RISE
"Something like this won't get me down. I've still got spirit to spare!"
Vandrad felt crippled. And that was because he was, in fact, crippled.
Sabine’s attack had been successful, to a point – and that wasn’t some cheeky joke over the use of a sword either. While normally it would take a lot more than a single blade impaling him to slow him down, the prince had been surprised in the moment to discover that it had completely shut him down. His power, his magic; it seemingly had been severed and as such, his body’s normal response to damage couldn’t operate. He’d very quickly lost a lot of blood and lost consciousness, with only the sound of the deafening silence in his ears as he faded out.
He found out later, when he awoke, that he had nearly died. The blade had indeed severed his magical core, damaging it and his body in the process, along with damaging his organs. Her sword had been enchanted or programmed with something that caused instant necrosis and that had infected his physical form and destabilized his power from within. The result had been a catastrophic failure of his ability to cycle his magic and heal himself completely. Given that he had spent years relying on his innate ability to naturally rejuvenate injuries through his magic, his form didn’t know how to compensate for the lack of energy and simply shut down. It was a miracle that someone had found him in time and retrieved help, else he would have been lost entirely. Right after he’d learn some truly dark and horrifying truths as well.
Caelcilius – or Lord Scourge, as he was apparently named – had revealed himself to be part of the Dread Masters and had been watching Vandrad for quite some time. He finally approached the prince in hopes of founding an alliance between them, wanting Vandrad to join the group that had, as it turned out, been established by one of his ancestors, Marka Ragnos. He and Gren were legacies, considered near-royalty among the members of the cult and with their combined power, they could complete what the original Dread Masters had sought; the complete and utter destruction of the gods and demons of the world. It was an intriguing offer and Vandrad would be lying if he said he hadn’t considered it, if only for the sake of ridding Mythal and the world of Faera. But the added caveat of not just destroying the immortal beings but taking their power rang too selfish and arrogant for the prince. He’d declined and given them a one-time opportunity to leave without incident, an offer that would end the moment they parted. Scourge had taken the decline well but Vandrad couldn’t help but think, now that he’d had time to muse on the matter, if Sabine had been an alternative method of dealing with the prince if things didn’t go well.
If it was, she took it to her grave. Mercury hadn’t rushed to his bedside after his injury, opting instead to enact revenge and wipe out all of Sabine’s family. The princess had been the final one to fall, having returned home to enact the deed herself but only finding the Silver Wolf mage there in wait. The battle had been short and bloody and Mercury had returned with the news of vengeance – news he appreciated but only to a point. His brush with death had given him new insight into himself and into how close he had come to losing everything he had come to cherish. In a fit of emotion he had opened up the floodgates and revealed his true feelings to her and she, in turn, had reciprocated the feelings after some truly heartbreaking and shocking news. The knowledge that there was an alien race out in the galaxy that had sent her to spy on them and gather information was a weighty truth to know and she believed she wasn’t worthy of his care and appreciation. A belief that he was quick to shoot down, for he knew the truth of her that even she couldn’t bring herself to know.
It had taken him nearly dying for their love – as that was what it was – to come to fruition. And the result of their admittance had been engagement, or so his mother stated. It was a step forward that many others had been waiting on and while the situation had been dire, it had blossomed into growth for both Vandrad and Mercury. And while that meant that yet another threat was on the horizon, they were prepared to face it together.
That included his rehabilitation. Energy Monarch operated in an entirely different level of magic than others so the doctors didn’t have a clear guide on how it would recover. They were concerned that it wouldn’t heal at all, rendering Vandrad magicless for the rest of his life. The prince disproved this by utilizing a bit of his former power, enough so that he could move about – a feat considered near-impossible for a magical being suddenly being drained of mana. With that knowledge, they constructed a lengthy schedule for his rehab, believing that within a couple of years, he could reach the place he had been before the injury.
Years. A space of time that Vandrad couldn’t and wouldn’t wrap his head around. He dismissed the very idea, instead believing he could push his body to heal within weeks. The doctors insisted he take it easy and allow his body to heal, as did his loved ones. Yet there was no way he could simply sit around and wait; not when he could be speeding up the process. He laid low for a few days, for the sake of looking like he was abiding by the restrictions that had been placed upon him…
But soon enough, he was back in the training room within Fairy Tail’s walls. The injured prince limped his way in, wincing with every step as his stomach wound flexed with each slight movement. He paused long enough to breathe in deeply, the smell of the training room filling him with comfort and joy. This space had been his practically from the moment he joined the guild and after everything that had happened, it was good to experience that familiar feeling once more. Now with a sense of purpose, his hands curled into fists and he set his gaze forward as he walked to the center of the room. The doctors had been baffled by his very movement, that he wasn’t trapped in a wheeling chair to get around. He would surpass those limits that they had put upon him and prove he could recover faster than anticipated.
