[Unknown Location] [February 14th, MC 081] [1908 hours]
Night had never been so intense in spreading its shadows across the world. They who called themselves children of the sun shunned darkness for the alleged evil it bred, though in truth, one could not exist without the other.
The room would have been the perfect definition of utter blackness but for the illumination shimmering at one end. The light was a brilliant blue that flickered coldly as countless motes of such vivid color were drawn to it. While the glow was gentle and warm, within its core danced a myriad of chaotic hues—purple and black and red and green and orange and yellow—that clashed and strained against the sapphire shell they were entrapped in. The angry radiance pulsed madly, slamming itself against the barrier that prevented its escape, its freedom.
Surrounding the only illumination were three figures shadowed in the darkness. The fourth person lay on a long couch, drenched in sweat. His left arm was enveloped in the glow, which was projected by Sharazad’s outstretched hands. She looked terribly pale and haggard as she continued to maintain her barrier, containing the violent energies that seethed within.
Grandia stood to her right; he was deathly silent, his face an immutable mask even as his ruby eyes observed the battle in front of him intently. Vestrell appeared distant and lost, her mind a turbulent sea of thoughts. “There’s got to be something we can do …” she muttered to herself. “Something …” In fact, she had repeated the same line a number of times, almost as if it was a chant, a hopeful prayer that an inspiration, a miracle, anything would happen to undo their current quandary.
Perhaps it did already happen, though not to their expectation.
The miracle in the world was the person who was lying in front of them.
Though his face was drained of color, his lips cracked and bloodied, and his breathing laborious, Trystahn was alive. The tall, lean man who had cast the one spell to secure their escape survived the horrific blasts of magic that would have surely meant the end of most other people. In that precarious situation between life and death, no one was sure how it happened. Perhaps the attacks were not as strong as they had imagined. Perhaps the barrier managed to repel their foes’ magic. Perhaps a higher being had decided to intervene. There was an endless string of possibilities, but what remained factual was that Trystahn was alive. Surely it was a cause to celebrate …
But, fate was leery of their achievement, and she cast upon the Templars her twisted machinations.
They were foolish to believe that they would come out of the predicament unscathed. They had wanted to believe that everything was all right, that nothing was amiss, and believe they did for a fleeting moment before reality reared its ugly head. The abruptness to which it disrupted their temporary faith amplified the dread and pain by many folds.
Shattered hope was despair’s greatest triumph.
Trystahn had collapsed shortly after they reached their room, an excruciating pain lancing through his left arm like branding fire, causing light to explode behind his eyes. A low cry escaped through his clenched teeth before the indescribable pain caused him to double-over backwards and slammed brutally against the wall. It was with much difficulty that the three Templars managed to control him and put him on the couch.
Immediately, they saw what happened—the
real damage.
Their fear back when they had cautioned Trystahn against the use of the spell was made manifest.
Sharazad was quick on her mind. She promptly placed a barrier upon the area, trying to prevent the damage from spreading. However, her powers alone would not last long, and she had already expended much of her energy in the previous battle. It was only a matter of time before the inevitable …
They had not wanted to believe it, for in believing, they were acknowledging the situation. Though trained in combat and spells, the Templars, too, were human, and the fragile side of their humanity wanted to escape from this undesirable reality. What were they, mere mortals, to do when presented with an impossibility? Try as they might, the destiny written them was unavoidable, and it was about the claim its first victim to the realm of spirits. While they did not fear death themselves, the passing of a close comrade—and to Sharazad, a lover—would be devastating.
A pearly tear fell onto Trystahn’s left shoulder, broken into miniscule droplets and mirroring the crushed hope Sharazad bore. Trysthan turned his head slowly, his brows creased from the agony of such simple movements. His face was ashen, but his right eye was gentle and unusually strong. His left eye was strangely glass-like. He smiled. “Sharazad …” he spoke as casually as he could, though the burdened voice betrayed him.
