Airlean Tales S2E28: Venarei Morben (1)

Author Notes:
It's been HOW LONG oh wow. this probably means a recap's in order.
previously on airlea:

- sethis tried to turn or burn rathos. rathos did not like this and now he's a mindless beast.
- xiph died, and then she got better. now she's a mindless beast.
- karis dove into questionable substances and found the cause of miasma.

It was in the dead of night when Halcyon startled awake on the roof. He scowled and rose to his feet. He’d spent enough time moping like a soggy cat. Life went on. It was time to return to the Airlean embassy and put the whole day out of his mind.

As to how he would talk to Karis about any business, like scouting the senators or protecting the prince…well, he would take it one day at a time. Something told him that just the sight of her would feel like a sword through his chest for a few weeks.

As Halcyon returned to Polis and strode down the main thoroughfare, he frowned at the crowds of people—many still clearly drunk from celebration—being ushered past him by Warmonger warriors. Strange. That wasn’t supposed to happen; none of the Dominions had jurisdiction over Polis, which was a neutral zone. Why were there so many Warmongers in uniform milling about?

“Sir! Lord Yuden!”

He turned at the greeting. A young recruit in Warmonger armor—Halcyon recognized him as the earnest young Colin, who had apprehended him on day one—jogged up to him, looking profoundly relieved.

“It is you, isn’t it?” Colin said. “You’re with the Airleans, no? Kindly follow me at once.”

“Back to the Armpit?”

He expected an awkward laugh from the boy, and was surprised when Colin instead blanched out of fear. “Uh, no! No, of course not.”

Huh. Had something happened at the Armpit?

“It’s just a, uh, change in lodgings for the night. The Airlean delegation is to be housed at the luxurious Golden Apple compound on the southern side of the Warmonger’s Dominion.”

Halcyon stared at Colin. Colin shuffled under his gaze.

“So…please follow me, sir?” An upturned intonation made it sound like a question.

Halcyon arched a brow. “That’s the farthest possible lodging site from the Armpit.”

“Oh! Is it?” Colin gave a forced laugh.

“The Harvester is being detained in the Armpit. Is there something I should know?”

The boy’s face had now lost all of its color. He was practically shaking now, gripping his spear like a lifeline. Poor soul. Guile was not his forte.

“There—there’s nothing for you to worry about, sir,” he chirped. “Please just follow me.”

That was answer enough. Halcyon turned from the recruit and fired his windsoles, arching into the sky and over the building.

“Hey!” came Colin’s fading voice. “Lord Yuden, no! Wait! That’s the wrong way!”

The dungeon was collapsing.

Lilian carted the now involuntarily compliant Sethis out of the chamber. High, resonant bells were blaring throughout the dungeon—the sound of water rippling through open crystal. The Warmonger warriors who’d been posted outside were marching in brisk, orderly lines, their faces grim but knowing.

As they withdrew, they heaved at stone levers fixed at regular intervals down the hall. At each lever, a heavy gate slammed down, blocking the Tartarus Cell with another layer of defense. Plumes of mineral dust shot skyward and decorated the air with a thin layer of shimmer. Their duties done, the warriors promptly joined Lilian and Simon on the platform that would raise them back to ground level. Two of them knelt on the far sides of the platform and closed their eyes, concentrating. The opalite veins in the platform flared brightly, then seemed to boil—and when the platform began lifting, it was at a much quicker pace than before.

Lilian lurched at the sudden acceleration, and adjusted Sethis’s weight over her back. Questions raced through her mind, each one more disorienting than the last. What had she just seen? What had Senator Xiphia become? What kind of power could sustain her through that devastating blow—and would her bloodlust eventually fade, or had Lilian just witnessed the beginning of the end for the entire Warmonger line? What had Simon done to Sethis, and when would the effects end?

“Consul, I have questions,” she finally said.

“And I have answers,” Simon replied, “should we experience the unlikely scenario of remaining alive, Captain Forsythe.”

“You jest at a time like this?”

“On the contrary.” The Prime Consul turned to look right at her, and she nearly stepped back at the intensity of his gaze. His eyes were red-rimmed, yellow irises blazing, pupils thin and shaking. “I have never been more serious. Captain Forsythe, have you any gods, I suggest you pray to them with all your heart.”

Her mouth was dry and she had to work to speak. “Any gods have long abandoned Airlea.”

“Then perhaps find a new faith, because it will take a miracle to survive this.”

That chilled her. “What have you done?” she barked. “You’ve dragged another country into your desperation—for what, to serve as additional lambs to the slaughter? We struggle enough for our own survival. What are we supposed to do to a threat like this?”

“You deserve me to beg your forgiveness.”

