A Brief History of Divine Instruments, Vol. 1

config.style.page.theme.enableSwitching: false sound.ambient.wind.url: 'assets/wind.mp3' sound.ambient.wind.description: 'A windy storm.' sound.ambient.fire.url: 'assets/fire.mp3' sound.ambient.fire.description: 'A crackling, destructive fire.' sound.ambient.ice.url: 'assets/lake.mp3' sound.ambient.ice.description: 'A haunting melody.' sound.ambient.walk.url: 'walk.mp3' sound.ambient.walk.description: 'A quiet walk outside.' -- The general populace of Mithral erroneously believed that the Divine Instruments were once human. They hailed the Instruments as heroes just as much as they did those who wielded them. “They gave their lives in service for us,” they would say, “so we should honor them and thank them.” Of course, anyone who had been even slightly privy to the internal workings of the Heavenly Army would say that was a falsehood—the Divine Instruments were made of metal and magic. They were forged, built, or otherwise created to serve, entirely from scratch. Beginning as simple weapons imbued with a certain spell, they were not even given their public, human forms (named “Vessels”) until they were Named by their Host. This “Vessel” was given as a matter of convenience; in a sense, however, they doubled as the Army’s greatest morale boost—a bond and a friend, through thick and thin. The Naming ritual had been described by others in the field as “intense” and “rigorous.” Every greenhorn in the Army laughed at the warnings, refusing to heed them, until they achieved the necessary rank and went through it themselves. Cyclical, they then warned the ones next in line, though this warning was often, as expected, disregarded. Once an active member of the Army was promoted to Captain, they were allowed to go through the ritual. “Allowed” may be a bit of a misnomer—though the option to decline receiving a Divine Instrument was there, almost no one refused. *Everyone* wanted a Divine Instrument. Many people who volunteered for enlistment would cite “obtaining a Divine Instrument of my own” as a leading reason for their choice. As one achieved further Full Ranks, they were granted additional Divine Instruments, each with a Naming ritual of their own. The maximum seemed to be five. The God-General—the highest rank of the Heavenly Army and leader of Mithral—had an average of eleven at any given point in time, though they are often cited as an exception to the rule. Those of lower rank, before one had attained the minimum of Captain, were given mass-produced weapons similar to Divine Instruments but of lesser power—more expendable, saved resources. These “Conceptual Instruments” were easy to make in larger quantities; they were Named by the Forgemaster (though their “names” were, more often than not, simple serials) and their human vessels all looked alike, rather than being tailored to an individual Host. Perhaps the most important difference, however, was this: Because the Conceptual Instruments were not bonded to their human wielder through the Naming ritual, they lacked what many described as a “soul.” The details of the [[ritual itself]] were never made public.

{ambient sound: 'wind'} The innkeeper’s eyes shone like beautiful rubies. Red eyes were an odd color for humans to have, but they weren’t unheard of in this area. This man carried himself as an innkeeper properly, though perhaps there was a little too much tension in his shoulders that couldn’t be merely attributed to normal levels of stress about everyday life. It was late at night when the pair of travelers entered the inn. They both wore thick, dark, furred capes with hoods, and quickly-melting snow trailed behind their heavy boots with every step. The harsh wind whistled a plea to them as they shut the door. It [[quieted]].

The innkeeper was not expecting anyone this late, least of all in this blizzard. Only fools or those seeking a peaceful death would be willing to step foot in the snow and cold. Anyone who grew up in this area would have known to have stayed bundled at home by the hearth. Due to this surprise, though, the innkeeper hesitated to greet them. Were they ghosts? Perhaps they were demons? The innkeeper did not consider himself superstitious—at least, no more than anyone else around these parts—but something about just being in the presence of these two travelers was enough to make every hair on his arm stand on end. He shook his head. Enough of that nonsense. From behind the bar, he gave a small smile and nod of the head. The two travelers took this as an invitation to enter the room further. Though the door was closed of their own accord, it was as if they were already trying to leave. The [[taller of the two]] brushed some snow off of themselves before taking a few long strides and coming to stand in the center of the room.

