Salvation

by voroshilov

The Chance

Faith. Have faith.

Emperor Nicholas asked for faith. His plans hinged around faith. His soldiers were faithful to him above anything, and that allowed him to march them into heaven and kill a god.

Twilight Sparkle had given him faith. The child had been willing. She had been willing to do anything because in Emperor Nicholas she had placed her faith and that faith had transformed her.

I have faith now, not in the Emperor, but in myself. Faith can move mountains and kill gods but faith can also be shaken, can also be tested. Perhaps, then, it is in the nature of faith not to succeed but to fail?

Let faith be my end. Let me die wrapped in faith. If there is an afterlife - or any state beyond the state of death - then let me go there with bright eyes. When my ash settles, let my ash burn brightly with faith. Not faith in a god, or gods, or in one distant man, but faith in myself. Myself and my friends - that is a faith worthy of me.

Faith is a great armour and I shall clad myself in it. Clad myself in faith and guard with it myself and my friends - and their friends and those who they have not known. Clad myself in faith.

Behold, a light in the dark. A light made of faith - old faith and new faith. Like a lighthouse on a dark sea. It’s warm, yet cold. I see, old faith is warm, new faith is cold - neither unpleasant. My light grows. It is bright, like the sun on a clear summer morning. My old sun.

Stand up.

Astrid was ablaze.

Her skin had become a vibrant purple, covered in wispy blue flames. Platinum hair opened out into the wind, haloing her and her piercing eyes. Her sword, a dreamblade, cut apart reality with an echoing roar. From her back shot tendrils of golden light, ripping apart the writhing black shapes that surrounded her. All in all, she shone.

Like the sun.

“Penumbra,” Ablazed Glory yelled, voice hoarse with battle, “are you alright?”

I nod. My head feels light. The world churns beneath me. Focus, Penumbra, focus.

Those writhing black shapes, what the hell are they? Focus on the dizziness, clear it from your head - come on Penumbra you’ve done this a thousand times.

Shapes, shapes, shapes, see the shapes - make the shapes into something you recognise. Bodies, the shapes are bodies. Writhing black bodies - not writhing, moving, some writhing in Astrid’s grip but intentionally writhing, trying to escape; cultists, they’re cultists. And she’s killing them by the dozen.

“Penumbra.” Ablazed Glory had stopped yelling, coming down to a crouch by my side. “Can you walk?”

Why was I the wrong way up? “I think so,” I mumble, “what the hell happened?”

“Your transport got hit,” Ablazed Glory said, as she tilted me carefully around. “Can you remember any of that?”

Remember now, Penumbra, what do we remember? Memory. Goodness, where has all the time gone.

“Astrid, she’s been knocked about bad.”

So far away.

As Penumbra sank down, the force of her impact with the ground after being thrown from a burning wreck taking its toll on her, a golden tendril from Astrid’s back cracked like a whip, cutting a dozen cultists in half.

“Keep her upright,” Astrid yelled to the flaming alicorn cradling Penumbra’s stricken form, “I’ll be there in a moment.”

The cultists were an endless swarm. They came in small numbers, like small waves on a coast, but without finish they came. For Astrid it was less a matter of how many she could kill and more a matter of how much time could she use to restore Penumbra before they were simply swamped. A moment of calculation gave her one minute and three seconds - not much, but hopefully enough.

As her dreamblade decapitated a pair of cultists, Astrid turned to Penumbra and leapt to her side. Ablazed Glory rose to provide covering fire in the meantime.

“No time for sleep,” she murmured to the limp alicorn, “fire cannot sleep.”

And thus, slowly, Penumbra rose.

“Where’s Vice-Admiral Trench?” The officer manning the rudimentary guard post yelled as the three leapt into its safe and waiting confines.

Penumbra shook her head. “Our transport was hit,” she had to shout to be heard - such was the cacophony of battle and the dull roar of the Cultist headquarters’ innards - “he didn’t make it.”

The officer swore under their breath, then nodded grimly and shrugged. “Guess I’m in charge then,” they murmured.

“What’s the sit-rep?” Ablazed Glory questioned, checking the hastily erected tactical map, “we go to keep pushing?”

The officer gave a groan, expressing an emotion Penumbra could empathise with fully but not quite describe. “We’re bogged down here,” they said, pointing out the general line on the map, “there’s no cover over the ridgeline, once we’re in the ruins we’re not leaving again, essentially. Plus, there’s these two big things - flying about and keeping us suppressed from range. We can’t push until we’re sure they’re not just gonna dust us.”

Penumbra thoroughly considered copying the officer’s groan.

Ablazed Glory looked between her compatriots in the dug-out, her eyes squinting and jaw clenched. “We need to attack now,” she said, at last, “we kill their leader, we kill the cult. If there’s even a chance he’s still there, we have to take it.”

