Rating: PG for violence, blood, peril, death.
Author's Notes: This one has been a looong time coming. Both the writing and editing processes took an excoriatingly long time, and then it took me something like four weeks to actually post it here. Oh, well. Inspired by a rant I read about the "chosen one" archetype in fanfiction.
The pounding of his feet on stone and blood in his ears was almost enough to drown out the sounds of the battle behind. It was long out of sight now, lost around one of the corners he'd turned, but the yells and crashes chased him still, echoing down from the high, cold ceiling. Aston fancied he could picture the battle as though he were still there, could see his comrades fighting on to buy him time:
Verellen, one arm up and drawing runes in the air, the other cradled in a bloody sling across his chest and still oozing around the arrow wound that had rendered it useless. He would brush sweaty hair out of his eyes and cast Aston a sarcastic glare even as his spell flared to life and orcs howled, fire exploding in their midst. What are you still doing here?
Bulric, oblivious to all but the arm's-reach of battle around him, his axe hewing an open space in the midst of the orc battalion. He wouldn't notice that Aston was there, wouldn't notice much at all until everything in his way either fled or stopped moving.
And Haalei, of course, somehow poised and unhurried even as she loosed arrow after arrow into the fray. She would turn to him, slanted green eyes flashing annoyance as she said, Go now. We can hold them here. The fight ahead is yours alone. Do not wait for us.
He'd gone, of course, and now the end was finally in sight. Two orc door guards, armored in the black and red of the Dark Lord's highest retainers, were all that defended the throne room. Once, the sight would have made him quail, slink away and hope to go unnoticed. Now he drew Lightbringer without conscious thought and didn't slow his flight even as the first orc raised its polearm, lips drawing back to reveal its yellowed tusks.
Aston was upon it in an instant, swatting its weapon aside and driving in for a killing blow. Lightbringer found the beast's neck between helmet and breastplate and bit deep, ending the creature's struggles even as Aston stepped aside to avoid an attack from the guard's companion. In a moment he had was grappling with the second foe, forcing it to drop its polearm. It came up a moment later with a thick, curved knife—its own death a moment later as Aston fought it free of its owner's grasp and buried it in the orc’s jugular.
He might have gone charging on from there, through the doors to the throne room and on to confront the man who sat at the end of his long, terrible journey. He might have rushed in, sword already drawn and drizzling orc-blood onto the floor as he ran. He might have, if he hadn't been brought up short by the doors themselves.
They towered to at least three times his height, sweeping up into the shadows of the high ceiling overhead, faced with a black-veined red stone, glinting smooth. All over the great doors had been carved images of people and beasts in torment, their faces twisted with pain, claws, paws, and hands reaching out, tearing uselessly at the air as though they struggled to free themselves from some bloody mire.
Aston stood transfixed for a moment, his eyes wandering the gruesome sight, searching for, what—his own face amongst those of the damned? From back down the passage a particularly loud explosion sounded.
Aston blinked. Verellen. And Bulric and Haalei, of course. They were still in battle, fighting to give him this chance to meet his destiny. He couldn't let their effort be in vain. He wouldn't rush in without thinking, like some deranged orc on a death mission, screaming and waving his sword about. There was a proper way to do these things, if one wanted to be taken seriously. If one wanted to live.
He bent to wipe Lightbringer's blade on the sleeve of one of the orc guards, then slid the sword back into it sheath. Then a moment to compose himself, to squash down his fear as far as he could and put on his best regal bearing. Aston stepped forward and pushed on one of the huge doors, trying to ignore the wild-eyed demon protruding inches from his hand. It swung open easily, soundlessly, and he stepped forward into the room beyond.
It was a grand throne room, floored in dark marble polished to a glasslike sheen. The far-off walls bore huge tapestries depicting the Dark Lord's conquest. Columns of the same red stone as the doors stretched up towards a distant, gloom-choked ceiling, and the only light in the room was from braziers that lent the shadows a lively quality with their leaping flames.
Aston saw none of this. His eyes were only for the dais at the far end of the room, the throne that sat upon it, and the man who did not so much sit upon the throne as lounged, draped uncaringly with neither foot on the floor. The throne itself was jet black and as wildly carved as the doors, though here with fantastic and terrifying monsters, leering drakes winding up its sides and devils peering out from behind the Dark Lord's legs. On the high back of the chair perched a real demon, scaly of wing and wide of single, bloodshot eye, with a body the sticky red-purple of an exposed organ. It clutched the throne with hooked claws and gave Aston an insolent needletoothed grin.
Aston went forward, doing his best to keep his pace even and confident as he drew closer to the throne. The Dark Lord watched him come in silence, not so much as shifting to sit straighter on his throne as the young man approached. The Dark Lord himself was old, Aston knew, but aside from hair shading to white he little looked the part. Sprawled out across his throne in gleaming jet armor, he was convincing as the terror of an entire kingdom, poor posture or no.
Aston came to stand at the base of the dais, looking up at the Dark Lord and trying to avoid the one-eyed gaze of the demon that peered down from above. Silence hung heavy as the echoes of Aston's footfalls subsided. It occurred to Aston that the Dark Lord was waiting for him to speak.
