The Last Champion
The greatsword makes a scraping noise as it slides into the top of hill. The bloodied man, with wounds covering him from head to toe smiles as he sighs and kneels down. Impaled into his back, five more weapons pronounce from his form, as his Segmentata was all but ruined plates and tatters. His skirt ripped and stained a darker red then that of his homelands color, he removes his helmet from his head, placing it to the side. As he gazes upon the cloudy sky, around him, stabbed deeply into the dirt lay millions of armaments, from swords to halberds and from axes to arrows the dried wastes stretch as far as the eye can see, filled with weapons of war.
Each weapon carried with it a story and a motive he remembered vividly as he was forced to end their lives. A bandit lord dipping their toes into the magics of an ancient darkwell, killing the leader of an entire legion of his own people because of the dark weapon granted by foreign beings not of creations realm... each tempted by fate, desperation... and learning the truth of ones humanity. He did all of this, killed all of these people in the name of the gods themselves, and called it just. For who were the gods, if not the judges of everything that exists?
...
Vittalion Aramis Maximus was born a free woman's son, a middle class of the first aestatian republic. Two cycles from our present, yet upon the same timeline of which the Heilig empire sprawled across Aversia. The son of a merchant woman, Vittalion grew up under the era of auspicious stars; for this was when the star of Aestas, that which the land Aestatia is named after, fell from the sky and disappeared upon his day of his birth. His mother was named Aria and was apparently known to be blessed with incredible beauty and intellect, and his father a strange, mysterious man of whom he only found the name of much later. His uneventful childhood was lead by the tutelage of a veteran, for his mother desired to see her son fight for his home and the greater world to protect it from evil, inspired by the deeds of his father before him. Despite this sudden change in lifestyle from what he was used to, when he was ten years of age it became quickly apparent that Vittalion had prowess and strength far beyond that of a normal boy, or even a man. A notion which spread like wildfire through his teenage years as he worked his way through soldiering.
As he finalized his training at the age of sixteen by doing a pilgrimage to the shrine of the timekeeper, a place which lay at the summit of the tallest mountain in Aestatia, there he would find the end of his time on the mortal plane as a supposed mortal man. As he prayed for the timekeepers protection against age, he found himself in a different place. A land of marble pillars, with beings at a height taller then the largest buildings in the capital. Around him, these giants of power far beyond his imagination spoke in a resounding voice. They declared to him that he was a chosen of the gods, a being unique to this age, one that could save everything if it worked. He was a Demigod, a man born from the blood of a human woman and one of the pantheon. So many thoughts raced through the young boys mind about his true origins, though they seemed to be patient with him as he asked countless questions, many relating to what powers he may wield because of this, and if he could somehow use them to protect not only his homeland, but everyone in the world.
During this conversation, he learned that his true father was not a regular man, but the All-Father of the pantheon itself, Vassas. He was born a man unlike any other-given powers even a demi-servant could not possibly hope to match. Upon seeing his creation grow into such a man, Vassas gladly awakened the dormant powers hidden within Vittalion, stating that he was the only one worth to carry the title champion of the pantheon. Armed with such knowledge and newfound strength, he gladly chose the life of a guardian to the people of the multiverse when it was offered to him, even if he would never know the faces of most past a glance. He was made for this, and now he would serve the greater calling that reached out to him. The people of the realms rejoiced at the miracle that now lay in their hands when the heavens opened to reveal their herald, giving them a supposed eternity of peace and prosperity.
But miracles don't last forever.
Fifty years after becoming the champion of the Pantheon, Vittalion returned home to visit his mother, whom he hadn't seen since that fateful day. Happiness on his face, and tears rolling from his eyes the man that was once but a child found his old home on the wayside road within the capital of the republic... but all that was left there was despair and hopelessness. Fresh on her face, a look of terror pervaded Aria, as she lay dead in a pool of her own fresh blood and her chest carved out in the symbol of the goddess of chaos. The violet wisps that exited the wounds laughed at his reaction and tears, which soon gave it away that this murder wasn't by a normal cultist or crazed maniac, but the divine of chaos herself. In a storm of grief and anger, Vittalion ran from the site of his desecrated home and returned to the seat of his father, demanding to know why that, in his all seeing power, he could not stop his mothers death. Despite his cold and unflinching stature which he is often known for, there was a terrible sadness that never again would form upon his face as he spoke to his son, and admitted the only two weaknesses he ever would possess. Aria, his mother, a link to mortalkind which could serve as the only way to prevent him from making decisions he believed was right... and her. One was for love, the other because only she possessed the power to evade his all seeing eyes.
