Tzinleithel, Aendrithyr System, Serin Molecular Cloud of Delta Quadrant
Finally, the macabre king was about to die for his crimes.
Aerthon knelt quietly by the risers that led to the criminal Thorduin's broken seat of power, keeping his Shattercoil firmly pressed against the captain of the host. It struck him, taking in the vibrancy of the scene and the grandiose machinations of a vile and twisted mind, how frail Shyr Anthor looked here at the last, whimpering as a lowly coward for the right to continue living. The look on his son's face was absolute madness; he had been consumed by the hatred of the one who had given him life for robbing that which meant everything to him. Aerthon and his kin had many grievances to extract revenge over from the Thorduin, but nothing could compare to the all-encompassing, passionate loathing which bled forth from Torys's eyes. It was almost barbaric, how violent Shyr's son looked in the heat of the moment.
Everything was accentuated by the thrill of watching their long, bitter struggle finally bear the glorious fruit, the spoils of a harvest of victory. The burning orange skies were tinted by marmalade-tinged skylights, casting an effervescent glow over the royal chamber. The crispness of the air, the felted touch of the ceremonial throw rug... everything felt so vibrant in the presence of unmitigated, unquestionable justice. The two cohorts of the Thorduin from the Sciarviat Syndicate were watching in the background, their countenance rife with apathy. From the looks on their faces, there was an almost-gleeful facade to their subdued posture, like they were somehow enjoying watching the man they had sought to conspire with being brought before his maker. How cruel they were, in at the last of the tyrannical Shyr Anthor.
Your family, your friends, even your business associates pass judgment on you now, Thorduin.
The members of the Syndicate were dressed in their fanciful threads, casting down aspersions of callous indifference from the lofty perch of their smug arrogance. Aerthon very much looked forward to the prospect of interrogating them for information on the whereabouts of their overseers, but the task of dismantling the Syndicate would have to be undertaken at a different time. For now, all eyes in the royal chamber were devoted to the familial drama spilling out before all. The whimpering Thorduin's head was lowered, his back rigidly bowed. Prayers to an unyielding sky were unfruitful to the accomplishment of his aims, and the simple act of the Ethereal Host failing him in his hour of judgment was enough to put a smile of glee on Aerthon's face. The futile struggle of the guard to free himself was a bonus added on after the fact.
Torys could take no more pacing around the pathetic shell that his father had devolved into, taking the butt of his phased optic diffraction pistol and slamming it as hard as he could into the face of his father. The younger Anthor let out a scream of rage, seething as he repeatedly struck his father in the face. The fallen Thorduin writhed on the floor, recoiling from each blow as his epidermis began to secrete lymph fluids erratically. The sight of his father's grievous wounds sparked a new level of ferocity in the young heir, sending him to the floor to pound away at his father's face even more viciously. The screaming that had signified the sound and the fury of his wrath had abated into a guttural, primal moan of disdain and disgust that bordered on anguish. When Torys had taken his fill of meting abuse, he yanked his father's quivering body up off the floor.
"You stupid son of a whore!" He cursed wildly, feigning anger while vainly struggling to hold back his tears. "Do you know what you've taken for me? Do you? Do you! I lost my entire reason for being when you ordered that strike! Why? Why did they have to die?"
"Torys, I swear upon the seal of my father and his father before him, I didn't know—"
"Shut up!" The son screamed, unable to contain his emotions any longer. The wall was coming down, brick by brick, exposing the grief that had been channeled for so long through his quest for vengeance. "Their blood is on your hands, you miserable wretch! I'm merely repaying the favor."
"Please, child, I—"
"Shut up!"
Aerthon couldn't help but grimace as Torys brought the pistol down across the side of Shyr's upturned skull, cracking it with a sickening thud. Torys took his hand to the wound, drenching it with the fluids that seeped out before wiping it across his face, muttering bitterly: "My own flesh, the closest of my kin, taking the only thing that I ever truly wanted for. Do you know what it's like to have the voices of your house, the sweetness of your future snuffed out? Do you know how painful it is to have the company of their voices crying for vengeance night and day in your head?"
