The sword hovered only an inch away from the Nu Mou's pulsing neck. Babus lay flat on his back, all hope draining from him as he met the maddened eyes of his captor. The boy smiled, his maddened eyes gleaming.
"Victory is mine," he hissed.
Babus gulped, straining to keep his throat away from the keen-edged blade.
"You—you can't . . ."
"Who are you to tell me what to do?" he snarled.
"But . . . but Mewt . . ."
"He has nothing to do with this. You are merely a threat to this world, and so I must eliminate you."
Babus shut his eyes in terror.
-
The blade lowered, closing the final inch between cold steel and warm flesh.
But . . .
Footsteps. He heard them, pacing evenly across the dusty stone floors. And he heard the voice.
"Llednar. Let him go."
The blade halted.
"Leave him. He is nothing to you. I am the one you want."
Llednar's eyes flashed with anger, the only outward sign that he had heard. Lowering the sword from the Nu Mou's neck, he paused for one split second, then rose and turned in one fluid motion, his sword striking out at chest height.
The silvered blade struck the other boy's upraised sword with tremendous force, sending it flying from his hands.
The blond boy, thrown to the floor by the force of the blow, lay on his back, not daring to take his eyes from Llednar's pitiless expression. The sword was too far away to reach; it lay several feet behind him on the floor, and anyway, he didn't dare look away.
Knowing full well the futility of it all, the boy reached a slender hand for the long knife on his belt—
"You know nothing," Llednar snarled.
The blond boy shook his long hair from his eyes. It was a small motion, a seemingly casual one, but Llednar noted the fear masked behind it. It was an expression he had seen once before . . .
-
"Llednar, this boy is Mewt. I wish for you to protect him in the Judgemaster's absence."
A flicker of bright color—yellow?—and then a face, peering curiously at his own.
"You are . . . Llednar?"
"Yes . . . That is my name."
Brown eyes, touched with a hint of red—had the boy been crying?—looked into his own.
And then he was drowning in the loneliness, and the misery, and the utter terror of the unknown.
Mama . . . where are you? I want . . . I want to go home.
But . . . I can't. Not yet. I need . . . to see this through.
I need . . .
And then there was the gentle touch of a hand on his own. He looked up into the boy's brown eyes again, and felt himself pulled from the waters.
Understanding.
It was hidden behind the fear and the pain, only waiting to be recognized.
The boy smiled, soft lips curving up slightly.
"Thank you."
The other said nothing. He shuddered for a moment, forgetting where he was, then turned on his heel and left.
-
Llednar cursed.
He had let down his guard, and the blond boy had scrambled away, grabbing his blade from where it lay on the ground.
But nothing was over yet. It had only just begun.
Even with a weapon in his hand, the other boy was frozen in terror. His hands gripped his blade so tightly his knuckles had turned white. Even his loose tunic could not mask the fact that he was shaking.
Llednar smiled.
His sword jerked up into a ready stance almost by itself. Llednar barely had time to see that the other boy had brought his sword up into a defensive position before his own blade thrust forward, aiming straight for the younger boy's throat.
-
The clash of metal on metal.
He blocks, but barely. He has not the skill to defeat me.
And then . . . it blurs together, in the swirling dance of blades that envelops me . . .
-
The eyes of Llednar, sworn guard to Mewt of Ivalice, clouded over, their crimson shade dimming.
His blade flickered as light hit it, glancing off at different angles. His feet moved in a complicated pattern dance, slowly backing his opponent into a corner. His body, honed as if by years of training, had the skills to defeat the most skilled of swordsmen.
-
Step left, and upward swing.
He blocks that, too. He's good . . . but he can't win.
Parry right, sidestep, and pierce . . .
-
But his mind . . . was falling into shadow.
-
There was only darkness. Not the black of night, but the empty nothingness of nonexistence.
And then . . . a voice, calling him.
Where the light shines not, a shadow is born.
From the darkness, a new power shall arise.
The shadows melted away, revealing the shivering form of a boy. He lay, sprawled on the ground, his hair falling into his eyes. The light shone on his slight form, embracing him like an old friend. But he flinched away, hunching down in an effort to hide his eyes from the brilliance.
The light . . . it was stronger than him. He hated it. His body shuddered, fighting against the feeling of the invading light . . . the sense of helplessness . . .
