CHAPTER THIRTEEN - ENDGAME
PART I - Embrace the Rising Sun
Castor Angelos, the Cornish Coast
Castor finished dressing and stood by the edge of the tower's lofty balcony. Pale strands of hair flicked at his eyes in the wind. The sea below was quiet, peaceful.
Morning. Dawn. He opened his arms wide, as though embracing the rising sun.
Then he fell forwards.
Time to meet his destiny. Time to find the Anti-Hero.
Repus Oge, the Road to Canterbury
"Garant."
Repus stood calmly as the sergeant blinked, bleary eyed. His eyes widened as he saw Repus.
"Repus. You're going."
Repus nodded. Garant sat, staring for a moment. Then he nodded.
"I'm coming with you."
"What?" Repus stepped back. Garant stood, and pulled on his steel breastplate.
"I'm coming with you. If you desert, I'll be hung up for where you've gone. Especially when you're the one with that."
Repus looked over his shoulder. The long hilt of Michael's sword stared back at him, guiltily.
"Besides, I'm not about to let you run off. I know what you're like." Garant grinned, looping a leather cord around his belt. He reached down and slid his sword into its sheath.
Repus laughed. He felt good, today, strangely. Real good. He was leaving Dantalion. He was going to take his own orders for a change.
Garant hefted a wine skin over his shoulder. Repus nodded, a vague smile on his face.
Today Repus was taking charge.
And the sword of Michael went with him.
Eloa and Umbrion Jade, Canterbury
"I guess this is it."
Umbrion turned. Eloa looked at him, slowly.
"Fighting the Metatron means death. Hiding is choosing to remain powerless."
"What will you do?" Umbrion asked.
"Join Richmond. I fight for a world where people live with freedom, and now that the Church cannot control the government, Richmond is pretty much the best option. I'd also join anyone who fought for the same cause."
Umbrion nodded. Eloa opened her wings.
Charred feathers fluttered painfully in the cold breeze that whistled down the catacomb.
"Goodbye, Umbrion." she said, sadly.
"Goodbye, Eloa."
"Stay alive." she smiled, faintly, rising.
Umbrion watched as she slowly beat her broad wings, disappearing into the darkness.
"You too." he said, quietly.
Then he unslung his longsword. Satanel was still in the catacombs. Umbrion guessed that he was closer to the exit. He also guessed he could make it there faster.
He sure hoped he remembered the way out.
Dantalion, Canterbury
Dantalion smiled as the catapult snapped. The twang of rope, of tension and release, heralded the shower of rocks, of debris, of excrement and bodies and everything else that could be loaded into the mouth of the great siege weapon.
He had missed war, he realised. The thrill of battle, of conflict, of struggle and ultimately, death.
The walls were coming down. Bit by bit. The wooden gates were buckling as Dantalion's Prussians charged it, the great oak rams splintering wood and shaking the very foundations of the city.
Drums were being beaten. Men were strapping armour to their chests. Swords were being sharpened, given edges for the bloodthirst to come. Axes handed out, spears passed from hand to hand, man to man, soldier to soldier.
The barbarians screamed their war-cries as his knights rode their high stallions onto the field.
A captain caught his eye and saluted.
Dantalion smiled. Ambition? Ambition was the drive for power. This could only be an asset.
There was a flicker. Dantalion blinked. He looked down, gingerly.
Looked at his hands. Did...he frowned. Something had happened. Something...someone...
He swore. Shook his head. Then he looked up. It was time to move on.
"Knights to me."
He didn't shout the order. Didn't need to. Men felt themselves drawn towards him without the need of such effort.
"Have the barbarians go first. You and your men will surround the city. Don't let anyone escape. If the individual in possession of the Cube is in the city, I want him found. Captain Graltz?"
"Yessir?" the sober man looked to his lord. Dantalion raised an eyebrow.
"Where is Repus Oge?"
The captain didn't know. Dantalion stood for a moment more. Then he shook his head.
"Oh dear, Captain Graltz. Oh dear."
