Cyrene longingly watched the fading form of Urganza disappear into the desolate landscape. She wished they could have shared a kiss, to feel Urganza's breath and the sweet adoration of her lips, one last time.
Choice in the matter of her own life slowly slipped further away from her. The weight of her decision left her weary. For all the turmoil that occurred, for all the destruction she witnessed, the agony that Urganza endured, the suffering the Antilorwe bore and her brother Tristan reduced to a savage wildling, Cyrene felt the sense of emptiness overwhelm her. Even amidst the harrowing experiences, nothing could halt her conviction. She would no longer hear the sweet voice calling her sugarplum, or sense the devotion behind the words, sweetling enchantress. Despite all those sacrifices, there was finality in her choice.
Still embittered by the terrible fate, Cyrene's one unfulfilled desire was to atone. She closed her eyes and hoped that her plea for forgiveness would one day be received by her wives. For better or worse, she had done what she must. Closing the heart was harder. It simply opened, ripped and seared. Trying to maintain a posture of command, even as she stifled an uncontrollable burst of tears, she could only hope that her wives would treasure her sacrifice and would live to lead prosperous lives; with her as a beautiful spring memory etched forever in their minds.
Bending low, Cyrene placed a kiss on the unconscious Antilorwe's lips -- tenderly first. Then she placed another -- doubly for Urganza. A final kiss blessed to ensure no harm came to either of her dear ones, to her most precious treasures. The veil separating the balance of her life fell. She had been loved; cherished by two of the most magnificent people in the world -- still loved. In her turbulent moment, she had unknowingly hurt her brother. She found solace in the awareness that she would right a wrong soon. Her wives would be reunited with each other. The knowledge made her entire life profound and fulfilled.
Eventually, sensing the approach of Tristan, she rose to meet her final destined task. She cast one guilty last glance at Antilorwe's unconscious frame resting on the ground and turned to meet the demon. "Zar'Amaris, deliver my wife Antilorwe safely to our wife Urganza."
"Reverend Mother Zar'Amaris or simply Mother is how I would want to be addressed, Mage." Their conversation, made easy through the arcing magical wind which enveloped everything in the forsaken place. The prime demon walked closer; black steel sabatoned heels crushing gravel to sand.
"Reverend Mother, a religious title to covet for a demon," spat Zelaphiel. There was vitriol, bitter bile and venomous putrid decay saturating his words.
"Why? Lord Ellandor." Zar'Amaris curled her lips in a vicious smirk with a hue of sultriness as she witnessed Zelaphiel recoil from hearing his name.
Zelaphiel's mouth, with words that tried to communicate his displeasure, found itself impaled with doubt.
The circle of Paladins who graciously, converged on the lone Urganza, now slowly retreated. Only an ephemeral hand of caution tugged at their movements, urging them to fall back.
Zar'Amaris motionlessly stared at the sight -- with amusement twinkling in her dark eyes. The paladins shuddered in fear, trying to steady their wobbly feet. Only Zelaphiel advanced, -- extremely cautiously -- aided on either side by the Celestial warriors.
"To answer your question, Lord Ellandor. The Opprobrium Domain strives on the scorned, the shamed, the humiliated and the rejected. It might amuse you to know that those ideals are strongly supported by those with ardent religious fervour. Hence a religious title is more appropriate. After all, I might be a demon but my followers are religious."
"Lies." Zelaphiel glared, fighting to make his disgust tangible with a curl of disdain on his lips. Eventually, he snorted in distaste and shrugged, as if bereft of any culpability.
"I serve the Domain of Opprobrium. Lying is not in our sphere of influence." Pushing rebellious curl of green hair from her face, she glared mockingly at Zelaphiel with her pink orbs. "Ask yourself the question, who burns non-believers in stakes? What kind of followers relish in telling that their so-called divines do not approve of willing choices made? Who throws shackles around people's necks and robs them of all dignity and self-worth?"
"Words twisted to magnify your own cause." An angry edge entered Zelaphiel's voice; bringing back the essence of untamed fury and righteous wrath.
"Others do participate under the guise of lofty ideals like honour, integrity and patriotism, but as I have said, you paladins wear your victims like a badge of pride. An undeniable fact. I do not falsify my claims when I state that the Domain of Opprobrium is fattened by your acts and your acts alone." Zar'Amaris eyes glittered in silent joy.