They pulled their hood off, and the innkeeper saw one of the Twins Themselves. But that was just a trick of the light—just the few mugs of ale he’d drunk earlier to keep himself warm. The man before him was just that: a man. Though, he thought, the most beautiful man he’d ever seen … but a man nonetheless. The traveler reached up and pulled long, dark hair from beneath the mantle then looked around with stunning, golden eyes. The smile on his face was friendly, which matched his posture and the amicable way he carried himself. His cheeks had darkened considerably, presumably from the chill outside. By contrast, his companion had taken only several steps into the room and did not reveal himself, holding himself so stiff he might as well have been a statue. “Terribly sorry for intruding,” the first traveler said, bowing his head, “but my friend and I were looking for a place to stay until the winds calm down.” He spoke with a learned yet bright tone, [[rich and warm and friendly]].

It almost disarmed the innkeeper. “O’ course. None’s here but you,” he replied. He pulled two glasses off the shelf behind him and went about heating some cider up with a small flame under the stove. “Gotta ask, though—why’d ye fancy traveling now? Winters are harsh down ‘ere, that they are. Coulda died out there.” The first traveler’s golden gaze trained itself on the man’s back, and his smile tightened, became strained, then relaxed again before the innkeeper turned around again. “We’re from the North Half,” he began to explain, somewhat sheepishly. “Though we expected the South Half to be cold, we did not think it would be *this* cold... Thus, our hubris has brought us here, to this lovely inn. ‘tis growing late, anyway—we would have needed to stop soon regardless.” The innkeeper beamed, some sense of pride welling in his chest, and removed the cider from the stove; he filled two mugs and set them on the counter in between him and his customers. The traveler with the golden eyes curtsied in response, crossing the last few steps remaining until the bar. His companion, somehow, stilled further. “The weather’s s’pposed to clear on the morrow,” said the innkeeper. “But do ye think you’re stayin’ [[more than one night]]?”

The traveler took a small sip from his mug, contemplative. “We’ll have to discuss it, check our supply level, and so on. If we *do* end up staying, it’d only be for a few nights. We wouldn’t want to burden you, after all.” The innkeeper shook his head. “Nah, nah, it’s what this ol’ place was built for—serving travelers, however rare.” For the first time since the other man removed his hood, he looked beyond him towards his companion then glanced down at the second cup of cider, yet untouched. Seeing this, the first traveler waved a hand—earning the innkeeper’s attention again. “Apologies. My friend here means no offense.” Then, leaning in and much quieter: “He’s a lightweight, so he avoids all alcohol out of caution. He’s done *too* many things after a cup or two that shouldn’t see the light of day…” The innkeeper’s eyes lit up with understanding, a chuckle passing through his lips, too. “Ah, so that’s the way of it. Sorry, shoulda asked anyways.” “It was awfully nice of you to pour it, make no mistake.” The traveler nodded, then he took another small sip before replacing his mug on the counter, in the exact same spot he had taken it from. “We actually are quite fatigued from our journey. Would you mind terribly if we were to [[retire for the evening]]?”

“Not at all, not at all! Here I am, prattling away.” He grabbed a key off of a large, wooden board behind the bar, a big smile on his face. “Come, lemme show you to your room. We can talk coin in the morning.” He rounded the corner of the bar, coming out on the other side, then gesture to the stairs to the right of the room. The two travelers’ boots *thunked* on the steps behind the man, though they otherwise followed in polite silence. He led them to a hallway with only four doors, two on either side, and came to a stop in front of the last door on the left. After unlocking the door with the key, he pushed it open and stepped aside. “It’s a meager affair, but I’ll be making breakfast for ye and I tomorrow ‘round nine. That suit ye?” “If it suits you,” said the first traveler. The second brushed past behind him and into the room, disappearing from the curious gaze of the innkeeper. “We’d be delighted to partake in a meal with you, dear sir.” The innkeeper continued to smile. “Right. If ye need anything through the night, my room’s on the first floor—ring the bell just outside the door next t’the bar.” “With any luck, both you and I will be able to get some well-deserved, peaceful sleep.” The traveler tipped his head, his graceful smile never once being chased from his fair features. He placed one foot over the threshold of the room before giving pause. He [[turned back]] to the innkeeper.