He swung. The captain flew from the horse, dragged by some unseen force and skudded into the ground. He squealed as his chain-shirt began to move.
"Don't worry, Captain Graltz. It doesn't hurt, death. Not as much as you'd expect, anyway."
Dantalion stared distantly away as the chains, the minute links of metal began to stir and writhe. They were tightening. Graltz wheezed, sweaty hands scrabbling at his collar, at his chest, scrabbling as they darkened.
He squealed, soundlessly. Then he died.
The assembled knights watched silently as the body rose, eeirly, deathly, and floated grimly down to the catapult, where it landed softly on the pile.
The engineers turned, wide-eyed.
"Fire the catapult, children. I want Canterbury to fall by tonight."
Dantalion smiled, awkwardly. It was lop-sided, a mask of pleasure.
"Let's go, children. For the Empire."
Dantalion began to walk. An arrow froze by his head, and he waved it aside. A stream of dark, cruel tar swerved to avoid him as he stepped up, treading nimbly over the bodies piled against the wooden gates. The tar splashed, flecks catching the barbarian masses as they howled and bayed, screaming as they threw themselves against the stone walls, against the wooden gates.
Dantalion gestured.
The gates tore themselves apart. Splinters froze rather than touch Dantalion as he stepped neatly into the Canterbury gateway, an down into the main street.
The porticullis began to grind. A heavy metal grate, a spray of sparks as it scraped against the stone walls it was closing.
Dantalion didn't break step. The thick iron strips bent, steadfast pins springing out of place, rivets and bolts and levers and pulleys, showering and distorting around him as he walked serenly over the cobbled street.
The barbarians came with him. They were tired, and they were far from home, and they had forgotten why they followed the raven-haired man in the first place.
Now they knew. He was to feed them.
Keaton Leort, Canterbury
Keaton appeared on the rooftop, and crouched, catching his breath.
His head hurt. He felt tired. Weary. But he was following a plan. He had to be ready. He rose.
Three winged figures stood, watching. Keaton's eyes darted from one to the other.
"This is all of you?" he asked, hesitantly.
"No." Abaddon said, gravely. "We did not trust you entirely, Anti-Hero, when you asked us to meet with you. We know of you ability to reap the powers of others. Since you have already taken mine, it seemed naturally I should go."
"And we choose to risk it because it would not be right that you spoke with a once-traitor and not with at least two of the Seven."
Keaton stared at the two white-winged figures. Their minds were steady walls as he tenderly attempted to reach out.
"I see." he said, slowly. "What is your plan?"
One of the white-winged figures ruffled his wings.
"We intend to protect you until Castor or Pollux arrive. You see, Zerachiel..."
"I know of the antidote." Keaton interupted. The figures frowned, almost as one. "I do not require protection. I will find the twins and administer the antidote myself."
There was a silence. One of the the two white-winged figures turned.
"I told you we should have all come. This isn't something we alone can decide, Gabriel."
"Silence, Raphael. We discussed this. It is right."
Gabriel looked up, and met Keaton's eyes.
"You realise we cannot put such faith in you, Anti-Hero. The fate of this world rests entirely with you, our last chance to defy the Right..."
Keaton vanished. There was a blur and they were alone.
Raphael looked down at his hands. "Gabriel, I..."
"Yes." Gabriel acknowledged, gravely. "The Anti-Hero has taken our powers."
Abaddon spat. "He can teleport now. I suppose if he were to move fast enough...but the mental strain to teleport so quickly and take powers all in the blink of an eye..."
"Yes. He is determined." Gabriel agreed. He opened his wings. "We will fly now. Go in separate directions. Don't fly low. Don't fly anywhere you could be seen. We will rejoin the others where we agreed. Do not let the Anti-Hero follow you, or know your destination. He has already grown too strong."
The other two rose, and began to fly. Gabriel watched for a moment, and then stepped from the rooftop, his wings catching his fall.
He soared away, over the cityscape.