There was a hushed silence at the serpentine yet not contorted truth. Zelaphiel alone looked ill at ease. Lost at words to counter the green-haired demon belittling him.
"Fine, Reverend Mother Zar'Amaris," Cyrene said delicately fortifying her tone, "Let me state the terms."
Extending a metal-encased finger, Zar'Amaris tilted Cyrene's chin, forcing her to meet her impish stare. Those pinkish orbs studied her with absolute curiosity. At that proximity, the effervescence of an unholy sweetness almost engulfed her.
"Relax Mage, even though your lips are succulent and inviting, I am not going to kiss them."
With the closeness, the warm breath of Zar'Amaris tore through the carefully erected emotional barrier of Cyrene.
"Will you ensure that Antilorwe is safe in Urganza's arms?" asked Cyrene.
A peal of raspy laughter came from Zar'Amaris with a subtle sultry smile, almost too scandalous in promise. "Oh lonely starlight, it is adorable how you attempt to make yourself sound threatening. Watching you struggle is a delight in itself."
Ignoring the salacious taunts of the demon, Cyrene pressed. "Help me cure my brother."
As if contemplating the boldness of Cyrene, Zar'Amaris crinkled her nose and pouted -- with dramatic flare. "You sure you don't want me to decimate the paladin and the angels?"
"No. That would sink me further in your debt."
"Those cynical tone does not suit your charming nature, lonely starlight. You made it sound depraved. The offers of my domain are not so bad. You will be safe, fed, protected and in control of your soul."
"Are the terms agreeable?" Cyrene waited with a hard squint.
"Deliver Antilorwe safely to the arms of your beloved Urganza and help you restore your brother." Zar'Amaris offered her naked lips to kiss -- albeit imperiously and promptly denied.
"I am not gullible to believe that this is how contracts are sealed with demons." Cyrene refused.
"Lonely Starlight, would you change your mind, if I slay the Angels?"
"No."
"Then slaying angels is on the house. Might as well get on with it. Matter of general principles and all."
Predatory eyes locked onto the celestial angel warriors' hulking forms. Zar'Amaris stood firm in her position with unflinching purpose. Clenching her gauntleted knuckles right, she drew herself up to her full height and launched into a fluid dive. Powers, unknown and alien to the realm, clashed in the fray and the heavenly host roared in panic. With speed unmatched, maces clanged with rending impact against the ebon steel armour of Zar'Amaris. With arcane energy fueling the brutal fist swing, the prime demon turned her attention to the bearers of light. With repeated attacks, she decimated their befuddled fury. Each blow created a vortex of futile struggle, whirling to devour the angel kind.
Sparing an amused instant to admire the one-sided slaughter that ended just as fast as it began, Cyrene turned her attention back to Tristan. Physically, unharmed, at his prime, rivalling that of their sire, and yet for the arcanely aligned eyes of Cyrene, his soul was all disturbed. The shape of his inner soul; full and vibrant. But the essence -- just plain wrong. Incomplete. Partly lush and thriving, with vivid memories and an unfurled capacity for love, but the rest. A host of things that should not exist in this plane found refugees. Festering inside. Anchored deeply like parasitic creepers in a century-old ruin.
Were they living entities? Perhaps, living was an alien concept just like the soul they latched onto. What they are, Cyrene cared not. The undeniable fact lurking in front of her is that she had callously fractured his soul -- though unintentionally -- allowing, the host of malignant forms to settle. For that, Cyrene must rectify her mistake.
Wrapping both her arms around his broad form, Cyrene let herself go, allowing her sisterly love for her brother to guide her instincts. Not once did she waver on her path, despite the harsh blows and feral grunts rippling through her fragile form. Tristan's blow tore her lips. She tasted the warm blood pooling inside her mouth. With another blow, her nose crushed under the shattering impact of his steeled knuckles. Blood trickled out of her nostrils, coating his powerful chest. Yet she kept on course. Despite, the tearing metal encased fingers digging into her flesh, cracked ribs that sent sharp pain lancing through the side of her chest. Yet her frail frame staked its existence and lived for the delicate task she needed to complete.
