He learned of the truth of his family from Calvin, of their ritualistic sacrifice of living beings. But for what purpose? Why would they not seek to destroy such an iniquitous source? Millions of questions swam in Daevarro's head, but he had to finish what he started. In order to walk along this path into the future with Raphael and his new friends, this needed to leave him.
Indeed, in order to move on with his own life, just like he promised his sister...he had to let go of everything. Let go of his mentors, his family, their practices and ways; of his very past. In deep-seated anguish, Daevarro's right hand latched onto the nearby rock, his fingers wrapping painfully, firmly around this stone.
There was no turning back from this decision, he realized, staying him with great hesitance. But he had to persevere over his doubts, his disinclination, forcing his hand to open. In perhaps the most difficult act he had ever committed, he lifted this rock above his head, feeling its weight like everything was in his hands. And before his eyes, full of melancholy and agony, his arm came down. The rock smashed against the pendant, this accursed, evil trinket.
Repeatedly, Daevarro hysterically drove the rock down. He needed to completely and utterly annihilate the evil, not simply cast it away. And in the back, the Lamian Shakir's face had lost its bronze color, paling in horror of Daevarro's action. He grew speechless, his voice breaking right in the middle of the song. His body flung from the ground, darting over to the dark-robed youth as quick as lightning.
Without hestiation, the Lamian shoved Daevarro out of his way. And there it was, that most-sacred artifact, vessel of his goddess's essence. "What are you doing?!" Shakir drastically spoke, trying to scoop the pendant off of the ground.
"It's evil, it needs to be destroyed!" Daevarro strongly insisted, pushing Shakir away before he could nab the pendant.
The two desperately struggled for supremacy, for possession over the pendant. It fell into their hands back and forth, but Daevarro managed to get the final say. He quickly lunged the rock down as hard as his frail muscles would allow, and the rock thundered down upon the black stone.
It fractured, shattering like Daevarro's dearly-departed memories, his past, everything he was. And Shakir stared, stared upon its broken remains, agape and distraught. To his dismay, he heard the startling, heart-wrenching crack ring out through the immediate threshold. Yet this crack was accompanied by a frightening noise, a deep, menacing voice, like a demonic hiss, came through, broadening Daevarro's face. Then, oozing out from the pendant's splintered husk, was a perplexing, ethereal, blood-red mist, glowing in a similar fashion to Daevarro during the fight.
"No..." Shakir uttered in defeat, frantically scrambling over to the shattered remnants of his goddess's pendant. He preciously clasped what little remained of it, seemingly oblivious to the apparently wicked nature of the pendant. Sullen-eyed, he watched the essence seep out as though mourning.
But then, as the essence of Lamia faded, his melancholy transformed into wrath. His head snapped towards Daevarro, glaring at him with a malicious sneer. He lunged his hands, his fingers violently twisting up into the remains of Daevarro's collar.
"Have you gone mad,
laacrán caza!?
" Shakir furiously shouted. "Why did you destroy
drág Essa's
pendant!? Why?!"
"And why shouldn't I have!?" Daevarro countered with quickness. "That pendant, it was evil! I
had
to destroy it!"
"'Had to' or 'wanted to'?" Shakir angrily pulled Daevarro closer to him. "You may be able to fool everyone else,
laacrán caza,
but you can't fool me. I know of your feelings towards
drág Essa,
your antipathy, your grudge. All you want is revenge against her for not protecting those heathen cultists!"
"What? No, no, that's not why I destroyed it. The pendant was evil! Didn't you see or hear what was coming out of it!?"
"You don't understand anything at all, boy," Shakir growled heinously, releasing Daevarro with thorough frustration. "...As I expect from your kind."
Shakir's words departed a sense of confusion unto Daevarro. He watched in speechless silence, seeing the angry Lamian beginning to devotedly scoop up every single piece of his goddess' shattered pendant. Their size was barely a concern to him, picking up every piece, big and small.
Once he gathered them all together, Shakir impatiently removed himself from Daevarro's presence. His motion headed off into the position of his fallen comrades, gently placing those broken pieces into a small pouch meant to hold coin. The Lamian having abandoned him, Daevarro was left all by his lonesome. His subtly glowing eyes turned outwards, the dusk sun reflecting off of their hazel pigment.