Satanel and Beelzebub, Canterbury
Satanel closed his eyes and gripped the Cube. He could feel the Metatron's conscious, somewhere in the murky depths, so...tangible, so...he felt his mind grip the Metatron's. The Metatron sensed it. For the briefest of moments, he had been free. He had been uncontrolled, without orders. Now he felt Satanel's lash upon him and was angry.
"Can you do it?" Beelzebub asked, his voice echoing down the catacombs.
"Shut up." Satanel hissed, his eyes closed, as he grappled with the Metatron's mind. "That winged bitch can hear you, remember?"
He fought and won. The Cube meant that the Metatron would never win, not really. He could feel the Metatron's pain. His anguish. He smiled, slightly.
Then he let go.
"Come on."
He hesitated, as he headed down the corridor. Then he turned back, dragging the body of one of the priests.
His smile flickered in the darkness as it reflected the orange glow of the flames that covered the corpse. He tossed it down, into a side-tunnel.
"A distraction?" Beelzebub wondered.
Satanel nodded. They began to move.
It was a race, really. A race to the exit. And Satanel would win.
Richmond, the Road to Canterbury
"Contingent of men-at-arms from Lancaster caught up with us just before dawn."
Richmond nodded. He finished running the blade around his chin and inspected his face carefully as his aide held up his shield.
"Mounted men from Yorkshire...no heavy armour, but plenty of good lancers."
Richmond shook his head. "That's no use if we're to fight in the city."
The aide frowned. "We're...we're fighting in the city, consul?"
Richmond nodded. "I thought that would work to our advantage. In the confusion of a city, numbers count for little, yes?"
The aide bit his lip, but said nothing. Richmond clucked, impatiently.
"Come on, man. Next."
"Right. The Welsh longbows aren't coming. They've joined Dantalion."
"Shit." Richmond sucked at his finger. He blinked at it as blood ran in a slow trick down to his wrist.
"Careful, consul." the aide added, patiently. "No word from Derby, the Midlands, Leicester...this may be all the men that'll join us."
Richmond looked around at the tents and pavilions covering the landscape around him.
"This is not enough?"
"No. And most of these are Scottish."
"Ah." Richmond muttered, pensievely.
"They could well desert us, consul." the aide explained.
"Ah."
"Are you sure we should try to engage Dantalion in Canterbury, consul?"
"Mmmm." Richmond nodded. "If we wait much longer he'll have the whole country at his side."
The aide put the shield down and Richmond strapped it to his saddle, before swinging himself up.
"Don't fear, Barnaby. We shall be on the verge of Canterbury by midday. A fight to the city, and we'll have Dantalion's head by nightfall."
He smiled as he kicked into the horse's sides.
Battle was coming...
PART II - Battle
Repus Oge, Canterbury
Repus ran, rolling as the gate broke.
The Eastern wall. Dantalion had breached the city to the North. Now Repus ran ahead of Prussian barbarians as they screamed and charged into the city.
Repus threw himself down as crossbow bolts whistled overhead. There were dull thuds as the barbs found marks, and as bodies were flung back.
He got up and ran again. Down, into a side-alley. Two men, hastily dressed in rusted chain and battered leather crashed into him. There was a shout and Michael's sword was off his back, swinging. It cut clean through the first man, and drove itself into the other's neck. Repus kicked, sliding the writhing body from the blade.
Garant skidded into the wall beside him. A feathered bolt protruded from his stomach. Repus swore.
"They're fighting hard to keep the city, then?" Garant grinned, pulling it free. The smell of acidic juices and bile made him retch for a moment.
Repus ignored him and pressed a hand into his stomach.
"Repus, what..."
There was a twisting, as though of flesh, and Garant grimaced. Repus let go. The skin was unbroken. Perfectly healed.
"Repus...I..."
"Want to say thanks? Save it." Repus grunted. He wiped the sword clean, carefully. "We need to get out of their way. Let Dantalion take the city. It's the Metatron we're after."
"The...the Metatron?" Garant frowned. "Why?"
Repus grinned and started running.