“By the way, has the latest Crusade reached this lovely town yet?” The innkeeper looked at him quizzically for a long moment then shook his head. “Nay, Twin’s blessing. Their ships’d have to cross the ice, and they ain’t built for that.” This answer seemed to satisfy the traveler. “Twin’s blessing indeed. I shall pray the Empire never dirties your soil *or* ice.” With nothing further left to say, he dismissed the innkeeper with a small wave of the hand, entered the room, and shut the door. He kept his hand firmly on the knob until the innkeeper’s footsteps faded away entirely, and then some. He [[locked]] the door.

“You talk too much.” The traveler turned to his partner, who had finally doffed the thick cape and thicker military coat beneath it, revealing a black, long-sleeved shirt, faded scars peeking out from underneath the collar. His equally faded reddish hair fell messily into eyes so light blue they might have been completely white save for the pupil, in the right light. “Perhaps,” admitted the taller one, unfastening his cape and hanging it up on a hook next to the door. He, too, wore a worn coat of the Holy Army, but contrasting his partner’s black coat, it was a warm, light gray. He removed that, too, draping it on the back of a chair in front of a writing desk. “But I *did* get confirmation that Thelry hasn’t bloodied this land, which means the *Adlorrime* still rests beneath the ice.” His companion sat on the bed, heaving an over-the-top sigh. “I suppose you’re right, but—” “*No* buts, [[Anre]].”

Anre stiffened, looking away as his partner sat next to him, as his partner rested a hand on his cheek, as the fingers of that hand combed his hair back and out of his face. “Everything will be alright. You have *me*, the great Halcyon, by your side, after all.” Their gazes met, and then their foreheads met, too. Their breath mingled, that of Halcyon slightly colder, slightly less human. A pause followed, and Anre nodded, relaxing a little bit. He tilted his head to press his lips against the crook of Halcyon’s neck, his arms wrapping around the other man, who returned the gesture. They sat like that for quite a long time until Anre’s lips began to travel. The clock in the hall struck [[midnight]].

sound.ambient.wind.playing: false -- Prior to his desertion, Lieutenant Colonel Anre Diehs had been known as a genius strategist and cutthroat leader with few allies, even within his own regiment. When he was around eleven (sources differ on the exact age), his parents had been killed by the Thelrian Empire’s Third Crusade in year 672 ~~P.B.~~ (Sources also differ in how they had met their demise, though “death by burning at the stake” is the most commonly said; in recent years, however, scholars have begun to argue over the idea that they could have possibly been used in Thelry’s gruesome experiments.) Diehs had managed to escape unscathed and uncaught, eventually making his way to the then-capital of Mithral, Mintra. He supposedly survived by begging on the streets. At age seventeen, he entered the army, though it is unclear if he volunteered or was drafted. Regardless of whether he joined the military willingly, Diehs proved himself to he a capable—and ruthless—fighter. Many scholars, following the discovery of several letters to different personnel within the Holy Army written during the same time period, have settled on the idea he may have been exacting revenge against Thelry, though Diehs had never gone on record stating as much himself. Compared to his peers of a similar age, he possessed a vast knowledge of common military tactics and even ones unusual and unheard of (before him). It was due to his advice to his own captain at the time that his company had managed to not only thwart a sneak attack but also take out much of the attacking regiment, which has been confirmed to have been around 1.7x the size of the smaller defending company. They also suffered minimal losses. Diehs was recognized for his astounding efforts in a formal capacity soon enough: He was awarded the rank of Lieutenant after just two years of service, making him one of twenty-seven other people to attain the rank at age nineteen. He would find himself rising through the ranks almost effortlessly. Curiously, though he was noted to be an exceptional fighter and strategist and was awarded titles and accolades in quick succession, several letters between senior officers survive stating how much they do not trust him “not to turn his blade on [them].” When he was twenty-three, Diehs became a Captain, making him eligible for the Naming ritual and subsequently for obtaining his first Divine Instrument. Unfortunately, for an undisclosed reason (the reason was either never written down or the related paperwork has been destroyed), this ritual failed. Diehs seemingly did not attempt the ritual again until he became a Lieutenant Colonel (skipping the ritual at Major). This one, however, succeeded, and Diehs bonded with Divine Instrument ~~1a059~~, which he would give the name “Halcyon.” It should be noted that ~~D.I. 1a059~~ never had a Cast listed or designated anywhere in its official documents that survive today. Scholars and others in the field have suggested that this was purposefully hidden or removed from history—after all, “Halcyon” also claimed it was an “angel of the Twins.” Though it possessed knowledge that no D.I. has ever had before, it is unclear whether it was purposefully fed this information or if it naturally knew these things. During Diehs’s time in the military, ~~1a059~~ was never proven to be an “angel,” and such theories were staunchly stamped out in later years to the point where evidence was deliberately tampered with. Scholars cannot come to a conclusive answer, as a result, as either option—angel or normal Divine Instrument—seems to be equally correct. Almost exactly forty-five days after bonding with ~~1a059~~, Diehs, and his Divine Instrument, disappeared during a harsh winter, in the middle of Thelry’s Fourth Crusade, after an altercation between him and an unnamed senior officer. The [[disappearance]] was officially ruled as desertion.