“No … don’t speak, Trystahn. Save your strength … please, don’t …” Sharazad replied in a voice choked with emotions. She could barely hold her composure, the torment she was suffering inside raging like a maelstrom, threatening to suffocate her in its cruel hands.
Trystahn continued to smile. “Sharazad … I understand … what you are feeling right now …” he said slowly. “There is … no need to burden yourself …” He stopped for a while, catching his breath. He smiled wryly; even mundane conversations, a daily action so common that many had taken for granted, were causing him problems. Perhaps he should make full use of his last few conversations before it was denied him forever. “I chose this path … myself … I have no … regrets …”
“No … No, Trystahn … No!” Sharazad said with more vehemence than she expected. The emotions she had dammed inside her from the very start spilled forth. She cried, her tears streaming down her cheeks uncontrollably. Her shoulders shook from the outburst of emotions, and her hands trembled so much her barrier wavered dangerously. It took Grandia significant effort to calm Sharazad enough to reestablish her barrier, though her sobs continued.
“Calm down, Sharazad,” Grandia coaxed, though his own voice was strained. “We’ll find a way …”
“There is … no need … to push yourself … for my sake …” Trystahn replied softly, still smiling. If not for the caked blood that smudged the inside of his mouth, he would have a radiant smile with perfectly white teeth. “It is not as if … we have … not seen this … coming …”
Silence encompassed the room at Trystahn’s words. He was right: they already knew what was going to happen when they were bound by the spell of silver-haired mage, yet they had chosen to ignore it. It was not clear why they did so. Perhaps it was fear, in that admitting what had truly transpired would condemn Trystahn to a fate they could not readily accept. Perhaps it was denial, in that repudiating what had verily occurred would ease their tortured minds. Yet, the sole victim of the incident did not even try to escape, and instead had bravely acknowledged the singular reality and its consequences.
The most bitter of the seeds of life that was the truth was always difficult to swallow.
The three Templars looked troubled as reason and realization began to regain hold. Fearing it and denying it did nothing more than give them temporary respite against the inevitable. In doing so, they, too, were mocking Trystahn’s resolve, and they did not want that. As much as they did not want to, they had to admit that the Baron’s life was seeping away, delayed only by Sharazad’s hold on the barrier.
“Combustion …” Vestrell said slowly as she looked at the clash of colors that rippled madly in Sharazad’s protective spell. The word tasted like bile in her mouth, and she grimaced despite herself.
The wild hues that spread along the entirety of Trystahn’s left arm were the residual Elements that were leaking, possibly because of the attacks they received. Combustions were usually localized to the area where the Elements were disrupted. In Trystahn’s case, however, it was showing signs of insidious spreading that were symptomatic of a worse case: Immolation. Had Sharazad not place the barrier immediately, there was no telling what could have happened.
They were perplexed. As far as they could remember from their Master’s teachings, there had never been a case where a Combustion would deteriorate into an Immolation. In the recorded cases of Templars who suffered Combustions, only a number perished because the disrupted Elements burst violently from their vital organs, such as the heart and the brain. For an Immolation to occur, the Elements supposedly remained in the body, where its volatile energy began spreading and activate the self-Elements, triggering a massive chain reaction that would eventually result in the Templar’s most horrible death.
This was not the case for Trystahn. Immolations rarely showed external appearance of raging Elements, and in all cases, were quick and impossible to contain until it was too late. At present, Sharazad was channeling her own Elements to actively shunt and evenly distribute the surplus energy of the agitated Elements, thereby delaying their explosive powers. It was a dangerous act, and Sharazad risked pulling the volatile energies into her own, triggering her own Combustion. However, if she dropped the barrier, Trystahn would … she dared not entertain the dark thought.
Nevertheless, they had never encountered the conditions Trystahn was in before, and without knowledge of them, options to mediate recovery were impossible to make. What could be the cause of this strange anomaly? Trystahn certainly was not lacking in control of the Elements, so weak containment latticework was out of the question. And the enemy attacks were certainly nullified by Trystahn’s … Wait, could it be …?