Vittalion despite his fathers clear sorrow, did not relent. His anger and his rage fueled from this invincible figure he called his father to be so weak as to be unable to see a half mortal girl in his vision resulted in the murder of their loved one. Vittalion was soon forced from the chamber by his father after a heated exchange of words, and for hundreds of years more Vittalion served, but remained infinitely at odds with him. The sept this rift opened, it can be said this seed lead to his eventual fall from grace. The entity known presently as the void began to whisper to him while he slept after that, trailing at the edges of his mind just enough to slowly and excruciatingly make him change his views without marring his memories of which he held so dear. It fed on his doubt, and exhausted him over eras. It was not long after the sixtieth era of his purpose before he began to seek something more than himself. He had a longing for a family, and a wife, one to fill the void lost by his fathers poor protection and loss of true family since that fateful sept.
...
It was another decade before he found a woman named Anastasia who was serving as a tavern wench down on her luck, whom he quickly chatted up, betrothed and fell for beyond that which he thought was possible for someone of his stature. They spoke and laughed and dance together on countless nights, and he told her of his life and the terrors he was forced to face down every sept. Instead of running, like many whom he had tried and failed with before, she accepted him for who he was, but she had sympathy beyond just that. His life had enough terror and pain in her eyes-it was time for him to settle down, start a family if he wanted to. Sixty Eras was long enough to serve anyone, even the gods themselves. Though she was a religious woman, like anyone at the time, a strange black envy began to pull at her mind, making her desire to see him and drift away from anyone who posed a threat to her love with him. The influence of the void that racked his mind pulled him toward this lethargic state as well, and so he requested from the pantheon, the first time he had done so since his inception, to be released from his services and immortality, and to live out his days with his soon-to-be wife. Appalled by his sudden shift in behavior from his diligent son, Vassas and the rest of the pantheon declined, for it was him who prevented the inner worlds from falling to anarchy, and they had not a replacement for one of his stature. In addition, it was made clear that links to mortals was only weakness in cases such as these, as Vassas had shown him so long ago.
Before he let his rage overcome his form, he requested to meet with the ever merciful goddess of life, Arvora. In all respects, she had attempted to become his mother figure since the passing of his first, and so in his last vestiges of sanity attempted to cling to her for a false hope he thought would set him free. When Arvora declined to go against the will of the pantheon, she stated the same reasons as when she had originally agreed with his father. The worlds needed him-they needed a guardian... and there was simply no-one better. Vittalion stormed from the room of his so-called mother figure, condemning her in his yelling as tears streamed from his face. She was disappointed in this, but understood that despite his anger, it should have been for the best.
Should have been, had something else not had other plans.
Returning home in anger from their judgement, the whispers grew in strength and addled at his mind. Anger toward his father, anger toward the gods injustice toward his desires, and most importantly, anger that he could not be with the person he loved until they both peacefully passed away. When he told his wife the judgement of the gods, he saw in her a dark rage that was far beyond her character, which wailed about the wrongdoings of the gods and how they kept him chained to their will purely so that she could be cursed to a life of despair and loneliness. In his tampered mind, she was right about it all. He was just a tool, one that the gods used and took advantage of as they pleased without remorse or care. Though inevitably afterwards she relented on her condition and agreed to marry him regardless of what had happened, his work continued for another ten tsels. Every time he struck down another enemy of the pantheon, his doubt only grew... and so did the whispers. Every fiber in his being eventually screamed that he was just fulfilling a will not his own, and that he should fight back against his creators... and most importantly, his father, so that he could live the life he so desperately desired.
The last mortal weapon used by his hand dug into the dirt before him.
As he returned home from another day of endless protections, he found the house in a strange, cloudy and slime-like mess. Every piece of it was covered by a strange layer of muck that drained the very divine energies from his body. He was repulsed, scared-and most importantly, terrified of the possible status of his wife. His eyes searched the twisting room desperately... and in the corner of the house, hidden away from the windows and moonlight of Ombra, his wife awaited in a chair with open arms. The Muck that covered the home seemed to create a pocket for her to stay, not harming or approaching her seemingly as if she herself controlled its very will. A small shrine to a foreign being was hastily created where the small pantheistic shrine was before, and his wife spoke to him in a clear and happy fashion that he hadn't seen in a long time. The walls, despite the muck were covers in stains of blood and scratch marks, and messages written in the ink of madness scrawled over the home. He soon looked to his wife once again, asking what the meaning of this strange... thing, was. She responded joyfully, as her mind had finally been overtaken by the truth of the darkness beyond the veil.
"You have a guest, my love. One that promises to finally set you free."
And for the first time since creation split into pieces,
Absence spoke.
| The World of Aethius • The Multiverse of Aethier |