“Isorn Faalbanr,” Aston said, his hand rest gently on Lightbringer's pommel, “Your reign ends today. Three years ago your agents murdered my parents and set fire to my village. For this and countless other acts of evil, I will slay you and bring peace to the kingdom.”
“And who are you?” The Dark Lord was expressionless, still resting casually on his throne.
Aston gritted his teeth and forced himself to reply in a tone just as neutral. “I am Aston Wilhelm, son of Horvyn Wilhelm and former farmboy of Tithingsford. Your minions have been harrying me for months, ever since they learned I'd escaped my family's demise. I am the Chosen One, destined to end your rule with my sword.” He half-drew Lightbringer to emphasize his words, taking comfort from the faint thread of music the magic sword sang in his mind as he grasped its hilt. The Dark Lord had a sword as well, Szkldzk, that was kin to Lightbringer: forged under the same moon by an ancient race of artisans and imbued with as much darkness as its brother was shot through with light.
“Ah. Wilhelm. Well.” The Dark Lord tapped a finger on the arm of his throne, narrowly missing the snout of a hellhound. “Zshororat should be pleased, assuming your ragtag little band of adventurers hasn't done him in already. He had your name in the pool. I was betting on Weaverson, myself.”
Aston stared, gripping Lightbringer all the tighter. He couldn't understand what the Dark Lord was saying, and all noble words fled his mind. Isorn Falbanr continued to lounge and stare at him with no more than half-interest, as if awaiting some cutting retort.
Aston's mind raced. Something was wrong here. This wasn’t how he had expected his challenge to be received. A furious denouncement he had been prepared to face, or perhaps an outburst of mocking laughter, but boredom? Aston would have been so insulted if he weren’t so confused.
Whatever the Dark Lord had been waiting for Aston to do, he had lost his patience. With a sigh, the man at last stirred, leaning forward a bit and reaching for his own sword in the process. “Shall we get this over with, then?” he asked.
Aston barely managed to draw his sword in time. The Dark Lord was on him in an instant, up and out of his throne in half a heartbeat, covering the distance between them in the other half. His dark blade was in his hand as suddenly as though it had materialized by magic, and it surprised even Aston that he managed to get Lightbringer between himself and the man in time to ward off immediate defeat.
The Dark Lord was fast, Aston thought in what part of his brain he could spare from the task of simply keeping alive. The man was a flurry of activity, his dark sword stabbing and slashing, worrying at Aston's defense from every angle, and the farmer-turned-Chosen was struggling to keep up. Each blow fell with shattering force, the antipode songs of the sibling swords rising to a discordant shriek each time they touched.
Aston was being driven back across the throne room, unable even to think of attack as he weathered the Dark Lord's furious assault. Despite the savagery of his attack, the man himself was emotionless, his face blank as he swung his sword again and again, hammering away at Aston's defense with patient malice.
There was a flicker of movement in the mirror floor, seen from the corner of his eye, and the demon fell upon him from above, cackling with heathen delight. He was only just able to bring his sword up in time, forcing the vile creature to whirl to the side rather than sink its sharp little claws into his face. The Dark Lord barked something at the beast about staying out of the way if it didn’t want to live out the rest of its days as “old one-wing,” but Aston was too preoccupied to pay much attention.
It was blind luck that saved him from being run through by Szkldzk while he was fending off the demon; disoriented by its tumbling flight, he stepped backwards and wobbled, off-balance. The Dark Lord's killing blow crashed against his side rather than stabbing him through the chest, caving armor and knocking him sideways but drawing little blood.
Before he could recover, the Dark Lord barked a guttural word of command, and a terrible darkness descended upon him, as though an unseen hand had pulled a stifling cloth bag over his face. He staggered, trying to regain his balance, and flailed desperately with Lightbringer, fighting a hopeless battle to defend himself despite his sudden blindness.
The Dark Lord was in no hurry. His footsteps rang against the cold marble as he maneuvered, looking for an opening; Aston was dimly aware of the demon somewhere overhead, shrieking encouragement to its master and the occasional rude comment to Aston. Metal caught on metal and the Dark Lord shoved Lightbringer aside, then drove forward with a stab that sliced down through the join between Aston's cuirass and breastplate, driving into the flesh beneath.
Aston almost dropped Lightbringer, though adrenaline muted the pain of the injury; he jerked back as the Dark Lord withdrew his blade, struggling to raise his sword. It was no good. He moved Lightbringer to his left hand and tried not to despair. As the sword once more wagged at random in the air before him, Aston realized he could see it, just faintly, despite his blindness: a bar of white light that bobbed and swung a weary, random dance. As he concentrated on the apparition, it grew clearer, until the familiar sword stood out as plainly as it had before he'd been caught by the Dark Lord's curse.
Steel rang again as a lucky swing deflected the Dark Lord's next attack. Szldzk scraped along Aston's side with an awful screech. Lightbringer's image rippled before his eyes like a reflection on a wind-thrashed pond and pain rolled through Aston’s body as some extra magical sting lent the blow a vicious bite.