“Maybe this is … retribution … for what we are … trying to do …” Trystahn spoke slowly. “The sins we have committed … for our ambitions …”
“I can’t believe that you’re thinking that, Trystahn,” Grandia retorted gently. “Even if it’s true, the sins are to be borne by all of us. Why should you be the only one … to suffer?”
“Better alone … than everyone together …” Trystahn said, smiling weakly. “If death … were to … claim us all … then who would serve … the Princess …?”
“Stop being so selfish!” Sharazad pleaded, her voice raw with emotions. “You should not regard life that carelessly! If you die, then I … I …”
“I am sorry … Sharazad …” Trystahn said, looking at her with his single eye. “It is a pity … I had vowed to protect you … for as long as I breathe … yet it seems that … I may no longer … do so …” He smiled. “At the very least …
Kronos managed to perform … its intended task …”
Strange as it was, the three Templars were thinking the same thing at the same time, and their heart sank. The warning the Astral Master gave when they had just begun their training stirred in their memories, reminding them of the hidden secrets of their techniques and the deadly shortcomings they presented. They had listened and remembered it, and, for the briefest of time when they were surrounded by the enemies, the Master’s words had whispered to them, counseled them against its wanton use. In their desperate pursuit of the Jewel, they had thrown caution to the wind, and Trystahn had, in his own conscience and voluntary awareness, broken the one of the most forbidden codes of the Templars.
‘The Titans art powerful even as they art malevolent,’ the Master had said.
‘The earliest lore says the twelve legendary weaponsmiths forged the Titans from the rare mystical mineral extracted from ancient stars that fell unto our planet long before, imbuing them with fragments of their own Elements before they eventually perished. It was said that they hath wanted to finish the last Titan to complete the two-hundredth, but they met their ends before they could do so.
‘The spirits of the craftsmen wert rumored to inhabit these Titans, their latent Elements enhancing the powers of the wielders, the Astral Templars, and through them, worked miracles of nature. Though possessing no apparent sentience of their own, the wielder placeth a blood oath inscribed upon the Titans as they wert brandished in battles. Shalt the True Invocation be uttered in earnest, they shalt grant upon the bearer their most powerful manifestation but for capricious periods of time. At the end of the Invocation wilt they exert the exorbitant cost of their service.’
‘Many foolish fledglings hath unleashed the True Invocation at their own whims, and met their unsightly ends thus. Many Titans, too, wert lost, either destroyed or simply neither found nor retrieved. Upon your words, Templars, ye shalt refrain from uttering the binding incantation unless choices, however remote, elude thee. As ye hath sworn when ye wert indicted, it is thy sacred duty to protect the Royals even if ye wert to challenge the lords of the underworld. Remember thy oath that is safeguard, not for inane sacrifices and tomfoolery. Only in life could ye hold true to thy promise, not in death.’
Turning around, he said to Trystahn:
‘To ye, young Baron, never before hath I meet someone more gifted and noble than thee. Not only art ye the Baron of the Mace, the protector and guardian of thy brethren, ye hath also chosen to become the Viscount of Shield as well. It is indeed rare for one to bear the burden of two, and I hath naught but praise for thy selfless gallantry. Nevertheless, it must be made known that a Templar may never wield two Titans concurrently. Their differing Elements, however ye attempt to harmonize, wilt always conflict with one another. It is not always clear why, but perhaps the legendary crafters knew of such possibilities, and they attempted to mitigate the effects from spiraling into self-destruction. Thus, in light of such an event, the Titan with a more subservient latent Element wilt be suppressed, while the other wilt offer thee its fullest access.’
