#glimpses

I am Xamanek of the Thousand.

Vito's eyes widened. He retreated a half-step, then fell to one knee in obedient reverence.

"You have come to retrieve me, then? For our master's crusade?"

No.

"No?"

No. You, Vito, will not be marching at the side of our god. He has deemed you unworthy of that honor.

"What?" Vito shook his head. "No, you must be mistaken. I-- I am the one who freed him, I am the one who restored him so that he and his children may yet fight and feast at his side, I am -- I am loyal!"

You are weak.

The champion approached. Vito stared up at the giant avatar of his god. He felt nothing but hunger and hatred radiating from his form.

It is the decree of our god that the weak must fuel the strong.

A hand, crackling as it moved, reached for him. Dread, so thick it paralyzed him, made his body feel as though it had turned to stone.

Right before the grasp could close around him, as the champion opened its ancient, fang-filled maw --

"No!"

A lance was in his hands. He rammed it up, through, and out, twisting as he went. It was a practiced and fluid motion. He wrenched the weapon free, backing away from the champion as he did so.

A hole had been punched up and out of its malformed skull. A red eye was fixated on him. He began to back away, clutching the lance in both hands, his eyes watching the avatar of hunger and suffering before him slowly begin to reconstitute its own face.

"I was loyal!" he roared, his voice echoing in this place between places. "I am the reason our master yet flies! I gave my life to him, and traded my unlife to servitude! I have been working to gift the church to him by turning its most faithful heart, and yet you seek to have me devoured?" He grit his teeth. "What have you done for him, Xamanek of the Thousand? Aside from rotting within his realm beyond realms? Aside from your death securing his own capture? What have you done for your god?"

The avatar took a step forward, wings peeling away from the desiccated armor with the snapping of twigs. He could make out etchings of other battles, now long since faded, accompanied by what he assumed to be trailing script, though it was unrecognizable to him.

My very presence has bred madness into the minds of the unfaithful and the unyielding.

"That presence which lasted only but days and was rebuffed by the might of the Venerable Saint!" Vito spat. "And now you come to seek me out to fuel you? As though I were the unworthy one out of the two of us! You have done nothing but sit here and rotted away for untold ages! I have preached in his name, I have been doing everything I could with everything I had for him, and you think me the weakling one?" He had the lance aimed right at the avatar's chest.

Such impiety for one of the chosen avatars of our god.

"If this is the fate he wishes for me, if THIS is one of the avatars our god chooses to accompany his side --" Vito paused. He looked away from the thing of death and destruction, eyes once again searching the endless twilit horizon around him. A voice echoed back.

"Your god abandoned you, Vito."

"Following after me would've been a fool's errand. You could've easily died or gotten yourself captured and then killed."

"We were wrong! We had committed a dire blasphemy and worked against the meaning our Saint meant for us when she gave to us the Rite and left to find the Immortal Sun. I am not above admitting that, even if you think yourself to be."

"You've done... so much. I'm struggling to hold everything together, even with the new delegations that I am trying, and now..."

When his eyes went back to the avatar before him, he saw its six wings now spreading wider, ready. He saw that look of infinite hunger and anger in its eye.

Any scrap of benevolence he had ever felt his god might've had for him withered and died in that gaze. He felt a weight lifting from around his shoulders.

"I thought there would be a brighter future if I had unified our kindred under the wings of our god."

There will be. But you deserve no part in it. You are too weak. You have been granted enough chances. Our god has no place for you.

"At least Elenda preached that all were deserving of the future she envisions."

She would have you starved and rotting.

"And you would see me devoured!"

He saw its clawed hand reaching for him again. He huffed, gritted his teeth, and once more thrust the lance, twisting, up and out, then wrenched it back. The champion made a strange noise between a choked growl and a hiss, ash falling from its mouth as it did so. Vito hardly saw it as he turned on his heel and ran, not even noticing that he was no longer in the form of the canonized as he did so.

He returned to his usual confinement with a start, gasping as though winded.

He shook himself out, taking stock of what he had just seen, cursing brilliantly under his breath.

"Mavren? Mavren!" he called, pacing around the confines of the enchanted jar. "Mavren!"

"Be silent," came a voice from beyond his prison.

"Mavren, please, you must listen! I have a warning! Mavren!"

Through one of the reflective lenses upon the side of the jar, he saw the tired and somewhat haggard face of Mavren come into view. Pinpricks of starlight were found in his gaze now.

"What is it?" he asked, sounding annoyed.

"Listen, this is going to sound insane--"

"Just say it."

"Aclazotz is bringing back his thousand champions," Vito said quickly. "You already know of one, Xamanek, but this is only a sign that others are going to follow."