Planting his feet, Vandrad set himself in a comfortable but firm stance. He tore off his tank top and tossed it away, revealing his bandaged abdomen. Now in his atmosphere, he looked within and sought out his magic, looking to clear way the scar tissue and the festering pain to find the power he had relied on for long. He grimaced as he tightened his muscles, Vandrad’s willing his body to react as it always had. He found nothing; missing strength that had been cultivated and grown for years. He refused to believe it was gone, it was simply lost in the pain. His lips peeled back as he continued to push himself, digging deeper within his core. Veins surfaced over his arms and forehead as pain surged through his veins rather than magical might, his body crying out for him to stop. He didn’t, he couldn’t…
He felt something. It was buried deep, beneath the pain but there was something. It didn’t feel familiar to the magic he had control of before but he could only imagine how it had changed after such trauma. He just needed to get through the pain to get it. He snarled and the air around him started to crack with electricity, the tension around him beginning to push into a territory he knew well. Like a drowning man paddling furiously to breach the surface of a body of water, he kept on pushing himself, unwilling to let go. Soon enough, he felt he had found the door to it and burst through…
Vandrad felt the ground drop out from under him. He was falling backwards, his body’s weakness losing out under the will of his spirit. In that instant, he knew he had failed and simply gave himself to the approaching sensation of the hard floor hitting his back. But rather than the hard, polished surface of the training room, he sunk into what felt like sand. Immediately his eyes flung open, his pain dulled against his confusion. The ceiling of the room was gone and instead, an open sky spread out before him. But it was red and, with a slight tilt of his head, he could see two suns. Had he pushed himself so hard that he passed out? This would be unlike any dream he’d ever experienced; surreal and far more creative than he would ever claim to be.
He turned his head and found the sight of rolling, sandy dunes cast out to the horizon. His gaze kept turning and, just as he felt, he was half-buried in a dune, with golden grains pouring over his torso. Slowly he pushed himself up, the ache in his gut both reducing his quickness but also muted against the overwhelming astonishment. There was sand everywhere; rolling hills of it as far as the eye could see in almost all directions. To the east or so Vandrad assumed was east given the sun’s locations, he could see the abnormal bumps of structures. Using his arms to help himself get to his feet, the prince looked once more into the sky and then back towards the settlement. With no other choice beyond standing there in shock, he slowly trudged his way towards civilization.
If this was a dream, he wasn’t sure what to make of it. The desolate sand hills reminded him of Desierto but that was the only thing that felt any kind of familiar. Now on edge, he continued his way towards the settlement, the buildings coming into better view as he got closer. They were constructed of sandstone and clay, built to match the backdrop of the desert with the soft tan and bleached white hues. From the looks of it, it was a large village and even as he approached, he could make out several people bustling about. Vandrad expected to see faces he knew; images of people in his life plastered onto stranger’s bodies as his unconscious mind’s way of trying to tell him something. The people were strange to him; they wore long robes and covered hoods to protect themselves from the sun. As he entered the city’s limits, he inspected the people walking by, their eyes plastered on him as well in curiosity. It wasn’t until he turned that he heard someone gasp and as he turned around, he saw a woman with her children staring wide-eyed at him in horror before running away, dragging her kids along.
An elderly man was sitting on the stairs nearby, smoking out of a long, elaborate pipe. The wood was carved into intricate circles and spirals around one another, looking more like a fantastical instrument than a smoker. But as he inhaled and expelled a dark cloud of smoke, it was clear that it was the latter. Vandrad walked over to him, his presence lost on the old man. "Where am I?” he asked.
“Nowhere,” the man replied.
"I am not nowhere. What is this place?”
“It’s Nowhere, sonny. You get kicked in the head or somethin’? This ain’t somewhere, therefore, it’s Nowhere.” The elderly man spat out, scoffing and shaking his head at Vandrad’s ignorance.
The prince grimaced as he considered the man’s words. "Riddles. I’m not fond of riddles. Even my unconscious mind should know that.”
“I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout your mind but I can tell you that yer in the wrong place. Ain’t no noble comin’ around these parts, especially dressed like that,” said the elderly man, who finally looked Vandrad up and down and scoffed again.
This was getting him nowhere. Giving the man another considering look, the prince shook his head and turned away, deciding to inquire with someone more reliable. But the minute his back was turned to the old man, he heard another sharp gasp and, as he whirled back, he saw the color flush from the man’s face. “du Wolff,” he sputtered.