Satanel and Umbrion Jade and Beelzebub, Canterbury
Umbrion Jade watched as Eloa flew up, invisibly, out into the open air of Canterbury, up through the great hole he'd broken down outside the cathedrale.
He vaguely wished he could fly himself, but realised that he was content. He wanted to be here, in the catacombs. He had a duty, now.
A memory flashed through his mind. Of a street fight, two years ago, in Paris. Heard the screams of men he trusted and had fought beside as they fell, crushed beneath stone and mortar and rubble...
He'd found out he had superhuman strength that day. It had come suddenly, and he hadn't spent a day since not regretting it. Now he felt thankful, thankful that he had this gift. Not a curse.
He turned and headed for the exit. He remembered the way. Of course he did, his life was dependant on that.
Satanel staggered, splashing through water knee-high. Where from? An underground river? The sewer? He decided not to worry about it.
The Cube was heavy. Far too heavy. He was sweating already as it crashed against his thigh, straining against the leather satchel Satanel had pushed it into.
Beelzebub drifted along behind him.
They stopped.
"This is it." Beelzebub grinned.
The stone doorway was just lit by the firelight of the rooms above. A spiral staircase and Satanel would be out of the catacombs and into the cathedrale again. Free.
He grinned.
"No sign of..."
The walls crashed down beside him. Solid rock gave way as Umbiron came, fists first, colliding into Satanel.
The satchel flew from his shoulder, and sank into the murky waters that flooded the tunnel.
"Hey, Satanel, the water's rising." Beelzebub noted, as the two grappled on the floor. He looked down to them. "Ah. Sorry I can't help. I'm incorporal, remember? Makes life difficult for the both of us."
Umbrion rose, and punched. It knocked Satanel's head back and broke the jaw. There was a grim crunch as his head hit back against the stone floor.
Fire burst from his hands. Umbrion grunted as the flames picked him up and hurled him back into the debris he'd caused.
Liquid fire hissed as it touched murky waters.
Umbrion started running. Satanel threw himself aside. The human juggernaut charged past, and collided with the tunnel side. The rock splintered.
"Hey, Satanel, there's..."
They all turned, slowly. The pressured jet of water struck Umbrion, and then roared, bursting through the rock.
They both staggered in the water as it swirled, drowning them, clinging to them. Satanel disappeared under the waves. Umbrion roared, spluttering as he stood fast in the torrent. Beelzebub watched him, blinking, as the water passed through him.
The tunnel fell silent. The stream of water slowed to a trickle and stopped. Whatever sewer they'd broken, whatever underground river they'd tapped, had stopped.
Satanel and Umbrion were gone.
Battle, Canterbury
Eloa burst into the city, unseen and invisibly, and gasped. The city was burning. Houses, shops, towers, walls, burning.
A gaggle of men, dressed in furs and leathers and rusted mail, jeered as they sauntered down the street, hurling firebrands into shutters and doorways.
A woman fell through a burning hovel, and was grabbed and absorbed by the masses.
Eloa retched as the smell of fire and burning flesh reached her. Dantalion's barbarians weren't capturing the city, they were raising it. To her side, the cathedrale began to fall, a great marble parapet tumbling as ropes were pulled, as great wooden machines were wheeled up and fired.
She stared as the last remnant of the city guard threw down their colours and rushed to join the hordes pouring out of the city.
She rose, higher. Dantalion. She didn't know who he was, why he had come. It didn't matter. The Republic was in chaos, and there, outside the city walls, waiting the army of the new Empire. Dantalion's Empire. Barbarians, farmers, knights, bowmen, men-at-arms; spears, swords, pikes and bows. A multitude of those fighting for one man's power.
She turned her head. There, on the horizon, came another force. Smaller, insignificant. She flew. Flew from the city, unseen, and saw Richmond.
Richmond...the man who had come to her with a proposition of employment, in York, all that time ago. She had refused it then. Now...she wasn't going to hide from this battle. She was going to fight.