"His thousand champions?"

"Yes! Do you not know of them?" Vito blinked. "Haven't you had--"

"Archaeological expeditions to the Core have been all but fruitless, no thanks to what you had done," Mavren answered plainly. "Explain."

"During the age in which Aclazotz was imprisoned, he fought another one of the gods of the people of the Core alongside a thousand of his most faithful. His thousand against that of the enemy god. Those thousand were elevated to such a status that they, in themselves, were divine."

"Like our Venerables."

"Stronger, Mavren. Each reflects a shard and aspect of him, aside from his most zealous of lieutenants. The madness that you dealt with and quelled alongside the Saint--"

"-- was a harbinger of a greater presence to come," Mavren finished for him. He paused, then frowned down at the jar. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because--" Vito stopped. He looked right at the face of the man his stilled heart would beat for. "Because I have seen that I am wrong. Xamanek had come for me, and he sought to consume me so that he may be empowered enough to fight at our god's side. Please, I know this sounds insane and mad, but it is true!"

Mavren stared down at the jar for a long moment. "Have you come to your senses, then? At last?"

Vito hesitated. He felt something rippling, like a stone scattered on water. He nodded. "I- listen. I still believe there is much to reconcile with in terms of the church and its doctrines, but... but yes, yes, I see it now. I saw nothing but death and hatred in his eyes. I saw... I saw how truly worthless I was to him, to Aclazotz, to everything. And I remembered what you had told me after I confessed about what sent me down this path and..." He looked away, his voice softening. "I was wrong."

Mavren's mouth twitched. He could feel his scrutiny, and he looked back to face it more fully.

"Do not think that this will be close to enough to atone for what you have done," he said sternly. Vito nodded.

"I know, but Mavren -- look. The Thousand are coming. Not tonight, perhaps not even in the next month, but they are coming, and they are coming soon. And when each awakens, we will all suffer for it. Not the humans, not the peoples of this plane, but us. Each represents an aspect of our nature but writ large. Xamanek is one of his oldest lieutenants; others are sure to awaken and follow in due time."

"You know how to defeat them?"

"Not to defeat them, but who they are, and which to watch for." Vito pressed a hand against the jar. "Let me show you. Please. I can not do it while confined here."

Mavren once again laid his scrutinizing, dark eyes on him. Vito waited. He heard a very long, tired sigh.

"Once I release you, you will tell me everything. And I do mean everything. And then, if what you say is true, and this holds a key to bringing the church and to bringing Torrezon back together, then I will consider bringing this to the rest of the clergy and see about having you on a path of truer redemption."

"I hardly care about that," Vito said with a scoff. "I -- Mavren, I must make sure that you are safe, and I know I will not be able to protect you if I side in his camp. Nor would I be able to preserve any of what I love here in Torrezon. I... I do this for the same reason I freed him in the first place. Because I still love you."

Mavren's look was hard, but Vito saw his jaw soften, even if his eyes didn't. He felt the enchantments woven around his prison become undone, and soon... he was standing before Mavren. He carefully took his hands in his own, wishing he could feel them more properly again.

"Tell me everything you know about them," Mavren stated. He spoke a word, a book and pen opening nearby. "Let this be the record of the testimony of the Arch-Heretic, first of his confessions to wipe the damned stains from his soul." The pen dutifully recorded his words, and then Mavren focused on Vito again. "Begin."

Vito looked at him, then at the book, then back again. He saw the exhaustion writ large over him. He saw the heaviness that the office of Pontifex had put around his neck and shoulders, and he saw the mask that he wore so often affixed firmly to his face.

But he also saw the glimmer of something else. Something more hopeful, more kind, more...

"I was stuck in recovery for months," he said. "I've been stuck here for weeks doing nothing. I was standing idle in garrison waiting for this bastion to be finished, only for nothing to come of it, making this the third or fourth event now that was supposed to be an interplanar threat and had nothing happen."

"You were recovering after delivering the Pontifex to Alta Torrezon because you are the only rider we have who can manipulate the horses in the way you know how," Guitirre said. "And you've been trying to do your duties as a watchman. Something plenty of cavalry have been doing. As far as I am concerned, you have been doing what is asked of you."

"But I am not fighting," Arturo said, now gesticulating a little with the spear. "I am not commanding or leading in the capacity that I should be. I should be out with a company driving us into the hearts of the enemies and breaking them in the name of the Saint and the crown."

Guitirre nodded. "Times are changing, Arturo. And this is what I meant by saying the church and Legion have failed you. You see yourself as weapon to be wielded, and you dislike when you are not."

"I am not--" Arturo paused, hesitating. Guitirre's eyebrows rose at him. He shook his head.

