* * *
Edward
* * *
My King is furious, and I can be thankful for two things right now: that the anger isn’t focused on me, and that he’s so very furious that I’m not sure if he’d remember to focus it on me if he could. It’s hard to tell - emotions from my King are so very cold and inscrutable... but very pure, in their own way. Crushing in their scale, so potent that they make you want to stop existing just so they’ll stop being focused upon you.
...Yes, I am very thankful my King has forgotten me in his fury.
How did we go wrong? I can’t see what we possibly missed. We had almost reached that core part of Ebre’schtullin-neh that he’d kept sealed away for so long. He’d all but given his will to live over to our King. Then he slipped out of our grasp as if he was never within our reach to begin with. Not just that core part... but all of Ebre’schtullin-neh.
He is no longer called by that name. Don’t bother according it. I did not realize that my King had been listening to my thoughts, and feel a tiny spike of alarm in that I haven’t been schooling them. But he sounds calm now - marvelously calm.
Perhaps I’ll live through this.
My King contemplates. I am allowed to see just what he is contemplating - he wonders how some other entity could possibly have stripped away the name he gave to... Ebrelle? Is it only that now?
Not even the name Ebrellin-i is left to him, and that was just a bare trace of the name I gave him... something for mortals to be able to pronounce in their own societies. Something they could imagine to worship him by, instead of me.
Then my King leaves me out of just what he thinks, and I’m left to wait for the next thing he says:
Perhaps things must change for the Throne, after they have persisted so marvelously as they were for such a long time. I feel that anger rise again, then feel that anger become focused, channeled, sharpened and aimed.
One target has been lost, but Jhe h’Logos still remains, though we’ve no way to reach him now that he’s shielded. But that will not stop my King. No... he has nothing else to attack, now. He can focus everything onto that location.
He’ll break those wards if it takes everything he has. I feel him pull me into the assault, and realize that if he’s successful, I’ll break the wards.
* * *
Stevane
* * *
This is a pretty easy fight to provide Poetry backup for. The present Armed and the pirates are more than enough to deal with the arachnids attacking the Halls. Especially now that I’ve taken over the quill instead of this man who looks so much like Jhe h’lete--
He um... he doesn’t write like Jhe h’lete, though. Too much flourish, too many dramatic notions packed into one passage, too much scatterbrained lack of focus instead of the dignified order that I’ve come to expect of Jhe h’Lete’s work. I learned from that focus and detachment... it’s the sort of thing that makes it a lot easier to write one’s brother in a fight against gigantic, slavering monsters and not feel tension about whether he’s going to live or die.
...Well, maybe that’s more from being an Akribastes.
I can say one thing - the fight’s turned a bit more vicious now that I’ve taken over. There’s some arachnids that ought to have died long ago, but this Jhe h’Lete-alike apparently likes to play around instead of getting to business. The spiders get dispatched a lot faster now, and I start to think that this fight might wrap up pretty quickly.
Then my quill skitters across the surface of the parchment, followed by a dark little chasm of ink, and everything starts to slip out of my grasp. I’m pretty sure one of the pirates just managed to get himself killed!
I scribble something down and manage to save him by a hair. Considering the penchant for the dramatic that the first writer here had, it’s not that difficult of a conversion.
Then it’s as if someone puts their hand over mine and guides my hand to write for them. I’m in so much shock over it that for a moment, I let it happen. It’s just... so familiar. It’s how we’re taught in the Poet Hall at certain points, especially if a teacher has to step in and pull us out of a bad turn in our work directly. Some teachers prefer not to be so invasive, but it’s a favorite technique of--
My eyes narrow.
“Uncle Edward’s writing,” I manage to spit out through my concentration. I’m trying to block as best as I can, but Edward’s strong. He’s older than me and more experienced, but I never thought he had this much raw power behind his writing! It’s so hard to move my hand where I want it to, but I press in with every bit of will I’ve got...
And still it’s not enough. The words march on outside of my own volition, and nothing I can do will change them.
* * *
Luciprochoros
* * *
There’s something more to Jhe Ales now - that spark in his eyes isn’t flaring so bright anymore, but he definitely seems... more here. He pulls himself up, gathers his focus, and in one moment seems to be everything he should be, everything Elete’s potential ought to have led to.
Then he collapses to the floor, unconscious.
I close my eyes, massaging my brow. Nothing is simple today.
“Uncle Edward’s writing.” Stevane’s voice is so tense and terse that I’m alarmed by the tone before I’m alarmed by the message -- and then I leave worrying over Ales to the Captain, who is surely more experienced in that matter anyway.
My son. I don't want to think of him like that right now - it just makes things complicated. I don't want to think of how this is a man I raised from a baby, who I always marveled at all the infinite potential of from that young age, who I waited excitedly for in anticipation of just what he could show the world. All of that, and some part of me has disowned him already. I couldn’t tell you why it was easy.
But this, this is hard.
“Just focus,” I say, putting my hands on her shoulders. I close my eyes and concentrate. I can reach him as Jhe h’Logos... but I’m afraid of what I’ll find as a Father. I can’t let that stop me, though. There’s too much at stake, and what Edward has already done is unforgivable.
...Well, if there is something to forgive, I'll leave that to the Advocate. She's his sister, not his Father. Maybe that will make it easier for her.
It’s so easy to sense Edward’s energy - he’s attacking Stevane directly, after all. I start to wonder how he’s even able to do it - his Poetry should turn back on himself if he attacks Jhe h’Logos. Or rather, the stronger Poetry should counter. Is there something I don’t know? It seems a little silly to ask, considering that I’m the Song and all, but so much has been revealed lately that we knew nothing about...