“You sound like you will ask none of it.”

Simon chuckled without humor. “It would mean nothing in the face of my actions. Indeed, I initially had no intention of forcing any way with Airlea. I was to be cautious, prudent, strategic. I was to quietly gather information, then report to the Senator for a plan of action. I did not even intend to bring up the marriage agreement at all, at first.”

Lilian arced a skeptical brow. “Then what changed your mind?”

“Hope. The most dangerous thing.”

“In what? The Lunaren monarchy? Excalibur?”

Simon’s mouth quirked at her incredulous tone. “Neither. Xiphia may have hoped in the tales, but I never did.” He paused. “My hope rose when I saw with my own eyes the last survivor of the Leventis family. Orion Leventis, chosen of the Elect, heir of the Arbiter Sovereign.”

He met Lilian’s gaze again, and she had never seen a shade of yellow so cold.

“The last one gifted in the ability to kill a corrupted Senator.”

Venarei morben. “To hunt the disease.”

This was the ultimate precept of the Leventis arbiters, taught to every child sired by the Arbiter Sovereign. To a Leventis, there was no greater burden and no greater honor than to hunt down the enemies of Atlantis and protect her from harm—to detect and track down any corruption within her borders, to pierce it with silver arrows, to cleanse by cutting it out and burning it.

That extended to abyssal creatures, hostile nations, injustice and unfettered greed.

And sometimes the senators themselves.

When Xiph woke in the Tartarus Cell, she was much shorter than she remembered.

Her viewpoint was barely off the ground. The air was frigid and damp, like snow turned to vapor. There was a faint acrid stench. It smelled like regret.

Xiph was isolated on the central platform with manacles fixed around her wrists. Had her hands always been so small? Her fingers looked like little bird bones, keen to snap at any moment.

She yanked at the manacles. The chains rattled and refused to give.

Before she could try again, she heard a soft, low rumble. Light pierced the gloomy chamber, spilling around the tall, imperious figure of a familiar man. His silky silver hair, ordinarily a loose river down his back, was tied back into a stiff tail; his robes were ornate, almost ceremonial in nature, foiled geometric patterns lacing up the hem and inset with opalite crystals.

“Simon?” Xiph queried tremulously. Her voice sounded so small in her own ears. So young.

Simon’s face twisted in a strange emotion, and he started towards her—but another sophist seized his arm and shook his head.

“Senator’s orders, magus,” the sophist said.

Simon wrenched his arm away. “This is madness. Unbind her, for Thunderlord’s sake. She’s a child.”

“But the senator…”

“I will deal with him. You answer to me and no one else.”

The sophist released him and bowed shortly. Simon gathered his robes and strode towards the bridge—but a powerful voice rang into the chamber, halting his steps.

“I would not recommend defying the will of a senator, Magus Kourios.”

Simon turned. Ilias Eneid Vascea strode into the Tartarus Cell, cloak rippling from his broad shoulders, spear in hand and spiked crown on his bushy brow. The confidence he exuded was imposing enough to have the other sophists scuttling backward, granting him a wide berth.

“Papa!” Xiph exclaimed, relieved. She tried to reach for him, but her hands only rattled the chains.

Ilias’s keen gaze flickered to her, but his only response was a shift in his jaw. Simon also glanced in her direction, but there was no joy on his face. Only a strange, indecipherable wariness.

Xiph shrank back, frightened. Why were they looking at her with such distaste? What had she done wrong?

“Magus.” Ilias’s voice, flat and clinical, drew back Simon’s gaze. “You know why I am here.”

“I know, perhaps, but I have yet to understand.”

“Thankfully, you are not paid to understand.” That made Simon’s eyes flash. “Answer me, magus.”

“You have not posed a question, dominus.”

Ilias straightened and glowered openly. At his full height, he towered over Simon like a hoplon tree. “I am not in the mood for games, Simon Kourios. Does the child have it?”

Simon’s gaze lowered and he said nothing. It was answer enough.

Ilias’s grip tightened on his spear. He walked further into the chamber, each stride wide and steady, with purpose. Then Simon grabbed his arm.

“Don’t do this, Ilias,” he said under his breath.

Ilias shook him off without hesitation. “Invoke it,” he said.

The silence that followed was oppressive and brutal.

When no one moved, Ilias looked over Simon’s shoulder to the sophists cluttering around the doorway, watching him nervously. “Well? Invoke it!”

“Pardon me, dominus?” one of the sophists said faintly. “Who—who are you commanding—”

“Anyone with a gods-damned sense of hearing! Or have you all gone deaf from dawdling underground like an overripe fungus?”

“Do not move,” Simon ordered the sophists. His gaze was hard as it turned back to the Warmonger senator. “Ilias, she is your daughter.”