{ambient sound: 'wind'} They awoke before the innkeeper. The grandfather clock was just finishing up its fifth chime when the pair headed downstairs, stepping quietly and cautiously. Anre made for the door whilst Halcyon, feeling bad for skipping out, dropped a few coins on the bar that should cover any expenses and then some. The pair put their hoods up, their thick capes still slightly damp from the travel the day before, and absconded. For a brief moment, [[sunlight]] poured onto the old wooden floor of the inn, and then the door was shut, and it became dark again.

At the very least, the weather *had* cleared up—though the sun hid behind some clouds now and then, it was very clearly doing its best to warm up the little village. Snow crunched beneath their boots in such a steady rhythm, one could imagine falling asleep to it. They were lucky in the sense they did not meet anyone else in this early morning chill as they made their way to the shoreline. They left the village and circled around it towards the south, where the ice was at its thickest, and then they continued further on to the southeast. It grew colder and colder with every step. By the time they arrived to their designated location at the end of a cape that jutted out into the sea—guided by Halcyon’s memories and intuition, as this area was not marked on any surviving map—a few hours had passed. Large blocks of ice had surged over the coast at some point in the past. Beyond the three-foot natural wall of ice, Anre could see the tall hunk of ice that presumably had caused the ice shove. Anre removed his hood. Halcyon paused only for a second or two to look back at Anre before facing forward again and continuing on. He scaled the ice shove effortlessly, completely unbothered by its slipperiness and cold. Turning back to Anre, he smiled, and with the sun behind him, it framed Halcyon as a halo fit for the angel that he claimed to be. He held out a [[hand for him to take]].

“Come on,” he soothed, “it’ll be alright. You’re not scared of a little ice, are you?” The other man hesitated before taking the hand. Halcyon pulled him up to the top with him before slinking down the side of it onto solid ground—though they were no longer on *ground* in the normal sense of the word. The ice beneath their feet was thick enough and completely land-fastened, even with the tumultuous winds Anre had once heard about. Anre sighed. “No, it’s not the ice.” Halcyon spoke as he walked, and Anre followed close behind. “Then what is it, my dear?” Anre did not answer right away. He still held Halcyon by the hand. His grip tightened as Halcyon led him around a mass of ice and into a thin but tall grotto. He sighed again. “Are we doing the [[right thing]]?”

{ambient sound: 'ice'} Halcyon stayed silent. As they traveled deeper into the grotto of ice, and as the light dimmed as the sunlight could only reach its warm hands so far down, he waved his free hand as if clasping something dropped towards him; when his fingers relaxed, a small flame floated in his palm. He coaxed it bigger and bigger, then sent it out in front of them both so that they could see where they were going. A misstep in here would kill them both, after all. The walls crept ever closer, encroaching on their personal space, until Halcyon walked ahead, Anre walked behind, their hands still clasped in between. “Are we doing the right thing?” Anre repeated, his rough voice trying not to let its trembles be known. “Halcyon.” “Of course. You told me as much when you Named me, Master.” “But *you* haven’t told me what we’re going to be using the *[[Adlorrime]]* for.” Anre steadied himself as he slipped ever-so slightly. The snow didn’t reach this far down, so the treads of his boots couldn’t traverse the bare ice as easily.

