by Earl, Collin
“Cyann,” he whispered. “Wake up. You have to get up.”
Nothing. She gave no response. Monson swore. “I’ll come back for you, I promise, but I have to take care of him first.”
Monson stepped away from the desk and walked back towards Damion, his footsteps the only indication of life in the room. Monson gripped the blue Magi Blade, ripping it from the ground with little more than a jerk and readying himself as Damion picked himself up off the ground, swearing.
“That was awfully dirty, Monson; a surprise attack?”
Monson reversed his grip on the blade. “You made the mistake of thinking I was going to play fair. This isn’t a book, Damion. You don’t get the chance to monologue. I don’t care what your reasons are for betraying Cyann—”
“I didn’t betray her!” Damion screamed as he scrambled to his feet. “I was trying to protect her! I was trying to protect everyone from—”
“Again with the protection! How can you call that protection?” shouted Monson, pointing at Cyann, still unconscious and tied up. “Baroty was trying to get his hands on her and Kylie. Just last night I saw her lying in a pool of her own blood, Damion, and you dare say you’re trying to protect her? Baroty’s got you doing his dirty work. What could he have possibly offered you?”
Suddenly, at that moment, Monson knew. He knew exactly what Baroty had offered Damion Peterson.
“Power.” Monson studied Damion’s reaction to the word. “Baroty offered you power and that’s how you became…oh, ho, ho. That’s how you became the Diamond. You’ve been using magic all along, haven’t you?”
Damion let loose a grating laugh. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. You have no idea what’s going on.”
“Then explain,” replied Monson. “If I’m so off base then explain yourself.”
Damion’s laugh split the air a second time. “I thought you weren’t going to give me time to monologue. No matter; it’s not that I’m completely guiltless. I’m simply saying that some of your assumptions are incorrect. I will say this; your path is not the correct one. You’re blinded by your own power and if you don’t open your eyes to the truth, it might be too late.”
Monson let out a chuckle of his own. “It’s a little late in the game to be issuing cryptic warnings, don’t you think? And what’s all this bull about me being blinded by my own power? What do you know of my power?”
Damion unbuttoned the top of his shirt. “More than you’d think.”
Ripping at the rest of the buttons on his shirt, Damion spread his collar to reveal large, gashing burns on his skin. Burns that appeared healed yet held a tinge of grayish silver.
Then it clicked, and everything made sense. “You were there…you were in that weight room on the day that…that…that you tried to kill me.”
Damion did not say anything.
Monson’s mouth suddenly went dry. “Why would you…how could…how did I…?”
Questions. Monson had so many questions…so many….
No. No….
He started to laugh, equal parts mourning and irony. Damion merely watched, as if unsure whether Monson was fully sane. Monson wiped at his eyes as tears appeared at the corners.
“I was worried, you know. I was worried that I was caught up in some sort of alternate reality and really….” Monson started to swing the Magi Blade, a movement that made Damion conspicuously nervous. “It was you all along. I thought I was going crazy!”
Monson hefted the River’s Serenity in his hand, feeling the power and coolness of the blade. He grinned maniacally. “Here, Mr. Diamond, allow me to return the favor.”
Monson reared back, cocked his elbow, and let the blade fly. The River’s Serenity flipped end over end until it embedded itself about a foot from Damion’s head in a stone column. Damion did a quick double take, gazing from Monson to the blade and back again. Monson figured he was probably trying to discern some sort of trick or trap.
“I didn’t do anything to it. It’s your blade. Take it.”
Damion did just that, quickly ripping the blade from its place in the stone. It gave easily and Damion about-faced, looking a great deal more confident now that the sword was back in his hand.
“That was a mistake, Grey.” He passed the blade from his left to his right, apparently testing it. “You know there isn’t another physical power that matches up to the Magi Blade. You’re done for.”
Monson smiled slightly. “Yeah, I know that. But before we get to that, there’s something I wanted to ask you.”
“I can’t spare your life.”
Monson waved off the statement. “No, that’s not it. Whatever happens, happens. I guess we’ll just have to see. No, what I wanted to know was, back in the weight room right before you attacked me, you said we had been friends. Was that true?”
Damion just glared.
A smile played across Monson’s face as he looked into Damion’s eyes. “That’s all I needed to know.”
He closed his eyes. From the darkness, he could hear Damion. “What are you going to do now?”
Monson answered firmly. “I’m about to get reacquainted with an old friend. That, or we’re about to die in a river of flames.”
He heard footsteps pounding the floor, tapping once, tapping twice, tapping three times…then…nothing but his own breathing. He had only seconds…only seconds before he would die.
Kei...the magic of the collective…body, soul and mind; that which makes us, that which brings us together. Magic…magic…Magi…Breath of the Dragon….My body moved seemingly of its own accord, calling upon the silver energy of my own form and allowing the power to flow freely across my palms and across my fingers. I examined the power, the magic, and willed it to change, to be different than it was. The change came. It was not fast. It was not slow. It just was; the molded power made hard but malleable, flexible but strong, commonplace but incredible; I made…I made it like unto the mortal body–a shell to hold it all.
