Niamh spoke the words he dreaded to hear -- that the congregants needed to hear. And, as the Chaplain's voice reverberated across the vaulted ceiling of the cathedral, Caius could feel the familiar whisper of cold desperation begin to claw at his heart. His head bowed forward, bringing brilliant cerulean pools to bear upon the dark pavers underfoot, as though he might find strength in the foundations of the nave. After all, what manner of evil could endure this consecrated ground? It was fear that gripped this man's heart, and fear that threatened to lay him low.
"The Throne-Sworn walk among us; their profane power despoils the world. You have seen men and women try to speak the profane language She learned. And, Flame grants us courage, you have watched them succeed. You have seen the dead walk, given a mockery of life. The Torment claims us in droves. And, you may wonder, in the face of such Evil what can any of us do?"
His heart thundered, threatening to burst from his chest as her words carved into him -- but, her voice, it was her voice that brought him back. Conviction dripped like honey from her lips. And, for a moment, the fear was overtaken by hope.
"Everything..."
It was as though a divine presence filled the Chancel, transforming the mundane structure into a sanctuary, from which an unseen light began to burn away the shadows in his heart. A warmth began to take shape where a coldness had been before. At the end of it all, one thing was clear:
The Eight were not done... and a path remained.
* * * * * * * *
"You were wrong, Brother. We are not yet lost."
Artorius confided, his back pressed against the cold stone of a plain obelisk. Across it, flowing script memorialized his fallen brethren.
Here rest the Sons of Solurien,
that they may ever watch over the people for whom they sacrificed,
a final battle in the light of the Flame.
Dorant.
Shakhovskoy.
Renatus.
Armani.
Kallis.
Seneca.
Should anyone from the chapter's history discover the stone it would put to rest any thought that they remained. At least, unless they were to stumble upon the Torian during one of his late night visits. A visit such as this, where one might find him recounting recent events to a fading memory of fraternity.
Tonight, Caius sat in silence, a leather-and-cloth wrapped limb draping lazily across an upraised knee. A poor sentinel for the chapter's fallen, as his gaze seemed to be fixated on a bit of metal. There, an eight-pointed start caught the fading light of the day's end, dangling from a thick iron chain wrapped around his calloused hand.
It was not pretty, but nor had they been.
"The Enemy walks among the people, this is true. But, there is strength too. I have seen it in their eyes, heard it in their voices -- and hope spreads, as one candle may light another. Walk with me, Brothers. I cannot endure this battle alone. "
A warm breath wrestled its way from parted lips as his vision faded and exhaustion took him back into the shadows of his past. Where the banners of war sought purchase in what was left of his soul. A low, growling voice, pulling at the very edges of his sanity -- Adherent... you are being deceived... free me... It came in waves, crashing against the walls of his mind, ever-seeking a weakness in his defenses. Growing angry when he would not listen. Wield me... I am the only way! Malice dripped from the disembodied voice like rotting flesh. Again it thrashed, and he could feel the effect throughout his body. As though a fever, it burned through him and afflicted him with such pain that sleep could no longer hold him.
In that moment, a cold dread clung to him like a damp cloak, and he realized that his deepest fears had come true: He was not alone, for the Thrones walked beside him.