“Hold still,” the Dark Lord said. In his panicked state, Aston could have sworn the man's voice was tinged with sadness. “Why fight? Would you really choose the hard death?”
Aston bared his teeth but did not reply. He couldn't back down now, not after all he'd been through to reach this place. Even if he died in the attempt, he would avenge his parents and dispose of the man who had put him and his homeland through so much sorrow. Lightbringer's cold light was growing stronger, and in its glow he could now make out faint shadows in the room around him, and before him the darkest of all, the looming form of the Dark Lord.
The Dark Lord called out another fragment of dark magic, and Aston's knees buckled as a spasm of agony clutched at him, fiery needles driven through his organs and twisted, twisted, and he leaned heavily on Lightbringer for support until the torment passed. Then he had to force his weary muscles to raise the blade again, as fast as he could, to block the Dark Lord's next attack.
The heavy impact almost knocked Lightbringer clear out of his grip, but his vision was nearly recovered now. The throne room was still blurry but recognizable nonetheless. The demon's heckling was a watery hiss in the distance, the weird duet of the swords resonating in Aston’s chest and setting his teeth on edge. His head was buzzing with pain and despair as the Dark Lord drove him back, patiently battering at his failing defenses.
Finally there came one blow too strong for Aston to resist, which sent Lightbringer spinning from his grip and sliding away across the tiles. He collapsed on one knee, his vision swimming as he stared at the rivulets of red running down his own leg, pooling on the floor at his feet.
The Dark Lord swung Szkldzk back, the sword's hungry song booming loud now that it had tasted blood. The man shook his head and sighed. “I don't suppose you have any last words?”
Aston stared up at the black-armored monolith, struggling to breathe and keep his eyes from going unfocused. But as he waited there, gazing at the unhurried death that stood waiting, he found his weariness and sorrow being burned away by a rising tide of anger. It couldn't end this way. It couldn't. He was Aston the Brave, Chosen One of the Kingdom of Epicton! He had slain ogres and spoken with elves, risen from simple farmboy to commander of the forces of the allied races.
After all that, he couldn't come so far and fail. He wouldn't die here, wouldn't die now. Not at the hands of this terribly calm man, the Dark Lord staring at him as though he were an insect that had fallen into his wineglass, pitiful and vaguely disgusting and certainly in need of removal. Aston locked eyes with the black overlord and spat, “I will never surrender to the likes of you!”
He threw himself sideways, sprawling flat on the floor but not caring how pathetic he looked as he scrabbled for Lightbringer's hilt. Behind him he heard the slow tread of the Dark Lord approaching, saw from the corner of his eye the man give another faint shake of the head as he pronounced, “How creative.”
Then his fingers wrapped around Lightbringer's hilt, and suddenly all he could hear was the song of the sword, its sweet, clear melody filling him like strong wine, lending new strength to his limbs and clarity to his mind. Szkldzk's harsh counterpoint continued but was reduced to no more than a sullen growl at the back of Aston's awareness.
He deflected the Dark Lord's strike, then forced the man to step back with a wild swing at his legs. He fought his way back to his feet, injuries forgotten as he found himself on the offensive at last, now forcing the Dark Lord to break his measured pace in order to defend himself. Lightbringer's power resonated through him; its pure glow filled his eyes.
As he drew his sword back for another strike, the glow abruptly flared, etching the throne room in stark white and deep shadow. The Dark Lord threw up an arm to shield his face, eyes watering, and Aston struck Szkldzk aside. With Lightbringer's song roaring in his ears and running like fire through his veins, Aston drew the sword back and lunged forward, thrusting the blade, now little more than a molten bolt of light, through the Dark Lord's chest.
Lightbringer's burst of light fled as swiftly as it had appeared, leaving Aston to stare at the Dark Lord's face, no longer a grim black and white negative, while the man slowly let Szkldzk fall. He struggled to breathe, falling to his knees. Now it was Aston standing over him, more perplexed than triumphant as his enemy drew a wheezing breath, seemed about to say something—but could only choke up a gout of blood and then collapse, dead.
At first Aston could only stand there, feeling dizzy and more than a little ill. The swords had fallen silent, and in the absence of Lightbringer's melody the pain of his wounds was returning. Then there came the snap of leather against air, and Aston's heart lurched up to a faster beat. He'd forgotten the demon! Without his sword he would be helpless, and it could finish him off.
Instinctively he reached down to grab Szkldzk off the floor, a faint thread of black music wending into his mind as he took the hilt. But the demon did not seem interested in him. It landed on the other side of the Dark Lord's corpse, strutting up and down its length and inspecting it with its great eye. “Pity,” it said cheerfully. “He was quite the lord in his day, that one. Not so much lately. Getting old. Going soft. But, ah, you should have seen him when he first took the throne. Positively wicked, Isorn Faalbanr.”
Aston slowly bent to let Szkldzk slide back to the floor, though he kept a wary eye on the demon all the while. Perhaps it was trying to lull him into lowering his guard before it struck. He felt he couldn't hold Szkldzk a moment longer, though. Its music was growing louder and more insistent. It wasn't unpleasant, in its booming way, but it seemed altogether too familiar, too much like Lightbringer's own justice-thirsty song, for comfort.
