Section 4

         Tristian rolled with the motion, feeling ice burning into him in patches as he struck the ground. What felt like driving snow struck his face and every breath stabbed icicles into his chest. In his wet clothing, the sudden chill seemed to penetrate right to the bone, sending him into nearly uncontrollable shivers. He quickly managed to right himself, landing in a crouch, his sword set in front of him, clutched in both hands. It was hard to see anything around him, snow was landing in his hair and melting there and the air seemed thick with white clouds. Distantly he thought he saw shapes in the semi-darkness but it was hard to tell. Ice was caking on his eyelids, coating his shirt. But his skin barely felt anything anymore, all the temperature extremes he had been through so far today had mostly cancelled each other out. There was nothing to feel anymore.
         Ranos, he called out mentally, where the hell are we now?
         I think we're still on the same planet we were on, but I can't see the sky. His voice had an echoey quality to it, almost dazed. Probably the shock of being forcefully teleported again, Tristian had gotten used to it over the years but for Ranos most of the attempts were voluntary. Tristian couldn't tell where he was though, the link didn't give clues to one's location at all unless the other person was concentrating on it. No doubt Ranos could tell where he was though, or at least that always seemed to be the case. I can definitely see the sword though so you might want to put that away until we can get our bearings.
         He could attack at any second, Tristian argued, shifting his weight a little. His foot went down what seemed a slope and then hit empty air, nearly taking his entire body with him. The snow cleared for a second and he could see what appeared to be the distantly white ground far below. You heard him, he's done playing.
         Let's not give him a target then. The sword hurt him once already, he's going to be looking for it specifically. At least wait until I get over there before you start waving it around like the warrior you seem to think you are.
         Tristian found it hard to argue with that logic, even at the expense of his ego. And being that he was still living with the threat of sliding off, he needed both hands to get himself settled on whatever the hell he was. It didn't seem like a mountain at all, or even a glacier, the surface was too smooth and no more than ten feet away he thought he could see the curve of the plane ending into another drop. As he resheathed the sword, he noted, If doing this somehow causes my death, you're going to hear from me.
         Ranos seemed to give a snorting laugh over the link. Somehow I don't doubt it. There was a short pause. I don't sense him nearby but he could be cloaking himself now, which I think we're going to have to start doing as well. I need you near though, are you in a position to move back?
         You're behind me? Slowly Tristian tried to bring himself to the middle of what appeared to be some sort of causeway, to lessen the risk of falling off either edge.
         Yes. After Tristian had turned himself around so that he was facing what he thought was the opposite direction from before, Ranos said, Now you're facing me, just keep heading forward. Slowly, please, this is more slippery than it looks.
         Carefully Tristian crawled along the causeway, his heart nearly stopping every time his hand or foot started to slip. The snow danced and capered in the air all around him, and his breath made white clouds in front of his face, only to get torn apart by the bitter wind. All he could hear was the wind, if they weren't able to talk silently, all their shouting would have been deadened by this weather.
         I can't see a damn thing, oh wait . . . the causeway seemed to be widening and there were more ridges and folds in the ice to give him traction. The snow was clearing up a bit now and he could see the general shape of the piece he was standing on. The shape was vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place what it was reminding him of. How are you holding up, by the way, this isn't exactly your weather.
         Just fine actually, now Tristian could see a thin shape crouched down behind what seemed to be a pile of snow, robes furling around it. It stood up suddenly and for a brief frightening second Tristian feared that he had been tricked the entire conversation and the whole thing had just been a ploy by the Hierophant to lead him to his death. But one of the good aspects about the link was that it gave you quite a bit of certainty as to who you were talking to. I learned a technique to keep me cool a long time ago, reversing it appears to have the same effect in a snowstorm.
         Sounds good to me, Tristian grunted as he got near Ranos. Suddenly he hit an especially slippery patch of ice and flopped down on his stomach, bruising himself a little more and doing more damage to his ego in the process. Silently cursing himself as more cold radiated throughout his body, he curled his body back into a crouch, shaking snow out of his hair as he did so.