~
Dantalion watched as The glittering host mounted the ridge. He smiled, sedately.
"Here comes the honourable Richmond. Not before time, either."
He signalled to the assembled around him. Battered knights, wearied engineers, singed barbarians.
"Destroy him. Have the Prussians pull out of the city. I want them to turn on the forces to our other flank."
"Our...other flank?" an aide frowned.
There was a call. Dantalion smiled.
"The Righteous is attempting one last throw of the dice, children. Those loyal to him have been granted visions of paradise, of glory. Their army marches upon us. Have the Prussians meet them."
There was a cheer. Dantalion laughed.
"Go, children! For the Empire!"
"For the Empire!"
~
Gabriel landed, softly. He waved a hand. Lightning flashed. Storm clouds swirled about him, wreathing him in darkness.
Abaddon landed to his side. Remiel and Raphael to his other. Uriel hovered above them.
"No sides, no allegiances." Gabriel promised. "No honours and no duties. We fight because we have nothing left to fight for."
Abaddon flung an arm out. A wave flowed through the ranks swarming them, as men dropped, drained.
Uriel burned red. Flames hurled men aside, smouldering and screaming, even as they fled. Raphael swung his sword, impossibly big and impossibly keen, cleaving masses down in swathes of blood. Remiel struck, electricity flowing fom his hands, lighting the battle with flashes of blue and gold.
~
Richmond spat. "The Seven? What are they doing?"
"Killing people." the aide offered. "Apparently without discrimination. They've cut a swathe through Dantalion's left flank, and then turned on the Church's forces."
"We should fall back. Let Dantalion destroy himself."
Richmond turned to his general. "No. We must be recognised as the victors here."
"We can't do anything while the Seven are out there. And what of the Metatron? He hasn't moved yet. Nor has the Anti-Hero."
Richmond laughed. "We'll defeat them. Have faith in that, old friend. Assemble the men."
The general sighed. "Consul..."
Richmond spun and struck. The general felt his lip. It was bleeding.
"Gentlemen."
They froze. Slowly, they turned. The veil had been moved, and now covered what seemed to be a small box, thin and rectangular. There was a static hum and then the distorted voice continued.
"Richmond, you must not engage Dantalion. My predictions were wrong. The individual now in control of the Metatron appears to have been compromised. The Anti-Hero does not appear to wish an active role in the proceedings. The Seven's involvement is a complication. It suggests the Anti-Hero has chosen to neutralise himself. We must assume that neither he, nor the Metatron, will take part any further."
Richmond glanced to the general. Neither spoke.
"Allow the Seven to defeat your enemies, Richmond. I doubt they have any motives beyond a glorious end. Let them have it, and then retake Canterbury. Declare yourself the victor, and have Dantalion's body hung up. You don't need to fight this battle."
There was silence. Then Eloa appeared.
Richmond swore. Eloa smiled.
"Richmond. I have come to pledge my services."
~
Dantalion raised an eyebrow, slowly. The sky was darkening. Night was coming.
The Seven were ruining everything. He watched as Uriel slipped, a rope lassoed about his neck, pulled down from the air to the waiting swords. He grimaced slightly as he watched his brother hacked down, his body torn.
Richmond was coming. His ragged army streaming down from its lofty hilltop to meet Dantalion's own. Fool. He should have waited and watched.
Dantalion began to stride. Remiel saw him, and sprang from the wall of pikes he faced.
Dantalion shrugged off his cloak. Broke into a run. Remiel was still rising, arrows missing him, bolts flying past him. Electric sparks flowed crackled in his hands.
Dantalion twirled, as neatly as a dancer, whipping Remiel from the sky and throwing him, the unseen force flowing through his hands, through his soul.
Remiel's body twisted in mid-air as the wings beat. There was a sudden spray of crimson, and he slid onto the pike. Dantalion flexed and turned again as Reiel slid slowly, impaled by a mischance. He choked, and spat blood down on the men below.
He was dead.