“Very impressive comeback,” the demon went on as Aston braced a foot against the Dark Lord's chest and wrenched Lightbringer free of the corpse. “Even I thought you were a goner, but you got it together in the end. You've got potential, kid, real potential.”
Aston scraped the blood from Lightbringer's blade off on the Dark Lord's armor. The sword still glowed with its subtle radiance, but black smears dotted its blade wherever the Dark Lord’s blood had touched, and no amount of wiping would remove them. Aston’s stomach roiled as he wondered if there was something foul in the man’s very essence that had tainted the sacred sword. The marring of the blade, combined with a sudden, deafening silence when he handled it, managed to unsettle Aston even through his cloud of weariness and pain. He would need to get the sword cleaned properly, and soon.
“What, not going to give the throne a go?” the demon went on, seeming happy enough to continue its one-sided conversation while Aston stood dumbly, blackened sword in hand as he tried to figure out what to do next through a deadening mist of pain and fatigue. “It's yours now, after all. Pretty cushy gig, am I right? Oh, trust me, it's much more comfortable than it looks.”
Despite himself, Aston turned his eyes towards the Dark Lord's former seat of power. A smile pulled at his lips, and at last there came the wave of exhilaration he had been expecting once he killed the Dark Lord. He'd done it, really done it. The black throne stood empty, waiting for someone to fill it. And that someone would be him. The Dark Lord had done all he could to destroy the royal bloodline that had once served this land, and at least for the time that it would take to figure out who should ascend to take the throne, it would be Aston who would take over the responsibility of ruling the kingdom.
His destiny was fulfilled. All the forces of darkness had not been able to stand against him—well, him and his companions, but mostly him—and now at last he could set about making right all the Dark Lord had wronged about the kingdom. Yes, he'd start by driving out the last of the man's legions of terror, the orcs and the dragons and the undead minions that had so tormented him on his journey here...
Imagine if his parents could see him now. King! But for now, the throne would remain empty. Just the thought of the steps it would take for him to reach the dais, much less climb up to the throne to sit in it, set his weary head ringing. He fuzzily sheathed Lightbringer and tried to figure out what to do next. Everything he could think of required altogether too much movement.
A downward glance brought his eyes to the sight of the Dark Lord sprawled in his own blood, a stricken look on his face. Aston glanced away again, feeling a queasiness of the mind rather than of the stomach. He was used to killing by now, as used to it as anyone could ever be, but not like this. You ran through the assassin that had come to kill you, then stormed out of the inn and fled; you burned the orc village and rode away into the night. Now there was no moving on to be done. This was the end of the road, the end of the long quest.
The Dark Lord looked too permanent lying there on the floor, his death too much of a reality. There was no running from it, nor from the fact that he was just an old man, graying around the edges and nothing out of the ordinary, looking scared and a little tired in the instant the sword ran him through. If not for the armor, he could have been Aston's father.
Aston swayed on his feet. He couldn't think about this now. It wasn't... pleasant. He'd need to get someone to come in here and clean up the mess, a servant or something. But for now, rest. He let himself slide to the floor, doing his best not to slip in the blood, and sat with arms on knees, head hanging as he tried to keep his eyes open. In the background, the demon continued to drone on, something about “other candidates” and the grisly ways they had met their deaths at the hands of the Dark Lord’s minions.
Aston slumped forward a bit, doing his best not to look at the Dark Lord and focusing instead on everything he would do once he established his rule. Soon he was going to pass out, and then presumably his friends would finish sorting the last of the guard and come to find him here, victorious if unconscious. After that, it would be all excitement and a flurry of stately business, no doubt. This would be his last calm moment to really think about what he would do, even if he wasn’t thinking at its straightest.
The demon must have seen that he was no longer paying it any attention, for it took to the air with a couple of leathery wing-snaps and shot over to settle onto his shoulder. Aston tried to twist out from under it, but it sank sharp little claws deep into his shoulder and clung on tightly, for all appearances enjoying the ride. “Well, what’s it to be? What’s the first decree from our new lord and master?” it asked.
Aston raised a hand and gave a half-hearted swat at the demon. His arm was heavy and sluggish, and the demon easily ducked under the blow. “Away, beast,” he muttered. “I’ll have none of your false council.”
“No? Well, old Isorn wasn’t too keen on me at first either, but I have some friends in very, very low places who could do a lot to help you out with this new gig you inherited. Actually, I think they’ll be wanting words with you whether you call on them or not. You’ll find no one with more experience for the position of advisor!”
The spark of outrage was enough to kindle a brief moment of energy in Aston, and he said, “You should be off to the nether realms from which you came, demon, before my friends arrive to put you in your place. I am the Chosen One, and I will rule this land as is my own will.” By now he was quite sure he was going to pass out. His vision was darkening, his ears full of a roaring silence.
He was still able to hear the demon, though, as it leaned in close, foul breath tickling at his ear as it chuckled. “Oh dear, dear, dear,” it said in its bubbling hiss. “Rule, yes. You are the Chosen One. But after all those months, through all those adventures, didn’t it once occur to you to stop and ask just who it was who was doing the choosing?”