Shyr partially rolled on his back under the knee of his son, sputtering up fleshy bits from deep within himself. "My child, I never desired to hurt you or the things most precious to you. If I could do it over again, I would, I swear by it! I—"
"Shyr, you have committed crimes which cannot be forgiven!" Aerthon hollered out, intent on keeping the young Anthor's resolve under the assault of an old man's pitiful pleas. "You robbed our world of its people, of its freedom! You enslaved the very best of us! That? That is no Thorduin! That is no King of mine! Blood must be repaid in blood!"
The lowly king's eyes were haunted, wide and rolling as his head bobbed back and forth between Aerthon and Torys. The young heir seemed to take his charge to heart; moments later, he grabbed the frail Thorduin up off the ground with one hand, lifting him from his prone position up clean off the floor. Shyr's feet dangled limply as his weakened hands struggled with the last ounce of his strength to free himself of his son's grasp. The tears of agony were flowing from Torys's face now; bitter reminders of all that he had been forced to endure in the name of salvaging Tzinleithel and the Tzinlei people. His hand shook as the wracking tides of vengeance began to ebb and flow through him, and his apologetic countenance fled in deference to the unreasonable, unstoppable wave of fury that was about to take its charge upon the mortal soul of the Thorduin.
Now you face the judgment of a righteous man for the sins of your crimes against the people under your trust.
Torys's fingers clenched the pistol ever tighter, raising it up to the chin of his father. His words bled forth with equal parts regret and vindictiveness—the words of a man trapped in a living Hell of misery. "You took that which was precious and beautiful, and you robbed me of it! You knew the innocence of our people, and you raped them for it! You saw the grandness of the Heavens, and you tainted the stars with our broken hearts. Even the ground of our home has been poisoned with the treachery of your hand!"
"Please don't do this, my child! Please!"
With great indignation, Torys pushed his own father out of his hands, sending him crashing backwards to the floor in a crumpled heap. He brought his foot up to kick at his frailty, but instead bit through his lip hard enough to tear it in his madness. Aerthon could finally see that Torys was gone; his mind was broken, and the tempestuousness of his soul's frenzied furor had taken over. "I do unto you what you have done unto your people, Shyr Anthor. By my right as an aggrieved subject, I shall force you to repay your debt to me! And you will thank me for it, you worthless husk of a Tzinlei!"
"C-child," Shyr stuttered, his body beginning to fail. "I cannot—"
"You will thank me for destroying you now before you can hurt anyone else!" Torys managed to bleat out before rabidly railing in unintelligible syllables. "Thank me for killing you, father! Thank me now, or be lost in damnation for eternity!"
"Son, I..." Shyr coughed, his eyes wide with panicked terror. "I... Thank you..."
Torys's eyes grew wide with shock, having not expected his father to acquiesce. The pain fled momentarily from the Thorduin's face, and he weakly smiled upward. "Thank you for giving me peace, Torys. Now my voices can be silenced, and I wont have to live with the burden of my works crushing my spirit. Y-you... You are a good son."
The words cut through Torys's hate like a knife, severing the edge of his rampancy. His body began to shake as the tears bellowed from stained eyes, and the wailing from the depth of his fractured soul. He picked up Shyr off the floor while kneeling beside him, wrapping the old man in a pitiful embrace. Shyr was too weak to even fend that gesture off; his arms dangling limply to either side. Torys clenched at him tightly, crying bitter tears of anguish over the storm that had consumed every fiber of his being. Aerthon shook down his own feelings of regret over the scene before him, reminding himself that the Thorduin's crimes could not be excused, even if he had performed them with some misguided notion of righteousness. The man had ended so many lives, and ruined so many more—he was a monster in need of being exterminated, and no one could afford to forget that.
"Why, why, why?" Torys sobbed, allowing his father to slip from his grasp back to the floor. He lost control of his emotions, pounding at the floor in a vain attempt to put the whole of his hand straight through it. "This was not supposed to happen! Why am I here? Why must this be the end?"
Aerthon called out to him, fearful of the young Anthor's purpose. "You cannot delay any longer! He must pay for his crimes, no matter what he says, Torys! This is for all that he harmed, Anthor! They cry to you from beyond the pale; answer their pleas!"
"This was not supposed to happen!" Torys screamed, standing up with the pistol tightly clenched. "Never again, damn you!"