In any case, the theory doesn’t matter, because Edward is still attacking with as much as he’s got... and more. There’s a power backing him, something that almost makes me shudder. What is it? Is that Nul? I can’t see it exactly, but Stevane remembers that particular resonance of energy--
--It was all over Lyiannethe, Unkie, the Kommissar reeked of it too--
She’s half cringing, half holding herself back from attacking with her Arms. In such constrained quarters, and with her recent awakening, it likely wouldn’t go well.
Then I don’t have any time to notice such things, because Edward notices me.
--sorry Jhe h’Logos, but you’d have done yourself a favor to stay dead the last time--
I hate this crown.
* * *
Edward
* * *
It's really not so bad of a crime, is it, to attack and kill a man who is already dead? Jhe h'Logos surely needs to move on to the Void, where he belongs. And after all, he was sick for so much of his life - it'd be a pity to leave him wounded and living, with so many duties burdening him.
...And I could take over those duties, soon enough. There's no reason to linger here, Jhe h'Logos. Just make this easy for yourself. Don't you want to rest?
There's no reply. Strange, but... I prefer it that way. I'm still a little ashamed... hearing Jhe h'Logos's voice would make it harder, I think. Better to make it quick now, while he's apparently stunned.
Except... how?
We still can't reach through the wards, I say to my King.
Then use your tool as you should have already.
Ah, yes. My darling little tidbit. She’s finally doing as she’s told. Her Poetry’s certainly potent enough for the killing stroke. Time to make her useful. I command her quill to move as I and my King bid it to.
I wait.
Why... why is nothing happening?
No, something is happening - just not much of it. She’s blocking, that’s what it is. She’s found some hidden willpower, I suppose, or a new reserve of energy. Well, she may be resilient, but she can’t stand up to the might of both myself and my King combined. If she won’t relent then...
Then we’ll just have to crush her until she knows her place.
I focus more of the power and rage of my King at Stevane. It doesn’t touch her yet, but soon it will. It’s just a matter of waiting--
You should cease this pointless cruelty, Edward.
I didn’t want to hear him! I didn’t want to hear him! I try to shut the voice out of my mind and pretend I never heard it. Surely my King will aid me in this - he so loves muting my memories.
But no... before I can request such a blessing, I realize there is something different about Jhe h’Logos’s voice. Something in the pitch. In the sound of it...
No, that’s not possible. That’d mean he sounded like a completely different person.
Then I realize that Jhe h’Logos, being King of the Poets, would easily be able to make a feint such as that. Changing his voice to throw me off and divert the attack from Stevane...
Very clever, but you can’t fool me! I know who you are, Jhe h’Logos!
There’s a wave of sadness that almost topples me. No, no you don’t. Jhe h’Logos still speaks in my Father’s voice, for whatever reason. I don’t understand it, and I don’t have a chance to. In the moment of my confusion, he counters.
* * *
Stevane
* * *
I push the quill across the page, rejoicing with every tilt and jaunting step it makes. This is no longer Edward's writing. Somewhere between Unkie and I's voices is a harmony, and in that harmony echoes the Poetry I'm inscribing.
It makes it easier to write what we're about to write. My inability to counter Edward’s level of power is offset by Unkie’s ability to do just that, and Unkie’s hesitation to strike Edward is negated by the rage and volatility that’s so hard for me to hold in check now that I’ve awakened as an Armed. Somewhere between us we find the equilibrium that’s necessary to strike Edward.
Besides, I say to Unkie, if you help, what I do can be tempered.
I sense the barest of nods from him as he anticipates my plan.
I stop writing, but my quill keeps moving. The motions are for a different purpose, though - for drawing. I manage a quick, passable sketch of Edward. Unkie lends the gracenotes to it, adding the little touches that give the drawing life. Unkie knew Edward better than I ever did - of course he’d be the most apt at rendering him quickly.
I hold up the quill over one of Edward’s eyes. I want to gouge it out. My Arms crave that sort of victory, that level of Justice. Unkie considers it. With his guidance, I swipe the quill over Edward’s eyes, stitching them shut instead of putting them out. The attack on Unkie shudders and weakens.
But it still persists. Uncle Edward was always so stubborn.
The ears are the next obvious point of attack. Unkie stifles my urge to just lop them off - that won’t really do nearly as much as stopping them up with a good blob of ink for each. I make sure to focus on how sticky the ink is, how near-to-impossible it would be to wash it off. It registers a bit of a response, but still Edward presses on, as expected.
We’ve planned for it, though. Unkie reins in my quill’s desire to skate sideways over Edward’s neck and slit his throat. He guides my quill upwards instead, to the mouth. The marks to stitch it shut are simple and quick to draw.
After that, Edward’s attack ceases entirely.
* * *
Edward
* * *
I try to hear the commands of my King, I really do. Our bond is too strong to be broken by someone as weak as Jhe h'Logos, let alone a fledgling like Stevane.
But all I hear is silence, and everything around me goes numb.
Being in such a bleak place as Nul, where very little is felt or heard or spoken, made me convinced that there could be no further detachment from the world. I was wrong. Isolated from isolation itself, all I can do is writhe - or at least, I think I writhe. I can't tell anything anymore, really. Certainly can't serve my King, even though I long to - possibly in self-defense. He shall be so infuriated. But I can't hear, can't speak, can't even feel. A shroud's been put over me.
Is this death, or is it worse? Time stretches out until it's long and thin, until it's nothing at all.
* * *
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