Chronicles of The Omniverse Archived Lutetia City: The Monastery Courtyard

Izaic growled at his attendants but otherwise put up no resistance when they began to wheel him off. "Don't worry about me, In. You know as well as I that I won't let them keep me off my feet forever." Somehow, the older proselyte found the strength inside himself to force a grin.

"Keep in touch and stay safe as you can. I'll expect to see you on the sparing fields before two sundown from now. And keep me informed! No one ever tells anyone in the medical wing anything!" Swigelf would holler behind him as he was whisked away by vomit soaked Cleric number #2.
 
Inarin smiled back at Izaic weakly, hesitating just a moment before stepping forwards to take one of the other proselyte's hands and squeeze it. "I- Okay. I'll try. I hope... I hope you feel better soon."

Nodding one final time, he released Izaic's hand and stepped back. He managed another small smile at Izaic's parting yells. "I will! I'll come by later today and tell you what's happening!" he called back. And then he was gone, taken inside the Monastery. Letting out a heavy sigh, Inarin looked down at the ground, clenching his fists for a moment. 'I just hope I have something to tell you that isn't awful.'

Forcing himself to straighten and look around, Inarin's eyes found where Aaro was sat. The younger boy made his way over hesitantly, pausing beside the bench. He bit his lip, frowning as he recognised Mia's blade. "U-uhm, Aaro?" he spoke softly, not entirely sure whether he was doing the right thing by interrupting his classmate's mourning. "D-do you mind if I... if I sit with you?"
 
Aaro startled.

"In! Hey. Yeah. Please. Siddown, I was just blanking out."

He blinked rapidly and rubbed at one of his eyes. They were red with weeping.

"Hell of a way to end the Aurellae, huh?" he smirked, shaking his head. "When they cancelled the cooking tourney, I thought that'd be the worst of it. All those baked goods on the judge's table, fresh outa'the oven." He smiled. "Romstone always gives a slice of something to whichever proselytes help clean up afterwards. It's the only event I volunteer as staff for."

He looked over as a paramedics carted a wounded paladin into the Monastery, blood soaking through the bandages covering her left side.

"Two hours ago I wouldn't of thought anything could be worse than missing out on good food like that."
 
"Mm," Inarin made a vaguely noncommittal noise in response to Aaro's words. He couldn't say that he'd been of the same mind. Of course it was a shock, that it was this bad, that it had happened on the day that was supposed to be the most filled with joy... but a part of Inarin had been expecting something to happen for a while now. It had been too quiet. Since his parents were killed... the Caer hadn't done anything else to make a statement. There'd been the disappearances, yes. Attacks, kidnappings, deaths... but nothing that lived up to the fear that the Caer name carried.

It had been far too easy to put that from his mind, to try and enjoy the time that things weren't happening, that everything seemed - on the surface - to be okay, for the time being.

Now the monster had made it clear that nowhere was safe. That surrounded by the monastic order's best was little better a place to be than in a back alley of the Phantom Quarter if the Caer wanted your blood. The illusion of normality had been shattered.

"Everything is going to change now," he said after a long silence, staring down at the ground. Oddly, his voice lacked its characteristic hesitation - the dawning gravity of the situation dwarfing the nerves and anxiety that normally plagued him. "I think I've read enough history to know when it's being written around me. No matter how this ends, things aren't going to go back to the way they were before."
 
"The way it was before..." Aaro's voice trailed. He stared off into empty space. "I keep thinking about that - the beginning, do you remember? You, me, Jim and Celeste bumming it after school at that cafe, talking about next week's history exam. It wasn't even a year ago and it feels like an eternity." He shook his head. "Celeste is gone. Jim... sometimes I don't even know who he is anymore. But you?"