“This is an order, Magus Kourios. I tell you to invoke.”

“Think of how she will feel—what you are doing to her.”

“There is more at stake than the feelings of one child.”

“And there is a better method to get the answers you seek than forcing it like this.”

“We’ve no time for such methods.” With an air of finality, Ilias pushed past Simon. “Unless you wish to contribute nothing more than senseless injury, I suggest you distance yourself.”

Simon turned to follow, but two sophists gripped him by the shoulder and pulled him back, whispering urgently in his ear. As Ilias crossed the bridge, his steps slowed, each footfall heavy and profound, until he stood before Xiph—a mountain staring at an insect.

“Papa,” she said tremulously.

She could read nothing in his eyes—the irises mysteriously shifting between red-coral and aquamarine, the eyes he’d given to her. He stared at her quietly, not one emotion showing behind the impervious shield on his face.

“This will not be pleasant, child,” he finally said. “But I will make it quick.”

“Why?” The fear was so strong that it nearly choked her. “What’s happening?”

“You’ll be home soon.” His gaze was steady. “Be brave.”

Be brave. Always, it was be brave. Nothing else mattered to him. Not what she was thinking. Not what she was feeling. He wanted her unfeeling obedience.

And she, like a fool, she always wanted to give it.

“Yes, Papa,” she mumbled, looking at the ground.

She heard the rattle of his armor—a quick whisk of the wind—

—and then she choked out a wet, bloodied gasp.

Because Ilias’s spear had plunged straight through her chest.

Blistering, overwhelming agony was all she knew for one horrible moment that seemed to stretch into an hour—until her vision darkened to crimson. Something burst from her hands and from the temples of her head. Blissfully, the pain numbed. Her mind seemed to drift away from her body, cocooned in sleep.

From there, she only remembered vague impressions. Movement. Strong colors. Strident sounds.

She felt her throat run raw as she released furious, primal screams. She felt her body lunging, diving, spinning, like a beast tearing through a jungle. She felt her hands slashing down; the clawed tips of her fingers tore through something fleshy and sprayed liquid iron over the ground. She saw red, red. So much red. And there were bursts of pain, too—dulled and inconsistent, ebbing and flowing like waves of the ocean.

Then…slowly, the world bled back into color.

Xiph’s first sensation was the stone floor against her back, cold and unforgiving. Then came the steady heartbeat of pain, dull and distant, pulsing between each shaking, wheezing breath. She felt spent, wrung like a rag. The gash in her torso had somehow knit together, silvery flesh glittering where there had once been a gaping wound. Her hands ached, as if her knuckles had been shattering against solid walls for an hour.

Her sight cleared more. She saw Ilias rising to his feet. He showed neither thought nor emotion; he only dusted off his cloak and jacket and turned from her.

Three red lines ran down his neck, oozing blood.

“Treat the child and return her to her chambers,” Ilias said. “She begins training on the new week.”

Only silence greeted him. The scattered group of sophists were still at the door, unmoving, eyes wide and mouths slack. Two of them had restrained Simon by the arms and forced him back.

There was no place in the world cold enough to describe the frost coating Simon’s face.

“I have always considered you my liege and closest friend,” he said quietly. His golden gaze burned like coals. “Today, I realize you deserve neither.”

“Better for us to know for certain than wait until she has mistakenly killed an innocent,” Ilias said. “But your softness has always blinded you.”

Simon barked a disbelieving laugh. “What some call softness, others call humanity.”

“An affliction I’ve never had to suffer.”

Ilias crossed the bridge and pushed past the sophists. But his steps soon slowed, and he glanced over his shoulder.

“Release Magus Simon Kourios from service. He has proven an unfitting magus principus for Xiphia’s trials.”

Simon’s face did not budge, shrouding all emotion. The last flicker of Ilias’s silhouette disappeared down the ancient hall. Only then did he wrench his arms from the sophists’ hold, shooting them a scathing look. His pace quickened as he entered the Tartarus Cell, hurrying across the bridge towards Xiph.

“Magus!” one of them called, fearful. “You should wait!”

Simon didn’t deign to reply. Xiph saw him cross over to her, and as he approached, he made a faint noise of pity. What did she look like, she wondered? Bloodied and pitiful and monstrously ugly, probably. Or she wouldn’t always be hated by everyone. And her own father wouldn’t always throw her aside.

Simon crumbled to his knees next to her. His silver hair fell over his face, shrouding his expression.

“You’ll be alright,” he whispered. He pushed a diadem over her head, then gripped her hand; the warmth of healing magic flowed into her broken body, dulling her senses. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, child. Forgive my weakness. I’m so sorry.”