         As he got to his hands and knees, he wound up brushing some snow off the patch of ground in front of him, revealing the pattern of lines and ridges etched into the surface. Something clicked in his brain and he finally realized what they had been reminding him of all along.
         Whorls and loops.
         They reminded him of fingerprints.
         Heart fluttering madly, head spinning, he looked up just as a sudden calm in the weather fell over the area and the dusky sky emerged from the snow static in the air. His view of the area now totally clear and without any visual obstructions, he could easily see what they were standing on top of. It was a vaguely squarish shape, with five slightly curled sausage shaped structures of ice in various sizes space almost equally around the square.
         Ranos was standing several feet from him and in the sudden calm Tristian easily made crossed the distance to him. The other man had an expression on his face that was somewhere between disbelief and tacit acceptance, acknowleging the world only because he really was tired of fighting it. He was staring at a point behind Tristian.
         Tristian glanced down, kicked a little at the snow, noting the bluish clarity of the ice, exchanged a silent and brief look with Ranos that said nothing and everything before slowly turning to face the direction he had came from.
         Snow was coming down steadily now, but with no wind to spray it all over and obscure visibility, it was nothing more than a backdrop to sterile beauty. An impressionist's view of a stark winter day. But Tristian didn't see any of that. All he could see was what they were standing on. How the ice that seemed to be shaped just like a hand led into another portion of the causeway that could be considered a wrist, and then a long stretch that might be the arm, all the way up to maybe what one could consider a shoulder. Tristian wanted to think that this was no more than staring up at the sky playing connect the dots with stars, letting your brain fill in the blanks. But there weren't blanks, someone had gone and filled all the answers in before they had even arrived.
         Gentle winds blew snow off the largest block of ice about thirty feet away, sitting right in between those other structures that might be called shoulders. Details came crawling out.
         Thirty feet away, a face emerged from the storm.
         Hollow and sunken eyes stared at them, cold and glassy. A misshapen face that could only be described as human in the way that sharks could be described as large fish stood revealed. It might have been a look of abject horror in that face, but it could also have been content resignation. Two tusks protruded from the lower lips, though the tops were sheared off, worn down by the ravages of nature and time. Or something else.
         "Dear God . . ." Tristian whispered, stepping backwards, feeling his feet sliding on the icy surface, regaining his balance by grabbing onto Ranos' shoulder. The man turned with the motion to face him and Tristian nearly shouted in his face, "Tell me that's a statue! Religious object, sign of power, anything . . . tell me!"
         Ranos only stared at him, his face bordering on a lack of comprehension. The wind, Tristian realized. His partner couldn't hear him over the now constant howl of the wind, that was it.
         In his head, he started to repeat what he had just said, although in what he hoped was a clearer and less panicked manner. Ranos cut him off before he finished the first three words.
         I heard you the first time, the man replied with a even murmur. And I don't know how to describe it. Good God, even in all this, he was at least pretending for calm. Tristian took a deep breath to steady himself, his heart still pumping wildly. Adrenaline decreed the beat sailing through his veins. How long had it been since he had landed here on this . . . this corpse? Thirty seconds. Two minutes? Not long. The Hierophant would be along soon, they didn't have time to play junior archeologists to a relic from God only knew how long ago.
         That makes two of us, Tristian replied.
         It . . . was alive . . . I think, Ranos replied, his mental voice revealing some uncertainty. Once. I . . . there are several more large objects scattered around the area.
         "The actual number would be seven," a voice laughed from somewhere behind them.
         The two of them spun around to see a shape rising out of the swirling snow at the edges of the half clenched hand. Snow seemed to be spraying from below, as if bolstering him up. The deep red of the Hierophant's robes made him appear be to a bleeding wound in the frost coated air. His laughter emanted from the near lipless smile that wrapped around his face.