Aaro turned to face Inarin. "I saw you fight - up there with Sir Lacroix and Master Dufort. You didn't hesitate for a second. Just threw yourself at the danger the moment you realized something was wrong. Like a paladin." He smiled. "Never in a million years would I have guessed that, of the four of us, you would be the one to grow up into that kind of man." He laughed, sniffing. "The bookworm, our favorite nerd... the kid whose notes I'd copy in Grunxa's class..."
 
“I’m not sure it was … something I should be proud of. It was … stupid.” Inarin rubbed at his head, sighing. “I’d probably have died before Master Dufort or Sir Lacroix got there if Luca and Ghislain hadn’t followed me… I could have gotten them killed, too, not just myself. I c-can have all the ‘bravery’,” he spoke the word with obvious doubt, not entirely convinced that it was necessarily brave to entirely forget to think before acting, “in the world, but I’m not … I’m not strong or skilled enough to pull stunts like that.”

Maybe he was being hard on himself, but it was the truth. Even if he had acted like a paladin, he most definitely wasn’t one. He was lucky to be alive. Lucky that his friends had acted to protect him, and lucky that they hadn’t been badly hurt because of it.

“You’re right,” another voice joined the pair of them from behind, as Luca approached. The other proselyte was a little pale, and had obviously just returned from the infirmary, but given how many more seriously injured people were coming in, he’d been sent to get rest elsewhere rather than taking up a bed there once the gash in his chest had been stitched. “But be that as it may, I see little doubt that you saved Izaic’s life. Regardless of the logic or sense of what you did, that much is concrete.”

Inarin looked up with a start, turning to face the new arrival. “Luca! You’re okay, I- Sorry I didn’t check in on you, or stick around after-“

“It’s alright, In.” Luca shook his head, lowering himself carefully onto the end of the bench. “I’m just glad you didn’t get yourself killed going out there again.”
 
"Not even a scratch on him, now that I think about it," Aaro mused. "How about that? First one into the fight and he didn't even mess up his hair."

The proselyte smiled at Luca. "I'm glad you're okay. You guys are the talk of the Monastery. Proselytes have a record of getting killed by Caer, not standing up to them."

His eyes widened. "Wait, Luca, I forget, do you know about the whole Caer thing...?"

Secrecy, at this point, was completely futile.
 
“Only as of today,” Luca remarked, shaking his head. “Inarin dropped that…” he paused, clearly rethinking his choice of words for a second “…news earlier today. I’d no idea before then.” He frowned, looking down at the ground for a beat before continuing. “I can’t believe the Order knew, and… went on with the celebrations. Surely this could have been prevented if we hadn’t given it such a clear target.”

Inarin frowned his agreement, looking down at the ground with a bitterness to his expression. “They were p-prideful, and s-stupid,” he muttered. “It was long past time they should… they should have told the whole order, at the v-very least. Nobody was properly ready. They tried to keep a lid on it so that people wouldn’t find out th-that they’d lied. That one of the Caer was still alive.”

“They must have had their reasons,” Luca shook his head again, running a hand through his hair. “Telling the city would lead to a panic, obviously, so they couldn’t do that. Telling the whole order… well, it would have gotten out.”

“The order aren’t always right, Luca,” Inarin scowled angrily, clenching his fists. “If that’s not been obvious before now, today should’ve made it clear. Don’t make excuses for them. More could have been being done. The whole order should have been focused on this, but because hardly anyone knew, he was able to get this strong and gather allies and…” The younger proselyte cut himself off, letting his tirade hang unfinished, and he gave a frustrated sigh. His tensed shoulders slumped slightly. “I’m sorry, it’s hard not to be angry… It just feels like this was so… preventable.”
 
"You are absolutely correct, Nuvelon." Said a gruff, ancient, and exhausted voice from behind the trio. Kurtrin still wore his armor from ages past, scorched from fire, rent from blows by Nox and his demon's tricks, dented and gouged from battles half a century past. Yet it still gleamed like dark, coppery gold. A face already worn and haggard from neigh on eighty years seemed to have aged another ten in a single afternoon, and normally soft, gentle eyes were replaced by an uncharacteristcly hateful, deadpan glare.

