by Zach Kaiser on Mon Oct 05, 2009 9:18 pm
It was the end. He knew that; he'd seen it coming, felt it in the way the plague wracked his body, even as he tried to shunt away and ignore the pain of his infected system. Perhaps if he'd been able to continue uninterrupted he could have a little time left, but it was not to be; without warning and against all logic, Gaia appeared in front of him and began to tear into him, and his body was no longer healing, the disease wasting away even the effects of the Glyph of Regeneration that had allowed him to stay in the fight this long.
Infected tissue and bloated muscle were exposed and went flying, areas where he was injured replaced with boils rather than healing. But above all that was the blood; his vision was so red by this point that it could have been milk flying through the air and he wouldn't have known the difference. He wondered if Gaia was intentionally missing his vitals, to prolong his death via the excruciating disease that he'd infected him with. If so, it would be a futile gesture; Eilert Draugr would indeed die, but not of the plague.
Run through, he grabbed Gaia's arm, preventing him from withdrawing--but not, as was his mode of operation before, to plant a glyph on him. In fact, it was not so much force as a tangle that kept him like that, for he certainly could not stand up to his opponent's strength now. He leaned heavily on the supposed god, but did not let go. He looked up at him, his face beginning to bleed from eyes, nose and ears--and he smiled.
It had only taken him a few seconds to figure out what Silver had been doing; the Director could very well have been a genius, advancing so far in such a short time with glyphs, even going so far as to try and create his own--a ludicrously complex one, at that. But he couldn't complete it, he was sure; there would have been no reason to keep the Orange Enigma around if Silver could finish it himself. It had been dizzying to see; most glyphs were words or phrases composed of syllables or small worlds, with the most complex ones he knew being about a sentence. But that one...that one had been like looking at a book. More specifically, a partially unfinished book--like looking at all the sheaves of a one-thousand or more word masterpiece all at once. The human mind was simply not meant to take in that much at once, but in the back of his mind he'd slowly been going through it, working out the several words that were missing, misplaced, or downright wrong. The part of him that was still a researcher and scholar felt like a copy-editor who was sent a work that was destined to become a hallmark of fiction, if only he could comb through it and gloss over the minute errors.
And he could see how Silver did it--he approached glyphs like a mathematician, putting together values that would add up to the effect he desired. Eilert wasn't, to be sure, a better mathematician; he could not see what it was supposed to add up to, but what Silver was missing wasn't simply an error but a blind spot. Glyphs were not just tools to those that had created them; their magic was not just a formula, but a language, even an art form. And where Silver saw only an equation, a means to an end, Eilert had seen picture, a painting, a sculpture the likes of which wars could have been fought over if finished.
So while he could not grasp the whole thing in his head, he could see the pattern, the flow; he knew not what Silver was aiming for with it, but he had a guess, in the same way a person could guess at the meaning of a word by knowing its individual parts.
Blood was everywhere, but it was not blood spilled without purpose; it had already begun to take a vague pattern. Gaia could not notice it, anymore than a farmer could tell what a crop circle looked like while in the midst of the crop, only that something had flattened it here and there.
But that blood 'here and there' began to move; it was Sturm that had reminded him. Glyphs took many forms; some were carved, others drawn--Eilert himself composed his of pure mana imprinted on something. But the most ancient and potent method of creating glyphs was writing them in blood. It was not something he'd ever taught a class, nor had he ever tried it himself (he could not afford to lose any of his own blood, sick as he'd been, and would not use anyone else's), but the Glyph of Will as used by Sturm had proved it was possible, and much more effective.
If all living things had mana in them, it was theorized that blood contained the highest concentration of it out of any aspect of the body. Ordinarily it took Eilert a lot of practice to control his mana enough to imprint even simple glyphs with his hands, but in this arena his control seemed to increase many times, so that he could will even the most difficult patterns to form with little effort.
Therefore it wasn't much of a stretch to theorize that he could control his own, mana rich blood if he tried hard enough. And try he did, and sure enough the blood that had sprayed and in some places even pooled on the ground began to run. Like crimson serpents they cut across the ground, following tracks that existed only in Eilert's mind, tracks that when he focused on them caused his eyes to glaze over.
He'd already laid the groundwork; only the fine details had remained, and those were completed in mere seconds. It took the rest of his willpower to move his own blood like that, just as the last of his strength was spent holding onto Gaia as though here would be his savior, not his killer.
And then the ground lit up as the blood began to glow; what was once an arena of red was now a vibrant orange. It was now too late for the both of them. In the end, that was Gaia's mistake: he failed to account for the fact that Eilert would be willing to sacrifice his life to stop him.
The smile on his lips broadened. It was a difficult world; but he was convinced it was the right one, one that Tyrian and Icsorue could find happiness in, happiness all the more greater for having overcome adversity...for having earned it. A world, unlike the other that he'd seen and experienced, that a person could change, for better or worse. One where a person could decide their own fate, if only they thought to...
Eilert went completely limp, slumping, using the last of his will to activate the glyph which covered the entire arena. He did not know if Silver named it, but a name came to him, as surely as the name of an important piece of fiction could be picked out from an important scene without ever looking at the title.
The Glyph of Annihilation.