‘The Mace Titan wilt be rendered almost ineffectual shalt the Shield Titan be summoned, though minor techniques could still be used. Though thy shield be unshakeable, be warned of its true nature. As many a Templar hath wielded Kronos
—the last Titan to be forged—as hath many perished. The shield is an ancient relic that hath seen countless wars and survived through eras of turbulence. Its protection is both blessed and cursed. Shalt ye be but true to thy resolve, it may protect everyone from the greatest of harm. However, so terrible wilt its price be that ye may never … see the light of day again.’
They had always thought that the terrible aftereffect of using the True Invocation was that the Elements of the users became unstable, and that if they had managed to calm them down, it would be all right. As such, they had strove to train their control of the volatile forces to be as efficient as possible. Among the many cadres of Templars, they had prized themselves to be the best, and that the True Invocation was nothing to worry about now that they were strong enough.
How wrong they were.
In their innocence and naïveté, they had dismissed the warning as mere legends, tools that various teachers and the so-called wise men use to instill discipline and sow the seeds of doubt and fear in children, claiming that they were playing with forces beyond their ken should they use the forbidden powers. No one person, even their Astral Master, had truly laid eyes on the supposed effects of the True Invocation, and they themselves had never before been forced to use such extreme measures, so there had no concrete evidence.
Mayhap they could believe in the widely known legends, but it was not helped by the fact that such stories were often embellished by their tellers, exaggerated to elevate the characters to a position that was never theirs and produce events and melodrama that never actually occurred. Such was the way of legends being told in their world, and perhaps the same everywhere else. Even though the effects of wielding two Titans simultaneously were proven by Trystahn’s personal account, everything else seemed too surreal and overstated to consider seriously. Now, seeing with their own eyes the unknown malady afflicting Trystahn, the ‘legend’ had become truth, and it was with much regret that they had chose to heed the warning only after the action was taken.
Not only that, they had severely underestimated their foes. The combined assault of the Bureau mages possessed such frightening power that it even managed to penetrate through the extremely strong fortress-type barrier that was the true manifestation of the Shield Titan. Punching through that barrier, the attacks had struck the shield squarely, utterly destroying it just as the Templars were whisked into the gaps between dimensions. As rough a conjecture as it might be, they thought the ruination of the Titan may be part of the cause of Trystahn’s conditions: it unleashed remnants of the Elements as it was destroyed that were somehow forced back into Trystahn through his left arm, causing interference with his own Elements. Trystahn had perhaps attempted to purge them out, but they became mixed and agitated, and his Elements began rejecting one another as shown by the external phenomenon.
Regardless,
Kronos may have been shattered, but its effect—its curse—had lingered, just as their Master had said it would. Trystahn had saved them by unlocking the blood pact he made with the Titan, and now it was claiming its rightful portion of the bargain.
Trystahn’s left eye … and now his arm …
“Sharazad … there is no need … to continue this …” Trystahn said again, a little more forceful this time. “You are only … delaying the inevitable …” He gazed gently at the beautiful Templar and smiled. “Save your strength … for something more … worth it …”
“If this isn’t worth it, I don’t know what is …” Her voice was sharp and wintry, and she was shivering slightly.
“Please … do not cry … Sharazad …” Trystahn continued, ignoring the rebuke. “Tears … do not fit … you well …”
“Damn it, Trystahn!” Grandia could no longer bear it. “Why do you have to take life so lightly?”
“I am … not …” Trystahn replied, still smiling. “I always … treasure life …” He suddenly turned and stared gravely at the dark ceiling. “It is just that … mine cannot be … reversed …”
“No, I don’t believe it!” Vestrell cried. “There must be a way!”
“Do you all not … understand?” Trystahn continued, his expression unreadable. “Even if I were … to survive this … it would … no longer … be the same …”
And it finally struck them like the blow of a giant sledgehammer.
They were fools. Trystahn did not want to die; he never did. If anything, Trystahn was the one who valued the fragile thing known as life the most among them, and this particular trait of his probably rubbed off on Sharazad as well. The tall Templar had—and would—never condone pointless murders, and for him to kill wantonly would be totally unthinkable. Sacrifices and martyrdom would not be done without thorough considerations on his part, and he viewed those who flung life away for ostensible selflessness as childish and merely making convenient excuses to escape the problem.