No.
I will . . . not . . . give . . . in.
And then the light dimmed slightly as a voice interrupted the silence.
"So . . . . It begins."
A woman, standing there, looking down on him.
She was . . . beautiful. Others would certainly call her so. But to him . . .
Empty. Her eyes, black as midnight, dark voids, devoid of all emotion.
They were not cruel, merely uncaring.
They mirrored his own.
"Come." She beckoned to him, and he followed, his crimson eyes dulling.
-
A sharp sting of pain, and his eyes returned to their bright red hue. His steps faltered for a moment, feeling the blood dripping from his arm, his face betraying him for one small second.
What's . . . happening?
His feet were on firm ground, but he felt himself falling . . .
Caught off guard, just like the last time . . .
-
The smaller boy had no hope, no chance at all. His opponent was immune to every attack, and seemed to have limitless power as well.
But some small flame of stubbornness kept him moving, dodging the endless attacks as best he could.
"Fool, can't you see it? You cannot win." The strange boy smirked, his eyes glittering.
His breath was catching in his throat now. He wouldn't be able to last much longer, and this swordsman knew it.
Llednar sidestepped, following the younger boy's dodge, and swung the blade effortlessly. Blood flowed from the gash on the other's side.
He smiled, and let the darkness flow into him.
Dying breath . . .
His opponent stumbled backwards, recognizing the signs . . .
. . . light my blade . . .
It wrapped around his body, sheathing his sword in a writhing mass of shadows . . .
. . . and sing in shadow . . .
Adrenaline rushed through him. Eyes closed, he felt the slightest touch of a breeze on his skin, before he raised the blade—
-
—and felt a sharp pain.
And then nothing. Nothing at all.
-
I will not . . . lose . . .
Power of eradication . . .
. . . Gather . . . to me . . .
It was no use. His power was gone . . .
-
His vision cleared.
The sword lay only a few feet away on the ground, where the other had let it fall. He stared, half-hypnotized by the subtle shimmer on the silvery metal, and by the blood that coated the length of the blade.
Blood.
His blood.
It flowed from the gaping wound the other had inflicted on him, leaving his body by the quickest route. He watched as the unfamiliar red substance seeped through his clothing.
How . . . ?
He took a stumbling step back, his gaze turning upward towards the one who had defeated him. Their eyes met, his burning with hatred; the other's, oddly blank—somewhat shocked, but with realization dawning.
He pulled his gaze away . . . he felt himself falling. There was no ground under him, nothing left to support his fall through the air . . .
And the darkness took him, once again, as it had . . . in the beginning.
-
"Judgemaster . . ."
The darkness surrounded him. Here, where no one could see, and he could listen. The feeling of the shadows flowing through him returned, accompanied as always by the feeling of euphoria.
"Llednar, if you are loyal to the prince, you will let us pass!"
Another voice spoke, seeming distant and faded. "I . . . am me. I am here because . . . I wish it."
The whispers returned.
"He is . . . Mewt."
"Power of eradication!"
A softer voice than the others, as if telling a secret. ". . . created, as the Totema were . . ."
"Get out of the way!"
"You cannot defeat me."
"Who is he?
"You are a threat to this world. I cannot let you live."
"Sheath your sword!"
A twinge of pain lanced through his body. "Your power is gone." He fell to the ground, holding back the tears of pain.
Soft brown eyes met his, and the voices stopped. A smile, and then everything was fading . . .
-
The darkness released him, and he fell into the spiraling light.
-
Who am I?
I am the shadow.
For there to be darkness, there must be light. He is the light, and I am the darkness.
I am his reflection.
Look into the mirror. I am what you see.
I am life.
I am my own being . . . not just a creation. I am alive, but . . .
I am dying.
The blood seeps through the thin cloth, staining it red. My breath is coming in gasps now, and soon . . . not at all.
Who am I?
I am.
-
Marche watched as the other boy crumpled to the ground.
Those eyes watched him.
Anger . . . There was rage, and confusion, hidden in their depths.
Shock . . . Frustration at the world, and at the boy who had defeated him in the end.
And then . . . nothing at all. Nothing except the smallest flicker of light, before they closed for the last time.
-
I am at peace.