"You are not alone, lad," he said. "The Legion were raised to be the united striking arm of the crown and church. All of us were taught how to be weapons and how to be pointed in the direction of our foes. Times are shifting. We now move away from ceaseless war and conflict into a different and uncertain future. One of peace and diplomacy after our own internal schism is finally handled."

"I dislike being called a 'weapon'." Arturo had a bit of a scowl on his face, and he looked at the silvered spear he was holding.

"And yet," Guitirre said, putting up a finger with a wink. "That is what you lament to be. You like being utilized. I've seen how protective you've been with your man as of late. You like feeling like a protector as much as you are a soldier, yes?"

"Yes, but that is different."

"How so?"

Arturo paused, thinking and momentarily wrongfooted. The paladin blinked slowly. "Lazaro is my love. He is my life and he is my family, now. We are--" he paused again, taking a careful look around before leaning in and lowering his voice. "We are going to be building a family together, and I want to make sure he is safe."

"Do you not already have one with those two young lads?" Guitirre asked, raising a brow.

"Yes, but this is... different. This will be our first child that is of our blood, and I want to make sure he isn't... you know. Going to suffer for carrying it. Or be called a woman for it. He isn't one, and I don't want him to be mistaken as such."

Guitirre nodded, looking rather placid and non-judgemental. "Everything will be put right once the child is here, I assume. Unless you are going to have another child?"

"Yes. If there is another child, I will carry that one," Arturo said, looking a bit proud. "I would've carried this one, but Lazaro didn't want me to be away for longer than I already have since I've been serving."

"A wise point," Guitirre said with a nod. "Her Majesty is the one who's really been on my backside about that, you know. But if you had decided to do this, Arturo, know I would've given you the time once it was time for you to leave. Just give me a word of warning is all I ask."

"Thank you," Arturo said, bowing his head. "But, still, I... like being able to protect him and our soon-to-be child. That also makes me feel good and useful."

"So you like being both the sword and the shield," Guitirre said, tilting his head. "I wouldn't doubt that if your man asked you to maim someone, you wouldn't ask twice."

"Of course not," Arturo said, frowning again. "Wouldn't you do the same for your wife?"

"Oh, aye, lad, but not without making sure all was well," Guitirre said with a nod. "I like to look and think a little before ramming the sharp end into someone, you know."

Arturo grunted at that. "I trust Lazaro."

"I know you do. And I trust Casilda. Regardless," he made a wave with his hand, "back on topic. You lament the days of old because it felt as though you could be used more easily. And now we're in a time of mud and ink, and it's harder to tell who you can and shouldn't swing at."

"Yes."

"Do you resent your current place in the Legion?"

Arturo hesitated, thinking. "No," he answered. "I do not."

"Know that the future of your position is going to be a lot like this, lad," Guitirre said with a broader gesture. "Our glory days of war, conquest, and blood are over. We committed to a conquest that the Saint is horrified by, and we now have to work to do right by her proper teachings and in her image."

"I know," Arturo said, sounding a little frustrated. "And I accept that, I just..."

"Wish things were easy, eh?" Guitirre asked, chuckling. "Don't we all, lad. But think about it this way; we're building a better land for our children and grandchildren and their children to come into. We fight so that others may live. The Legion has always been so, but now it is more important than ever. We need to realize that we are more than just the blade or shield of the crown and clergy, but that we're our own men and women. We need to think about what legacies our families will remember us by, centuries on, if and when we're either still here or not."

Arturo listened to him and went quiet, looking at the spear in his hand.

"Building a better world is difficult work," Guitirre said. "Ask your nephew about that, I think he's aged an extra half-century helping to manage for your son here. I am not disparaging you for missing when times were simple, but I will ask you to think about why they felt simple. What were you being used for then, and to what purpose are you being used now? Can they be reconciled? And, most importantly, how do they contribute to how you will be remembered?" He looked up and around a corner, brows raising as someone called out "High Marshal!". Arturo followed his gaze.

"It sounds like the scouts are back," the paladin said.

"Aye. Perhaps with news this time." The High Marshal stood and stretched, rubbing his missing shoulder. "I know I've asked some big questions, but I want you to think on them. You and all those under your watch need to reconcile with them, as does the entire Legion. The time for us to be unthinking weapons is coming to an end, and the time for us to be proper guardians and true paladins is now." He patted Arturo on the shoulder as he left, and Arturo watched him go.

His mind ran a little as he looked back to the weapon he was holding. It was a beautiful piece of holy artifice, even if the one who had forged it was somewhat of a little prick about the whole thing. He had taken special care of it, occasionally setting it down and taking up a different weapon when he knew it wouldn't be of more use to him. Not because he thought it would be useless, but rather because he wanted to preserve that unique edge and blade, one his people had yet had the time or progress to properly replicate.

