"I see," Raphael mumbled, his bewildered expression loosening. His face fell once more, looking down upon life with a stolid expression. He knew that it was incredibly foolish of them, impossible even. Maybe one-hundred against tens of thousands? How ridiculous, Raphael thought, turning his head away. "...Not my problem."
Raphael stepped away, his body moving towards the wall from which he rose from. He sat down, his back leaning against its face. Caught off-guard by the silver haired young man's uncharacteristically callous response, Daevarro looked down with both an somewhat irritated and worried expression. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" the young man proceeded to question. "The Desert Assassins are all we have left, we've got nothing else. We can't just let them go through with this, they're too important."
"They're just going to throw their lives away regardless," he responded, his voice quiet and emotionless.
"Yes, but..." continued to speak the young man. "Wouldn't it be best if the Resistance were to collaborate with them, work together in a shared interest?"
"There is no "Resistance,"" Raphael then corrected, his cold as death eyes pulling slowly up to glance harshly upon Daevarro. "...If they want to be fools and get slaughtered, that's their fault."
Daevarro seemed bothered by Raphael's lack of empathy, of care over the people who gave them shelter. "They gave us somewhere when we had nowhere," Daevarro returned. "The very least we owe them is an attempt to stop them before they do this to themselves!"
"Don't even bother," the silver haired young man told Daevarro, who was utterly surprised by Raphael's lack of concern for their well being, especially after all they had done for them. "They've fooled themselves into thinking they've a chance against the Imperial Kingdom. If they're that deluded, then they're too far gone. There's no point in trying, it would just be a waste of breath."
Daevarro knew deep within himself, this person, this fellow whom he admired wasn't Raphael. He saw the look in his eyes; dead, life had all but disappeared. He looked utterly defeated, thrown in the towel, simply gave up on everything he once valued, maybe even his values in law and order. He was a husk, a shadow of his former self, a shattered, broken man. Heartless, soulless, no longer alive, just living.
But in all honesty, Daevarro certainly couldn't blame him for being that way. The back of his mind plagued with images of that day, hearing the voices of people screaming and the clashing of steel upon flesh. Looking down upon Raphael's head, Daevarro's eyes hung low. He looked over to the crowd, gazing them heavily, thoughtfully, with great concern.
Back inside the heart of the crowd, Calvin's left index finger tapped against the mapped out image of former City of White Knights Falador. "...an' we secure 'bout 'nother hundred soldiers," Calvin had explained, then sliding his finger from Falador to the capital. "Once we got 'em, I say we'd be good ta go fer the big cheese. We'll make way fer Governanti, sneak inta its walls an' infiltrate the castle."
Telvern crossed his arms. "And how exactly do you expect to get inside the castle?" he questioned with doubt, his voice attracting Calvin's eyes. "Does your plan end at just climbing up the usual way, somehow not getting noticed?"
Calvin smirked at Telvern's criticism, putting the genius off. "Yáatiq," he responded, almost as though he were naming someone.
"No offense, but what's Libitina going to do?"
Calvin shook his head. "Nah, not the boss," the assassin rejected.
"If not her, then who?"
"Momus," Calvin then named, his strong voice breaking Telvern's guard.
Indeed, the genius wasn't expecting that name to come up. "Momus?" Telvern repeated this absurdity. "As in Momus Bres Barn, the brother of Divus Nomos Barn?"
"How... surprising," the genius went on, genuinely shocked by this. Not even he knew, not even he suspected it. "I had never guessed Momus as a Lamian, especially a Lamian that holds the highest rank. Well, I suppose he always had this... oddness about him."
Telvern then clenched his chin, staring down at the table intensely. "Seems a little strange though," he thought, pondering that idea. "After all, the goal of any Lamian is the eradication of the Barn bloodline... That would make fulfilling his choice of religion's ultimate desire tantamount to suicide."
"Momus' prolly our oldest livin' member," Calvin stated. "I gotta good feelin' if Lamia ever met Momus, it wouldn't be like ya think!"