Halcyon did not answer until, a few moments later, they came to what appeared to be a door made of deep, dark ice. Engraved in it was a sigil, much like the one on Halcyon’s back with a few key differences, namely its orientation. Anre swallowed. Halcyon raised a hand to the sigil. It lit up. The door began to slide to the right, into the ice at their side, and a haunting, thundering wail careened. Anre shivered. Halcyon began to descend the steps. Anre dithered at the top, in the natural yet unnatural doorway. He tugged on Halcyon’s hand, which made the latter give pause and look back up at him with those gold, *gold* eyes. “We will end these Crusades, Master,” said Halcyon slowly, choosing his words. “We will end these wars that humans wage with one another. We will end the bloodshed and trauma, you and I, and all will be well.” Anre searched Halcyon’s eyes for deceit. He found none. “And how does the *Adlorrime* fit into this?” “The *Adlorrime* is the sword of Imounael—the ending and the beginning. Otherwise known as *Zero*. In order to create change, one must [[carve it out of destiny]].”

“You’re talking too much again.” Halcyon tittered, looking down the stairs, the end of which remained shrouded in darkness. The ball of flame floated just over his shoulder. “My apologies, Anre… I mean that literally we will carve the change from destiny—we will use this legendary sword in the *Vallatimin*, the pool of fate, and part the waters.” “Right.” Anre took a tentative step down. “And then?” “I think you *like* hearing me talk, Master.” He stepped backwards to match Anre’s step forward. “Or perhaps you’re just claustrophobic?” Anre snorted. “So we’re going to this pool of destiny—” “Fate,” interrupted Halcyon. “Yes, pool of fate, and we’re going to carve through it with the sword?” Another step down. Another step backward. “You have the [[right of it]].”

“But I presume you won’t tell me what comes after.” “You have the right of that, too. But I will tell you in due time, rest assured.” Halcyon smiled pleasantly, reassuringly, before facing down the stairs again. A pause swelled in the air between them. “You can leave if you want, Master.” This took Anre considerably off-guard, and he tripped over his words. “Halcyon, you… You can’t operate on your own. It doesn’t work like that.” “Then, do you [[trust me]]?”

There was no hesitation this time. “Of course.” “Then let’s keep [[descending]].”

With no sunlight to keep track of time, it seemed to take forever to get to the base of the stairs, where another door awaited them. Halcyon did not open it right away, instead turning to look at Anre, his expression serious. “There is a certain defense mechanism in place,” he said, tone dire, low. “A what?” “To prevent the sword from being stolen, the Twins encased it in ice that shows you … images. Hallucinations. Things that aren’t real, and may never be real. You must ignore these things. Keep your gaze on my back. Don’t look.” Anre nodded, steeling his jaw. “Right.” Satisfied, Halcyon nodded, turned to the door, and [[opened it]] in the same way he did the first one.

Before them lay a massive cavern. For a moment, Anre forgot that he was most likely beneath the surface of the ocean in a floating hunk of ice—and instead, he found himself thinking he was completely frozen in time. He squeezed Halcyon’s hand, which squeezed back, as they entered. The air was stale on his tongue. It tasted … He couldn’t quite say how it tasted. It wasn’t like the air he was used to breathing, but it also wasn’t *difficult* to breathe. It did feel *wrong* to breathe. He subconsciously began to take shallower breaths. The absolute frigid temperature did not help, so despite the large opening he found himself in, he still felt enclosed. A small light emanated a soft golden color [[up ahead]], in the direction they were going.

