Vashir stared at the scene before him with a look of abject horror as he was frozen in place, unable to quite comprehend what he was witnessing. He watched helplessly as the amber-skinned tribesmen marched over to his double and began to pull his crumpled form free of the grasping desert sand that held him in place. “Forget me, get her!” he screamed into the air as the pair of them slung an arm over each of their shoulders and began to drag his limp form out of view. “Gods damn you – GET HER!” But of course they could not hear his anguished cries and he watched powerlessly as they disappeared over one of the golden dunes.
He looked back to where she lay, her violet robes and scarlet hair standing out in stark contrast to the pale sand around her. How could they miss her? And why did they save him and not her? He watched as the helpful desert wind tugged at her curly ringlets and light silks, nudging and prodding her to wake and rise and remove herself from the deadly gaze of the uncaring sun overhead. But she did not stir, nor would she ever.
Vashir leapt forward in an effort to throw himself through the mystical doorway that opened upon this terrible scene, but the portal winked out of existence before he could act and the amber sands dunes were suddenly replaced by walls of cold, black stone. He blinked his eyes against the darkness, the image of Lyra’s still form amidst the sea of golden sand was still burned into his mind, blinding him in the shadows that surrounded him.
Vashir willed his sword to ignite in flame in his hand and he spun around to face the Red King, whose attention elsewhere, somehow wholly unburdened by the torment that he had just unleashed. A mask of madness, fury, and anguish on his face, Vashir swung his magical blade at this creature, a being he hated more than anything else in the world, and he put all of his hatred and rage and suffering behind the blow hoping to wipe him from existence. But before it could connect, the image of the Thir’King vanished into wispy tendrils of gently wafting smoke and unfulfilled vengeance as the fiery blade ripped through empty air.
Vashir looked around in confusion, trying to find someone – anyone - to take his rage out upon. And then he saw Her, the gnarled and tattooed crone known as Mother Dusk, standing off to one side with a pleased expression stamped upon her wrinkled face. She was speaking to them he could tell, but Her words found no purchase in his mind as the full realization of what had just transpired began to take hold of him and shook him to his core.
All of this had simply been part of her trickery, another test to get them to do her bidding, he realized. And from the looks of relief and adoration on the faces of his companions as She bestowed her “favors” upon them, it was clear that this snake witch had gotten her wish and had managed to move more of her pawns into position upon the cosmic chessboard in the great game that the gods play. If there was any doubt or hesitation on any of his companion’s faces it did not show, and they accepted her gifts without hesitation. All of them that is, except for Oni, whose expression was one of horror and despair at the role he had played in Lyra’s death, and in that moment it seemed to Vashir that he could almost see a black shadow descend over his friend, briefly giving him the appearance of one of the death gods of old.
Oni tried to apologize to him but Vashir brushed it off brusquely. His anger was not directed at his friend, but rather at this wrinkled, decrepit godling who stood in front of him. Then she turned to face him and made to bestow upon him one of her benevolences, a deific power to aid them for what lay ahead. It was a divine symbol of her trust and adoration in them she assured him, whispering these lies into the recesses of his mind. But Vashir could only hear the venom behind her sweet words. Her sort did not care about he and his, they only cared about what mortals could do for them. They were but playthings in the hands of these creatures and he hated them all with every fiber of his being.
He briefly toyed with the idea of casting aside her divine favor, spurning this offer of a heavenly gift just to see the look of disbelief in her cloudy eyes. She was the Snake With a Thousand Eyes but even she would not have been able to see that. The Oracle, the serpent queen, the great seer, gifted with the ability to see into the past, present, and future and manipulate it to her will – or so she would have you believe. But for all of her supposed omniscience, she could not see what it was that he wanted most? Or, she saw but simply did not care? Fuck your gifts he spat at her mentally; he would give everything to have Lyra back; to comb her curly locks from her silver eyes; to see her spread her wings and step into the air with the grace of a bird of prey; to again stare upon the heavenly constellation of freckles that adorned her cheeks. He would even settle for not knowing her cruel fate, so part of him might hold on to the glimmer of hope that her light yet shined upon this world.
But that was not what this crone offered of course, for bringing his love back to him would not serve her purposes. Bestowing unto him the gift of ignorance of Lyra’s fate would not work to stoke his anger and drive him towards the ends that she needed. Instead, she offered to steel his body and mind to make him more resilient in the face of battle, for that would make him more suitable for her needs.
His eyes were daggers, tearing into her with rage-filled fury, his hatred as obvious as daylight as he reluctantly acquiesced to receive her boon. If she noticed his seething anger she gave no notice, only closing her eyes and waving her withered claw in front of him for a moment. He immediately a wave of sickly revulsion wash over him as her dark powers ripped their way into him, knitting to his skin and mind and guts and heart; melding with him and becoming one with him. When it was over Vahir could feel her there, nestled and waiting like a viper in every piece of his being, part of him and one with him, and he hated himself for accepting this offering.
But he would use it.
He would wield the power she bestowed upon him and use it to destroy the Thir-King, ending his terrible reign upon this world. And then they would go after Tiamat, for her dominion over this realm had gone on for far too long as well. And, once they had killed a god, they would prove to the world that this impossible task could be done. Then why stop at one? Who were these gods and why did they need them? Tiamat was a monster, but was this withered witch any better? She cloaked her poison behind a veneer of wizened benevolence, but who else but a demon would have done what she had done. She had reunited him with the only person in this ruinous world that he had ever truly cared for, rekindling all of his hopes and dreams for the barest of moments only to rip her from him again in the most venomous fashion. Why did he need to know that she had died slowly and cruelly, scant feet from him, her beauty and whimsy ripped from this world by the heartless sun and claimed by a drowning ocean of golden sand?
He scowled at Mother Dusk as she bestowed her final blessing upon Oni, who accepted it with equal hesitation as he had, or so it seemed to Vashir. But he accepted it nonetheless. Vashir knew why she had showed him the scene of Lyra’s passing, for this god-witch needed them to hate. She needed them to have enough vengeance in their hearts that they would be willing to continue upon this hopeless quest. The problem with hate though is, that if it is stoked and harnessed to such an extent that it can begin to burn wildly out of control, becoming impossible to corral and contain until it burns itself out or eventually runs out of fuel to feed it.
And so Vashir leaned into this hate, allowing it to engulf him completely, immolating him in this purifying rage that burned out any sense of humanity and compassion and decency that still lived within him, until it threatened to leave the fields of his soul fallow and bare. In a sense he relished this raging hatred for he knew that as long as there were more of these petty gods playing their divine games with mortalkind, there would be ample fuel to stoke this furnace of hate that roiled inside him and keep it burning for a long, long time.