"I tried to tell the order for years, decades, that we were too lax. Nito the Demon had thirteen confirmed children, and we only ever recovered eleven of their remains." The edge to his once grandfather like voice would cut deep, though it's sharpness wasn't directed at the proselytes. "Me and a few of the other veterans always suspected, but as time went on...fewer and fewer heeded our warnings and suspicions. Its a...shame it had to come to this." The old paladin would grind his teeth, fury leaking through his clenched jaw. "That we let it come to this."
 
Preventable. A cold knot settled into Aaro's stomach as his peers reflected on the Order's failure to respond to the Caer. The critique was directed at their superiors, but Aaro couldn't shake the dreadful sense of guilt he harbored over Mia's death. He looked down at her sword, watching his reflection in the shining Ivaran steel. Luca fought. Inarin fought. Why couldn't you? Your friend is dead because you failed to act. All you had to do was be brave...

The proselyte looked up at Kurtrin as he approached, slightly put-off by the veteran's unusually haggard appearance. The Golden had always been one of the Order's oldest knights, but he had never really looked his age until now.

"Sir Hayes," he said, "I heard rumors... is it true that Master Dufort was killed in battle?"
 
"S-Sir Hayes!" Inarin startled, turning to face the old master with wide eyes. It took a moment for him to process the Golden's appearance, and the significance of his presence. "You're back... is-"

"Inarin!"

Inarin's heart leaped when he heard the voice that he'd been hoping for, and he turned again - towards the courtyard's gates, where there'd been an intermittent flow of paladins in and out ever since they got back. He was bloody, there were scorch marks on his armour to match those on the Golden's, and exhaustion was plain on his face, but he was there. Leon was safe. The pit of dread he'd pushed to the back of his mind - the fear that more of his family would be taken from him - ebbed away, replaced by relief. He jumped to his feet and closed the distance between them in a few moments, throwing his arms around his brother without heed for the cold steel interposed between them.

"I'm so glad you're okay," Aurelion put his arms around him, a tired but clearly just-as-relieved smile on his face. "I heard some of your friends were hurt, and I lost you in the crowd after... I'm just glad you're alright."

"Y-yeah," Inarin nodded, clinging to him. "I... I'm fine. Are you hurt? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. I barely got scratched," he answered, shaking his head. He cast a glance over his shoulder at that, and Inarin followed his gaze to where a group of clerics were rushing a figure in white towards the monastery on a gurney. It took Inarin a few moments to recognise Noah... the real Noah, presumably.

"Is he..?" Inarin cast a worried look at Aurelion, who met his gaze with an uncertain frown.

"I'm not sure. His physical injuries aren't severe, but he passed out as soon as the fighting was over. I suppose he must have pushed himself too far..?"

"He uses enhancement animancy, doesn't he?" Inarin frowned. "There are animancers who can use their art to push their bodies beyond their limits, to make themselves faster or stronger, but then once they stop channelling, the excess exertion catches up to them all at once. It... it can be fatal, in extreme circumstances, but ... but it's usually not."

For a moment, Leon gave him a bewildered look, then he let out a small laugh. "I shouldn't be surprised that you knew that, should I?" He smiled fondly, patting Inarin on the arm. "Well, by Light's grace I hope we don't lose him. I don't know how he's wielding one of the oathblades, but... well, I'll say this much: I've no doubt things would have gone differently had he not been there."
 
Kurtrin frowned at the proselyte, the steely look in his ancient eyes failing for just a moment. "I...am sorry to say that it's true, Aaro." He'd kneel then, though it did little to diminish his powerful stature. "She was struck down like so many other of our brothers and sisters. She died fighting the truest enemy the Order has known since the Wrym itself."

