"Nonsense," he returned, shrugging her off. "It has been tradition since Lord Nomos to have one's initiation wound be closed by the one who told them to cause it."
Lucia smirked, beginning to walk towards the table. "As you insist," she acknowledged, submitting to Momus. She sat down in the chair beside him, giving him her left hand. Momus' eyes gazed down upon her palm, seeing the long cut down across her hand. Her hand was covered in blood, still fresh.
Held in Momus' hand, a small case of which he opened. Revealed to him, a foot or two of surgical suture, a cloth, a bottle of medical alcohol, a small pair of scissors, and a needle all prepared and ready to go. He grabbed the cloth and the bottle of alcohol. He lightly trickled some of the alcohol upon the small cloth, readying it for the cleaning.
It then found her hand, lightly pounding it upon the wound. Lucia felt the sting of the alcohol, but she was barely fazed by it. Once the area was cleaned and disinfected, he put the cloth down. He then pulled out the needle, gripping it in his fingers. Once firmly in his hands, he pressed it into her skin, around the bottom portion of the wound.
The needle's tip punctured her flesh, bringing the suture with it. Lucia watched her uncle's needlework, watching the needle sail through her skin. She seemed curious, intrigued, but then her eyes turned to him. "Uncle," Lucia named. "may I ask a question?"
"You may," he confirmed, sewing up her hand.
"I spoke to Telvern before I left Lumbridge," she went on. "He told me about how there's this other bloodline of the Barn family, starting from when Lord Asmodeus supposedly had an affair and had a son by another woman. He told me that Lord Denrox was apart of this bloodline, and that he was Telvern's grandfather."
"That's quite a crazy story," he expressed, not taking his eyes off of her hand. "No doubt Lord Denrox was a horrible man, and I can imagine him doing Lord-Dias-only-knows what to his slaves."
"Telvern told me many things, none of which I can begin to... to believe," she explained to him. "So, I ask, would you trust anything he says?"
Momus froze solid as soon as she finished the question, still not bothering to look at her. Lucia immediately picked up on this sudden change, feeling the tension emit from him. He didn't even take a moment to breath, still like a windless night. It took him a minute, but he finally became animated once more. "Ask yourself this," he returned. "Would you trust an apple bitten by a snake?"
"No,"
"Then why would you ask if it's safe to eat?"
Lucia drew in breath into her lungs, letting it out in a sigh. "...My apologies, uncle," she said to him, saddened yet it sounded relieved.
"You've nothing to apologize for," he replied, putting the final touches on the mending of her injury.
The two then heard a knock at the door, Lucia turned her head to face it. "You can come in," the queen permitted. The familiar motion then played out, the door swung open. Behind the knocking, the king himself. His sapphire blue eyes gazed upon his sister, a smile upon his face. Lucia smiled back at him. "Hello, brother."
"Hello, sister," Balor greeted back, closing the door behind him. "Ah, I see Momus is 'practicing' his craft."
"Well, someone must since there's no one left," quickly flew Momus' voice, slightly and suddenly angered. Momus reached for a pair of scissors, putting it to the thread. He snipped the excess of the suture, finally completing his work. "There... all finished."
Lucia smiled and bowed her head. "Thank you," she politely thanked her uncle.
Momus began to put away the stuff he used, placing them neatly in the small case. "Just make sure you don't move that hand too much," he informed Lucia. "You'll reopen your wound if you do."
Balor stepped over to the two, his body turned to Momus. "Well, since you're done," said Balor. "If you could excuse us, I really must speak with Lucia."
"Intend to talk about your plans to attack Falador?" he said out loud and bluntly, causing Lucia to freeze just as he did.
"And if I intended to?" asked the king. "What, do you wish to convince her otherwise?" Momus closed the small case, turning to his brother's son. The two stared at each other, up close. Their eyes beamed upon the other, a trade of harsh glares. The two just stared off, stabbing their words into their opposite's eyes.
After a half of a minute of just digging into each other's face, Momus' face lightened up. He stepped backwards, bowing his head and placing his left hand upon the right side of his chest. "Of course not, sire," he very calmly denied.
"Yes," Balor then said, holding his hands behind his back. "Ever innocent, aren't we?"
"Indeed," replied Momus. "I would never betray you."
"No, you wouldn't dare," the king responded to Momus, his voice sarcastic and jokingly. "Now, if you would..."
"As you command, 'my lord,'" the uncle acknowledged, standing straight. Momus' light blue eyes then turned to Lucia, who was turned away from the two. His feet then began to make their move, slamming upon the soft carpet. His back to the siblings, but Momus was able to feel daggers get tossed into him like he was some kind of target.
His hand clenched the doorknob, pulling the door open. He slipped out, closing the door behind him. Balor then let go of his still, tense breath, releasing it into the air. He pushed his distrust aside, his mixed feelings. His rigid face lightened, loosening back to a calm, relaxed look. The king looked to his queen, seeing her beautiful eyes strayed away from him.
He placed his left hand upon her right shoulder. "Listen, sister," he softly spoke to her. "I didn't want you to learn this way, but indeed, that is why I've found you."
