Author's Note: The first italicized section was given to me as a gift by Evil Miss Becky. She said, "Here's a new universe; knock yourself out." So I did. Title taken from the "Legend" track of Nox Arcana's Darklore Manor. Subtitles taken or paraphrased from various other pieces by Nox Arcana.
Part One: A Lost and Wayward Soul
He had lost count of how many times he had been here, naked and cringing and praying that this time, maybe this time, would be the last.
The Lord of Darkness laughed.
He ducked his head, and the laughter grew louder. "You think you have any secrets from me, you pitiful fool?"
The glowing orb on the Dark Lord's staff touched his bent neck. He screamed in agony as the magical fire consumed him, burning him to ash while leaving him intact.
All the better to start over with, as the Dark Lord promised.
And Rhapthorne always kept his promises.
They had left him.
It was the one thing Jessica couldn't get past, couldn't forgive.
They had left him.
They had thought Rhapthorne dead, fought their way past monsters maddened with the loss of their master as the Black Citadel crumbled around them, they'd been outside, damn it, they'd been free.
Then the ruined towers had risen into a stone giant, which, with a single blow, had swept Angelo off the walkway, into the rubble which spawned it.
Angelo hadn't had time to scream. She had.
They had fought, and won, and fled.
They had left him.
She had left him, let them drag her back from the edge and force the transformation of the godbird's soulstone on her. She had believed when they'd said that even if Angelo had survived the fall, he couldn't have survived the towers collapsing back upon him.
They had landed back on the ship, and turned to watch the Black Citadel fall from the sky. But it hadn't fallen. It had shaken and convulsed, then slowly dragged itself back together, shattered stone re-forming, broken spires rising.
That was when they had known Rhapthorne was alive.
And in her heart, Jessica knew he had Angelo.
He had been unmade and remade so many times he wasn't certain anything of his original self remained beyond fragments - names without faces, faces without names. Even those might have been imagination rather than memory.
It mattered little. Neither memories nor imaginings were acceptable. They were distractions, diversions from his service to the Dark Lord.
Rhapthorne's thoughts, slick and black, probed the places where memories once lived. He had no secrets from Rhapthorne; there were no secrets left for him to have.
The staff touched him, unmade and remade, and a few more of those fragments vanished like smoke.
"Jessica."
The sound of her name wasn't a surprise; it had become a nightly ritual for Eight to come coax or bully her away from her vantage point by the rail, convince her to eat and at least try to sleep. Tonight, his voice was ragged, and he sounded painfully tired, so that even distracted as Jessica was, she noticed.
A part of her felt sorry for him, but she didn't move from her place, or look away from the ominous black shape in the sky, even when his hand settled on her shoulder.
"Jess, you need to get some rest."
"He's up there." It hurt to talk; she hadn't had anything to eat or drink all day. "We left him up there, and Rhapthorne has him."
The hand tightened. "He couldn't have survived..."
Her temper flared at the over-used assurance, at the way he acted as if it might somehow comfort her to believe Angelo dead. "How many times has one of us not survived a battle?" she demanded. "How can you even think that's an excuse for what we did?"
"It's not!" Eight exploded, and in that uncharacteristic display of temper Jessica saw, for the first time, what leaving Angelo behind had cost him. "But it's done and we can't change it."
She turned away. She had no comfort to give, just her own guilt and anger. "Yes, we can."
"Jessica."
"We know where he is. And we know we have to go back. Why are we waiting?"
The question was just to vent her frustration; she knew they still weren't ready, knew they needed more time to heal and re-arm and, Goddess help them, find some way to fight through the Citadel without the aid of Angelo's magic.
She didn't expect any answer, much less the one she got.
"We aren't."
He owed Rhapthorne his life. His first memory was of his Lord demonstrating that fact by undoing his healing spells and leaving him broken and screaming in agony, unable even to beg for mercy. He had lain thus for hours, his blood slowly seeping out onto the tiles, staining the dark stone even darker.
When his world was reduced to cold and darkness and the agonizing effort to draw one more breath, Rhapthorne healed him.
He needed no further demonstrations. His life, his service, belonged to Rhapthorne.
And he would gladly do whatever the Lord of Darkness asked of him.
They didn't - couldn't - attack immediately. Nothing had changed; they still needed to recover from their last attempt, repair weapons and armor, stock up on the herbs and potions which, they knew, would be a poor substitute for Angelo's skills. But the passage of time now had a sense of purpose, and gave Jessica the distraction she desperately needed.
She still found her gaze drawn to the sky, but the Black Citadel no longer held her for hours.
When they turned north to find a town and re-supply, it didn't feel like they were abandoning Angelo all over again.
The dark fabric rested heavily against his hands, the weight almost enough to still their trembling.
It took him a moment to recognize what he held.
A uniform.
The sudden familiarity carried with it voices, disembodied, stripped of meaning and identity. For a heartbeat, he strained after them: cool tones, clipped with impatience; a softer, friendlier voice; a woman's voice, as impatient as the first, but backed by fire instead of ice.
"I trust it meets your approval, my knight."
He looked up at Rhapthorne's voice, the other voices forgotten. "Forgive me, my Lord. It is..." His fingers tightened. "Perfect."