Vandrad’s brow tightened. The tattoo on his back; the symbol of the du Wolff family. They were reacting to his family’s crest. He raised his chin a little. "That’s right. I’m a du Wolff. Why is this such a surprise?”
“No, no, that ain’t right. Ain’t no more du Wolffs, they’s all dead. Don’t be tellin’ fibs like that, less you want your head taken off. Ya best cover that mark up.” The old man was suddenly too rigid, too withdrawn. He was shifting in his seat, almost like he was trying to melt into the stairs to get away from Vandrad.
What did he mean by his words? What was the lesson here? "I am not ashamed of my family’s crest. I am Vandrad du Wolff and my family is not dead. You better explain yourself this instant, clown.” Now the prince’s patience was razor thin and, despite his injury and lack of magical power, he wouldn’t let anyone drag his family’s name through the mud or cast fantastical fiction about.
The elderly man seemed to pick up on Vandrad’s aggression for a moment but his eyes seemed to trail off to the side past the prince. “Your funeral,” was the quick response before he turned and clamored up the stairs.
Vandrad moved to follow him but the all-too-familiar sound of armor clanking drew his attention behind him. The woman that had run away earlier had returned and, with her, three soldiers armed in unfamiliar armor. She pointed right at the prince. “He has the du Wolff mark. He’s one of them!”
The soldiers nodded to one another and spread out. From their hips they removed whips, unraveling the long leather rinds slowly. Rings embedded in the leather sparked to life, crackling with electric energy as the entirety of the whip’s body was covered in static. Vandrad’s eyes narrowed as he glanced between the three soldiers, now moving into position to surround him. Once more he looked deep, seeking out his magic so he could bury the pests before they had a chance to act. The prince thrust his hand out towards the closest one, willing a blast of his power to erupt and take out the man. But nothing came. Instead, the guard’s whip snapped in and wrapped around the extended limb from wrist to shoulder. Immediately the stunning energy ripped into his arm, immobilizing it and sending jolts of electricity through Vandrad’s body. He gritted his teeth and attempted to pull at the whip holding him but then another cracked out and wrapped around his neck and stomach. The volts of electricity to the two vital areas rendered him incapable of fighting back and soon his vision began to darken, even as his body went limp.
His last conscious thought was that he wasn’t in a dream. He had fallen into a nightmare.
Sabine’s attack had been successful, to a point – and that wasn’t some cheeky joke over the use of a sword either. While normally it would take a lot more than a single blade impaling him to slow him down, the prince had been surprised in the moment to discover that it had completely shut him down. His power, his magic; it seemingly had been severed and as such, his body’s normal response to damage couldn’t operate. He’d very quickly lost a lot of blood and lost consciousness, with only the sound of the deafening silence in his ears as he faded out.
He found out later, when he awoke, that he had nearly died. The blade had indeed severed his magical core, damaging it and his body in the process, along with damaging his organs. Her sword had been enchanted or programmed with something that caused instant necrosis and that had infected his physical form and destabilized his power from within. The result had been a catastrophic failure of his ability to cycle his magic and heal himself completely. Given that he had spent years relying on his innate ability to naturally rejuvenate injuries through his magic, his form didn’t know how to compensate for the lack of energy and simply shut down. It was a miracle that someone had found him in time and retrieved help, else he would have been lost entirely. Right after he’d learn some truly dark and horrifying truths as well.
Caelcilius – or Lord Scourge, as he was apparently named – had revealed himself to be part of the Dread Masters and had been watching Vandrad for quite some time. He finally approached the prince in hopes of founding an alliance between them, wanting Vandrad to join the group that had, as it turned out, been established by one of his ancestors, Marka Ragnos. He and Gren were legacies, considered near-royalty among the members of the cult and with their combined power, they could complete what the original Dread Masters had sought; the complete and utter destruction of the gods and demons of the world. It was an intriguing offer and Vandrad would be lying if he said he hadn’t considered it, if only for the sake of ridding Mythal and the world of Faera. But the added caveat of not just destroying the immortal beings but taking their power rang too selfish and arrogant for the prince. He’d declined and given them a one-time opportunity to leave without incident, an offer that would end the moment they parted. Scourge had taken the decline well but Vandrad couldn’t help but think, now that he’d had time to muse on the matter, if Sabine had been an alternative method of dealing with the prince if things didn’t go well.