Author's Notes: This one has been a looong time coming. Both the writing and editing processes took an excoriatingly long time, and then it took me something like four weeks to actually post it here. Oh, well. Inspired by a rant I read about the "chosen one" archetype in fanfiction.
Chosen One
The pounding of his feet on stone and blood in his ears was almost enough to drown out the sounds of the battle behind. It was long out of sight now, lost around one of the corners he'd turned, but the yells and crashes chased him still, echoing down from the high, cold ceiling. Aston fancied he could picture the battle as though he were still there, could see his comrades fighting on to buy him time:
Verellen, one arm up and drawing runes in the air, the other cradled in a bloody sling across his chest and still oozing around the arrow wound that had rendered it useless. He would brush sweaty hair out of his eyes and cast Aston a sarcastic glare even as his spell flared to life and orcs howled, fire exploding in their midst. What are you still doing here?
Bulric, oblivious to all but the arm's-reach of battle around him, his axe hewing an open space in the midst of the orc battalion. He wouldn't notice that Aston was there, wouldn't notice much at all until everything in his way either fled or stopped moving.
And Haalei, of course, somehow poised and unhurried even as she loosed arrow after arrow into the fray. She would turn to him, slanted green eyes flashing annoyance as she said, Go now. We can hold them here. The fight ahead is yours alone. Do not wait for us.
He'd gone, of course, and now the end was finally in sight. Two orc door guards, armored in the black and red of the Dark Lord's highest retainers, were all that defended the throne room. Once, the sight would have made him quail, slink away and hope to go unnoticed. Now he drew Lightbringer without conscious thought and didn't slow his flight even as the first orc raised its polearm, lips drawing back to reveal its yellowed tusks.
Aston was upon it in an instant, swatting its weapon aside and driving in for a killing blow. Lightbringer found the beast's neck between helmet and breastplate and bit deep, ending the creature's struggles even as Aston stepped aside to avoid an attack from the guard's companion. In a moment he had was grappling with the second foe, forcing it to drop its polearm. It came up a moment later with a thick, curved knife—its own death a moment later as Aston fought it free of its owner's grasp and buried it in the orc’s jugular.
He might have gone charging on from there, through the doors to the throne room and on to confront the man who sat at the end of his long, terrible journey. He might have rushed in, sword already drawn and drizzling orc-blood onto the floor as he ran. He might have, if he hadn't been brought up short by the doors themselves.
They towered to at least three times his height, sweeping up into the shadows of the high ceiling overhead, faced with a black-veined red stone, glinting smooth. All over the great doors had been carved images of people and beasts in torment, their faces twisted with pain, claws, paws, and hands reaching out, tearing uselessly at the air as though they struggled to free themselves from some bloody mire.
Aston stood transfixed for a moment, his eyes wandering the gruesome sight, searching for, what—his own face amongst those of the damned? From back down the passage a particularly loud explosion sounded.
Aston blinked. Verellen. And Bulric and Haalei, of course. They were still in battle, fighting to give him this chance to meet his destiny. He couldn't let their effort be in vain. He wouldn't rush in without thinking, like some deranged orc on a death mission, screaming and waving his sword about. There was a proper way to do these things, if one wanted to be taken seriously. If one wanted to live.
He bent to wipe Lightbringer's blade on the sleeve of one of the orc guards, then slid the sword back into it sheath. Then a moment to compose himself, to squash down his fear as far as he could and put on his best regal bearing. Aston stepped forward and pushed on one of the huge doors, trying to ignore the wild-eyed demon protruding inches from his hand. It swung open easily, soundlessly, and he stepped forward into the room beyond.
It was a grand throne room, floored in dark marble polished to a glasslike sheen. The far-off walls bore huge tapestries depicting the Dark Lord's conquest. Columns of the same red stone as the doors stretched up towards a distant, gloom-choked ceiling, and the only light in the room was from braziers that lent the shadows a lively quality with their leaping flames.
Aston saw none of this. His eyes were only for the dais at the far end of the room, the throne that sat upon it, and the man who did not so much sit upon the throne as lounged, draped uncaringly with neither foot on the floor. The throne itself was jet black and as wildly carved as the doors, though here with fantastic and terrifying monsters, leering drakes winding up its sides and devils peering out from behind the Dark Lord's legs. On the high back of the chair perched a real demon, scaly of wing and wide of single, bloodshot eye, with a body the sticky red-purple of an exposed organ. It clutched the throne with hooked claws and gave Aston an insolent needletoothed grin.
Aston went forward, doing his best to keep his pace even and confident as he drew closer to the throne. The Dark Lord watched him come in silence, not so much as shifting to sit straighter on his throne as the young man approached. The Dark Lord himself was old, Aston knew, but aside from hair shading to white he little looked the part. Sprawled out across his throne in gleaming jet armor, he was convincing as the terror of an entire kingdom, poor posture or no.
Aston came to stand at the base of the dais, looking up at the Dark Lord and trying to avoid the one-eyed gaze of the demon that peered down from above. Silence hung heavy as the echoes of Aston's footfalls subsided. It occurred to Aston that the Dark Lord was waiting for him to speak.