He decided to sacrifice himself for their sake, so that they would be able to achieve their goals. He wanted them to live so that their promise could be fulfilled. A part of him wanted to make full use of whatever life that remained in him to see things through with the rest of them, yet his other self was accepting the alternative reality had to offer—that, even in surviving the current predicament, he would never feel truly alive again.
That he would be, if circumstances presented themselves, the reason of their failure.
They were living an unpredictable life, pursued as refugees and criminals in this world. Even if they were to cease their hunt for the Jewels, there was no way out for them. Without possibility of seeking treatment in hospitals, prostheses were out of the question. Their hidden sanctuary would only last for so long before the Magi decided to proceed with their plans. They had no choice but to fight for their survival.
And in this world, like any other scattered across the multiverse, the norm permitted only the fittest to live.
Trystahn no longer fit the category. He desired life, but life would not permit him survival. Not for long, in any case. His principles demanded his continued existence, even when he was not to be whole, but his conscience was calling for him to relinquish his life, for he would be but an unwilling encumbrance for his comrades. In the conflict of decisions, he chose to end his own life to free them of the burden. He did not want their goals to be stunted by his incompetence. He would be an inconvenience, a liability, and this hurt him so much more than resolving to meet Death sooner did. Perhaps it was hypocritical of him, but in between weighing his comrades down and going against his own tenets, he decided on the latter, not because he wanted to, but because there was no other alternative.
Or even if there was one, it would be much crueler than they would readily bear.
// Score: B.T. / Composer: Kajiura Yuki / Anime: .hack//Sign //
Sharazad’s tears fell in earnest. “Silly … you’re so silly, Trystahn …”
Trystahn smiled again. “I am sorry … Sharazad … perhaps … if given a better choice … I would not have considered this … but …” He looked kindly at his lover. “Please … grant me that … much …”
“I … I …” Sharazad could find no words to express her feelings. She lowered her face and averted her eyes, clamping them shut with all her might. She wanted to run, escape from this very moment, go anywhere but remain here.
Damn it … damn it all!
She felt like a volcano ready to burst, conflicting emotions churning inside her. Anger seethed and exploded, and she trembled in cold fury. She was angry with the Magi, who had refused to answer their call for help. She was angry with the mages who pursued them, who she blamed to be causal to their current dilemma. She was angry at the cruelty of the choice Trystahn had to make in so short a time. Most of all, she was angry with herself, helpless and weak, unable to help her love in any way.
Why … why does fate have to be so … cruel? Why should we … be pushed to the corner and punished … for doing something we believe in? Why?
“Sharazad …” Vestrell looked at the Sage of the Harp worriedly. “Are you … all right?”
Are we truly wrong? Are we truly deserving of this … castigation? No … I don’t believe so …
Grandia glanced at his sister, his expression serious. He had never seen Sharazad so distraught before, and he was unsure what to do. He placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. “Sister …”
“I …” Sharazad began slowly, her voice almost a whisper.
If this … this harsh fate is what the heavens have for us … then I curse the angels and damn their hymns! If they would be cruel, I will be crueler! I will become the angel of retribution that exacts vengeance on the divine! I will deny them their wishes, even death itself. And I … I will …
Twin watery pearls streamed down her cheek. Sharazad felt as if her chest was choking her, constricting her lungs and denying her air. Her breathing was shallow, difficult, and she could not understand why.
This hurts … this hurts a lot … It’s so painful …
“I … I am … all right …” Sharazad whispered hoarsely, but did not lift her head.
This is injustice … but if I were to be … a monster … so be it …
“Sharazad …” Trystahn spoke, his voice anxious. Though he could not see her face, he sensed that something was wrong. His sentiment was apparently shared by Grandia, who maintained his hold on her shoulder. To both lover and brother, the woman before them was the same and yet at the same time … different.
