Fantasy, Home

Cycles Of Dark and Light

Again, she stands before him.

The Destroyer of Worlds.

The Reality Breaker.

The Dark God.

Again, he smiles. Teeth like pearly daggers glisten in the hazy crimson light, hiding the gaping void he called his mouth. His eyes, filled with unnatural light glint in unhinged hysterical amusement.

His is smaller this time. Still tall, still impossibly strong even with such a weak looking body. He is lean muscle and sharp bone wrapped in armor so dark it swallows all light.

She is also small (always small), with broad shoulders and actual body fat, hair as bright as the sun. She is soft, and she bruises, with her armor, shinning so much it glowed, sneak attacks are impossible even in places where the light does not reach.

He lounges on a twisted metal throne, clawed gauntlets scraping as they tap, tap, tap away. He waits for her to make the first move, though she’s never understood why. Even now she wonders, but her curiosity is easily, far too easily, swept away.

She is tired.

She is so, so tired.

Again, she prays this will be last time, that when she wakes in the new world, he will not be there. His corruption will not spread, thousands will not suffer and dies, the survivors will not be left to walk so paranoid and alone on a crimson-soaked earth as their souls grew dark with madness.

(She hopes this will be the last time she must kill him.)

But that is not now. Now, they stand amidst ashes and rotting flesh, weapons in hand, dressed for what will be a long glorious battle.

His sword is a terrible charred thing, coated in blood that pulses a nauseating crimson light. It is large and heavy, but he has never had trouble swinging it.

While her own blade gleams like the sun, pristine and new as the day she received it. As if it hasn’t already tasted a hundred battles.

His smirk slips as he meets her eyes.

(He remembers her tears falling, burning, on his flesh as he fell into darkness. Again and again.)

But it returns even greater, stretching his thin skin as he rushes her.

They fight, day turning into night and day again as they exchange blows. Cracking the ground beneath their feet, scorching the already blackened earth. They could go for weeks without tiring, but–

But she is tired.

Tired of this endless cycle, the bloodshed, the agonised screams of the dead that claw at her chest when she sleeps, the ghosts of wounds long healed. But most of all, she is tired of being alone in the end.

She feints her next move, and lets him run her through.

She screams, sword falling from her grasp, shattering into a million pieces.

(It burns. It burns like the fires of hell, like the ice of the void. But what’s done is done.)

Then he screams, the sound following her as she surrenders to the void. Drowning out the voices that call her a failure, a coward.

She prays next time will be different.

(It isn’t.)

 

 

 

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