...Yet ever so was the light resilient, defying the dark like a human's will to survive. Radiant beams fought through the fickle nature of the darkness, piercing through the veils of stained glass like javelins. As they bled through the glass, they transcended beyond their simple, humble forms. They became rays of celestial, pearlescent light, flourishing most resplendently in the darkness.
The two brothers basked and burdened this light, feeling the iridescent breath of their forefathers and foremothers. They both stood stagnant in the images of kings and queens, allowing their bodies a moment of reprieve. Yet this rest was brief, ephemeral, for action was about to be sprung.
Wanting not to further waste their emotions with mere words, the two brothers -- the two eternal opposites -- began to charge at each other. And although their minds had been sharpened with earnest intention, their bodily fortitude had been severely compromised. Their legs were without coordination, wobbling with weakness and exhaustion underneath them.
The room resounded with the desperation of their staggering footsteps, a grand crescendo before the conclusion. Their image locked in each other's eyes, beholding the truest form of the brother they wished to kill. They stumbled their way towards each other, nearly collapsing at least a handful of times along the way.
And their moment came. Their dominate hand raised against one another, bound to deliver a momentous, concluding blow. Their hardened fist swung fast and true, driving forward a powerful punch into each other's face. The thunderous force of their collision tore the brothers away in opposite directions.
Raphael limply fell off of his feet in the aftermath, overcome by Balor's power. But Balor remained sturdy, shaken and stunned, but on his feet. His senses gradually recovered, wiping away the excess blood and saliva which had escaped his mouth. He planted a stern eye upon his opponent, whose body laid flat against the ground.
It would seem that the immense, godly strength of Balor's punch had rendered Raphael unconscious, a sight which the exerted king had long sought after. Balor's tiresome blue gaze turned westward, fixated upon a glint in the near distance, the reflection of light shining off of Raphael's forsaken side-arm. Ready to finally bring an end to this duel for everything, Balor carried himself over to the dagger's side. He slowly reached down for it, cradling his fingers around its wooden handle.
Setting his sights upon the end now, the charcoal-haired king dragged his aching body back over to where his unconscious opponent laid. He stood overtop Raphael now, dropping down onto a knee. He raised up the dagger like an ice-pick, his Utopia nigh of his grasp. All that was required of him now was to deliver the final blow, the quietus to this chaotic war, this chaotic feud...
...But before his eyes, Raphael's body suddenly shifted. And before his eyes, the glimmer of adamas was unveiled from underneath Raphael.
Balor's eyes expanding, his Solasúian senses alarming him of a sudden, unexpected threat. His adamas chainmail like paper, for it bore effortlessly straight through it. Balor very urgently brought his left hand up to defend against it, latching onto it as it pierced into him. With all of his might, he managed to halt its steadfast pace.
Before the widened eyes of the king was his opponent, his brother, his would-be usurper. Yes, much to Balor's distraught, Raphael was awake the whole time. Raphael gazed solemnly upon Balor's shock, his hands wielding the ancient sword of the king against the king.
It may have been that Balor ceased Raphael's initial attempt to kill him, yet the Arbandor's beautiful tip had entered into his body. His blood flowed freely down his abdomen, soaking into the carpet below. And with this loss of blood, Balor's strength, already heavily compromised, diminished further.
The pain distorted his face, feeling as Raphael forced the blade further inward. Balor dropped his dagger and intent to kill, funneling all efforts into preserving his own life. He desperately grabbed ahold of the Arbandor as it sunk deeper into him, trying to save himself from death. He was comforted, having halted the blade's destructive progress once more.
But his heart would drop, for his survival was only a temporary condition. With a resounding roar, Raphael's biceps bulged and produced the strength necessary to finally overpower his brother. He laboriously pushed the Arbandor through the final inches of flesh remaining, and its glorious, bloodied adamas blade suddenly came out through Balor's back.
