Completed Flesh of Wax on Silken Sheets

Gerra

The Emperor
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Character Biography
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Light filtered in through the window of a bed chamber at the eastern wing of the Ragash palace. Gerra’s heavy footfalls announced his presence as he ducked through the doorframe. Purple lilies sat in pots about the room and their fragrance rose soothingly in the air. A large bed with soft, white linens lay in the middle of the chamber. It held the body of Sparhawk. Resting.

Gerra wore the golden band, symbol of his kingship upon his head. And he held in his hand a scroll. He appeared solemn.

“Maho. How do you fare?”
 
"No!" Alistair cried, "I have to stay here! I have to protect you!"
"I'll find you, I promise, I swear to the stars, I'll find you,"

He opened his eyes, to be presented with the beautifully decorated ceiling.

It'd been several weeks since the battle now, and he had been moved into the palace by the priests. There was a week of screams and distress before that however, as they worked their magic on Maho's body. There was, indeed, little they could do to fix his ills. They'd managed to fix most of the muscle that had been injured on his body, but there were shattered fragments of bone, that took more time. It'd taken him a while before he got used to walking, a limp still very present.

They did what they could for his arms. Even they could not replace them entirely. They did, however, provide him with a substitute. At a cost of some of Sparhawk's arcane energy, they'd built for him two clay-arms, originally intended for service golems in summoning. Though they replaced some of the function he had lost, they could not touch; they could not feel, and they looked terrifying, being made of a soft-stone, and taking a dark, earthy colour.

As he sat in the luxurious linen bed, he wondered where Alistair was, and prayed he had made it back to Elbion safely. If there was anyone Sparhawk could trust, it was the College.

As he heard those familiar footsteps, he propped himself up, his skin still in considerable pain. He'd asked for a standing mirror to be removed from the room, so he didn't have to look upon himself.

“Maho. How do you fare?”

Sparhawk simply looked up at him, noticing the crown on his head.

"Resting. Why are you here?"
 
A frown creased Gerra’s brow as he noted Maho’s tone. He grit his teeth, jaw muscles writhing.

Still we are at war in your heart, he thought, wishing that what he had to do next was not necessary. But sometimes you had to lead blind sheep to pasture.

“I am afraid I bring ill tidings. We must speak.” He handed the scroll to Maho. “This missive was intercepted on its way to Ragash. It is from the College of Elbion. Apparently, they do not yet know the result of the battle, though they soon shall. It was addressed to your apprentice. Alistair, I believe you said...”

He reached out as if to touch Sparhawk’s shoulder, then stopped himself.

“I am sorry.”
 
Gerra passed him the scroll, the insignia of the Fifth Order of Elbion Maesters plastered across it, broken from where Gerra had read it.

Perhaps they're looking for me?

Maybe they've bartered for an escort home?

Wait-


"Addressed to Alistair? Why would-"

“I am sorry.”

"What do-" He paused, realising it was pointless when he had the article in his hands.

God, what if this was something important Alistair needs...


He clumsily opened the scroll with his clay hands, still not being used to the feeling of no sensation in his fingers, struggling to control them. But once he had opened the lengthy scroll, he read it's contents;

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And, in that small, quiet moment, sitting on that linen bed, the smell of lilies filling the air, he could finally, after all his years of suffering and moving on, feel his heart shatter into two. He felt human no longer.

His whole body shook in place, as his clay-hands clasped violently around the scroll, ripping the fragile parchment paper it was written on. Incredibly, he didn't feel an ounce of sadness. Not a bit of anger. In fact, he didn't feel anything.

In that moment, all he could see was those who wronged him.

Alistair...

Alistair...

Alistair...


Elbion...

Everyone I've trusted wants me dead.

Everyone i've loved.
His clay hands started glowing a violent white colour, when the parchment suddenly burst into flames, the paper embers landing on the carpeted floor. His hands began to distort strangely, until they too began to melt and fall on the floor. He began to groan, as if he was in excruciating pain.

The curtains around the room caught fire, the window's creating a horrible squeak as they cracked near shattering. The lilies began to wilt, the pots they sat in melting like the clay of his false hands. Now, not only were Imamu's scars glowing, his whole body was emitting an awful, blood-boiling red, his eyes like the heart of a sun. He blinked violently as he shook, not knowing where to focus his emotions. In that moment, he felt like he couldn't breathe.

Then, as if he couldn't take it anymore, he let out a horrendous scream, the glass shattering around them, the linens of the bed catching fire, Sparhawk's hands clasping around his head as he bellowed. Until, finally, the fire, as if never having existed, puffed into black smoke, escaping from the windows. The colour he emitted disappearing.

I'll never forgive them i'll never forgive them i'll never forgive them i'll never forgive them.

He had finally given himself up to madness, and to the raw force Imamu had granted him. He had become, after all this time, the vessel he'd signed his contract for.

He sat.

Silently.
 
In the depths of his despair, Sparhawk consumed half the room in fire. Gerra stood silent, weathering Maho's wrath as only he could, his skin heedless of flames that could not burn him.

When it was done and the fire quelled into smoke, Maho just sat there on the bed and stared at nothing.

Gerra pursed his lips, flicked some embers off his shoulder, then sat down on the bed beside Maho. It groaned beneath his weight.

Slowly, the sovereign wrapped one arm around Maho's shoulder and pulled him into an embrace.

"I am here."

The only one who has never deserted you.
 
He felt nothing.

Even as Gerra wrapped his arm around Sparhawk in an attempt to comfort him, all he could think of was the revenge he would reap. The bodies that would amass in his wake. He would make sure he was feared across the whole of Amol-Kalit, if not Arethil in it's entirety.

He's right. Even now, after I abandoned him, he stays with me.

1400 Maho. 1400.
He embraced Gerra back, his arms wrapping around his old friend.

"I'll be exactly what they think I am..."

"The old world will die. And i'll stand by your side, as we craft a better one..."
He left his embrace, looking him in the eyes.

"I'll become the most powerful Sorcerer in Arethil..."
 
Cradling Maho's burnt body to his chest, Gerra said nothing, but the frown upon his features grew deeper and there was a sadness in his gaze.

Maho could only ever think of total destruction, or complete pacifism - incapable of achieving the state between the two necessary for greatness, of understanding the sacrifices to be made. Morals. Friendships. Loves.

What did those all matter when placed upon the grand scale of life?

And yet they were such a heavy price to pay for empire.