With pinpoint precision, Cyrene let her arcane flare pierce the hardened shell of his soul, loosening the interlaced weaving of the foreign form and the essence of his own soul. A task otherwise impossible without the infinite reserves provided by her contract with Zar'Amaris. Meticulously, Cyrene released her own essence to drift into the walls of Tristan's shadow world, imploding the invading forms, disintegrating them and breaking down their fortifications. Cracking a narrow opening, releasing the miasma to escape the confines of his soul. Freeing him from that fetid cauldron. Setting Tristan free.
Cyrene felt Tristan's resistance fade, his weight falling on her, slacking and finally, his limbs giving away. The pummeling ceased and only gentle, lulling waves of physical exhaustion washed over Tristan. Satisfied, Cyrene still supported his heavy frame. His form remained the same, perhaps even enhanced and the void in his soul will be filled with new essence -- in due time. When she turned her head to look over, Lord Lucille and Lianna Piers had stepped into her empty field, and a very battered Zelaphiel humbled before Zar'Amaris.
"I'm here Tristan, take your time now. Let the universe come back to you." Holding him tightly, tenderly she laid down her burden, soothing every convulsing muscle, pushing every surging sob. Not letting go, until there were no more tears to cry.
"Esteemed Madame Mage," Tristan's voice slurred. Uncertainty clouded his senses. "I am forever indebted."
"Dear Tristan, my name is Cyrene and I am your sister." Cyrene introduced herself -- formally. She then placed a small innocent kiss on his brow, before passing him to the caring hands of Lucille and Lianna.
Cyrene was filled with bliss and contentment when she reached Zar'Amaris. This is the last time she would get to meet Tristan and if being grateful is how he would remember her, then she has no complaints. Antilorwe, looked so peaceful scooped in the arms of Zar'Amaris. For a narrow fleeting instant, her heart ached with a sudden pang of jealousy at the sight of Zar'Amaris cradling her Antilorwe closer to her chest. But the knowledge that the demon would honour their pact brought her relief -- somewhat.
"Reverend Mother Zar'Amaris. We can depart now."
"Very well, starlight." Zar'Amaris dropped to one knee before her and despite holding the motionless Antilorwe, she held out her palms.
Smiling at the apparent supplication, Cyrene allowed her essence to settle in those black gauntlet-encased digits.
With a barely perceptible shimmer in her manifestation, Zar'Amaris swept a crescent moon sweep with the barest flick of her wrist. Arcing mystical winds, black as the plague roared, rejecting the distortion in reality, but eventually settled to reveal the other side. A rift, deemed unacceptable by reality itself and yet kept open by the sheer will of Zar'Amaris, seemingly leading to a future bleak, pulsated and gradually stabilised into existence.
Allowing the tug of Zar'Amaris to lead, Cyrene stepped through the portal into a long serpentine hall winding to an uncertain distance and in a direction that she could not define. The alternate plane beyond her own reality, its grey and muted colours undulated shifting ever so subtly till there was only an illusionary opulence left. Zar'Amaris smile widened, showing markedly sharp canines that gleamed in amusement. It did not affect Cyrene. She knew where she was and what awaited her. The Domain of Opprobrium was not as cruel as the other demonic realms but nevertheless, it is a demonic realm.
She walked, falling behind Zar'Amaris. Her steps echoed softly, reverberating down the stone, hollow and desolate as an abandoned tomb. Ahead of her, the prime demon called out. A few words, barking commands and immediately the reek of burning oil poured forth, bathing the oppressive corridor. Heat radiated around them, enveloping Cyrene in layers of sweltering waves. Halting before a rearranged altar of a bed, Zar'Amaris turned to Cyrene.
"You still have to fulfil the terms of the contract," accused Cyrene indignantly.
"I cannot go against a contract even if I want to," Zar'Amaris stated simply, rising gracefully from her kneeling position, flexing her hips with fluid athleticism as she passed Antilorwe into the arms of an awaiting vulgar succubus. "But, do you remember your part?"
Cyrene knelt, despite her wounds, and kowtowed once. Then twice. One for each part of the favour earned. "Servitude -- till the debt is repaid."
Considering the demands of the Domain of Opprobrium, the servitude is anything but eternal; a burden Cyrene will gladly bear for the life of her wives.