         An answering flush of red in Tristian's hand signaled the entrance of a sword he didn't even know he had drawn. Ranos didn't make any motions at all but Tristian could sense the glimmers and stirrings of his mind across the link. This was it. The two of them could feel it, the Hierophant wasn't going to hold anything back this time, and they were nearly ground down to the bone, staggering skeletons fighting on because it was all they could do, in the end. The only right thing to do. Tristian clutched the sword tighter, his knuckles matching the color of the air, trying to hide the trembling in his hand.
         "A hundred thousand years ago," the Hierophant said, even as they could see the falling snow striking something around him and melting, spreading a little and evaporating in the chilled air, "they came, much as you did, trying to stop me . . ." and now that Tristian's eyes were getting used to the layered elegance of the hazy air, he thought he could make out several other giant shapes, vaguely humanoid, all contorted and unmoving nearby. The Hierophant had now cleared the fingers of the giant, his feet hovering inches above the icy surface.
         His eyes almost sparked as he laughed again, lacing the fingers of his hands together as he continued merrily, "I really don't even know what moral code of theirs I was violating, maybe they just were in it for the sport . . ."
         Tristian suddenly exploded into motion, lunging forward while swinging the sword diagonally at the same time. Part of him wanted to close his eyes, anticipating the fiery pain that was about to greet him but with a supreme effort of will he managed to meet the gaze of the Hierophant the entire time.
         Even as his sword passed right through him to no effect.
         The surprise caused him to lose his balance and he nearly fell on his face, his traction slipping on the slick surface, twisting his body nearly double in an effort to stand. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the Hierophant staring at him with stark amusement, even as he held out one glowing hand.
         "Pathetic," he sneered.
         Tristian managed to regain his stance just as the blast caught him right in the chest, sending rivers of molten pain radiating throughout his body, his limbs losing all semblance of control even as he staggered somehow before the Hierophant, finding the strength to slash at the man again, with the same lack of effect as before. What was going on? Defeat cajoled him, shrieking for him to just let go and accept his loss. But it wasn't a choice. It couldn't be. If he did give in, then who else would be there to stop the Hierophant? Nobody. Nobody would do it and more would die. All because he was weak for only a moment.
         "They tried to take the battle here," the Hierophant continued, his hand making a glowing smear across the air, water bleeding from the air in its wake, "thinking that the cold would be my nemesis. It wasn't. And neither are you."
         Another blast took him in the side as he turned, a concussive force that sent him spinning along the ice, trying to find his footing. Distantly he was aware of Ranos but he couldn't get his head together enough to shout, for all he knew Ranos could be trying to get his attention and he couldn't concentrate long enough for it to make any difference. That was the problem, nothing made any difference. You kill one and a hundred more pop up, all aching to tear the flesh off the innocent, tear it off in strips and scream with ecstacy as offal runs down their chins. And you're just one man. One man against a army of wicked depravity. And everything you were ever told was a lie. Good isn't organized. Evil isn't organized. Good wins through luck, evil wins because it refuses to play fair. And when it comes down to it, breaking the rules always will prevail over luck any day. And so they march blindly off to slow slaughter, never thinking that somewhere there might be a better way, that it doesn't have to be like this. But nobody thinks that fighting for your life does any good. Can't do any good they claim. Where there's life there's hope, of course. And maybe that's the right response. Maybe giving your all only to to have it cancelled out is just the worst way to go about it.
         "They could never have been more wrong." The driving snow bit into Tristian, stinging his cheek, drowning out all other sound but the mad words of the man preparing to strike him again. His voice was level and even quiet, but it kept reaching his ears even through the suffocating wind. Like the Hierophant was perched on his shoulder, whispering into his ear. The anti-conscience. Telling you that there's no balance, no scale, no one is weighing your actions out, so there's no reason to do good. Good and evil aren't their own rewards, you reward yourself. "Cold isn't the opposite, the antagonist, it's the pure absence of heat."