Balor raised his left hand up to shoulder height, his palm pointed up towards the ceiling. "You don't have to come with me if you don't wish to," he told her, making sure she knew.
"Why do you worry?" she questioned, her pale blue, glowing eyes relocated his face.
"Those hu—..." Balor explained, when suddenly he paused just as he was about to label them. He cleared his throat, staring off-course. His eyes then found themselves back upon Lucia. "...Those
people,
I'm sure, must be people you knew. I'm not going to force you to do anything, sister."
"I'm fine, brother," she assured him. She then let out a soft smile, relieving her concerned brother. "really."
"As you wish," he quietly confirmed, letting out a light grin of his own. "We are to leave whenever ready. So, queen, when will you be ready?"
"We can depart now if they're willing," she confirmed. Balor shook his head, acknowledging his sister's response. He then turned, facing the doors from which he came from. The room began to move passed him, his footsteps echoing throughout. Lucia's eyes followed him upon his back, her mind sent to dance with a devil. With a turn of the doorknob, Balor pulled open the door.
He stepped outside the room, closing it off from that place as he left. With a simple click and hammer, the door was now closed. She was left to herself, to win a war all alone. Lucia closed her eyes, gripping onto the handle of her new blade with her left hand. Words and assurances shot like a bombardment, crumbling the fortified walls of doubt. Elena faced extinction, a mass genocide of her entire army was in the midst of completion.
Like a captain to his ship, she chose to die along with her comrades. Lucia reopened her eyes, claiming an absolute victory. She had conquered Elena, thus winning her freedom. The onyx-headed queen then turned to the doors of which Balor disappeared into. She headed off into the fray, intending to reveal to the Resistance her truest self.
It had been a few days since Lucia's crowning, surely their arrival upon Falador was imminent. From a humble quiet to raging silence, he with the glasses stood. Though, to say he wore 'glasses' would be incorrect, since they were completely broken after the beating he endured. He was caged just like his mind, barely able to see what was in front of him in, both in reality and in his mentality.
Curled up like a ball, he sat. His back against the wall, still there as though he never moved. A candle was all that held off the darkness from completely conquering all, its small but bright self standing up to the tyrant. It stood its ground upon a square land, its terrain rough and wooden. A pair of eyes upon the genius, keeping watch over him.
Equip in a full suit of armour and an open burgonet helmet upon his head, the guard sat alone behind a weathered table. Telvern was without his cloak, revealing his doublet which had his own dried blood upon its collar. The genius' head peered upwards, staring at a stone-brink ceiling. Voices, deep voices... they threw themselves at him, telling him that he deserved to live in this purgatory eternally. To always feel pain, angst, remorse, self-hatred...
The guard impatiently rolled his fingers down upon the table, creating a rather repetitive chorus of tapping. His back hunched, his right hand clenched and pressed against his cheek. His face hung, appearing rather bored. The guard detected the embattled genius through the darkness, locking on to his apathetic expression.
Then suddenly, the door into the prison swung open. The guard turned over to the source of the noise at the brisk pace, his dark-brown eyes gazing upon that silver-haired young man who had entered the room. Closing the door behind him, Raphael's purple eyes heavily gazed off to the right, upon Telvern. "Praise the sun!" the guard exclaimed, jumping out of his seat. "I thought you'd never get here!"
"My apologies," said Raphael to the guard, walking onwards. "I was quite busy." The guard didn't spend another second here unnecessarily, quickly swooping to the door. He jolted, getting out of the room faster than he could snap his fingers. Alone, the two were, his eyes upon the genius as his feet stomped down upon the stone ground.
His mind was the summer sun; angry, furious, relentless. His vision bearing down, able to change anything with its fury. Water would run from the rage, people fled to get out of his sight and hide until he passed. He was powerful, undeniable, all-consuming. Nothing could stop him, no cloud could bring temporary relief for there were none.
Telvern's mind was a war-torn town, and he was its only survivor. He walked through the ruined shells once called homes, recollecting all the joyous moments... and all the painful ones. And all he could do was pick up the pieces, look to them with sorrow. He found the only place he could be was among the ashes, wearing them grief-stricken.
Raphael stood at the front of Telvern's cell, just staring at him with a hard look. Telvern's ears heard the seething rage that built up a strong foundation in the young leader, able to see the clenched hands grip tightly. "You," finally, the silver-haired young man angrily spoke. "I've heard so much about you recently... People telling me not to trust you, people telling me that you're just some snake. Even after Elena told me of your scheming with Balor at night, I still couldn't fully believe it."
Raphael stepped closer to the cell. "I mean," Raphael continued. "The entire Resistance trusted you, I trusted you, Master Malik trusted you! And you, you just bartered it off like it was some damn treasure!"
"Maybe you should take this as a lesson," Telvern returned to Raphael, getting up off of the bed. He then shook his head. "Trust isn't something you just give to anybody, not even to your closest friend. You were a fool to have trusted me, and you will continue to be a fool. It is, after all, in your nature."
"I'd rather be a fool in nature than a traitor," the young leader riposted.
"Ooo, nice retort," complimented the genius.
"...What was this all for?" he questioned. "Gold, status, power!?"