"Well, this is certainly unexpected," commented the genius, now trying to steer the topic back to the real subject. "So...
Momus
will assist in our entry, then...?"
"Put a blade to Balor's throat and shut him up forever," Shinon made his own answer, arrogantly, gleefully grinning as his mind pondered on the thought.
"...Yeah, dat," Calvin concurred in a questionable manner, not sure how to reply to Shinon's rather violent comment.
"And Lucia?" asked Telvern. "How exactly do you plan on dealing with her? What, smother her with a pillow while she's asleep?"
"Well, I figure dat's yer forte, egghead," he candidly replied. "Ya prolly know the princess betta than any-a us 'ere."
Telvern sighed. "Yes, I suppose," the genius reluctantly agreed. "Let's see, hmm... Well, Lucia is essentially impossible to kill, even able to live without vital organs. It doesn't matter how many times you stab her or how many gallons of blood she bleeds, approaching her like any ordinary Solasúian would be... well, idiotic."
"...Ya ain't makin' it sound possible there, egghead," the assassin remarked.
"...
But
disconnecting her spinal cord from the rest of her body would render her incapacitated," Telvern deduced, coming to a conclusion that brought Calvin's spirits back up. "A direct, precise strike to the top of her spinal cord, severing all ties to the rest of her body. That, in theory, should work... or you can just chop her head off. Whichever tailors to your needs the best, I suppose."
"Oh, dear," Calvin mumbled with a taut sweat, gulping as he began nervously rubbing the side of his head. "W-well, good, dat's good!"
The assassin cleared his throat, attempting to break up the angst over the idea of having to cut a person's head off, especially someone he actually knows. "Anyway, dat's it, folks," he announced. "Any questions?"
Everyone just stood there, eyes swaying left and right to see if someone might speak. Calvin scrolled his view across the trunk of this wide assortment of people, people of all different types of ages, backgrounds, heights, and races. Not even a gasp of breath flew out into the atmosphere, not a single noise came out. It was as still as the image of a painted portrait, as quiet as the moon.
From the back, Raphael and Daevarro had heard all that had transpired, and one of them wasn't thrilled with the idea of what they intended. But at this point, he didn't have the voice to speak. He just sat there, withdrawn and silent. Inside he stirred with anger, ireful of their plans. Yet at the same time, he simply didn't care.
A quick couple of seconds went on, and nothing was said. Calvin shook his head, acknowledging the readiness of his people. "All righty," he said. "We'll take our leave tomorrow, so git ready. Y'all are dismissed."
After his voice spoke it, the ears of his people caught it. Their black-clothed bodies dispersed like ants out from a ravaged hill, attempting now with everything to become mentally sharpened, honed for this moment. To finally grasp vengeance, to finally seek retribution for the loss of their queen, they were willing to give their lives to serve that purpose.
Between bodies in motions and his own thoughts and doubts, Telvern's steely brown eyes fall forward, landing down upon the assassin. A man who seemed to crave, to long for this moment, this opportunity. Like a gold digger waiting for a passing, Calvin could finally taste it on the tip of his tongue.
Telvern stepped off to his right, his left shoulder brushing just across Calvin's right shoulder. "I hope you're aware of the depth of the hole you're digging," the genius sincerely counted on, his voice dressed warmly with skepticism. "You'd be sending a lot of good people to their deaths if you just fed them sugarcoated messages and empty promises."
Calvin's head twisted in the direction of which he heard the genius' voice, finding a heavy look draped over his face. The two born upon this sand, having been friends once before, having been inseparable like brothers, now unable to see eye-to-eye. But finally, that moment came. Their eyes agaze upon the other, tense like the shaking of hands between the leaders of two warring nations.
Calvin simply smirked. "Don't ya worry 'bout it," Calvin assured him, so placid and at ease. "We got dis."
"I'm not quite confident in who I'm speaking to," the genius expressed. "Is it an ignorant fool or an arrogant imbecile?"