The old soldier would clasp a gauntlet covered hand over the boy's shoulder. "But take heart, youngin'. This is merely a revanent of a far greater evil. This Caer is not his Father. It is not Nito and his entire brood. Just the left over scraps." The Golden would reach down to the waistline of his armor and pull forth his sterling silver flask, thrusting it into Aaro's hands, despite the sword the paladin-to-be held. "Drink and know that we won two victories today, minor though they seem. We proved we can hurt him, and we proved that we can drive him back."
 
Aaro nodded grimly. The fighting must have been fierce in Valentine, judging by the wounded coming back in throes. He was happy that Leon was safe, but Dufort was a huge loss for the Order. She had been a Master - one of the stronger ones, as far as Aaro was concerned. The Monastery would need all the strong leadership it could get in the days to come.

The proselyte offered a small smile as Kurtrin tried to comfort him... and then blinked in surprise as the old veteran shoved his liquor flask into his hands. Aaro blinked, unsure if Kurtrin was serious or not, before shrugging and taking a small sip of the stuff.

...And immediately hacked up a lung. Evidently the stuff was much too strong for a young proselyte.

"I..." another cough, "...sweet Selene, what's in this?"
 
It wasn't long after Leon had joined them that another battle-worn looking figure made his way over, stained black with ichor almost from head to toe. He'd wiped most of it from his face, but it still stained his hair and most of his armour. He offered Inarin a wan smile, and nodded to Aaro and Luca. "Glad to see you guys are safe," he said, casting his eyes around nervously. "Was Cam with you? Did you see where he went?"

Inarin glanced across at the others, frowning. "I... I didn't see where he went," he answered, shaking his head. "I haven't seen him, I'm sorry."

"I'm afraid I haven't either," Luca shook his head too, looking worried.

"Okay," Perrin frowned. "That's fine, he's... I'll call him, he's probably with his dad..." The paladin stepped away, pulling off one of his gauntlets and reaching for his phone. After he'd moved a few paces away, he called Camille's number.
 
"Hello?"

A familiar voice answered through the phone, though it was nearly unrecognizable to Perrin. Any pomp, pride or general energy that surrounded the boy had deflated entirely. Hearing his cousin's voice gave him a slight glimmer of hope, at least briefly. "I guess you're still alive, then?"
 
"Forty year old whiskey, Aaro. Old stuff, aged in an oak barrel until it tastes as harsh as varnish and hits you twice as hard." Kurtrin would explain, rising from his kneeling crouch. "Keep the flask if you want. And put that blade somewhere special. Never forget what it means to lose some one. Once they're gone, its for good, and nothing short of betraying the Oaths of the Order and the Light itself will bring them back. So keep the sword. Get stronger. And next time, because there will be a next time, try even harder to make sure no one else you love is lost."

With another pat on the shoulder, this time much more gently, the Golden would move across to Leon and Inarin. The Nuvellons had endured so much, but today they had faced their parent's killer, and his forces, head on. "You two. You've seen the enemy now." Kutrin began, unaware that they'd both already met him at a rave months prior. "Tell me, how do you feel. What thoughts are going through your heads." The old paladin seemed to be addressing the older of the brothers, but Inarin might feel the words were more meant for him. One was a Paladin, trained and seasoned. The other was young, suffering trauma after trauma.

"And before you begin some inane deflection, let me save you some time. Sit down, and talk. Thats an order."
 
“Thank the light,” Peregrine visibly relaxed when Cam answered the phone, a relieved smile replacing the worry that had been painted on his face – though his cousin’s defeated tone sewed a new seed of worry. “Cam, yeah. I’m fine. A little battered, but fine. I’m here with Leon, Sir Hayes and some of your friends. Are you okay? Did you and the rest of the family get out okay?”

Whilst Perrin stepped away to have his conversation, Leon turned to Kurtrin, offering the veteran a weary nod of acknowledgement. Inarin took a step back from his brother, faintly conscious of the black blood that now stained his uniform after the embrace but hardly thinking it mattered.