"Do it now!"
Torys raised the weapon without hesitating, then pulled the trigger.
Aerthon knelt quietly by the risers that led to the criminal Thorduin's broken seat of power, keeping his Shattercoil firmly pressed against the captain of the host. It struck him, taking in the vibrancy of the scene and the grandiose machinations of a vile and twisted mind, how frail Shyr Anthor looked here at the last, whimpering as a lowly coward for the right to continue living. The look on his son's face was absolute madness; he had been consumed by the hatred of the one who had given him life for robbing that which meant everything to him. Aerthon and his kin had many grievances to extract revenge over from the Thorduin, but nothing could compare to the all-encompassing, passionate loathing which bled forth from Torys's eyes. It was almost barbaric, how violent Shyr's son looked in the heat of the moment.
Everything was accentuated by the thrill of watching their long, bitter struggle finally bear the glorious fruit, the spoils of a harvest of victory. The burning orange skies were tinted by marmalade-tinged skylights, casting an effervescent glow over the royal chamber. The crispness of the air, the felted touch of the ceremonial throw rug... everything felt so vibrant in the presence of unmitigated, unquestionable justice. The two cohorts of the Thorduin from the Sciarviat Syndicate were watching in the background, their countenance rife with apathy. From the looks on their faces, there was an almost-gleeful facade to their subdued posture, like they were somehow enjoying watching the man they had sought to conspire with being brought before his maker. How cruel they were, in at the last of the tyrannical Shyr Anthor.
Your family, your friends, even your business associates pass judgment on you now, Thorduin.
The members of the Syndicate were dressed in their fanciful threads, casting down aspersions of callous indifference from the lofty perch of their smug arrogance. Aerthon very much looked forward to the prospect of interrogating them for information on the whereabouts of their overseers, but the task of dismantling the Syndicate would have to be undertaken at a different time. For now, all eyes in the royal chamber were devoted to the familial drama spilling out before all. The whimpering Thorduin's head was lowered, his back rigidly bowed. Prayers to an unyielding sky were unfruitful to the accomplishment of his aims, and the simple act of the Ethereal Host failing him in his hour of judgment was enough to put a smile of glee on Aerthon's face. The futile struggle of the guard to free himself was a bonus added on after the fact.
Torys could take no more pacing around the pathetic shell that his father had devolved into, taking the butt of his phased optic diffraction pistol and slamming it as hard as he could into the face of his father. The younger Anthor let out a scream of rage, seething as he repeatedly struck his father in the face. The fallen Thorduin writhed on the floor, recoiling from each blow as his epidermis began to secrete lymph fluids erratically. The sight of his father's grievous wounds sparked a new level of ferocity in the young heir, sending him to the floor to pound away at his father's face even more viciously. The screaming that had signified the sound and the fury of his wrath had abated into a guttural, primal moan of disdain and disgust that bordered on anguish. When Torys had taken his fill of meting abuse, he yanked his father's quivering body up off the floor.
"You stupid son of a whore!" He cursed wildly, feigning anger while vainly struggling to hold back his tears. "Do you know what you've taken for me? Do you? Do you! I lost my entire reason for being when you ordered that strike! Why? Why did they have to die?"
"Torys, I swear upon the seal of my father and his father before him, I didn't know—"
"Shut up!" The son screamed, unable to contain his emotions any longer. The wall was coming down, brick by brick, exposing the grief that had been channeled for so long through his quest for vengeance. "Their blood is on your hands, you miserable wretch! I'm merely repaying the favor."
"Please, child, I—"
"Shut up!"
Aerthon couldn't help but grimace as Torys brought the pistol down across the side of Shyr's upturned skull, cracking it with a sickening thud. Torys took his hand to the wound, drenching it with the fluids that seeped out before wiping it across his face, muttering bitterly: "My own flesh, the closest of my kin, taking the only thing that I ever truly wanted for. Do you know what it's like to have the voices of your house, the sweetness of your future snuffed out? Do you know how painful it is to have the company of their voices crying for vengeance night and day in your head?"