         Tristian's cheek was lying against the snow, nearly freezing in place, while the words became more and more distant. In his head he could feel Ranos, his mind swelling up with power. Something was about to happen. He couldn't feel his body, but something was going to happen. That's all that mattered. Even numb, he could feel the weight of the sword nestled tightly in his hand. It felt more real than anything else around. He clutched it, feeling the hilt biting into his palm with throbbing pain, and he let it bring him back.
         The air became infused with heat again, increasing to an almost unbearable degree, like a balloon about to rupture. Tristian tried to roll to his feet and found his body not responding. No. Not after all of this. He wasn't going to give up now.
         A flashing crack echoed even through the softened sounds of the air, the noise nearly stopping Tristian's heart in its shuddering force, giving him the impetus to finally roll to his feet.
         Coming up in a crouch, he saw three of the fingers from the giant hand missing, their edges ragged and cracked, as if someone had taken them and snapped them right off. The air was smoking around the Hierophant, and the ground under him was pitted and scarred, a cloudy liquid oozing out of some of the holes. It made Tristian sick just looking at it.
         The Hierophant's wide eyes were fixed on Ranos, who was merely smiling, his hands tucked into his robes, those same robes rippling in the face of the streaming winds curling around them. There was no sound for a long time.
         "And so you drew all the heat out of their bodies and into yourself," Ranos yelled across the windy gap, taking a step forward, past Tristian, who had managed to get himself back into a crouch. Even without seeing his face, Tristian could hear the derision in his partner's voice. "How long have you been patting yourself on the back for that one? Do you really believe that you can measure you own intelligence in relation to the obtuseness of past opponents?" Ranos took another step forward, sliding his boots along the ground.
         Tristian placed his hand on the ground, wincing as the cold seeped into his arm, to brace himself to spring. A voice in his head stopped him. Don't move. Get ready. A blurred image fell into his head like a light rain.
         He just stared at the back of Ranos' head and nodded almost imperceptibly.
         Meanwhile, the Hierophant had recovered, his face recracking into a smile, his wet fragments of hair lying flat on his skull, giving him a diseased and wasted appearance. "So you decide to join the fray as well, mindbender? And with what weapon, taunts? Taunts and a power dependant on your own weakening mind." His feet touched the surface, and he took a step toward Ranos, his entire body awash with power. Mist floated away from the ice around him. The whole situation seemed ghostly and unreal.
         "My mind is as strong as ever," Ranos called out, "or I wouldn't have been able to turn your power on you like I did. And that hurt, I can tell, your mind is a bleeding sore to me."
         "You talk too much," the Hierophant snarled, flame washing out of his hands. Ranos staggered back as it slid around him, the edges biting at his robes, his eyes briefly squeezing shut from the pain. Water bubbled as ice collapsed around them.
         "No," Ranos gasped, "you think too little. The same tricks that worked a thousand years ago won't work now . . ." and now Ranos was smiling as the flames suddenly bent, flowing like a river into the ice, causing steam to erupt around Ranos, showing only his soot covered and battered face, his bloodshot eyes, the blurred tatters of his brown clothing. Wrenching himself upright, he said, "Because we aren't those opponents. This is your first battle with us, Hierophant.
         "And your last."
         Tristian, now.
         The same picture flashed into his head, clearer now, an image of him reacting, impossibly fluid and smooth but enough of a hint for him. Even as the vista was fading from his mind, he was moving, driving the sword into the ice and sliding laterally, past Ranos, the ice splitting and dryly cracking behind him, until he nearly reached the other edge, using the momentum to bring himself back to his feet.
         As he did so, the air was ruptured by a splintering crackle, and Tristian felt his stomach bottom out as the giant's wrist separated from the arm and slowly began to fall to earth.
         Tristian felt lightheaded for a second as he threw himself from the falling frozen limb, the air seeming to condense around him, all motion seeming to stop. Everything seemed to be moving at the same slow time, they were all crystals dangling in mid air, twisting and glinting as they performed a slow dance to the march of gravity.