“Isorn Faalbanr,” Aston said, his hand rest gently on Lightbringer's pommel, “Your reign ends today. Three years ago your agents murdered my parents and set fire to my village. For this and countless other acts of evil, I will slay you and bring peace to the kingdom.”
“And who are you?” The Dark Lord was expressionless, still resting casually on his throne.
Aston gritted his teeth and forced himself to reply in a tone just as neutral. “I am Aston Wilhelm, son of Horvyn Wilhelm and former farmboy of Tithingsford. Your minions have been harrying me for months, ever since they learned I'd escaped my family's demise. I am the Chosen One, destined to end your rule with my sword.” He half-drew Lightbringer to emphasize his words, taking comfort from the faint thread of music the magic sword sang in his mind as he grasped its hilt. The Dark Lord had a sword as well, Szkldzk, that was kin to Lightbringer: forged under the same moon by an ancient race of artisans and imbued with as much darkness as its brother was shot through with light.
“Ah. Wilhelm. Well.” The Dark Lord tapped a finger on the arm of his throne, narrowly missing the snout of a hellhound. “Zshororat should be pleased, assuming your ragtag little band of adventurers hasn't done him in already. He had your name in the pool. I was betting on Weaverson, myself.”
Aston stared, gripping Lightbringer all the tighter. He couldn't understand what the Dark Lord was saying, and all noble words fled his mind. Isorn Falbanr continued to lounge and stare at him with no more than half-interest, as if awaiting some cutting retort.
Aston's mind raced. Something was wrong here. This wasn’t how he had expected his challenge to be received. A furious denouncement he had been prepared to face, or perhaps an outburst of mocking laughter, but boredom? Aston would have been so insulted if he weren’t so confused.
Whatever the Dark Lord had been waiting for Aston to do, he had lost his patience. With a sigh, the man at last stirred, leaning forward a bit and reaching for his own sword in the process. “Shall we get this over with, then?” he asked.
Aston barely managed to draw his sword in time. The Dark Lord was on him in an instant, up and out of his throne in half a heartbeat, covering the distance between them in the other half. His dark blade was in his hand as suddenly as though it had materialized by magic, and it surprised even Aston that he managed to get Lightbringer between himself and the man in time to ward off immediate defeat.
The Dark Lord was fast, Aston thought in what part of his brain he could spare from the task of simply keeping alive. The man was a flurry of activity, his dark sword stabbing and slashing, worrying at Aston's defense from every angle, and the farmer-turned-Chosen was struggling to keep up. Each blow fell with shattering force, the antipode songs of the sibling swords rising to a discordant shriek each time they touched.
Aston was being driven back across the throne room, unable even to think of attack as he weathered the Dark Lord's furious assault. Despite the savagery of his attack, the man himself was emotionless, his face blank as he swung his sword again and again, hammering away at Aston's defense with patient malice.
There was a flicker of movement in the mirror floor, seen from the corner of his eye, and the demon fell upon him from above, cackling with heathen delight. He was only just able to bring his sword up in time, forcing the vile creature to whirl to the side rather than sink its sharp little claws into his face. The Dark Lord barked something at the beast about staying out of the way if it didn’t want to live out the rest of its days as “old one-wing,” but Aston was too preoccupied to pay much attention.
It was blind luck that saved him from being run through by Szkldzk while he was fending off the demon; disoriented by its tumbling flight, he stepped backwards and wobbled, off-balance. The Dark Lord's killing blow crashed against his side rather than stabbing him through the chest, caving armor and knocking him sideways but drawing little blood.
Before he could recover, the Dark Lord barked a guttural word of command, and a terrible darkness descended upon him, as though an unseen hand had pulled a stifling cloth bag over his face. He staggered, trying to regain his balance, and flailed desperately with Lightbringer, fighting a hopeless battle to defend himself despite his sudden blindness.
The Dark Lord was in no hurry. His footsteps rang against the cold marble as he maneuvered, looking for an opening; Aston was dimly aware of the demon somewhere overhead, shrieking encouragement to its master and the occasional rude comment to Aston. Metal caught on metal and the Dark Lord shoved Lightbringer aside, then drove forward with a stab that sliced down through the join between Aston's cuirass and breastplate, driving into the flesh beneath.
Aston almost dropped Lightbringer, though adrenaline muted the pain of the injury; he jerked back as the Dark Lord withdrew his blade, struggling to raise his sword. It was no good. He moved Lightbringer to his left hand and tried not to despair. As the sword once more wagged at random in the air before him, Aston realized he could see it, just faintly, despite his blindness: a bar of white light that bobbed and swung a weary, random dance. As he concentrated on the apparition, it grew clearer, until the familiar sword stood out as plainly as it had before he'd been caught by the Dark Lord's curse.
Steel rang again as a lucky swing deflected the Dark Lord's next attack. Szldzk scraped along Aston's side with an awful screech. Lightbringer's image rippled before his eyes like a reflection on a wind-thrashed pond and pain rolled through Aston’s body as some extra magical sting lent the blow a vicious bite.