He heard the pounding feet again, the frantic steps and the swishing swing of a blade…time...he was running out of time.
The soul of the blade, what made up the soul of the blade? I have searched for the meaning of it all; for the meaning of the heat, the passion, and the burn of the Breath of the Dragon. The Dragon…I need the Dragon…the scorch of the Dragon…is…is wrong. It is not the Dragon that I need, but something more essential than the Dragon. The power that is fire. I call upon the power that is…Fortia.
I feel body. I feel soul. Now I need…I need…the words that will....
Monson did the only thing he could do with the little time he had left. He acted, slamming that which was the body and that which was the soul while he spoke the words, “Breath of the Dragon!”
An erupting heat spilled over Monson as red-flamed energy shot upwards, decimating the immediate area. Damion attacked despite his better judgment, ripping his sword downward in a strong, heavy-handed blow. To Damion’s disbelief, the River’s Serenity came to a jolting halt. The steamy, unnatural smoke cleared to reveal Monson Grey and the red forging of a Magi Blade. The Breath of the Dragon simmered with unearthly light. Fire met mist as the elemental blades struck each other. Monson drove against Damion, sending him back. Damion stared at him in disbelief.
“Impossible! How could you…?”
Monson twisted the blade playfully, swinging it in a figure eight. The weight of the blade was negligible; it felt like an extension of his arm rather than something he wielded. A burning tingle coursed through his arm, up his shoulder, and into his chest, spreading to his stomach until it encompassed his entire body. Far from painful, the sensation made him feel alive, like he could run a thousand miles or jump high into the air. He did not try such nonsense, there being an enemy right in front of him, but he honestly felt that if he had tried, he could have accomplished either feat.
Damion was a very smart fighter. He did not rush Monson in order to get the drop on him. He did not make some foolish attempt at baiting or mis
direction. He merely took a defensive stance, staring ahead into Monson’s eyes. Monson set his feet in the first form of the Ja-no, and stared back.
The two combatants started to circle, completely wrapped up in their own world, the physical power of the blades becoming more and more apparent as magical metal drifted close to stone, steel and wood, scarring the materials. Long moments passed, yet neither Monson nor Damion made the critical move to start their fight. They just continued circling mere feet from each other. Monson saw it—saw it in Damion’s eyes; the hint of hesitation, the desire to pull back. It was slight, but it was there.
“You aren’t my target.” Monson relaxed his stance ever so slightly. “You can still run.”
“Trying to encourage me to run?” Damion let out an unconvincing laugh. “Are you that afraid of fighting me?”
“Stop posturing.” Monson stopped circling and planted his feet. “I don’t believe you’re as hard as you want me to think you are. This is your final chance, Damion. I don’t want to hurt you, but you can’t beat me and I’m not waiting around any longer.”
“You don’t get it, Monson. It wasn’t supposed to be this way—the Being of Seven Bloods—if only you hadn’t come, I could have kept it hidden—kept her safe….”
‘It’? What is ‘it’? Monson thought.
Damion shook his head and looked directly at Monson. “You may get past me. You may be this legendary figure that the Magi and the Brotherhood have been waiting for, but here’s the plain and simple truth: You can’t beat him. Not with what he has found. You will lose, and then everyone who opposes him will die. Servitude is only option and the only way to keep your life.”
“Servitude to Baroty is the only way for us to live? Sorry, I don’t want to live in a world where he’s in charge. I’m not willing to sacrifice thousands to his idiotic plans, whatever they might be. I won’t let you or him have your way, not while I’m still breathing.”
Damion shook his head in frustration. “Damn you and your stupidity, Grey. You don’t even understand the nature of your own enemy, let alone how to confront him. Hell, you can’t even find him.”
“Blow it out your nose, Peterson. I know exactly where my target is and I’m going after him to finish this. This is your last warning—”
“That’s what I’m telling you, Monson! You’ve got it all wrong! It’s not Bar—”
Damion Peterson’s voice became a cacophony of coughing and gagging. He grabbed at his throat as the seeds of panic germinated and quickly spread. His face went blue and then purple as he struggled for breath, clawing at his throat while his blade dropped to the ground with a clang. A beacon of red light pulsated in his neck, bathing the room in an eerie light. Monson remained still, rooted to the ground and holding his blade steady. He did not know what to do. Damion was an enemy—an enemy who had tried to kill him more than once. Should he help him, or let him choke to death on the locker room floor?
“So you would let him die?”
A new but familiar voice spoke from directly behind Monson. While slightly startled, he did not jump. Instead, he slowly turned to see Taris Green standing not far from him wearing a tense yet strangely complacent expression. It was not difficult to see that whatever her purpose in showing herself, she was ready to face the consequences. He was not surprised to see her; something about Damion being involved seemed to imply that Taris was also wrapped up in the madness. But that did not make him like it.
“It’s not that I want him to die,” answered Monson. “But wouldn’t that be the prudent thing to do? He did try to kill me.”