Dantalion kept running. Raphael half-turned as Dantalion struck. The sword bent, and snapped. Raphael gasped as his arms was flung back, pinning and crucified by invisible bonds. A knight thrust, driving his sword into the exposed chest. An arrow thudded home into the stomach, and buried itself there. There was no emotion on Raphael's face as the axe bit into the throat, tearing the skin and cleaving the flesh. It jarred on the bone, but by then it didn't matter.
Raphael was dead.
Dantalion didn't care as he turned once more. The battle was chaos. Blood showered him as Gabriel lunged, lightning his sword, and knocked Dantalion down.
Dantalion rose, blankly. Gabriel stared. It began to rain.
~
Repus was running now. He had followed the battle through Canterbury, fighting without reason, searching for...power. Opportunity. He didn't know what he expected to find.
He was out, again, out on the field. Swinging Michael's blade with the intensity of a reaper. Garant stood behind him, his sword broken and splintered, a lumberjack's axe balanced in his hands.
They fought into the madness. Into the bloodshed. Without side, without allegiance.
Repus saw him. Dantalion. Stood, his face gaunt and paled, facing his white-winged foe.
Repus started running again.
~
"You failed Dantalion." Gabriel said, sadly.
"Everyone failed today." Dantalion whispered. He was blank. Tired.
Gabriel said nothing. For a moment they stood, silent, the battle ebbing and flowing about them, unnoticed. Then they struck.
Dantalion raised his hand. The lightning veered aside, and Gabriel piroetted, crouching and striking out with his sword. Dantalion took the cut to his arm and lunged, picking Gabriel up without touching him and throwing him up. Gabriel turned in the air, his wings held out, controlling his flight.
He dived. Dantalion sprang. Black wings spread. They met in the air.
Repus stood below, and gritted his teeth. There was a rendering, as unseen hands grasped Gabriel and...tore...
The body burst. Dantalion fell from the air, exhausted.
Repus levelled Michael's sword, ready to strike.
There was a thunderclap.
Keaton appeared, in mid-air, clutching Dantalion. He gripped him.
There was an explosion, and Dantalion burst. Keaton vanished.
Repus roared as the remains splattered the ground, spewing over the grass.
~
Richmond gasped. He was bleeding. He looked down. An arrow.
Eloa stood behind him. She looked down at her knife.
"I'll be fine." Richmond gaped. "Just...get...someone..."
Eloa brought her arm back.
There was a flash, and Keaton appeared. He held a sword. Abaddon's sword.
For a moment Eloa's eyes met Keaton. Then he swung.
He was gone before Richmond's head hit the mud.
~
"Forward! The Righteous demands it!"
The man screamed, held aloft by his fellow fanatics, his fellow loyalists to the Church, to the Righteous. The strange winged men were gone. The man in black was gone. The usurper was gone. Victory was in hand.
"Forward! They're in disorder, we can have them! We can win! For..."
There was a choking sound as Keaton blurred behind him. A knife protruded from the man's spine. Keaton was gone.
~
Abaddon staggered, blinded. His wings were torn and shredded, fine gossamar broken and ruined. He clawed at his eyes, scraping at the mud that burnt them.
Keaton appeared. He looked almost serene.
Abaddon blinked. Through the mud and grit and blood, he could almost see...
His sword cut through his stomach. Abaddon's sword, a sword made in the days of the utopia, cut through with ease. He lurched forward as Keaton vanished.
He fell down. Spat. Blood caught in his teeth and he began to cry.
Men were fleeing the battlefield, or else swarming the endless flood of refugees pouring from the burning city, desparate for some reward, plundered and raped.
The Battle for Canterbury. An old Republic, a new Republic, and an Empire had met. England was leaderless. Europe was leaderless. The last of the utopians...no, Azazel still lived. As did Beelzebub.
Had they prevented the end? Would the Anti-Hero...would...
Abaddon exhaled. It seemed to last forever.
He had done it, though. He had been forgiven. What he did...what he ruined...he had redeemed himself.
He smiled, slightly.
Then he looked up. The Metatron tilted his head, childlike. Abaddon laughed.