If it was, she took it to her grave. Mercury hadn’t rushed to his bedside after his injury, opting instead to enact revenge and wipe out all of Sabine’s family. The princess had been the final one to fall, having returned home to enact the deed herself but only finding the Silver Wolf mage there in wait. The battle had been short and bloody and Mercury had returned with the news of vengeance – news he appreciated but only to a point. His brush with death had given him new insight into himself and into how close he had come to losing everything he had come to cherish. In a fit of emotion he had opened up the floodgates and revealed his true feelings to her and she, in turn, had reciprocated the feelings after some truly heartbreaking and shocking news. The knowledge that there was an alien race out in the galaxy that had sent her to spy on them and gather information was a weighty truth to know and she believed she wasn’t worthy of his care and appreciation. A belief that he was quick to shoot down, for he knew the truth of her that even she couldn’t bring herself to know.
It had taken him nearly dying for their love – as that was what it was – to come to fruition. And the result of their admittance had been engagement, or so his mother stated. It was a step forward that many others had been waiting on and while the situation had been dire, it had blossomed into growth for both Vandrad and Mercury. And while that meant that yet another threat was on the horizon, they were prepared to face it together.
That included his rehabilitation. Energy Monarch operated in an entirely different level of magic than others so the doctors didn’t have a clear guide on how it would recover. They were concerned that it wouldn’t heal at all, rendering Vandrad magicless for the rest of his life. The prince disproved this by utilizing a bit of his former power, enough so that he could move about – a feat considered near-impossible for a magical being suddenly being drained of mana. With that knowledge, they constructed a lengthy schedule for his rehab, believing that within a couple of years, he could reach the place he had been before the injury.
Years. A space of time that Vandrad couldn’t and wouldn’t wrap his head around. He dismissed the very idea, instead believing he could push his body to heal within weeks. The doctors insisted he take it easy and allow his body to heal, as did his loved ones. Yet there was no way he could simply sit around and wait; not when he could be speeding up the process. He laid low for a few days, for the sake of looking like he was abiding by the restrictions that had been placed upon him…
But soon enough, he was back in the training room within Fairy Tail’s walls. The injured prince limped his way in, wincing with every step as his stomach wound flexed with each slight movement. He paused long enough to breathe in deeply, the smell of the training room filling him with comfort and joy. This space had been his practically from the moment he joined the guild and after everything that had happened, it was good to experience that familiar feeling once more. Now with a sense of purpose, his hands curled into fists and he set his gaze forward as he walked to the center of the room. The doctors had been baffled by his very movement, that he wasn’t trapped in a wheeling chair to get around. He would surpass those limits that they had put upon him and prove he could recover faster than anticipated.
Planting his feet, Vandrad set himself in a comfortable but firm stance. He tore off his tank top and tossed it away, revealing his bandaged abdomen. Now in his atmosphere, he looked within and sought out his magic, looking to clear way the scar tissue and the festering pain to find the power he had relied on for long. He grimaced as he tightened his muscles, Vandrad’s willing his body to react as it always had. He found nothing; missing strength that had been cultivated and grown for years. He refused to believe it was gone, it was simply lost in the pain. His lips peeled back as he continued to push himself, digging deeper within his core. Veins surfaced over his arms and forehead as pain surged through his veins rather than magical might, his body crying out for him to stop. He didn’t, he couldn’t…
He felt something. It was buried deep, beneath the pain but there was something. It didn’t feel familiar to the magic he had control of before but he could only imagine how it had changed after such trauma. He just needed to get through the pain to get it. He snarled and the air around him started to crack with electricity, the tension around him beginning to push into a territory he knew well. Like a drowning man paddling furiously to breach the surface of a body of water, he kept on pushing himself, unwilling to let go. Soon enough, he felt he had found the door to it and burst through…
Vandrad felt the ground drop out from under him. He was falling backwards, his body’s weakness losing out under the will of his spirit. In that instant, he knew he had failed and simply gave himself to the approaching sensation of the hard floor hitting his back. But rather than the hard, polished surface of the training room, he sunk into what felt like sand. Immediately his eyes flung open, his pain dulled against his confusion. The ceiling of the room was gone and instead, an open sky spread out before him. But it was red and, with a slight tilt of his head, he could see two suns. Had he pushed himself so hard that he passed out? This would be unlike any dream he’d ever experienced; surreal and far more creative than he would ever claim to be.
He turned his head and found the sight of rolling, sandy dunes cast out to the horizon. His gaze kept turning and, just as he felt, he was half-buried in a dune, with golden grains pouring over his torso. Slowly he pushed himself up, the ache in his gut both reducing his quickness but also muted against the overwhelming astonishment. There was sand everywhere; rolling hills of it as far as the eye could see in almost all directions. To the east or so Vandrad assumed was east given the sun’s locations, he could see the abnormal bumps of structures. Using his arms to help himself get to his feet, the prince looked once more into the sky and then back towards the settlement. With no other choice beyond standing there in shock, he slowly trudged his way towards civilization.