Taris took a step towards him, allowing the strange red light of the room to fully illuminate her presence. She was still wearing the outfit from her performance the night before and she still looked amazing. The whole of her countenance was flawless except for the corners of her eyes, which were slightly puffy.
She took another step closer before she replied. “So it’s revenge you’re after?”
Monson twisted, letting his gaze find the still-struggling Damion. “I don’t think it matters what I want. I don’t know how to save him, even if I wanted to. Whatever spell was used on him, it’s not something I have the ability to counter.”
“Then it’s out of your hands?” Taris took another step.
“Yeah,” conceded Monson. “It’s out of my hands.”
The last phrase gave Monson pause. Damion Peterson’s life, was it really out of his hands?
“So you’ll allow the choice to be made for you?”
Monson struggled with the answer. “What else can I do?”
“You could fight.”
“What’s the point of fighting a losing battle?”
Damion went silent no longer struggling as the red light in Monson’s peripherals dimmed. Taris took another step towards Monson, who reversed his grip on the blade and stuck it clean into the floor. He then walked to Damion’s side.
A few more seconds passed and the light in Damion’s neck faded to an irregular pulse.
Damion Peterson was dying right before his eyes.
Monson recalled his conversation with Gi.
“You fear the suffering of others…why does one such as you concern himself with the struggles of lesser beings?”
Damion’s breathing grew labored.
Death, he thought. Something so inevitable could not be all bad, could it?
The thought triggered a new line of thought. Molly, the members of H.U.M.A.N.E., the commandos, the students and dignitaries; many of them had died during the fighting, lost their lives working towards...what? Power? Prestige? Intrigue? Self interest? Or self-preservation? All of it suddenly seemed so pointless. All the death, some caused by his own hand…his hands….
Monson looked down at his hands. How much more blood would be spilt? How much of it would be on his hands?
More words came to him, this time from Damion. Monson finally understood. The Being of Seven Bloods…Damion was trying to protect Cyann from the Being of Seven Bloods.
Monson’s face got hot. Damion was trying to protect Cyann by entrusting her to Baroty; no good could have come from that. If that was the case, then he deserved to die...he deserved…to die….
No! he thought. That is not what I want.
Monson quickly fell to his knees next to Damion, searching frantically for some sign of life and trembling as the light blinked once more then faded completely.
Monson started to call upon his own power. “You’re not dying yet, Damion, not until I’ve beaten the crap out of you at least once.”
Taris was already there, two fingers on Damion’s neck, feeling for a pulse.
“He’s still breathing.” She removed her hand. “It looks like he’s just passed out.”
She stood as Monson checked for himself. Just as she had said, he was breathing. It was labored, but Damion’s chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Monson pushed up from his position and was again uncomfortably close to Taris.
“So now what?” he asked, retrieving his blade from the floor. He stared at Damion. “Don’t tell me that you knew all along about him and his involvement in all this.”
He looked back at Taris. “And you only...hung out with me to try to stab me in the back.”
Monson was about to say “kissed,” but found the word stuck in his throat. He attempted to push that nonsense out of his head. Taris stared at him, seemingly unsure as to what to say. Monson also remained silent; he needed to leave, but he wanted to hear her answer before he did; for some reason it was important to him.
“I’m on your side, Monson.” Taris pushed a hand through her hair. “I was just—”
“I don’t need to hear it.” He gave her a warm smile. “I don’t need to hear your explanation for being here, I’m just glad you are.”
Taris, in spite of her surprise at his words, smiled back. He continued.
“Listen to me: I’m going after Baroty; he has the answers I need. What I need from you….”
He
paused for emphasis.
“What I need from you is to get Damion and Cyann out of here. Wake them, do whatever it is you have to do, just get them up and get them gone. I’ll do the rest.”
“Cyann.” Taris’ voice rubbed against his eardrums abrasively. “Why is it always—”
“This isn’t just about Cyann, Taris. It’s about me, both of you, about…about everything. I need to know what happened at Baroty Bridge, what that man is really doing here, and if I truly am this Being of Seven Bloods—and what the hell that title even means. I’m doing this because I have no other choice. I can’t let Baroty or the Midday Darkness have their way. I just can’t.”
Despite the battle raging just outside the building, it was awfully quiet. Taris and Monson stared at one another as a newfound understanding sparked between them. Yet with this understanding came distance, a distance that neither understood. Monson wanted to break the silence but was unable to do so. He waited and watched until Taris, clearly reluctant, stepped closer to him.
“I have a lot of explaining to do. There are things that you still don’t know, that I should have told you…you and Casey and Kylie.”
Monson’s eyes widened. “Wait…what? What are you talking—”
“You have to come back.” Taris slapped his chest lightly. “You get it? You have to come back. I have things to tell you and I won’t forgive you if you don’t.”
Monson smiled and set down his blade. “I get it, Taris. I’ll be back.” He threw his arms around her and gave her an affectionate squeeze. “Go, and remember to be careful.”