         The wrist, with the Hierophant still a red splotch attached to it, a man with a thorn in his hand, seemed to fall away from them, like he had suddenly became suspended in space. It grew smaller and smaller, even as the whistling air turned into a roar in his ears, finally striking the ground with a powdered explosion, the hand shattered into several large pieces that seemed to rise slightly even as they spun away from the tumbling wreckage. The bloodless carnage seemed almost dreamlike in its poetic silence.
         Start moving as soon as we reach the ground, Ranos instructed.
         We're finally pressing the advantage?
         Now we have an advantage to press, finally. Ranos' voice was calculating, precise, a throbbing brutality running just underneath the surface, pulsing with crimson flares over the link. Tristian wondered how his mind appeared to Ranos' when seen in that fashion. The ground was rushing toward them now, though not as fast as he would have expected, Ranos must have slowed their descent some to give them time to plan.
         That's good but what about the fact that my sword went right through him . . . if we can't touch him-
         He shifted out of phase, Ranos interupted, and fortunately Tristian knew what he meant, since his partner didn't seem to be in the mood for explanations. There wasn't any time. Snow was crusting on his face, sailing up from the ground, but they kept falling steadily, rockets with only one target. Down. That was the only reason I got into his head, he spread himself too thin, thinking I wouldn't be able to do anything to him. Tristian could feel the wolfish grin spreading humorlessly across his face. But I can. Minds don't have phase and the mental has no home plane.
         The ground was even closer now and Tristian bent his knees to brace for impact. When it came a second later, he threw up clouds of pure white frost, landing in loose snow about calf height, the cold pressing in from all sides. The blade stained the snow bloody as he moved it around. All around were white lumps, some person shaped, a stationary army reduced to nothing more than plantings in a sterile garden.
         Tristian took a few steps toward where he thought he had seen the Hierophant fall, silently marveling as the broken ice hand loomed from the swirling storm, a momument to a effort that had been futile then but he vowed would ultimately prove to not have been in vain.
         With a hissing roar, the fragmented pieces suddenly burst into screaming flames, nearly setting the air alight. Tristian ducked down but held his ground, almost welcoming the waves of heat that warmed his chilled skin. Morsals of fire fell around him, sizzling as they buried themselves deep into the snow. Steadily, he began to make his way forward, keeping an eye out for Ranos but not worrying too much that he couldn't see his partner. In this weather, it was impossible to see just about anything. Snow splattered against his face, turning to water and running down his face, a cool sweat. Shaking his head only gave him a second's respite before the situation repeated itself.
         In the center of the icy inferno, a lone figure appearing, almost like he was the fuel the fire was feeding on. Delibrately, it stepped from the core, striding between melting fingers that jutted into a sky weighted with frozen clouds.
         "I could tell you how useless these efforts are," the Hierophant bellowed, his voice the backdraft from a fiery building, a harsh wind that stole all the air away, "I could explain to you how your actions will inspire no one, how after today you will cease to exist, consumed utterly, with not even ashes to declare your ultimate failure."
         The Hierophant's eyes were almost the only clear feature Tristian could see on him, his body wreathed in smoking snow, those eyes searing beacons sweeping the blurred landscape, seeking them out. Tristian felt that if he closed his eyes, those eyes would be branded into the darkness behind his eyelids. He was striding through the piled snow, his posture never bending, his walk never faltering. His head was turning toward Tristian, and no doubt in a second he would note the gleaming blade of the sword, and make his attack. For the first time, Tristian found himself welcoming the attempt. Let there be an end. Let it all come down.
         Should we rush him and hope for the best? Tristian asked, his legs tensing, ready to explode in one burst of frenzied motion.
         Keep moving toward him, Ranos ordered, and try and get behind him. I'll do my best to keep his attention focused.
         Right. As he started to move, an absurd thought struck him and he fired off to Ranos, Just for the record, if this doesn't work, are we going to get another chance?
         There was a definite pause before the answer came. I would like to hope so, but personally I think we've used up our chances already.
         Well let's think of backups, you know, just in case.
         Your optimism is heartwarming, Tristian.