"No," Telvern answered. "It was to play a part."
"A part?" Raphael repeated with a raised eyebrow.
"Oh, yes," he with the battered frames spoke. "A part in this whole, this vast whole. You've played your part too, as good as I've played mine, in fact."
"The destruction of the Resistance," he calmly answered.
"What?!" the silver-haired young man gasped.
"Think for a minute, Raphael," suggested Telvern. "Did you ever wonder what it was that held them back from crushing us, from crushing the Resistance?"
"They don't possess the power to,"
Telvern shook his head. "Wrong," he declared Raphael incorrect. "They haven't because they had reason, reason to keep us alive. Divus wanted to work with us, Balor feared for his sister's safety. They've held back..."
"I don't believe that," the young leader expressed.
Telvern then stepped even closer, his hands clenching the bars and revealing his face to the light. "Listen to me, Raphael," Telvern demanded, his face beamed upon Raphael with a extremely earnest look. "Don't believe me if you wish, I wouldn't think ill of you if you didn't. But I
beg
of you, at least consider it. I warn you this, the Resistance is seeing its final days. First it was the Governanti branch, next the Falador branch, then finally... Lumbridge."
Raphael shook his head. "No," he responded. "I won't let that happen!"
"It's all but assured," said the genius. "You and I have both sown the seeds, after all! Now we wait to reap the rewards..."
Telvern's warning struck Raphael's heart with horror, leaving him to stand aghast. "...I need to speak with Momus," Raphael stated, quickly turning to the door. Maybe, just maybe, Momus could provide some clarity.
"You best hurry," he advised Raphael. Raphael walked out of the castle in a quick pace, petrified by the thought put in the back of his head. Telvern walked back over to his bed, a burden felt as though somehow lifted off of his shoulders. He sat down upon his bed, back in that familiar spot. He curled up against the wall, looking back at the ceiling.
It was an urgent time for Raphael, thinking now that this world was about to crash down upon him. After all, if Telvern were lying to him, he would've picked a much better scenario where the Resistance prospers. He knew this as he rushed off to the command room, his steps hasteful. But he took care, knowing that anything could happen within an instant.
Oh, but something
was
happening. Yes, something was indeed about to happen... Something so terribly, inconceivably horrible. Like wandering in a shroud of darkness, one simply could not see anything. Not a path, not the space before their eyes, or to be able to brace for a wall... its impact, its surprise. The humans that occupied Falador were those lost in the black, and the Solasúians were the wall.
It was a thick night in Falador, the once famous City of the White Knights. It was abnormal to anyone outside these walls, quiet and tranquility that had infested this land. But truly, this was a town free of war and violence. They tasted it, that sense of peace as though they lived during the pre-Solasúian era.
The city appeared almost entirely freed of their grasp, the adamas that surrounded the city walls was shattered apart, their banners torn down, their glowing-eyed citizens imprisoned. Those humans couldn't help but to laugh at seeing them, their former masters, in chains. Even the statue of King Dias was spitefully broken in half, left to lay there as a symbol to those humans who resist.
Those white walls that stood around the city, holding up the purple banners of the Resistance. Members of the Resistance, those once oppressed, kept a close watch over the outskirts of the town. Their knife-like gaze shuffled left and right, and then back again. They seemed drowsy, like they could pass out at any moment. One of the archers, a man with long brown hair and a goatee, gripped his teeth in frustration. "Bah," he said. "To think I'd get stuck with the night shift again..."
"Yeah," another archer walked over to him, agreeing with the man as he shook his head. He appeared like an older man, brown-headed and face thick with hair. "You got all the others that are sleepin' in their cozy beds right 'round now while we get stuck out, making sure they don't get killed in their sleep by a god once again!"
Another archer -- blond-haired and young -- sighed angrily. "Would you both just shut up and quit complaining?" the archer growled.
"All right, all right," the drape-faced archer returned, seeing the angry archer turn away. He turned to the older archer, getting up close to him. "What the hell got his knickers in a twist?"
Hearing the archer's whispered question to him, the older man just shrugged. Afterwards, the two just went off to get back to business as usual. Parting ways, they kept their tired eyes around the dark, grassy planes that surrounded Falador. The moon's shadow was quite heavy tonight, dense with fog. Hoping to see this night turn out as all the others, they go about their watch. But little did they know, something terrible this way came.
Not too far off from their location, stood a large gathering of black. Under the cover of night, the Solasúian army stood. The thickly built bodies of the Loyal Knight army, their presence came in abundance. They walked forward, marching on together. Balor, Lucia, Gallows, Drakon; even the human Shinon were all there, right at the front.
Each and every single member of that army -- save Shinon -- had strange masks over their face, frames of blackened glass over the eyes. The Loyal Knights had their great helms clenched in their arms, quietly walking slow but not too slow. They marched on, doing everything they could not to ruin the surprise. Balor then just ceased motion, causing all others both beside and behind him to pause.
Balor's face rose, transforming into a rather arrogant grin. "Yes, that's far enough," the king believed, his voice low, very slowly pulling out his sword. "I do believe it's time to show them... If you would, Gallows."