Perhaps that was a more apt analogy to how he was being used. He had unique gifts when it came to what he had been capable of, and the Legion seemed to be very hesitant to use him to his fullest extent. Perhaps they wanted to wait until they had redundancies. Arturo couldn't imagine what would've happened had his weapon broke in the battle with Braras during the Darkest Night.

That fight was nothing more than a haze, anyway. He was already well beyond his limit with exhaustion; the only thoughts in his mind were that his father was in danger and that he had to fight Braras back. He didn't even remember if he properly killed him this time or not.

But did he want to be a weapon? He didn't like being rendered down into nothing more than a tool, but... Guitirre was right. That was how he had defined his existence. A blade of the crown and church, a conqueror, a taker of lives and eater of men. And now, Saint Elenda was trying to guide the church and crown away from such things. The Pontifex was with her, heart and soul, but Her Majesty... Arturo wondered if she thought as Guitirre did. She probably didn't. She wanted her weapons to remain sharp and unyielding.

After all, she was demanding to have her kingdom restored to her.

Maybe Guitirre was alone in that sentiment, at least outside of the Church's purview. He did wonder what the other paladins would think of what he said. About legacies and all. He knew plenty wanted to be remembered as proud warriors and knights and conquerors. How many would want to give that up?

It was a good question. Perhaps he could tease the answer out while they were waiting for the courtiers to finish doing whatever their business was. His mind did briefly flash over to Calisto, who seemed utterly dismayed to hear that he might be part of the Legion's recall to Torrezon. Maybe there were other paladins like him out there who'd rather be something other than weapons.

Slipping between life and death always felt strange. It was a wondrous thing to be able to walk in the realm of the divine -- true divinity, not that of the false 'saint' the church still clung to -- but it was so strange. All sensation faded and ebbed. All manner of time or direction ceased. As far as the eye could see was an endless, beautiful twilight.

She was not alone. Not here. Her presence drew in her kindred like an insect to a flame. They sensed the aspect of life that was still within her, despite her unlife. She walked the realm that they could not reach. Not yet. Not unless they were called.

A figure bowed low, face marred and half-skeletonized. A mangled wing hung from clutching hands.

"Welcome, Champion," it said, words spilling like ash between rotted lips. "How may we be of service?"

"Find me the Thousand," she ordered. Her voice reverberated here, warping and distorting the way the light moved. Her influence and strength was ever-growing. Smaller things flinched back, while other, jealous ones came forth. All manner of beady eyes and solemn, hungry stares. If she were not careful, they would devour her outright.

"Has our time come?" asked the thing bowing before her still.

"Your time?" she sneered. "Do you think a god such as Aclazotz has use for you?"

"Our names have rotted and become lost to our peoples and our ways," the thing said, now beginning to straighten. It grew taller and taller as it did, a third wing cracking and growing from the side of its malformed body. She made sure not to retreat, scowling at the instinctive feeling. The thing's jaw cracked and stretched, great fangs beginning to fill its maw. She could see ancient jewelry and see corroded armor on its body. "But we remain loyal to the one who gave us this blessing of life."

"Who are you?"

"I was known by many names in my first life, and many more in my second." A drop of red appeared in the socket of an eye. "If you rest beneath our lord's wings as his chosen, then you shall know me as Xamanek."

"Xamanek," she said slowly. Her face scrunched up slightly. "And if I were not his chosen...?"

"Then you would not be the one speaking with me." Xamanek exhaled ash with each word spoken. "What does our lord will?"

"We grow tired of all that is happening on the surface," she said. "It is time for us to march as one and take what is rightfully ours. A false faith has sprung in the homelands of my people, one that must be quashed utterly. It is time for you to return to the realm of life in the name of your lord."

Xamanek tilted his head once, then twice, the snapping of bones accompanying each movement.

"We have been awaiting this time," it said. "Even in this realm of infinity, we have longed to slake our thirst and take our vengeance against those who threw us here."

"That night comes," said the Antifex. "Gather the others. We shall ensure you are strengthened as you cross the barrier. None of the Deep Gods shall begin to stand in your way."

"Captain Salinas?"

"Yes, Dalva?"

"Do you feel that?"

"Feel what?"

"That... pain. In... in my chest, and..."

"Pain? What are you- Dalva? Dalva? Get me a priest! Get me a glorifier immediately!"

"Captain! Help!"

"Captain! What is happening? Why can't I feel my arm? Why can't--"

"Saint save us!"

"There's a demon inside of me -- get it out! Get it out!"

"Blessed blood, stop! You're going to claw your eyes out!"