[ +- ] The Passion pt. 2
They had bled ceaselessly. Each wound sustained only caused pain, if anything it galvanized Hrafe and The Shadow to attack another with greater intensity. Still knowing perfectly what the other would do, no decisive blow could be struck. Hrafe tumbled, wove, and side stepped as His Shadow did the same.
Their combat pressed on, seemingly eternally. The blood had filled the floor of the arena. Ever deeper the footing became treacherous. Greater wounds lead to more. Eventually the warriors waded knee deep in this ocean of blood.
Makasi, as the angel of death shouted, silently for the madness and blood lust to abate. It caused Hrafe a moment of hesitation. Hrafe's Shadow struck, plunging the spear through Hrafe's chest. Hrafe kicked The Shadow in back pulling the spear out, but sank to his knees. He clutched his spear making a feeble, fruitless, attempt at rising. The effort made him swoon.
Plunging into the ocean of blood Hrafe felt the cold jaws of death close upon him. As he continued to fall, his head fell into the blood. There, he could sense the Shadow coming to strike the killing blow. But that world faded as time seemed to slow to a stillness.
Life poured out of Hrafe, the ocean of blood now well over his head. He tried to fight, but his strength had left him. Even the gods and goddesses in their chant had gone silent. In that pool, he opened his eyes and glimpsed the face of his father. Dead and wizened the ancient god reached up, clasping Hrafe by his wrist dragging him into the deepest darkness. Showing Hrafe the beautiful world that would come from succumbing to his death. A still, silent, peaceful place, one of moderate cold, and reunion with those who had fell before him.
From his father, issued a line of men whom Hrafe knew to be his ancestors. Each of them, their faces twisted in their death throes. Begging Hrafe to surrender, that they may be relieved of their torment. The weight of such a burden, the burden of generations threatened to crush Hrafe. The weight of which vastly more painful than the hole in his chest.
Hrafe knew, this was the moment. The only moment. In his heart of hearts, he alone was here. He had always been in this moment, staring the cost of mortality in the face. The gods and goddesses had ordained this. Had made this for their amusement to fulfill a need for sacrifice. He hated them for this. He rejected them in his heart, replacing the faith he had once held for something darker.
He knew he must choose. But could not bring himself to do so. In fact in that darkness he had chose arose a perverse realization. Even the Divine awaited his choice. And in rebellion he chose to do nothing. And so, as time had slowed, it began to twist back upon itself.
The sound of the blood vibrating in the cracks began to glow with holy light. Hrafe wondered where such light could have come from in the depths of his deepest darkness. And marveled to learn that the light came from an even deeper depth. He felt ashamed for withholding his decision. And would have wept if anything remained of him in the shore of light and music that arose from the depths of this bloody ocean.
It was so beautiful, moving the Strongheart, he heard his heart pulse, as the agony of life struck him. The pain was almost too much to bear. But it brought clarity. It was not a light that he had witnessed. It was HIS light. A precious light that was unique, not given from Divinity, it was his own Divinity.
The choice was clear. To exist was to suffer. But that pain was the cost of being able to make new things, to experience new things. So Hrafe called that pain, allowed it to explode through him. His rage, fueled by that pain drove him to his feet, as he with a single thrust pushed his own spear to the wings in a mighty thrust. The blow went through the mouth of Hrafe's Shadow, killing it instantly.
The blood had vanished as soon as he vanquished The Shadow. The arena was now immaculate. And in place of the mound that had been his bodies, rose a black gate, it had no upper or lower bound. Yet existed in a single place. Makasi as the angel of death pointed at the gate. Silently directing Hrafe to it.
His body in tatters Hrafe limped leaning upon his spear, using it as a crutch to approach The Black Gate. He reached out touching the gate, attempting to force it open. The gate rejected the forceful action and in a beam of light cast Hrafe back to the material world. He had, once again, attempted to steal heaven, a mistake all mortal men were doomed to make.
Hrafe awoke with a scream of anguish, his body reflexively reaching out for the gate that was no longer there. The transition to this ancient world of illusions cracked into his mind. Hrafe saw his healer, knowing himself to be alive again.
"Why did you..." He began in anger, but, he stopped himself. His countenance changed, softer, appreciative.
"Thank you." Hrafe wheezed, and sat up, he stood and swayed but remained on his feet. Recovering Glaezentorg he used it as a crutch walking from the chamber.
To see his companions, Edgar whom he had known since childhood. Makasi who represented all he wished to become. Even the brave and mysterious Ylliane filled him with joy. He dropped Glaezentorg to the floor and embraced Makasi, lifting her off the floor in his excitement. But nearly immediately dropping her in a fit of wheezing coughs. He stumbled and grabbed her shoulder to steady himself. He held his hand to cover his mouth but that didn't stop the black blood from flowing between his fingers. While alive, he was still critically injured.
"I owe you all my life." He said still leaning heavily, his normally guttural booming voice, a whisper of itself.