"Neither," Calvin quickly rejected, a very strong latch then fell upon Telvern's shoulder. The assassin had grabbed onto Telvern, trying to convince the unimpressed, unsure genius his strength of belief. "Trust me."
"I recall the last time doing that I felt the sting of a dagger in my back,"
Calvin closed his eyes, a thick breath then pushed out of his lungs. "Still on 'bout dat, huh?" he sighed sorrowfully, his pale blue eyes then looked back up at Telvern as his hand dropped from the genius' shoulder. "Eight years-a safe Solasúian walls an' rules an' yer still the same egghead dat I knew."
"Speak for yourself," replied Telvern, sounding almost irritated. Feeling this tree of conversation become fruitless, the genius forsook it. His legs working once more like a well-oiled machine, making him move with the air. Animated, departing from Calvin's presence, he just had to get away.
Calvin just watched as Telvern grew further away, his hands on his hips and he grew bothered by his former friend's constant distance. He angrily swallowed down his thoughts, pushing down the words his mouth yearned to have the opportunity to speak. He could wish now for another opportunity to explain himself, pour out pages and pages of his reasons to Telvern. But Calvin knew the genius wouldn't buy it, wouldn't even give it a second glance.
Walking from the northeastern corner of the room, stepping down upon stone floor, passing ancient pillars, taking in the resentment and glares of fellow black robes, Telvern's body passed with a strange chill. He felt a deep freeze overcome his body there for a moment, but it wasn't just cold, it was as black as a mourner's dress.
His knees grew stiff and unmovable like a frightened cat, the wave of anger and rage he felt was one he simply couldn't understand. Telvern felt it everywhere, surrounding him, cradling him in its hateful arms, pushing him against its lifeless carcass. His head rapidly twirled, gazing back at what was behind him.
But nothing caught his gaze, hooked his interest. So odd, this gelid, hollow wind that just skirted by him. Daevarro happened to take notice of this happening, his hazel eyes having the perfect view of Telvern's almost frantic attempt to make sense of what it was that he had felt. "Uh," said Daevarro. "Are you all right?"
It wasn't any ordinary motion of air, Telvern truly decided in his heart. There was just... something about it that truly bewildered him, perhaps one of the few things he could think about that he couldn't quite place an answer on. He shook his head to Daevarro, ripping his eyes off of the path behind him. "Y-yes," he replied, peering back upon the path before him. "Yes, I'm fine."
Calvin took notice of that moment too, hearing as the genius nervously stuttered. The fact is, the assassin couldn't even remember the last time Telvern stuttered, or looked that full of angst. He saw his face as he looked behind him, uncertainty and uneasiness had him by the throat for a second there.
His body finally given clearance to move again, freed from the strange, frigid snare that clasped him in its vise. Telvern just sighed, letting go of the troubled, uncomfortable, almost frightened feeling he had experienced. Or at least, he tried to, discarding it like a snake leaving behind its empty skin.
Doing as he was before that unexpected wind sideswiped him, Telvern's feet once more began finding new ground. Stomping down upon the stone that cried with an echo with each step, the genius rekindled himself, putting back on the steel armour. His hardened gaze bent over to the dark robed young man, seeing as he was already looking back at him. "How is he?" the genius asked Daevarro.
"Well, he talked, but..." the young man answered, but his voice ceased before he could finish his words. Alas, he lacked the ability to, lamentful of what it was that came from Raphael's mouth. Indeed, the person he spoke to was not the person he knew, very vividly did he remember the words Raphael had said to him. His utter lack of his trademark compassion, of his care, of his conviction and resolve.
Though the two stood near him and talked about him, it was like he couldn't hear. The world was deaf to Raphael, a quiet world full of nothingness. Like seeing and hearing the world from underneath ice, his body devoured by a absolutely gelid deep blue, the ocean known as himself. Banging hysterically against the ice, screaming with all of his might, feeling as he caved in on himself. Sadly, nothing he said or did made any difference, drowning slowly, ever so slowly.