Questions of whether or not he took the correct action churned around in this restless cauldron called his mind. These many doubts which have culminated through his year in this foreign land, his many feelings which he grew. The friendships and connections he had established, the things he had learned, the many places he had seen... Daevarro braced himself for his new tomorrow, just as if the sun were setting upon this chapter of his life.
Yet, as the sun had begun to set upon this day, the ravenousness of the Alverrian savages had only just begun. With no one there to stop them, they eagerly, excitedly took flight. They practically soared off of their feet, running around and pillaging everything they laid eyes on. And Raphael Divus Barn, bringer of these lawless animals, raced through this hell with the swiftness of foot. Upon this day, as the air filled with smoke and howled with screams, every street, every corner, every familiar inch of Governanti became an anarchist paradise.
No, the Alverrians were not bound to those pesky laws and orders of society. They vandalized, looted, and killed whatever and whoever they wanted. Countless of these savages went from building-to-building, plundering those already-ransacked insides, and dragged out whatever they wanted. Some wanted gold and valuable objects, others had something else in mind.
Yes, Raphael and Calvin watched as some dragged out people. They heard as their disturbing laughs entered their threshold, dragging out either what seemed to be human slaves or unconscious gods. Each human fought valiantly, desperate to not become a victim to the grotesque desires of the Alverrians.
But it mattered not, Raphael and Calvin hearing their blood-chilling shrills as the Alverrians committed their unconscionable acts. It happened everywhere: inside their raided homes, in alleyways, even out on the open streets. Watching all of this occur right in front of him, as innocent people ran and screamed for their lives, Raphael's heart sunk. The streets became literal anarchy, even the soundscape was chaotic. And this was a revelation to Raphael, revealing the truth of his victory to him...
...This victory was a caricature.
It brought not the justice, the liberation, the emancipation he envisioned. His march upon Governanti was to become a harbinger of change, to undo this malignant system of oppression. But as much as it burdened Raphael's heart so, he couldn't allow himself to lose focus upon his objective. His feet raced ahead of him, and a sorrowful Calvin kept up with him every step of the way.
As they rushed, heading constantly straight forward down this great Adamas Road, they gandered upon a heart-sinking sight just ahead of them. Their eyes fanned out across this scene of devastation, examining the destroyed buildings and countless corpses of Governanti soldiers and nobility. Their bodies made a nightmarish landscape piece, with plains and hills blanketing the immediate distance.
They slowly traverse the area, yet then their eyes fixated upon the scrawny figure of a familiar someone...
Raphael froze, beholding the bloodied sight of the fallen genius. As for Calvin, Raphael himself acknowledged a sudden emotion overcome the assassin. Yes, one could practically hear Calvin's heart crash as his pale blue eyes located Telvern. His face grew long with shock, his eyes broadened, his jaw dangled as though broken.
"Egghead..." Calvin muttered under his breath, a sense of horror hung beneath its quiet tone. His walk became a panicked flight, a sight which Raphael never thought he'd ever see from someone as laid-back and calm as Calvin. The assassin bolted off of the ground, running swifter than the wind.
"...Egghead! Egghead! Egghead," he continued to franctically shout, scrambling over to the side of his bloodied friend. The distraught Calvin ran past and over the corpses of the dead, paying them no mind in this instance. Quickly descending onto the ground, he horrifically examined Telvern's state of disrepair. Telvern's sickeningly bleached complexion was dull and lifeless even as it glistened in the sun, his glasses fallen from his face, and his black clothes were drenched in crimson.
Yet the worst detail came from Telvern's breathing pattern, which seemed virtually non-existent. His weakly body simply laid there, frontside down, a sight like kindle to the flame of Calvin's concern. Calvin's heart sank further and further with every detail he noted, thoroughly convinced of his friend's passing.
Yet his eyes located a perplexing sight, for the fingers of Telvern's left hand appeared firmly locked with conviction. He was holding onto something, a locket of some kind, the likes of which Calvin had never seen before. Yes, even in death, it seemed Telvern still couldn't let go of her... Allowing not another moment of inaction to pass, Calvin quickly fastened his hands around Telvern and flipped his limp body around.