At first, Anre kept looking straight ahead, watching the fabric of Halcyon’s coat shift over his back as he moved. He did as he was told. But Anre Diehs did not do as he was told for often or for long. Besides—he couldn’t think of any *hallucination* worse than anything he had seen in real life. So his eyes began to wander. Then he turned his head, taking in the sheer size of the cavern, of its colors. He realized that this must be *ancient*. It must have been placed here almost seven hundred years ago, if not more. Stalactites made of ice rained down on them, imposing and huge. When he stared at them, however, it did not appear they were wet or dripping with anything. Their paired stalagmites on the floor gave him the impression that he was walking into a giant mouth with [[too many teeth]].

He shivered, though he tried to suppress it. Halcyon kept walking towards the light. Anre’s eyes kept wandering. He glanced at a particularly large column of ice as they approached it. The light from the ball of flame bounced off of it at such a strange angle that it made him wince, and as they began to pass it, he realized it was less a column and more of a *wall*. And, of course, he looked at it in awe, in terror, in weariness, and he saw… [align center] [[… himself, surely, blindfolded and strung up in a damp room.->Himself Answer]]\ [[… his father, much older than he remembered.->His Father Answer]]\ [[… Halcyon lying on the ice, metallic red staining the purity of it all.->Halcyon Answer]]

He saw himself. He could not mistake an image of himself for anyone else. The room was dark and warm and hot and musty and muggy. It was the day after he had been promoted to Lieutenant Colonel—and earlier in the morning, he had declined attempting the Naming ritual a second time. He had been doing just fine without a Divine Instrument, he thought. He did not need the helping hand of some*thing* when a regular sword would do just fine. He didn’t even like using Conceptual Instruments more than necessary. [[A few hours later]], he had changed his mind.

{ambient sound: 'fire'} He saw his father. Or, at least, a person that looked like his father. This man was much older, with kindness and love in his eyes. He also saw his mother, he thought. In the years since their deaths, Anre Diehs had forgotten her face, her voice, her kisses on the forehead. He had remembered his father thanks to a photograph he had managed to save. It had been burned in the fire as their house came crashing down, and so his mother had been decapitated in his memories. The fire around him, as he sat in the small home he spent his young childhood in, did not feel hot. He did not sweat nor otherwise react to the flames that licked at the floorboards and the cabinets and the [[coats]] hung up on a hook.

He saw Halcyon—~~1a059~~—in the cavern, near the light in the center. A sword with a faint glint—the source of the light—made of a material so white Anre thought it might be bone stuck out from Halcyon’s chest. Halcyon lay on his back, though he leaned forward only slightly. He had one hand wrapped around the blade as if he was going to pull it out, but Anre was certain he had no strength left to do so. His lips were twisted into a sickening smile. His golden eyes, wild with anger and hurt, bore into [[Anre’s soul]].

A few hours later, it was too late. Anre Diehs hadn’t had the clearance to know that anyone who declined a Divine Instrument would be taken in and have their minds destroyed—their bodies used as the next Mold. His first Naming ritual had failed purely because he rejected the power the incantations were attempting to bequeath unto him. That’s what he thought. But perhaps it had failed because there was no Mold to suit him? There was no one that he wanted to give a part of his soul? Would it have been better to have accepted and [[failed again]]?

There had been no fanfare when he was taken. He simply was, as if they anticipated him denying their gift. He knew he wasn’t well-liked and that he wouldn’t be missed. Perhaps they’d miss his *ideas*. He took some small sense of satisfaction in that. But that would mean everything he had done up until now was in vain. Anre Diehs’s head lulled to the side, and he hissed between clenched teeth. The ropes around his wrists were too tight and laced with certain runes. He wouldn’t be able to escape. Not without a [[Divine Instrument]].

The door to his room opened, and he appreciated that he was blindfolded, for even through the thick black cloth, the light was too much. The door stayed open as the person removed the dagger in his side. Anre bit his tongue prior to what would come next—they stabbed it into his opposite side, slightly higher than the previous wound from earlier. In between his ribs. He tasted blood in his mouth. They left, and the light disappeared. He didn’t know the intricacies of how this worked, only that he must be bled out slowly but surely. He didn’t care to learn. The person in the next room wailed. He thought about [[wailing->Rejoin]], too.