“Hold still,” the Dark Lord said. In his panicked state, Aston could have sworn the man's voice was tinged with sadness. “Why fight? Would you really choose the hard death?”
Aston bared his teeth but did not reply. He couldn't back down now, not after all he'd been through to reach this place. Even if he died in the attempt, he would avenge his parents and dispose of the man who had put him and his homeland through so much sorrow. Lightbringer's cold light was growing stronger, and in its glow he could now make out faint shadows in the room around him, and before him the darkest of all, the looming form of the Dark Lord.
The Dark Lord called out another fragment of dark magic, and Aston's knees buckled as a spasm of agony clutched at him, fiery needles driven through his organs and twisted, twisted, and he leaned heavily on Lightbringer for support until the torment passed. Then he had to force his weary muscles to raise the blade again, as fast as he could, to block the Dark Lord's next attack.
The heavy impact almost knocked Lightbringer clear out of his grip, but his vision was nearly recovered now. The throne room was still blurry but recognizable nonetheless. The demon's heckling was a watery hiss in the distance, the weird duet of the swords resonating in Aston’s chest and setting his teeth on edge. His head was buzzing with pain and despair as the Dark Lord drove him back, patiently battering at his failing defenses.
Finally there came one blow too strong for Aston to resist, which sent Lightbringer spinning from his grip and sliding away across the tiles. He collapsed on one knee, his vision swimming as he stared at the rivulets of red running down his own leg, pooling on the floor at his feet.
The Dark Lord swung Szkldzk back, the sword's hungry song booming loud now that it had tasted blood. The man shook his head and sighed. “I don't suppose you have any last words?”
Aston stared up at the black-armored monolith, struggling to breathe and keep his eyes from going unfocused. But as he waited there, gazing at the unhurried death that stood waiting, he found his weariness and sorrow being burned away by a rising tide of anger. It couldn't end this way. It couldn't. He was Aston the Brave, Chosen One of the Kingdom of Epicton! He had slain ogres and spoken with elves, risen from simple farmboy to commander of the forces of the allied races.
After all that, he couldn't come so far and fail. He wouldn't die here, wouldn't die now. Not at the hands of this terribly calm man, the Dark Lord staring at him as though he were an insect that had fallen into his wineglass, pitiful and vaguely disgusting and certainly in need of removal. Aston locked eyes with the black overlord and spat, “I will never surrender to the likes of you!”
He threw himself sideways, sprawling flat on the floor but not caring how pathetic he looked as he scrabbled for Lightbringer's hilt. Behind him he heard the slow tread of the Dark Lord approaching, saw from the corner of his eye the man give another faint shake of the head as he pronounced, “How creative.”
Then his fingers wrapped around Lightbringer's hilt, and suddenly all he could hear was the song of the sword, its sweet, clear melody filling him like strong wine, lending new strength to his limbs and clarity to his mind. Szkldzk's harsh counterpoint continued but was reduced to no more than a sullen growl at the back of Aston's awareness.
He deflected the Dark Lord's strike, then forced the man to step back with a wild swing at his legs. He fought his way back to his feet, injuries forgotten as he found himself on the offensive at last, now forcing the Dark Lord to break his measured pace in order to defend himself. Lightbringer's power resonated through him; its pure glow filled his eyes.
As he drew his sword back for another strike, the glow abruptly flared, etching the throne room in stark white and deep shadow. The Dark Lord threw up an arm to shield his face, eyes watering, and Aston struck Szkldzk aside. With Lightbringer's song roaring in his ears and running like fire through his veins, Aston drew the sword back and lunged forward, thrusting the blade, now little more than a molten bolt of light, through the Dark Lord's chest.
Lightbringer's burst of light fled as swiftly as it had appeared, leaving Aston to stare at the Dark Lord's face, no longer a grim black and white negative, while the man slowly let Szkldzk fall. He struggled to breathe, falling to his knees. Now it was Aston standing over him, more perplexed than triumphant as his enemy drew a wheezing breath, seemed about to say something—but could only choke up a gout of blood and then collapse, dead.
At first Aston could only stand there, feeling dizzy and more than a little ill. The swords had fallen silent, and in the absence of Lightbringer's melody the pain of his wounds was returning. Then there came the snap of leather against air, and Aston's heart lurched up to a faster beat. He'd forgotten the demon! Without his sword he would be helpless, and it could finish him off.
Instinctively he reached down to grab Szkldzk off the floor, a faint thread of black music wending into his mind as he took the hilt. But the demon did not seem interested in him. It landed on the other side of the Dark Lord's corpse, strutting up and down its length and inspecting it with its great eye. “Pity,” it said cheerfully. “He was quite the lord in his day, that one. Not so much lately. Getting old. Going soft. But, ah, you should have seen him when he first took the throne. Positively wicked, Isorn Faalbanr.”
Aston slowly bent to let Szkldzk slide back to the floor, though he kept a wary eye on the demon all the while. Perhaps it was trying to lull him into lowering his guard before it struck. He felt he couldn't hold Szkldzk a moment longer, though. Its music was growing louder and more insistent. It wasn't unpleasant, in its booming way, but it seemed altogether too familiar, too much like Lightbringer's own justice-thirsty song, for comfort.