Before his panic swamped him like he were a boat, the pale blue eyes of the alarmed assassin scanned the bloodied sprawl that was Telvern Thaddeus, searching for a sight to explain the horrendous amount of blood.
Yet, much like Daevarro in the past, a comprehensive search brought no further clarity to this sight. Aside from blood trickling down Telvern's mouth, there were no visible wounds on his person. And so, Calvin's hysteria finally got the upper hand, an overwhelming surge which prompted him to start shaking his friend.
"...Egghead!" Calvin called out desperately, shaking Telvern's body vigorously as though trying to wake him from a coma. "C'mon, I haven't even apologized ta ya yet! C'mon! ...Telvern! Telvern! TELVERN...!!"
The silver-haired prince Raphael Divus Barn peered down upon this hectic attempt to awaken Telvern from an eternal slumber. His ears barraged by the crackling voice of Calvin, his sorrowful beseeches to his soulless friend. Entire minutes past like sand sifting through the hourglass of life, and nothing would come out from Telvern. Not a sound or breath, not a piece of it. The average person would have relented and surrendered, a thought which did cross Raphael's mind. Yet Calvin's efforts remained steadfast, even as the situation grew ever-more hopeless.
It was then, even as all hope seemed to fade, that a miraculous noise entered into the atmosphere like the softest, most precious whisper. It came again, then again, the deathly sound of life passing from between Telvern's lips. His chest weakly, painfully expanding and deflating, pumping out these wheezing, shallow, terribly unhealthy breaths.
And in the next instance, Telvern's eyelids then slowly pulled asunder, seeing the smiling face of his former comrade. Yes, through all of the panic and fear, Calvin was grinning from ear-to-ear, elated to see his friend alive...
...Yet, this smile began to dwindle, for Calvin's pale blue eyes met with the soulless gaze of Telvern Thaddeus. He stared not upon anything in particular, not Calvin nor Raphael, but hopelessly into the burning sky. Dismay and despair flooded Calvin's heart, for a heart-rending revelation became quite lucid. Telvern's presence woefully boded, crestfallen and disheartened to awaken once more to this world which he so despised. His intentions this day were not to survive this fight, and his current, near-death state was not the result of an accident...
Calvin's ears then picked up upon the sound of footsteps echoing from behind him, finding Raphael standing just beside him. "...Calvin," earnestly did Raphael name the sorrowful assassin, his glowing purple eyes not budging from the sight of the lifeless genius. "Go back to the others."
"I can't," Calvin aggressively refused. "I gotta stay here and—!"
"—This isn't a negotiation," the silver-haired prince's voice fiercely penetrated Calvin's emotional plea, instilling in him only a sense of sadness and frustration. Calvin sat there in his silence, his eyes falling upon only Telvern. He adamantly rejected this command, this idea of forsaking his comrade, his friend, in such a state of despair. Yet the assassin then felt a comforting warmth envelop him, tenderly wrapping itself around his grief.
"Please... You must depart us," Calvin then heard that motherly voice speak to him, a voice he instantly recognized as Lamia's, the goddess whom he faithfully served. "I feel this melancholy in your heart,
Palaemmir.
You desire to reside here for the sake of your companion, I understand. But you are a shepherd, and a shepherd must tend his flock. You must go to them, as Astrid herself would before you."
Calvin sighed most heavily. "...Yeah, I know," regrettably, the assassin acknowledged the truth behind Lamia's words.
With great reluctance, Calvin ripped himself off of the ground. His eyes fell down upon Telvern for one last moment, disheartened by this that he had become. Then, in perhaps the most painful moment of his life, Calvin turned his cheek the other way. He tore his eyes off of Telvern, affixing a strong, sympathetic gaze upon the stoic silver-haired rebel Raphael.
"Help him...please," before walking away from this most-agonizing scene, Calvin genuinely pleaded this request. And Raphael, without resistance or restraint, silently nodded in affirmation. Calvin rested with assurance, knowing Raphael would do what it took to salvage what's left of the lost soul. But if anything else, Raphael wanted to save this uncle of his, this brother of his mother; the only family of his remaining.