         Tristian didn't have a chance to answer, already stepping lightly but swiftly through the snow, clouds of dusted snow being kicked up around him, moving in a ever tightening circle as he grew closer to the Hierophant.
         Suddenly the man whirled, mist flying off his swirling robes as those burning eyes came to rest on Tristian. Reflexes kicking in, Tristian threw himself face first into the snow, figuring that he had a chance to dodge the first round and might be able to get close enough before the Hierophant decided to simply conjure a volcano right under his feet and get it over with then and there.
         Tense, he waited a second, any moment expecting his body to be seared with gnawing fire. Nothing happened.
         Cautiously, Tristian lifted his head up, blinking melted water out of his eyes again. The snow settling into his hair was almost a palpable weight now. Each staccato breath that he took of the dry air seemed to reach deep into his lungs. He fully expected to be staring up into the flaming eyes of his enemy.
         But the Hierophant had turned away.
         What . . . he thought, scrambling to his feet, not sure what had caused that, but wanting to take full advantage of it all the same. The Hierophant was marching away, moving impossibly smoothly through the piled snow, somehow his words not being struck down by the pummeling fists of precipitation strafing them from above.
         "This planet has no name," he was railing at the emptiness, "this place has no name. I burned those all away. The only things that have names are the ones that I brand into them."
         You're welcome, Ranos murmured, his voice tinged with minor vestiges of amusement.
         Faith in the plan renewed, Tristian set out toward the Hierophant again, more purposefully, the sword gripped tightly in both hands, held at an angle upwards, crossing his shoulder even as he bent forward, forcing his head through an unwelcoming landscape. Let me guess, you turned us invisible while we were in the air. When were you going to mention that?
         Just go, I can't do two things at once!
         "I deny the names you create," Ranos roared, his form seeming to rise right out of the ground suddenly in front of the Hierophant, almost causing Tristian to break his run in surprise. "They are nothing but twisted products of your own warped perspective, as empty as the flames you covet." His body shimmered in the shifting air.
         Tristian was racing past bent and broken ice statues, trying not to remind himself that they were once living beings. In some places an arm was snapped off, a head facing its cracked body, nothing more than a low lump in the dense snow. If not for the struggle tearing apart the landscape, the scenary would be beautiful in its own way. Even in the midst of death there can be beauty.
         "But you don't know beauty, do you?" Ranos sneered, echoing Tristian's thoughts, his voice bridging the distance even as the wind tried to tear it to shreds. "I grew up in fire, Hierophant, I know how it can destroy and maim without reason or respect. But I also know how it can create unfathomable beauty. I saw it all, and it's not something you can ever hope to touch."
         "Again with the taunts, mindbender," the Hierophant replied, extending his hands and letting white hot flames wash all over Ranos' rippling shield, nearly concealing his body. Tristian could feel some of the backwash over the link, even that small amount of pain still incredible. "Your opinion means nothing to me."
         Tristian took the last few steps to the man, his sword raised and poised to come down, the red glare staining both of them, a mark of the end. His heart felt strangely calm, unhurried, even after his breakneck pace a moment ago. This was supposed to happen, he knew it was.
         "No," and even with his face buried under stabbing fire, even with his voice worn and tired, Tristian could hear his friend's truimphant smile, "but your distraction means much to me."
         The Hierophant's body appeared to shimmer and waver, a mirage phasing back into the real world, becoming a touch more solid in the process.
         Tristian . . .
         He stabbed down with the sword.
         "No!" the Hierophant screamed, somehow twisting his body at the last second, so the sword only tore through his arm, nearly severing it, sending hot blood spraying across Tristian's face, the sword continuing to rip down his side. Somehow the hand from the slashed arm snaked up, only brushing Tristian's shoulder and face but sending eruptions of pain along his entire body. Tristian gasped, sure that he was screaming but not able to hear anything over the roar of flames that seemed to be licking his own body, staggering back, swinging wildly with the sword.