Shyr partially rolled on his back under the knee of his son, sputtering up fleshy bits from deep within himself. "My child, I never desired to hurt you or the things most precious to you. If I could do it over again, I would, I swear by it! I—"
"Shyr, you have committed crimes which cannot be forgiven!" Aerthon hollered out, intent on keeping the young Anthor's resolve under the assault of an old man's pitiful pleas. "You robbed our world of its people, of its freedom! You enslaved the very best of us! That? That is no Thorduin! That is no King of mine! Blood must be repaid in blood!"
The lowly king's eyes were haunted, wide and rolling as his head bobbed back and forth between Aerthon and Torys. The young heir seemed to take his charge to heart; moments later, he grabbed the frail Thorduin up off the ground with one hand, lifting him from his prone position up clean off the floor. Shyr's feet dangled limply as his weakened hands struggled with the last ounce of his strength to free himself of his son's grasp. The tears of agony were flowing from Torys's face now; bitter reminders of all that he had been forced to endure in the name of salvaging Tzinleithel and the Tzinlei people. His hand shook as the wracking tides of vengeance began to ebb and flow through him, and his apologetic countenance fled in deference to the unreasonable, unstoppable wave of fury that was about to take its charge upon the mortal soul of the Thorduin.
Now you face the judgment of a righteous man for the sins of your crimes against the people under your trust.
Torys's fingers clenched the pistol ever tighter, raising it up to the chin of his father. His words bled forth with equal parts regret and vindictiveness—the words of a man trapped in a living Hell of misery. "You took that which was precious and beautiful, and you robbed me of it! You knew the innocence of our people, and you raped them for it! You saw the grandness of the Heavens, and you tainted the stars with our broken hearts. Even the ground of our home has been poisoned with the treachery of your hand!"
"Please don't do this, my child! Please!"
With great indignation, Torys pushed his own father out of his hands, sending him crashing backwards to the floor in a crumpled heap. He brought his foot up to kick at his frailty, but instead bit through his lip hard enough to tear it in his madness. Aerthon could finally see that Torys was gone; his mind was broken, and the tempestuousness of his soul's frenzied furor had taken over. "I do unto you what you have done unto your people, Shyr Anthor. By my right as an aggrieved subject, I shall force you to repay your debt to me! And you will thank me for it, you worthless husk of a Tzinlei!"
"C-child," Shyr stuttered, his body beginning to fail. "I cannot—"
"You will thank me for destroying you now before you can hurt anyone else!" Torys managed to bleat out before rabidly railing in unintelligible syllables. "Thank me for killing you, father! Thank me now, or be lost in damnation for eternity!"
"Son, I..." Shyr coughed, his eyes wide with panicked terror. "I... Thank you..."
Torys's eyes grew wide with shock, having not expected his father to acquiesce. The pain fled momentarily from the Thorduin's face, and he weakly smiled upward. "Thank you for giving me peace, Torys. Now my voices can be silenced, and I wont have to live with the burden of my works crushing my spirit. Y-you... You are a good son."
The words cut through Torys's hate like a knife, severing the edge of his rampancy. His body began to shake as the tears bellowed from stained eyes, and the wailing from the depth of his fractured soul. He picked up Shyr off the floor while kneeling beside him, wrapping the old man in a pitiful embrace. Shyr was too weak to even fend that gesture off; his arms dangling limply to either side. Torys clenched at him tightly, crying bitter tears of anguish over the storm that had consumed every fiber of his being. Aerthon shook down his own feelings of regret over the scene before him, reminding himself that the Thorduin's crimes could not be excused, even if he had performed them with some misguided notion of righteousness. The man had ended so many lives, and ruined so many more—he was a monster in need of being exterminated, and no one could afford to forget that.
"Why, why, why?" Torys sobbed, allowing his father to slip from his grasp back to the floor. He lost control of his emotions, pounding at the floor in a vain attempt to put the whole of his hand straight through it. "This was not supposed to happen! Why am I here? Why must this be the end?"
Aerthon called out to him, fearful of the young Anthor's purpose. "You cannot delay any longer! He must pay for his crimes, no matter what he says, Torys! This is for all that he harmed, Anthor! They cry to you from beyond the pale; answer their pleas!"
"This was not supposed to happen!" Torys screamed, standing up with the pistol tightly clenched. "Never again, damn you!"
"Do it now!"
Torys raised the weapon without hesitating, then pulled the trigger.