With a trade of firm glances, Calvin departed Raphael's presence, departed Telvern's side. His feet tread over the bodies of the fallen, hustling through the anarchy which engulfed the city wholly... Calvin disappeared from sight, and both Raphael and Telvern were left simply to themselves. As the dying sun continued to pour little remained of its life down upon the people of this world, Raphael's eyes found Telvern once more, seeing as the genius continued to gaze up into the sky.
Telvern's soulless brown eyes then slowly shifted to his west, locating Raphael and the weapon locked in his left hand. The Arbandor shimmered with an otherworldly luster, and its sight prompted a question to pass Telvern's lips, "So...it's done, is it?"
"Yeah," Raphael answered, choosing not to disclose the truth about Lucia's absence.
"Was...your victory...worth it?"
Raphael then deeply, troubledly sighed, closing his eyes. "To be honest, I don't even know... Everything that I've seen, everything that I've felt, it's nothing like how I imagined it to be. I thought defeating Balor would be liberating, but...it's only burdened me further."
"...Good," Telvern's brief response took Raphael by surprise, forcing his eyes open with strong reaction. "You would be...no better than him...if you felt...nothing in the end."
"...No," Raphael rejected somberly. "I've brought nothing but destruction and chaos onto Governanti. The people I am to govern have lost everything, and the people I vowed to free are to become enslaved even further. We were desperate and we needed the Alverrians, I know, but... The price of victory was too high, yet I paid it anyway. And that makes me no better than Balor."
"...Nothing...is ever won...without sacrifice, Raphael," Telvern replied fragilely. "Balor's...rise to power...was like a staircase. He always looked upwards, without...acknowledgement...or concern of...just who he...stepped upon...on his way up. But you...your ascension...is like a ladder. Every rung...you grab ahold of...you come face-to-face...with everyone and everything...you've sacrificed. You see your mistakes, your...wrongs...and you labor to...to lift yourself above them... And that is why...you are better than Balor..."
"...But is that really enough to justify our actions?"
"I once...served as...Lord Divus's advisor and...like you, I...concerned myself...with such things. I was...skeptical...of every word I said...questioned every action...I took. No...matter what...my advice to...Lord Divus...always considered...the people...first and foremost. And with my...wealth, I...purchased slaves...from their abusive masters. I...took them in...fed them, clothed them, sheltered them...because that was what...I believed was right. But...because of my 'right' action, I...invited the Governanti Resistance...in. And...as a result, I...lost Jeanne...our child...our future...everything..."
Listening as Telvern struggled immensely to offer him his most honest, sincere advice, just as he formerly did for his father, Raphael's expression grew dark and solemn. He tried to envision the unimaginable lost Telvern had sustained, aching his heart to the point that his whole body shook. Yet the life of these haunting, heartrending thoughts was ephemeral, cut short by a sudden, tumultuous bombardment of coughs blasting through the air.
Hurriedly, Raphael's eyes relocated Telvern, watching as his uncle's body grew violently animated. "Hey, you all right?!" Raphael inquired worriedly, his youthful, but beaten face broadened with alert.
Finally, after an excruciating eternity, the vicious assault diminished. Telvern's body rested once more, but Raphael grew bothered with the state he was in. Indeed, his uncle looked like a man standing in Death's doorway. Freshly-spewed blood rolled down the sides of his mouth and down his face, his breathing empty and decrepit. He took in one horribly ailing gasp for breath, coming in as a disturbing wheeze.
"It seems I...miscal...culated," Telvern's shaken voice spoke out into the world, sputtering blood with every word he so very frailly uttered. "...I...overestimated...my body's...dependency...on its Adama...energy..."
Telvern then turned to Raphael once more, sincere and begging for his attention. "Listen...to me, Raphael," Raphael's ailing uncle implored. "You are...to become a king, a...ruler, j-just...just like your father. You mustn't...obsess or doubt yourself...over something as...indefinite as 'right' and 'wrong.' As a king, you...must transcend above...such fickleness... You must...do what is important, what is...necessary for your people...even if their voices raise up in...protest. They may...condemn you, even...hate you...but you must always...push forward. As long as you...keep moving, they will...eventually come to...understand you..."