         "Ah!" Tristian screamed, his throat going dry and hoarse as the ground tilted and threatened to come up and greet him. His body wasn't responding to anything, the world was dimming at the edges, everything was shutting down, unconsciousness was swooping in like a well intentioned white knight, thinking itself helpful when it would only mean doom and oblivion. If he blacked out now, that was it. He couldn't. Have to stay. To stay. To remain conscious. Have to. Have to.
         Tristian tumbled bonelessly into the snow, sinking right down even as the Hierophant staggered to his feet, his blood painting the ground around him, an artist opening veins for performance symbolism.
         "No . . ." the Hierophant gasped, clutching his ruined arm, his free hand already glowing with a piercing light, "you misunderstand . . . life is not a task I depart from . . . easily . ." he drew in a shuddering breath that seemed to rattle his entire body, stumbling toward Tristian.
         "But yet the lives of others you feel are yours to divest freely," Ranos rasped, staggering out of the storm, his body bent but still erect, limping heavily toward the Hierophant, barely able to even stand. "Here, in the center of your greatest series of massacres, I can feel them pressing against me, Hierophant, screaming for justice, their voices as fresh and as angry as the day you drew every last bit of life they had out of them."
         Ranos' eyes narrowed as he continued, "The air is alive, raging with lost causes and last words."
         His lips pulled back, showing only his teeth. "And they'd like a word with you."
         The air stilled.
         For a second, nothing happened and the Hierophant reared up, body flaring even as Ranos appeared to crumble, some internal brace finally breaking inside of him.
         But in mid motion, the Hierophant stopped, his mouth opening and closing silently, finally just staying open, almost jawless, a parody of surprise and power.
         "You . . ." he accused harshly, his voice a burnt shell, but it wasn't even clear if he was speaking directly to Ranos, his eyes were unfocused, clouded.
         "You . . ." he said again, turning his body slightly, flinching back as if from unseen blows. "What are you . . ." he shook his head violently, staggering sideways, throwing a baleful glare at Ranos. "What have you . . ." before making a sound not unlike a strangled howl, backing up even more, then turning around sharply and backing up again. His head couldn't stop moving, it seemed, his legs taking him in a dozen directions at once, his arms dangling lifelessly, his injured arm bleeding freely into the snow, staining it pink.
         "Ah . . . no, stop . . ." he finally screamed, falling to his knees, stumbling a little farther, making no headway in the mounds of snow, getting up on one leg and half running forward, useless babble falling from his mouth, words that were in a language long dead, that perhaps even he didn't know that well anymore, a langauge rife with angles of hate and harsh clusters of evil words, almost painful to even hear.
         "Damn you, what have you . . . get out of . . . get away from me . . . you don't . . . none of you ever . . ." he turned his head slightly, his eyes suddenly going wide and fearful, a wordless shriek erupting from his mouth as he turned and tripped, faling face down into the snow, sprays of red marking his position.
         He clawed himself to a desperate kneeling position, right in front of a nearly clear man of ice, his face mostly melted but his expression almost pitying in its soft lines and smeared features. At its feet, the Hierophant half sat, emitting a near hopeless wail of despair, saying, "You never . . . understood . . ." even as he ran his bloodied hands down the statue's body, making tracks of red, as if trying to bring it back to life by giving up his own heat, infusing what little life remained in him into that long dead thing.
         And then finally, panting, he fell to his hands and knees, almost whimpering, "I'm so . . . sorry but none of you ever . . . understood . . ."
         There was a small explosion of dust near him. He didn't even twitch as two shadows fell over him, one of a man, the other a purely crimson slash that fell right across his body.
         "The kind of forgiveness you need, I can't give," Tristian said slowly, hesitantly. As he was talking, the Hierophant turned slightly, bringing milky eyes to bear on Tristian. He wondered what the Hierophant was seeing, shrunk down into a pitiful corner of his own mind. Ghosts and spectres long gone, faces that he had no doubt forgotten, their last expressions full of terror and fear. But not anymore. Because he couldn't hurt them, not now.