Raphael breathed tiredly, having completely impaled through Balor's body. He adversely eyed Balor's breathless expression, seeing then as the look of Balor conformed to the situation. The bravado, the ambitions, the visions of him and his sister and their dream Utopia, they had all begun to fade. Yes, Balor knew it, despite his disdain for this most harshest of truths. He knew, in this seemingly preordained battle for everything, that he...had lost.
Having ascended onto their feet during the power struggle, Raphael lunged his left foot forward into Balor's severely damaged body. The kick forced the Arbandor out of Balor's abdomen, and it sent him weakly staggering backwards. The mortally wounded king then began to descend, having stumbled into the first step of the dais that held up the throne.
Fallen, crashing into the uneven terrain beneath him. Balor laid there at the foot of the throne, his left arm draped along its arm, his right hand clinching futilely onto his wound. His vitality poured out of his severed vessels with frightening swiftness, washing these illustrious steps meant only for royalty in the blood of royalty.
The victor of this all-deciding struggle, the silver-haired, rebellious brother by the name of Raphael Divus Barn, stood before his mortally wounded enemy. He had long worked for this, sowing his many losses like seeds, only for them to sprout nothing but disappointment. But upon this day, he could finally behold the fruit of his many excruciating labors.
...And yet, this fruit tasted strangely bitter. No, this moment of prominence felt very little like it was supposed to feel like. Raphael imagined that surely the sight of Balor, the one who stole everything from him, dying would provide some level of comfort, alleviation. But there was not a trace of relief or closure, nor was there a sense of triumph or accomplishment.
Yes, even in all of his anger, in all of his pain, Raphael wished that it didn't have to be this way. He was, at his core, still the same person he was back then, that kind, gentlehearted soul...
Raphael stepped closer to his now dying enemy, drawing the eyes of the Loyal Knights around like hooks into his back. His body language relaxed, yet it began to grow heavier. This fight for his life, this fight for everything, was over, and the adrenaline had begun to slow. Yet Raphael pushed his fatigued body forward, stepping afore the bloodied king. The weary purple eyes of the rebel pulled northward, fixating upon a most unusual sight...
In these final moments of life, feeling his horrific agony grow colder and colder, the dying king Balor lifted his right hand to his face. He glanced upon it, beholding his gauntlet's adamas having gone completely red. He knew now that there was nothing he could do, that his fate was sealed. But there was no panic, no dismissal of his previous command unto his Loyal Knights. Instead, he seemed almost...satisfied, breathing as contentedly as his labored body would permit.
"...So, this is it, is it," Balor weakly conceded, limply dropping his bloodied hand back down to his side. "After all of the idyllic dreams, all of the careful plotting and murdering, this is how it ends..."
Balor closed his eyes, letting out a fragile grin. He was then swept up in a violent coughing spell, for his lungs attempted feebly to push out some type of laughter. "...Not quite the way I pictured it to be," oddly enough, Balor actually found himself joking with Raphael, the one who would take his life.
"...Nor I," after a long pause of silence, even Raphael grew possessed by this unordinary atmosphere, confessing this strange truth to the enemy he so loathed.
The king Balor then opened his dying eyes back up, recapturing the image of his brother Raphael. "It was quite an intriguing little war we waged...wasn't it? Two whole years of constantly trading blows, of inflicting pain on each other... And no matter how...confident I grew, you always...endured everything I threw at you."
"It wasn't easy."
"...It's rather amusing to think that I once...thought of you as just a nuisance, a mere speck of dust...to be brushed aside. Yet, in the end, the truth of my...paper-thin beliefs comes to light. I must congratulate you, Raphael... You've persevered over your 'tyrannical madman,' and now victory is yours."
"No, I haven't won just yet," the silver-haired rebel denied with a shake of his head. "If I am to become king, there's still one last thing that I must do."
It didn't take very long for Balor to catch on to what Raphael was talking about. Yes, Raphael watched as the grin of his enemy fell from his face. "Lucia..." Balor spoke the name of his beloved sister, his expression growing as somber as death.