"Don't bother, I'm dead already."
He stopped laughing. The Metatron was crying.
"You're...you're free?"
The Metatron nodded.
"How...you destroyed the Cube?"
The Metatron shook his head. Abaddon sighed.
"Someone lost it."
The Metatron nodded.
"And they'll find it again?"
The Metatron nodded again.
Abaddon sighed. He wasn't going to last much longer. His stomach was opening up, now, spilling out over the muddy bog.
"Come here, Metatron."
The Metatron knelt, and nestled against Abaddon's shoulder. Like a child. Abaddon realised he was crying, too.
"It's going to be lonely for you, now, Metatron. Then again, it's always been lonely for you, hasn't it?"
The Metatron didn't respond. He looked weak, vulnerable in his arms, Abaddon realised.
"I wonder whether...killing you now...wouldn't be for the best?"
The Metatron looked up, sharply. Wide-eyed. Abaddon fell, slowly, onto his back.
"I don't...have much...strength...left, Metatron. I'm offering you an end to it. Do you..."
The Metatron stood. His wings straightened. He nodded.
Abaddon sighed. A hand raised, slowly. Shakily. He closed his eyes.
Metatron stiffened. Felt the blood slowly...laboriously, drained from him. Felt the blackness loom over him.
He collapsed. Abaddon closed his eyes.
The Metatron woke up. The regenerative gift was at work. Abaddon had been too weak.
The Metatron began to cry, again.
PART III - Brothers and New Beginnings
Castor Angelos and Pollux Angelos (aged 31 and 49) and Keaton Leort, Cornwall
They met silently.
Keaton looked from one to the other. One young, maybe twenty-odd, the other older, slightly.
"You're the antidote?" he asked, quietly.
Castor nodded. "Zerchiel created us as the Righteous created the Anti-Hero. Were one of us to die, the antidote would pass on to our killer. And so on."
"Why two of you?"
Castor looked to his brother. Pollux nodded. "Because we would be lonely, otherwise."
Keaton shrugged. "Can you do it? What happens?"
"Only one of us does it. One sacrifice" Pollux said, carefully. "Then that's it. You will no longer possess the potential to detonate. To end everything."
"My powers, will I still have my powers? can I still absorb them?"
Castor frowned. "Yes. I want you to know we aren't your friends, Keaton."
"Likewise." Keaton shrugged.
Pollux turned to Castor.
"Go. Get out of here."
Castor frowned. "I'm not letting you do it."
Pollux grinned, ruefully. Then he embraced his brother. There was a blur and they were gone.
Pollux reappeared. He looked even older, now. Middle-aged. He smiled.
"Here we are. Let's do this."
Keaton stood, still, bracing himself. Pollux pulled a knife from his belt. He gave Keaton a final, pained grin, and drove it through his neck.
Pollux gripped Keaton's hand and held them to his throat. Keaton felt the blood spray over them as the time-traveller convulsed.
"Lifeblood...don't you know..." Pollux managed.
Keaton gripped the man until he stopped. Then he dropped him.
His hands were glowing. Burning with Pollux's lifeblood. Then they stopped.
Returned to normal.
Keaton smiled. Then he vanished again.
Canterbury
the field was empty now. The Battle for Canterbury was over.
The Republic was over.
The last of the stragglers, the refugees and the brigands and thieves, plundered the remains. Armour was stripped, swords were collected.
A toothless man dug into the mud and pulled at the blackened stub within. He polished it, hoping for some metal trinket to melt down and sell on.
Gabriel's rib. He threw it away.
And looked up.
A tattered veil, trodden into the mud and grass fluttered in the winds.
Underneath, now uncovered, the remains of a Hewlett Packard 530 jutted from the ground. Two speakers, trodden in and busted open, had been strapped to the sides.
The open screen flickered, the last dregs of memory throwing up a simple word in simple white letters.
CHAиDEя
He ignored it. You couldn't sell witchcraft. Not near Canterbury, anyway.
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