         Tristian met the Hierophant's gaze, but there was nothing to fear there anymore. Indeed, deep down inside, those eyes seemed to accept what was about to happen. Perhaps in the end, it had all been nothing more than an elaborate form of suicide for a being so bored with life that it didn't dare live, but whose hold was whiteknuckled, afraid to slacken its grip for even a second.
         "Nor would I want to, I think," he continued after a second, raising the sword slightly over his head. Biting his lip and forcing himself to watch, reminding himself of all the horrors he had been subjected to, he told the man, "All I can do for you, is what should have been done a long time ago."
         Crimson met blood red. There was a small sound, like broken glass settling on foam, perhaps a liquid whimper, and then both crimson and red went away.
         "My only regret," Tristian finished, returning the sword to his belt with a hand that only shook a little bit, "is that we couldn't do it sooner."
         Ranos came over to him, limping heavily, impassive eyes only regarding the body for a moment before glancing at his partner.
         Both his fists were clenched tight and his head was bowed. "You see what I mean, Ranos," Tristian said without looking at the other man, his voice trembling, "you finally see what I mean." His body didn't seem to realize the fight was over, that he could let go.
         Gently, Ranos took his arm, as much to support himself as to help Tristian. "That doesn't matter now, we did it." Pulling at him slightly, piled snow tumbling off his robes. "Come, I think can get us off this world . . ."
         "It's not about the money, or the reputation, Ranos," Tristian nearly shouted feverishly, gripping his partner tightly, "it's about what needs to be done, it's about doing what's right. There are some things you just can't ignore." Swallowing, he glanced over at the body being swiftly buried in front of them, the statue a grotesque headstone, even the bloodstains already fading. "Tell me . . . tell me that you see that now. That this had to be done, no matter what. We had no choice. That in the end it just wasn't a choice."
         To his credit, Ranos didn't flinch away from the outburst, instead merely glancing at the body. Something unreadable passed behind his eyes. He blinked almost painfully, as if the endless silent screaming was still filtering into his head. Taking a deep breath, he nodded jaggedly, "Aye, you're right, Tristian. This needed to be done."
         Tristian started to nod in reply, but suddenly sagged and nearly fell, almost taking Ranos with him. Only the other man's taller height kept them both from falling.
         "Ranos . . ." Tristian whispered, and the man leaned closer to hear him.
         "Tristian, don't . . ."
         "By God, get us the hell out of here and somewhere that won't kill us." The corners of his lips twitched upwards. As if by afterthought, he added, "Please."
         Even with most of his strength gone, Ranos managed a grin, even though Tristian couldn't see it from his angle. "Your wish, sir, is my command . . ." as the two of them started to stagger off into the snow.
         The storm quickly swallowed up their forms.
         "Oh, don't go starting that again . . ."
         And then their voices.
         A flicker flashed sideways into the air.
         And then they were gone completely.
         Leaving behind only a heavy curtain of gently drifting snow.

* * * * *
         The candle sits on a table in the darkness. The wick is blackened and bent, almost drooping, a plant deprived of water.
         Slowly, as if suddenly self aware, the wick begins to straighten out, vertebrae strands locking into place, giving it a spine, posture.
         A flicker ignites at the base of the wick, and a small flame begins to eat at the candle. The pool of wax begins to collect and rise again.
         "Ah, mate, I don't think so . . ."
         A thick shadow drapes itself over the candle, which seems to sputter brighter, as if trying to find the strength to set the entire room alight.
         "We've all got to call it quits someday, eh?"
         As a hand reaches down, grotesque highlights playing over skin, and two fingers pinch the now furiously burning wick.
         A hiss and the air is silent with smoke.
         "But, frankly, mate, just between you and me . . . you had it coming.
         "Cheerio, now."
         There's the sound of mocking laughter and the echoes of retreating footsteps. A creak is heard before a shifted square of muted light falls on the candle, showing how spent and broken it is.
         Then something abruptly slams shut and the entire room is plunged into stagnant darkness, cutting off both sight and sound.