“Very impressive comeback,” the demon went on as Aston braced a foot against the Dark Lord's chest and wrenched Lightbringer free of the corpse. “Even I thought you were a goner, but you got it together in the end. You've got potential, kid, real potential.”
Aston scraped the blood from Lightbringer's blade off on the Dark Lord's armor. The sword still glowed with its subtle radiance, but black smears dotted its blade wherever the Dark Lord’s blood had touched, and no amount of wiping would remove them. Aston’s stomach roiled as he wondered if there was something foul in the man’s very essence that had tainted the sacred sword. The marring of the blade, combined with a sudden, deafening silence when he handled it, managed to unsettle Aston even through his cloud of weariness and pain. He would need to get the sword cleaned properly, and soon.
“What, not going to give the throne a go?” the demon went on, seeming happy enough to continue its one-sided conversation while Aston stood dumbly, blackened sword in hand as he tried to figure out what to do next through a deadening mist of pain and fatigue. “It's yours now, after all. Pretty cushy gig, am I right? Oh, trust me, it's much more comfortable than it looks.”
Despite himself, Aston turned his eyes towards the Dark Lord's former seat of power. A smile pulled at his lips, and at last there came the wave of exhilaration he had been expecting once he killed the Dark Lord. He'd done it, really done it. The black throne stood empty, waiting for someone to fill it. And that someone would be him. The Dark Lord had done all he could to destroy the royal bloodline that had once served this land, and at least for the time that it would take to figure out who should ascend to take the throne, it would be Aston who would take over the responsibility of ruling the kingdom.
His destiny was fulfilled. All the forces of darkness had not been able to stand against him—well, him and his companions, but mostly him—and now at last he could set about making right all the Dark Lord had wronged about the kingdom. Yes, he'd start by driving out the last of the man's legions of terror, the orcs and the dragons and the undead minions that had so tormented him on his journey here...
Imagine if his parents could see him now. King! But for now, the throne would remain empty. Just the thought of the steps it would take for him to reach the dais, much less climb up to the throne to sit in it, set his weary head ringing. He fuzzily sheathed Lightbringer and tried to figure out what to do next. Everything he could think of required altogether too much movement.
A downward glance brought his eyes to the sight of the Dark Lord sprawled in his own blood, a stricken look on his face. Aston glanced away again, feeling a queasiness of the mind rather than of the stomach. He was used to killing by now, as used to it as anyone could ever be, but not like this. You ran through the assassin that had come to kill you, then stormed out of the inn and fled; you burned the orc village and rode away into the night. Now there was no moving on to be done. This was the end of the road, the end of the long quest.
The Dark Lord looked too permanent lying there on the floor, his death too much of a reality. There was no running from it, nor from the fact that he was just an old man, graying around the edges and nothing out of the ordinary, looking scared and a little tired in the instant the sword ran him through. If not for the armor, he could have been Aston's father.
Aston swayed on his feet. He couldn't think about this now. It wasn't... pleasant. He'd need to get someone to come in here and clean up the mess, a servant or something. But for now, rest. He let himself slide to the floor, doing his best not to slip in the blood, and sat with arms on knees, head hanging as he tried to keep his eyes open. In the background, the demon continued to drone on, something about “other candidates” and the grisly ways they had met their deaths at the hands of the Dark Lord’s minions.
Aston slumped forward a bit, doing his best not to look at the Dark Lord and focusing instead on everything he would do once he established his rule. Soon he was going to pass out, and then presumably his friends would finish sorting the last of the guard and come to find him here, victorious if unconscious. After that, it would be all excitement and a flurry of stately business, no doubt. This would be his last calm moment to really think about what he would do, even if he wasn’t thinking at its straightest.
The demon must have seen that he was no longer paying it any attention, for it took to the air with a couple of leathery wing-snaps and shot over to settle onto his shoulder. Aston tried to twist out from under it, but it sank sharp little claws deep into his shoulder and clung on tightly, for all appearances enjoying the ride. “Well, what’s it to be? What’s the first decree from our new lord and master?” it asked.
Aston raised a hand and gave a half-hearted swat at the demon. His arm was heavy and sluggish, and the demon easily ducked under the blow. “Away, beast,” he muttered. “I’ll have none of your false council.”
“No? Well, old Isorn wasn’t too keen on me at first either, but I have some friends in very, very low places who could do a lot to help you out with this new gig you inherited. Actually, I think they’ll be wanting words with you whether you call on them or not. You’ll find no one with more experience for the position of advisor!”
The spark of outrage was enough to kindle a brief moment of energy in Aston, and he said, “You should be off to the nether realms from which you came, demon, before my friends arrive to put you in your place. I am the Chosen One, and I will rule this land as is my own will.” By now he was quite sure he was going to pass out. His vision was darkening, his ears full of a roaring silence.
He was still able to hear the demon, though, as it leaned in close, foul breath tickling at his ear as it chuckled. “Oh dear, dear, dear,” it said in its bubbling hiss. “Rule, yes. You are the Chosen One. But after all those months, through all those adventures, didn’t it once occur to you to stop and ask just who it was who was doing the choosing?”
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