His desperation lasted far longer than he bargained for, it felt like an eternity. But he gave up trying to fight, staring up at the people for whom he had suffered with. An emotionless, cold stance now he took upon the world, the old him no longer there. An hour or so passed, although he couldn't really tell, losing all concept of time as he knew it.
People felt as though they moved around him in fast forward, but he moved at a slow pace. His purple eyes slowly pulled upwards, staring off to his left. He saw Daevarro there far away from him, sitting at a table. Out in front of him was a old book thick with paper, its back bent awkwardly with a case of scoliosis.
Reading on with this book, absorbing all of its words like a siphon, his tranquil trance would be interpreted by words he felt he heard before. His hazel eyes stripped off of the inked paper for just a moment, tempted by the quiet choir of voices. He was drawn to it as though it were the most beautiful siren, his eyes gazing back at the statue of the goddess Lamia.
There, laying at her feet, were black robes upon their knees. They had their hand planted flat against the other, their heads hung down humbly and respectfully. Shakir, Kereske, and a few others among the enchanting song that played. "
O drág Essa, vern ala Jeen zérquil Álmou,
" they quietly murmured, their melodic voices a sweet whisper. "
Deni alásat idha nu flah caza Avae... Deni anfeen Ihe, anfes zigyán üban Duni, anfes verdenta Jeen Iimiov..."
They repeated, their hushed voices almost eerily, but it was calming, soothing. But to Daevarro, it was not one of soothing, but painful remembrance. Yes, he figured out why it sounded so familiar. Those were the words that Anabel spoke after she pushed Daevarro down the trapdoor, they so harshly haunt him. Though at the time he could barely understand them, he remembered as they rang out throughout the tunnel he ran down.
"Heya, shady," a familiar voice happily greeted Daevarro from behind him, Calvin sitting down right beside him. His pale blue eyes looked at Daevarro, seeing him almost startled, paralyzed by something from afar. Calvin grew concerned, worried by the young man's statue-solid appearance. "Somethin' the matter?"
"What are they saying?" Daevarro questioned without taking a look at Calvin.
Calvin peered off in that direction, seeing that the dark robe young man was looking upon the folks praying. "Oh, that's a song-a prayer called, "Verse One: Song of Protection,"" he answered.
The assassin then readied himself to follow in the choir's stead, except not in the Neheztelian language. He cleared his throat, readying his voice and lungs. Confidence was not a problem, he was good to go.
"O precious queen, guard of our beloved dreams,"
he beautifully sang, his vocals low at first, but by the sounds of it, they appeared now to be picking up.
"We humbly ask but one favor... We beseech you, please watch over us, please protect our souls."
Calvin's voice was utterly... spellbounding, absolutely magnificent, a profound beauty. Calvin put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, leaning back of his chair, his presence relaxed and at ease. He put his feet up on the table, rocking back and forth. "Somethin' like dat," he said, but then his right eye poked open, looking off to Daevarro. "Why ya ask?"
But then a thought crossed his mind, one that made him elated. He quickly hopped straight up, sitting like how a normal person should. "Oooo," he excitedly exhaled. "somebody gettin' curious?"
Daevarro shook his head. "No, it's just..." he denied, then sighing. "...I've heard it before."
The dark robed young man grew silent, and Calvin watched as a dark, melancholic dismay splashed like a bucket of acid upon his face, caustic, corroding any joy. Yes, he could take a guess, and it would be a very good guess. "Ah..." the assassin understood, closing his eyes. The message was sent, received.
Both of them reflecting upon that date, but their minds played two entirely different days. Daevarro tried with great effort to shake off that feeling, that blackness that tried to consume him, to reign over him. He pulled himself together, harnessing the willpower he buried deep within himself. The young man planted his eyes back down into that golden-brown earth, its grass the black ink that stained its soil.
His hazel eyes scrolled across pages depicted with information regarding all the many things that had been censored, hidden from him. No longer could those things escape his mind's grasp, he reached out finally to take what had long been kept locked away. Although his mind wondered exactly why that was, that wasn't the most important question on his knowledge-thirsty mind.