“I am all right,” she repeated, stronger this time. Her face remained muted in darkness.
“Then …” Trystahn said slowly. “Please … let go …”
“I am sorry, Trystahn.” Sharazad’s reply was cold, steely, emotionless.
“What …?” the Baron mouthed, but he was cut off by Sharazad.
“I am truly sorry, but I cannot allow that to happen,” she said. She finally lifted her face, and the three saw a most frightening visage. She had been crying, indicated by the streams of tear that flowed down her alabaster cheeks, but now her eyes were chilling, devoid of emotions. The blue depths of her pupils seemed to have frozen, orbs of ice that were resolute and determined.
“Sharazad, please …” Vestrell tried to reason, but she was ignored. “Surely you cannot think of …”
The Sage shook her head. “I am fully aware of what I am saying, Vestrell, and I mean them.” Without turning around, her eyes fixated upon Trystahn’s, she said to Grandia. “Brother, you know what I mean. Do it.”
“Wait, Sharazad, you can’t possibly mean …” Grandia said. For the first time, he felt scared. Sharazad had never been like this before. “Please, reconsider …”
“I cannot imagine … you being this … heartless … Sharazad …” Trystahn protested. He was shocked at her transformation. “You cannot choose … my life … for me …”
Sharazad’s face was an icy mask. “I will not, had I been given another choice. I don’t care what you think of me, Trystahn, but I must absolutely do this.”
“No … you cannot …” Trystahn said exasperatedly. He tried moving away, but the pain had paralyzed his body. “What good would it do … to be …”
“I will take responsibility for it,” Sharazad said simply.
“All right, Sharazad, I think you’re too exhausted to think clearly,” Grandia said. “Let’s jus—”
“If you would not do it for me, brother,” Sharazad said coldly, “then I’ll do it myself.”
Grandia was at a loss. He could not decide what to do. On the one hand, he wanted to save Trystahn. But, following Sharazad’s line of thought would be …
“You cannot do this … to me … Sharazad … you cannot …” Trystahn seemed to plead. “You cannot …”
“I am sorry …” Sharazad said. Her voice softened a little, but was still frosty.
“Then let me … die …” Trystahn returned.
“I cannot … I simply cannot!” she said. “I love you too much … to just let go of you …”
“No … Sharazad, do not … do this …” Trystahn implored.
“Brother, please!” Sharazad called. She was shivering badly, and she was pale. “I beg of you …”
Grandia gripped his hands so tightly the knuckles became white. It was a tough decision to make.
Why must it end like this …?
“Please …” Sharazad appealed again. “Do this … for us … for me …”
“Don’t do it … Grandia …” Trystahn entreated. “You know … as well as I do … that …”
With a great sigh and a remorseful look, Grandia finally replied, “I am truly sorry … Trystahn …” A golden outline began to form in his right hand, and in a burst of fire, the Sword Titan manifested.
“No!” Trystahn objected vehemently, and agony wracked his body.
“Thank you, brother …” Sharazad said in a low voice. “Thank you …”
“I will … hate you … for this …” Trystahn returned in an equally low voice, filled with detestation. He turned away, disgusted but powerless to stop it.
His words shattered Sharazad’s heart like glass, and though she wanted so much to cry at that moment, she braced herself, steeling herself against showing her most vulnerable side. “Hate me if you must, Trystahn, but I cannot allow you to die …”
There was no reply. Unbeknownst to them, a single tear had flowed down Trystahn’s cheek. This was just too much for him to bear.
“I am truly sorry …”
Those were Sharazad’s final words.
And then,
Helios, wreathed in fire, was brought down in a smooth arc.
A most horrible sound erupted—a vile dissonance, formed from a chilling cry of anguish mixed with the sharp, sizzling sound of hungry flames searing something, drifted upon a stiff breeze that was choked with the sickly aroma of blood and burnt flesh.