"The moment you die, the Passage of Power shifts to her. She will inherit your role, becoming the true ruler, the true voice that every Governanti adheres to."
"...There is!" Balor, with all of the life left in him, vocalized, drawing Raphael's attention. "Lucia... Her truest beliefs are not found in my own. ...Try as I might to deny it so, but 'Elena' wasn't just some character she played, some role she acted. Elena
was
her. Truly. This dream Utopia of ours...was always just mine alone from the very beginning. She...doesn't want supremacy, she wants equality -- same as you!"
"She cares a lot about you, you know. Even in the Resistance, where everyone wanted you dead. It didn't matter what her name was or what her beliefs were, she was still your sister. She always stood up for you. Always."
"...She did?" Balor uttered in disbelief.
"She did." Raphael echoed the dying king with an affirmative, but reminiscent tone. "...When she realizes that I've killed that dear brother of hers, it won't matter if we want the same thing. I'm not going to be able to stop her, at least...not with my words."
"...I...I see," the dying Balor seemed to reside himself to his weakness, to his fate. No, there was nothing he could do to change the course of events now. Raphael took one final gander upon his dying foe, of his haggard body swathed upon the throne. His royal blood puddling upon the stairs, soaking into his tattered cape and armour.
With his memory stained with the image of his dying enemy, Raphael turned his cheek. He began to step away from his enemy, setting his sight upon the future. "...W-wait," a weakly voice suddenly beseeched him, halting his left foot in front of his right. The source of that ill voice was the dying king, Balor. "I must be...incredibly selfish to ask this of you, but I-I...have a request."
"What is it?" Raphael surprisingly returned.
"Please...t-tell Lucia that I'm...sorry."
Raphael was caught off-guard by Balor's request. Indeed, these were words he truly believed would never dare escape Balor's lips. "Sorry?" Raphael repeated with slight confusion, turning his cheek back in Balor's direction.
"I...ne-never apologized for...t-tearing our family apart." It was hard to hear, even for Raphael, listening to the crackle of emotion in Balor's voice. Yet this confession held an honest, genuine nature, the truest regret Balor had ever held. It took a lot of courage and gall to ask this of Raphael, the brother whom he stole everything from. But he was desperate, and he yearned for a death without regret...
"I'll tell her," graciously, Raphael obliged his enemy's request.
"...Thank you." Balor smiled. A smile that shrugged off his impending death, a smile that radiated bravery. Raphael witnessed these final moments of Balor's life, his hated enemy's demise pleasing a deep, ugly morsel of himself. Yet at his core, he felt no satisfaction, no gratification to behold this scene.
Indeed, in the aftermath of this exchange, even Balor's request alone, Raphael realized a truth: his elder brother was not the same person who so triumphantly stood overtop the body of their father... With the conclusion of this decisive battle for everything, Raphael weightlessly turned away and began to depart from his dying brother's presence.
Each row of the Loyal Knights who witnessed this fateful clash collapsed, but only as Raphael passed them. The row nearest to him fell inward, then the upcoming row, then the next. They faithfully stood by their pledge to their king, loyally following behind their prince.
As Raphael grew further and further from him, Balor used the last smidgen of his life to contemplate everything. From his childhood, to his adolescence, his days as a young adult, to here and now. Every face that he had ever met, hated, and killed. And his heart filled with the love and warmth he felt for those closest to him. Indeed, as generic as it may seem, the entirety of his fifty-three years of life came by in a flash. It departed a sense of wonder, of question, and a yearning for answers.
What if he had not slain his family? How different would he be, would Lucia be? Would they -- would she -- be happy there? The further he walked down this path, the deeper his grievances became...
Yes, as Balor continued to trek through this mountainous path of his destructive, conserving life, there was one last regret which lingered in his heart. He would speak it, yet his voice had gone hoarse. Sentences filled his mind, yet nothing but gasps parted his mouth. Those sad, painful breaths were stampeded upon, muffled under the thunderous, armoured march of those Loyal Knights.
