The Ghosts of Wars Long Past

[Flames of Hyperion]

The stairwell stretched into infinite oblivion, a gaping void to both the heavens above and the abyss below. The spectre could only muster the strength to tackle one step at a time, droplets of ghostly blood smearing in its wake as it dragged its broken body upwards. Still the voice of its hungry longing called out; still the pinnacle of the central spire of Castle Trenyce beckoned. Helpless in its mesmeric grasp the spectre heeded its call.

So it climbed, step by agonised step, flight by never-ending flight. The walls grew slender and elegant, sculpted marble shaped into smooth aspiration. Unlit braziers bracketed every landing, thick grime - undisturbed by its passage - engrained into the slate tiles. Flecks of stardust danced down to observe its progress, only to dart away at its slightest movement.

As it climbed, it dwelt upon the memories dredged from the morass of its turmoiled mind.

Upon surviving the landings at the beaches of Anebrilith, it now remembered that it had thought of her. It had caught sight of her in the exhausted fugue of its dreams, if only the briefest of glimpses, and amidst the wrath and the ruin it had woken anew.

Deep within the tunnels of the Coven of Six, it now remembered that it had missed her the most. Earthen ceilings had pressed down upon it, reeking of the foul stench of death and decay, befouling its mind with dark magic. Only by focusing on the one star in its life had it maintained focus.

On the fields of Nenaebreth, she had fought for it against its worst nightmare. When the enraged daemon had claimed its soul among the ashen corpses of its fallen comrades, she had stood before the abomination and forced it to back away. She had saved it from an eternity of torment, or worse.

Studying the legend of the Tella’karythar, it had dreamed of her again. Its regrets had spiralled into aching pain, and its pain into resolve. Would it hurt to flower and fall, paving the path for a lasting peace? Not if it could save her, too.

In the final assault upon the Forgotten One, she had suffered because of it. The Dread Necromancer himself had projected illusions of her gruesome death into its mind, again and again until it broke beneath the strain. In the aftermath of their pyrrhic victory it had stumbled northwards, her bloodied body all it could see, the instinct to run to her aid all it could feel.

The last piece of the puzzle fell into place. The key it needed to unlock its sanity, the balm that would soothe its anguished heart, had resided within it all along.

Who am I?

Scholar. Mage. Warrior. Student. Thinker. Advisor. Harbinger. Spectre.

Last Crusader. Dawnbringer.

Ingwe Helyanwe, he who bridged the skies. Nanashi, the nameless foreign wanderer. Xuan Hredgarsson. Yann.

Nothing. Everything.

In the end it remembered. He remembered.

In the end only one thing mattered. Only she mattered.

Tears poured unchecked upon his broken face, impacting the dusty tiles like meteors.

If Zundalon fought for justice, and Pode for love, and Maeril to mourn a memory... did that make him, who fought only to please his selfish ego, a villain?

Did it even matter?

If only he could see her again.

He climbed, and he climbed, until he could climb no more. A lonely door blocked his progress, secured from the outside by a simple latch. With the gentlest touch of his mind, he lifted it free, nudged it open.

It swung inwards on rusty hinges.