyes to the owner, he saw someone he never would have believed, even if it were an illusion.

  "Gerin...?"

  The General’s hair shrouded his face as it hung across his cheeks, his body leaned over the edge of the temple, the corner of it tucked under his arms as both draped over to grip Grahamas hand. His gaze first fell onto the others eyes, then drifted down to the sword that he sought, for himself and for his kingdom. Gerin now had a choice. It was within his reach, all he had to do was reach out for out, let go of the Champion's wrist and take it. Or he could hold on—keep his grip on a man he hated, the only man to ever defeat him. "There's a light in you, Gerin. I can see it..." Shayanne's voice and message rung in his head, and he turned his vision between the blade and the man. “Set Yourself Free”. The words upon the arch stained his mind again. If he let it get away, he stood no chance of achieving vengeance. Grahamas would be far too powerful with this weapon. But if he left him fall, he certified that. This place would end Graham's life, not him, and he would forever be doomed to wonder if he could defeat him. He certainly could let him fall, perhaps even throw him down, but the Champion was at a disadvantage now, and it was almost the same as assassinating or poisoning him. It was a victory, but an all-together hollow one. Gerin did not want that now; he never did. He simply sought his honor back, nothing less. There was only one way to get it, deep in his heart there was only one choice it would allow. "Hold on... I've got you." But in essence, he truly did not. The General leaned up and pulled, but the Champion was slipping.

  "How did you…?” Grahamas questioned, but was cut off.

  "There will be time to talk about that later. Just....don’t let go..." The General strained to keep his hold and pull Grahamas up, but he was failing on both counts. The Champion slid down to where he was now holding onto the General's hand instead of his forearm, but that was not strong enough to last. His only chance would be if he let go of Fate and latched on with both hands. He feared dropping Her and risk losing Her forever. His only other option was to hurl Her up and over Gerin to land safely on the stairs. He considered that the General only wanted the sword, and would let him fall to retrieve it. Yet it wasn’t in his eyes. He was not sure why or how it occurred, but Grahamas had studied Gerin more than any of the others in the kingdom. As long as he’d known him, the General held a hatred in his heart that reflected in his gaze. One that was no longer there. Grahamas believed that—for whatever reason—Gerin truly wanted to save him.

  The Champion took a deep breath and reached back to allow him the arc needed to hurl Fate a suitable distance away. In that, was Graham’s fatal mistake. The sudden shift—one Gerin did not expect—broke the frail hold.

  The General's eyes rose in shock, and he scrounged to get another grip but Grahamas had fallen too far. Gerin stared down, reached out as far as he could but his hands found nothing. As Grahamas descended, as he felt the air sting against his back and drag around his waist, he looked up to see an oddly apologetic look on the face of the General, a look of defeat, and his arms still hanging there, now lifelessly. "I'm sorry, Grahamas."

  Graham closed his eyes, overwhelmed with confusion and fear. His head leaned up, and his hands tucked close to his body as he let Gerin into his mind, and into his thoughts. "It is well, Gerin." He whispered to him as he fell out of range from the man, now only a shadow, behind him the faint white light of the sun. The rectangle of the temple’s broken, empty top growing smaller and smaller as he fell.

  It dawned on him that he had no other options, only acceptance. His eyes opened, and he turned them first to Fate in his left hand, holding on to her as tight as he ever had, then, stared at his right wrist. The silver bracelet that Elryia had bought him peering out from underneath his shirt. The tear that had crept out of his eye was dried a moment later from the rushing wind as his pace picked up, but it was not enough to wash away the regret. He should have told her that he loved her. It may not have made a difference now, he could still have the same destiny before him, but at least she would know, she would have that to hold onto. Grahamas would not ever get the chance. That was the only thing he found sadness in. He did not fear the fall, did not regret that his life would end here. Many times he had faced death and overcome it. He had almost grown use to it, and he had long since made peace with many things. It was only that one that lingered in him, one desire and goal he had left to fulfill in his life, but he knew now it was over.

  He had failed.

  Just as the scripture said.

  But as he thought back on it, realization set in him. Those words what were chiseled onto the ground before Fate. They were so tiny, so chipped that he had misread them. It did not state "All others shall fail" rather, "All others shall fall."

  "No....!" He screamed in his own mind. It could not end like this. He would not let this be his demise. "Saris Evelde!" He chanted, his skin flaring, and the emptiness illuminated only shortly with a bright flare, that subsided in an instant. When it had, Hope was now protecting the Champion.

  It was a chance. No force in Eldonia that anyone knew of could break through it, but the longer he fell, the more he realized that it may not save him. The impact alone would kill him, and he struggled, turning his head up and trying to straighten his body to find another way out, rage and despair at the same time filling his thoughts.

  "Peace, True." A soft, gentle woman's voice rung. "Be still."

  The Champion blinked long and slow, took a deep breath. The voice had not been heard, but thought. With none around, and the ground growing ever closer, there was only one possible explanation as to where it came from. "Are you Death?"