Xiph stared blankly at the dim, decaying ceiling of the Tartarus Cell, the arched dome disappearing into formless shadow.

Simon bent to scoop her in his arms, and just as he stood—

Xiph’s vision pulsed red.

Her skin burned like a brand, and her skull split with blinding pain.

Kill. KILL. KILL KILL KILL—

Shortly thereafter, Simon Kourios was transported to the caduceum, in critical condition for three days.

Poor, naive, miserable fool, the sophists whispered among themselves. Did you hear? He was mauled by the hellspawn that is the Warmonger’s heir, his own pronounced goddaughter. Probably grew soft. Probably let his guard down. That’s what the Warmonger does, you know. Lures you in and tears you apart.

He should have known better, the sophists said, and were met with a round of sage nodding.

For nothing could tame the corruption of the Warmonger. Nothing was immune to its destruction, its immorality, its all-consuming violence.

There was no absolution to the Warmonger but death.

Karte vina. “Seize the wine.”

In the course of their duty, the Leventis arbiters were permitted to seize any property at locations for which they had an investigative warrant. Crates and baskets, suspicious items, weapons—anything at all.

Once known as ad fino umbros, “to the shadow’s edge,” the clause was supposed to protect arbiters in their sacred duty to pursue corruption. For when one weeds a garden, they leave no stone unturned, no foul stench uncleansed, as even a single weed would repopulate until the problem was worse than before. So it was with miasma.

But ad fino umbros was, as most legal clauses were over time, corrupted. The ability to seize property was too corruptible, too heady. Arbiters invoked it as a mere excuse to take fine wine and luxury goods for themselves in the name of investigation. Thus a new name, mocking and cynical, arose: karte vina. Seize the wine.

Karte vina, the privilege of the peacekeepers. Karte vina, the admission of gluttony.

Karte vina, the eventual downfall of the arbiter reign.

There were no clouds gathering over the Warmonger Dominion, but Halcyon felt the Storm brewing regardless—a chaos of sparks dancing over his skin, a frenzied rush pulling him to battle.

There were no Hunters at Halcyon’s side. No Guildmaster Nicolina Cotton to temper his instincts, no Sethis to provide moral direction, no Karis to fill the silence. He was alone. Plodding down the cobblestone, dread and death and delectable excitement waiting for him hand in hand.

Like old times.

In the loneliness, the shadows of Atlantis seemed to embrace him, whispering memories until they filled his mind. Venarei morben, Lord Arbiter. Do not forget the debt you must repay.

“Debt,” he muttered, and chuckled bitterly. What debt did he owe this cursed place? A decade of misery and pain, another decade of fear and isolation?

Still, he could not banish Nali’s face from his mind. Her weathered complexion, her keen hazel gaze, her voice quick as a whip and blazing as the sun.

If you can’t repay me, duckling, then the answer is simple.

Halcyon forged on, but Nali’s words continued.

Once you’re all big and you don’t need clothes or rice anymore, you find somebody else who does. And you pay them instead.

He laughed softly. The sound echoed off of the lifeless roads of the city, webbed with decaying veins of miasma.

Hero, Airlea called him, the word a pronouncement of doom more than a compliment.

He was the First Hunter. The greatest soldier on the western continent. They thought him stoic, brilliant, indefatigable. A hero of heroes, incomparable in the legacy he would leave.

But he wasn’t. Far from it.

Every time Halcyon reached for his glaive, he knew it wasn’t for a noble cause, for charity, for saving children from burning buildings or the Hunters’ legacy or carrying on the hopes of the Asters. Maybe some of those things ended up happening. But they weren’t his intention.

He knew what he really craved every time he took up his weapon: The thrill of a hunt.

Every fight was just a sip to quench this unending thirst for adrenaline. Every Storm was another challenge to conquer. Even when he cared for people, the memory of them was faint in the turbulent, incomparable excitement of battle.

True heroes had pure, shining hearts. They had healing hands. They bore beautiful souls, illuminating the heavens like stars as they strove to protect innocents, care for the afflicted, fight for justice. People like the earnest crown prince, people like the youthful and idealistic Azalea Fairwen.

Halcyon closed his eyes. Everyone believes in a lie, Nana. I’m not a hero. I never was.

I didn’t ask if you felt like a hero, duckling. Nali’s voice was sharp in his head. I told you to look after others anyway.

His mouth twisted. He wanted to laugh. It sounded too much like her, but she was dead.

In the end, the only thing keeping him company would always be buried memories and unfulfilled wishes of the deceased.

Exhaling, Halcyon fired his windsoles and launched himself closer to the chaos. At least if he died, he might find company in the afterlife. For no one had told him that being a hero was so bitterly lonely.

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