Balor was forced to live with this one last regret in his final moments, agonizing over the thought of who it concerned. But as the light had begun to leave his eyes, the world around him glowed in those glorious, celestial rays of light. The entire throne room was spellbound, illuminated in this infinite spectrum of colors.
It was almost unnatural, this powerful light demanding to be noticed like the sun itself had grown attention-starved. And the attention of Balor was diverted, his tired eyes slowly gazing into the light pouring from the west. He found himself in the iridescent shadow of his father, just like it was in the beginning. These beams of light fell directly upon Balor, and the enfeebled son felt them like Divus himself were gazing down upon him.
The thought of his father's presence comforted the ailing Balor, who weakly reached out his hand. All Balor desired now was the forgiveness, the acceptance of his father. His blood-soaked hand dripped as it stretched out towards the image of Divus, this very same hand which stole away his life. He felt the gentle warmth of the light touch his frozen skin like a hand caressing his cheek, basking in this brilliant light as it came down upon him like a hand reaching out to his...
As Raphael reached those massive double doors which led back into the entrance hall, his ears caught a sound from behind him. This subtle, yet very distinctive sound reverberated across the atmosphere, freezing Raphael's legs solid. He knew what this sound was, what it meant, as did all of the Loyal Knights. All of them knew, yet not a soul chose to turn around and look back.
Raphael chose not to avert his eyes from his path ahead, unwavering in his goals. And the Loyal Knights, out of fealty or mere obligation, followed right behind him. But before he could leave this place, he did look back. His glowing purple eyes gazed off not into the dead distance, but what struck near and dear to him.
She was there, still right where he laid her. His mother laid there in the pool of her own blood, her son still fresh with it. Her face did not gasp for life, but rested peacefully in death as though she had simply fallen asleep. A deflation of his morale from her loss, especially given the circumstances, would be completely justified.
But to Raphael, her death was not wind shear, but a generous breeze beneath his wings. An updraft, carrying him to new heights. Raphael opened those grand double doors, given the nudge of confidence he required like his mother herself encouraged him on...
The prince departed the throne room, departed his mother and his brother. Before him stretched the magnificent foyer, stepping upon its intricately-patterned adamas floor alongside the devoted company of his Loyal Knights. Everything, no matter the size, was masterfully crafted, from every wall, to the ceiling, and the staircase at the center of the room. It gave a powerful, unforgettable impression, and it served as a proper introduction to anyone unfamiliar with Solasúian culture.
But to Raphael, its every detail were mere expressions of Solasúian vanity. The images of the toiling human were like insults, particularly the sculpture of the human slave holding up the stairs. Godkind, upon the backs of humankind, built this establishment of suffering and corruption. And Raphael, no matter the cost, intended to tear it all down.
His eyes fell upon one last insult to mankind, the image which stood upon the two double doors leading outward. It was a proud, grandiose representation of the Barn family's preeminent sigil: the great and powerful winged lion. A terrible reminder of humankind's plight. These extravagant doors parted before Raphael, his hands tearing them asunder just like his intentions with the godly society.
And before the princely eyes of the young Barn was the illustrious, stately courtyard. Yet its lavish walls echoed with the clamor of battle, turning this beautiful display of art and sculpting technique into a gruesome battlefield. Much to Raphael's relief, those who fought for him miraculously managed to stave off the elite Loyal Knights. Yet this lucky break was not without casualty...
Raphael immediately grew worried, realizing that he could actually
see
the battlefield, contrary to when he actually entered the Imperial Palace. Indeed, everyone could see what was going on around them. As Raphael emerged from those grand doors, every soul simply ceased their fighting and killing and gazed upon the silver-haired prince.
In his hand was the righteous blade of the king, and at his side were a dozen Loyal Knights. Every soul in the courtyard knew what this meant. Raphael, the rebel, had won. And Balor, the king, had lost... One of the Loyal Knights at Raphael's side marched just ahead of him, standing up straight and placing their left hand into the right side of their chest.