If this was a dream, he wasn’t sure what to make of it. The desolate sand hills reminded him of Desierto but that was the only thing that felt any kind of familiar. Now on edge, he continued his way towards the settlement, the buildings coming into better view as he got closer. They were constructed of sandstone and clay, built to match the backdrop of the desert with the soft tan and bleached white hues. From the looks of it, it was a large village and even as he approached, he could make out several people bustling about. Vandrad expected to see faces he knew; images of people in his life plastered onto stranger’s bodies as his unconscious mind’s way of trying to tell him something. The people were strange to him; they wore long robes and covered hoods to protect themselves from the sun. As he entered the city’s limits, he inspected the people walking by, their eyes plastered on him as well in curiosity. It wasn’t until he turned that he heard someone gasp and as he turned around, he saw a woman with her children staring wide-eyed at him in horror before running away, dragging her kids along.
An elderly man was sitting on the stairs nearby, smoking out of a long, elaborate pipe. The wood was carved into intricate circles and spirals around one another, looking more like a fantastical instrument than a smoker. But as he inhaled and expelled a dark cloud of smoke, it was clear that it was the latter. Vandrad walked over to him, his presence lost on the old man. "Where am I?” he asked.
“Nowhere,” the man replied.
"I am not nowhere. What is this place?”
“It’s Nowhere, sonny. You get kicked in the head or somethin’? This ain’t somewhere, therefore, it’s Nowhere.” The elderly man spat out, scoffing and shaking his head at Vandrad’s ignorance.
The prince grimaced as he considered the man’s words. "Riddles. I’m not fond of riddles. Even my unconscious mind should know that.”
“I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout your mind but I can tell you that yer in the wrong place. Ain’t no noble comin’ around these parts, especially dressed like that,” said the elderly man, who finally looked Vandrad up and down and scoffed again.
This was getting him nowhere. Giving the man another considering look, the prince shook his head and turned away, deciding to inquire with someone more reliable. But the minute his back was turned to the old man, he heard another sharp gasp and, as he whirled back, he saw the color flush from the man’s face. “du Wolff,” he sputtered.
Vandrad’s brow tightened. The tattoo on his back; the symbol of the du Wolff family. They were reacting to his family’s crest. He raised his chin a little. "That’s right. I’m a du Wolff. Why is this such a surprise?”
“No, no, that ain’t right. Ain’t no more du Wolffs, they’s all dead. Don’t be tellin’ fibs like that, less you want your head taken off. Ya best cover that mark up.” The old man was suddenly too rigid, too withdrawn. He was shifting in his seat, almost like he was trying to melt into the stairs to get away from Vandrad.
What did he mean by his words? What was the lesson here? "I am not ashamed of my family’s crest. I am Vandrad du Wolff and my family is not dead. You better explain yourself this instant, clown.” Now the prince’s patience was razor thin and, despite his injury and lack of magical power, he wouldn’t let anyone drag his family’s name through the mud or cast fantastical fiction about.
The elderly man seemed to pick up on Vandrad’s aggression for a moment but his eyes seemed to trail off to the side past the prince. “Your funeral,” was the quick response before he turned and clamored up the stairs.
Vandrad moved to follow him but the all-too-familiar sound of armor clanking drew his attention behind him. The woman that had run away earlier had returned and, with her, three soldiers armed in unfamiliar armor. She pointed right at the prince. “He has the du Wolff mark. He’s one of them!”
The soldiers nodded to one another and spread out. From their hips they removed whips, unraveling the long leather rinds slowly. Rings embedded in the leather sparked to life, crackling with electric energy as the entirety of the whip’s body was covered in static. Vandrad’s eyes narrowed as he glanced between the three soldiers, now moving into position to surround him. Once more he looked deep, seeking out his magic so he could bury the pests before they had a chance to act. The prince thrust his hand out towards the closest one, willing a blast of his power to erupt and take out the man. But nothing came. Instead, the guard’s whip snapped in and wrapped around the extended limb from wrist to shoulder. Immediately the stunning energy ripped into his arm, immobilizing it and sending jolts of electricity through Vandrad’s body. He gritted his teeth and attempted to pull at the whip holding him but then another cracked out and wrapped around his neck and stomach. The volts of electricity to the two vital areas rendered him incapable of fighting back and soon his vision began to darken, even as his body went limp.
His last conscious thought was that he wasn’t in a dream. He had fallen into a nightmare.
| 2566 WORDS |
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