{no ambient sound} He blinked, and the first thing he noticed was Halcyon’s hands on either side of his face, his bright, lovely, golden eyes staring directly into his own. He was whispering something beneath his breath, but Anre could not figure out what it was. Was he speaking in tongues? Or perhaps he simply couldn’t hear because—and this was the second thing he noticed—he was [[sobbing so violently]] his entire body shook?

He sat at a table he remembered eating breakfast and supper at. His father was the one that cooked, he thought, though there was no food on the table right now. Maybe it was his mother that did that, after all. Across from him sat his parents—presumably. His father had aged since he last saw him. His mother did not have a head, as in the photograph: It was burnt and melted down. That was one thing Anre could never forget—the smell of [[burning flesh]]. Her spine, almost comically, protruded crudely from her stump of a neck.

“You’ve grown up,” said the man he thought to be his father. The voice was wrong, though Anre didn’t know the correct one. “You’ve made quite the name for yourself.” He imagined his mother would agree with her husband here, in the quiet way she often did. “We’re glad you got out safe,” his father continued. “We’re happy you’ve found someone you love.” Anre clenched his fists in his lap. The grain of the table, half burned away, seemed [[very interesting]].

“We want you to keep living—we want you to have a long life, much longer than ours.” Anre’s fingers dug into the cloth of his pants. He noticed the flames did not touch him. “We love you, Anre.” He [[began to cry->Rejoin]] for the first time in years.

“So you couldn’t trust me after all, could you?” he spat. The harshness of his tone seemed to startle the both of them. Anre stepped closer just once before collapsing to his knees. He said nothing, so Halcyon continued. “The sword of an angel can kill an angel,” he said. “I will never come back. I will never caress your cheek or embrace you tightly again. Is that alright with you?” Anre could not break eye contact. Tears began to slowly pour from his eyes and down his cheeks. They turned to small icicles ere they could hit the ground, [[shattering upon impact]]. He winced.

“You have gotten me out of the cycle of reincarnation by doing this, but you have made an error: You are now permanently stuck in it yourself. Only now…” Halcyon took a deep, shaky breath, letting himself collapse onto the ice, sticky with congealed blood. “[[Only now]]… You...”

“You will be alone.” Halcyon began to cry, too. “I’m sorry I didn’t see this coming … my love.” The air was stale and metallic on his tongue as Anre shuffled along the ground towards him. He removed the sword, tossing it away. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. He collapsed on top of the now-still body of Halcyon, slipping his arms under him, and he [[cried harder->Rejoin]] than he ever has before.

He wanted to look around, but Halcyon kept his gaze firmly on him. They were both sitting on crunching snow. The wind whipped about him. The sun had set. His lips cracked as he opened his dry mouth. “[[Sorry… I… thank you.]]”

Halcyon’s odd speech stopped, and his own eyes glistened. His hands released Anre’s face only so that he could wrap his arms around his chest and squeeze him until Anre thought he might burst. He wept into Anre’s chest, from relief, from joy, from sorrow. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a sword, safely sheathed and lying some bit a ways in the snow. They had made it above ground and out of the cavern, over the crushed ice wall, and back onto the cape. Back onto *soil*. The northern moon hung above them, watching over them. It waited for its [[twin->End]] to catch up for the night.

Thank you for deciding to read this little thing. This was written in about 48 hours for the [[Single Choice Jam->https://itch.io/jam/single-choice-jam-24]] hosted on itch.io by several different people. Thanks for the opportunity! I had a lot of trouble trying to think of a good idea. The fire and "singing lake" sounds were provided by [[NPS->https://www.nps.gov/yell/learn/photosmultimedia/soundlibrary.htm]]. \ The windy storm was provided by [[klankbeeld of freesound->https://freesound.org/people/klankbeeld/sounds/523332/]]. This is part of an extended universe that currently only exists in my head. Maybe one day. This is the first step on getting it out there... *** [align center] You can return to view the [[other choices->too many teeth]]. \ Or you can check me out on [[fediverse->https://sakurajima.social/@capriciousvisage]].