“I barely got a good look at him in the phantom quarter,” Aurelion answered, grimacing. “Today was nothing like that. But if anything… he was what I expected. I was ready for him to be monstrous, and unstoppable. But…” he ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “I wasn’t ready for his … thralls.” Duval, the Hart boy, the doppelganger, the demon – they’d each been jarring in their own separate ways, be it emotionally or through their unexpected and unpredictable powers. “We gave him too long to build strength and gain allies, and we’re paying for it,” he added with a scowl.

Inarin nodded. It was good to hear his brother agreeing with him unprompted, even after affirmation from the Golden, he was glad Aurelion thought the masters had been wrong too. He hesitated, unsure whether he should add anything, but the pause when Aurelion had finished speaking seemed expectant on Kurtrin’s part, and so he spoke. “I’m not sure how I feel,” he murmured, shaking his head. His emotions were a jumble of anger, sadness and despair mingled with the relief that his brother was okay and the bittersweet knowledge that things could probably have gone even worse. “It’s our fault that things got this far without a proper response,” he added. “The order’s, I mean. I don’t know how I could face anyone who’s lost someone today and tell them the order did everything we could, because we didn’t.”
 
"We're all okay, yeah," Cam responded. The sound of the Lacroix patriarch buzzed in the background, he was shouting at someone, but exactly who it was wasn't clear. "A couple kids from the academy got injured and a few haven't been spotted since the bombs..."
 
Kurtrin would nod along, eyes cast downward. It was hard to swallow just how much they were failing not only the younger generations of the Order, but the city as a whole. Who cared if it was over fifty years since the Skirmishes had ended. They never should've been caught like this. They never should have let it happen. History spoke volumes on how ill-prepared the Order had been when Titus and his swarm of spawn had first struck. The Church's lack of any sort of response. Mass desertions for the first time in their records. Small engagements turning into slaughter fields for both paladins, and the common folk.

It was all starting again. It was all starting again, and once more, the Golden was powerless to stand against it. It wasn't fair. He'd lived through all this already. His Hell was supposed to be over with, a trial he'd never have to face again. But he was wrong. The Wick had kept him alive for a reason. Perhaps...it was his duty to make sure the Order survived. Imagine that. A hero in not just one war against Wynter and its fel hordes of House Caeruleum, but two. A sword, both proverbial and literal, against the dark forces that threatened this shit-hole of a metropolis. Maybe, just maybe, he'd get imbued with Sainthood upon his inevitable death.

Kutrin Hayes, Saint of Holy Wars, remembered forever.

The thought brought a sad smile to his withered features, scrubbing away the angry scowl that'd been almost permanent since returning from the park. "We aren't going to let him get away with it though, Inarin. What he did today, what hes going to do in the future. The proselytes in Lumenia Square. Your family. The Hart boy. Duval. All of it. We'll make sure he pays for his crimes, he and all his ilk."
 
"I hope so," Inarin replied quietly, looking down as a scowl darkened his face. For a brief moment, hatred of Nox overpowered his sadness, displacing it and substituting anger. Yes, they'd make him pay for what he'd done. They'd find a way, whatever it took. No matter the cost.

As quickly as it had arrived, the moment passed. The scowl faded, and his shoulders sagged a little from the release of tension. That wasn't a healthy line of thought to follow.

"Yeah," Aurelion in the meantime nodded, not noticing the brief change in his brother's expression from where he stood. "There'll be time to question what should or could have been done once we've stopped him," he said, sighing. "Right now there's no good in dwelling on it. We need to focus on what we can do now, instead."

Meanwhile, Perrin breathed another relieved sigh. "Good," he said. "That the family's alright, at least. I'm sorry about the students, though, I hope they turn up. Is it anyone you were close with? I can ask around here, we have some injured civilians here on Monastery grounds."
 
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