  "Far from it, T
rue." And in his hand, the blade hummed. "I am Fate. I have waited a long time for you."

  "How ironic then, it is all to end like this."

  Fate responded, but he could not make it out. The sensation of him falling left suddenly, the wind stopped, his body was no longer weightless. A crack had resounded in his ears and his head jerked back, drowning out the voice, his thoughts and everything around him. The light above him that leaked in through the temple's roof had grown so very small, not even reaching him now. It blurred, then disappeared as his eyes fell into long, unavoidable blinks. He listened for Fate again, but she was not heard. Only the sound of his own heartbeat, slowing drastically was all that filled his ears.

  He had given up on regret. He had cast off all feelings of loss, and desire to right the wrongs that had been done. Vengeance, justice, Idimus, peace, Highlace. All of it shattered and fell from his head. Now, all he knew was pain. A pain that seared its way up his arms, a stinging, twisting fire that chased across his biceps, down his legs and across his chest, finally to rage in his mind.

  "Believe, True..."

  He heard Fate whisper, his hand still gripped her tight but he could not stay conscious long enough to respond.

  It was over.

  Five hundred years, countless battles and dozens of enemies later, he had fallen. He had fought demons, dragons, and other Generals. He had withstood every advance, deception and attempt on his life, and this was where it all ended. A part of himself was proud, another repentant, but he could not hold on to either for very long. His heartbeat slowed. The pain in his body was too pounding and the ringing in his ears too loud. He could not move, nor did he try. He simply lay there, and focused on the one thing he had never experienced: his life ending. All of it was a bit strange—the throbbing, the ringing, the fading reality. It was not what he imagined.

  Grahamas had always thought that death would be far more beautiful.

  The Cold, Black Flames Of Dejection

  For a time, Gerin had simply laid there, his arms still outstretched, almost as though he was waiting for Grahamas to reach out from the darkness he had fallen into. But his grip remained empty, and his hopes of both retrieving Fate and regaining his honor had faded in one drastic plunge. So he stood, composed himself and straightened his clothes, then turned to make the long walk back down the temple, empty handed on all accounts.

  With every step, every time the smooth leather sole of his boot touched another cracked, decayed platform an emotion within seemed to grow. At first, it started as only despondence. Gerin tried to tell himself that he did not care, that he hated this man and though he had not ultimately caused it, his death brought him peace. But as he treaded further, a sting buried itself within his torso. One that expanded when he thought of Graham's friends and the woman he loved. He wondered if they would ever truly know, wondered if they would remain diligent and always wait for Grahamas, even though he would never return. He questioned, and tried his best to imagine how they would feel when they finally realized that awful truth, but that was not easy for him. Gerin had never truly lost anything. With virtually nothing to care about, such a thing was hard to comprehend. He obsessed over vengeance, and fought for an honor that only he himself held value in. Though it had been taken from him, he knew that was nothing compared to what Elryia and the others would have to endure, and for a completely different reason. Their pain and loss would not derive from their own selfish reasons as Gerin had taken his. The General, with that fall, had lost nothing but his chance; the others had lost someone they truly loved. And in a way, Gerin almost felt lucky. That hole inside him would fade eventually, his honor was something that could return, Grahamas was not. His friends would most likely be forever marked by this tragedy. He would get over his suffering, they never would.

  As he declined the last few steps, as his feet placed against the soft dirt, more questions and more emotions floated in his mind. He began to ponder what would have happened had it been him that fell, if he was the one who would not return. Would Idimus hold a funeral for him, would anyone attend? Would Estechian or his soldiers—the men he considered to be his brothers—mourn his loss, or would they go one with their lives without a shred of sorrow? Would he be honored and revered, destined to immortally live on in tales and scriptures as he imagined Grahamas would, or would the world forget him? Would the King simply send another, then another until he finally retrieved Fate, hand over Gerin's army to the next capable individual and continue his rule completely unaffected?

  They were questions he refused to answer—all simply out of fear—but knew all the same.

  He was alone, and would be so in death.

  But Gerin no longer hated the people as he once had, and could not blame them. He only held regret that he had not given any of them a chance. That he had been twisted and deceived into despising them; mostly by his own detached mind. So he accepted his solitude, at least from the world.

  His King, his comrades and brothers were a different story. From them he expected more than just courtesy; he wanted equality. The one thing he would never get from them, no matter how hard he tried or what he sacrificed.

  He no longer even wanted to make the attempt.

  Again the words upon that beautiful arch registered in his mind: Set Yourself Free.

  Now he saw that as his only option—his only desire. He knew of but one way to achieve that. As he walked back through Sayassa—now only mists—a plan was slowly beginning to take shape. One that involved a fake Fate, and a deception that would rival even the King’s sickest plan. But he would need the war—need to implement it—for it to work.

  As it became more involved, more detailed in his mind, he considered if it was too cruel, even for him.