Astrid nodded. “I agree. From what I can tell, he is still here, in the ruins. But, between us and him there are many hostiles. Two Heralds, from what I can tell - though more may come. However, we appear to have caught them off guard.”

“If this is what they’re like off guard, I don’t wanna think what they’re like on it.”

Astrid nodded again. “Hopefully it does not come to that, Ablazed Glory. Penumbra, let us lead an assault.”

Penumbra nodded, before a sudden thought became stuck in her mind. She looked about theatrically, despite knowing nothing was there, before freezing stock still and thinking for a few seconds, an agonisingly long wait for the others.

“Where are Cain and the Glow Sisters?” She said at last.

Ablazed Glory’s face went from a grim, soldierly determination to immediate wide-eyed concern. “Oh shit.”

Astrid, however, chuckled musically. “They are in a dug-out further back,” she said, “with several soldiers. They are more than safe.”

Her fears dispelled in an instant, Penumbra was ready. “Well then, let’s not wait.”

The ruined complex that the cult had taken for a headquarters was as enigmatic as it was ancient. The only thing Penumbra could really tell for certain - as she charged and cut through the Cultist lines at high speed - was that the complex was very, very old. Any further information was lost in the heat of battle, or in the general march of time. In its centre, ringed by the most intact - though still nonetheless shattered - wall, was a courtyard, where a familiar looking robed figure stood, alone and still.

If Penumbra had any doubts before of the cult leader’s location, they were dispelled the instant the robed man became visible to her.

There he is, she thought, time to finish this.

But, of course, nothing was ever that simple. Guarding the way to the cult leader were the two Heralds the Dominion officer had mentioned. They hefted their scythes with no flourish - none of the almost mindless grandiosity that had made their predecessors such easy targets. Even without their knowledge of her fighting tactics - which Astrid had theorised was a result of a hive-mind like system - these two felt different to the ordinary Heralds: greater foes, somehow. Sure enough, her magical sight told her the two Heralds who blocked the way were more than the sum of their fellows.

Alright, Penumbra, she thought, take it slow - be patient - don’t attack when you’re not certain. Kill these two properly then we move onto the main target.

She had advanced well ahead of the main group - with even Astrid a good few minutes behind her. She cursed her speed and thought for a moment about hanging back, waiting for backup. But, as she kept repeating in her head: this is the one chance, every second counts.

The two Heralds separated, moving to flank her. She knew their plan already: attack from both sides simultaneously, bank on her shield not being able to hold, then go for the kill.

Internally, she steeled herself. Externally, she lit her shield.

Don’t allow them to attack first, she thought, go for the one on the left, strike low and then bring it up. Stagger them then turn to block the other.

Using her shield like a pivot, she swung anti-clockwise, sword extended in a long, arcing swing. Her target was the Herald’s hip area - or where its hips would have been had it had legs. To her immediate concern, the Herald strafed, then planted its scythe into the ground like a peg - Penumbra’s sword coming to a thudding halt upon it.

Her body, meanwhile, continued travelling. She went far enough to pass the Herald that had been her target and come face to face with its fellow, scythe already arcing for the attack. With speed only just possible even to her, she brought her shield from the ground and around to deflect the blow, the magical object cracking in the process.

Not a soft hit, she thought, damnit Penumbra that was silly!

Using her own momentum and the force imparted to her by the attack, she flung herself around, momentarily out of range of the two Heralds and with them both firmly visible to her.

Time for another tactic. Nothing risky, Penumbra, keep it simple and keep it tight. Long attacks aren’t working, so let’s try short and quick - nothing to leave us open but still enough to get some hits in.

Her sword was closest to the Herald on the right, so she launched her assault against the left. She reasoned that she would catch them momentarily off guard, allowing her to push an assault on her own terms. Her reasoning, as evidenced by the Herald frantically blocking and falling back, was correct.

Though they were strong and knew much of her fighting style, the Heralds were still little more than automata: powerful but mostly mindless golems. When she attacked, they countered - blocking or parrying - it was all ultimately an algorithm, and all she needed to do was figure that algorithm out and they would be defenceless.

Block, block, parry, block, parry, block, block.

That was the pattern, she surmised. On the final block of the pattern she would launch a guard-break, staggering her opponent, then strike its chest, before pushing forwards with her shield and getting within its guard.

Block, block, parry, block, parry. One more block then attack, let’s make this a one-on-one.

From behind, the second Herald attacked. Penumbra, in a mathematical battle trance, made no attempt to defend herself. In a single swipe, she was tossed aside like a cricket ball.

“Shit,” she mumbled, with all the air left in her lungs for the moment.

Careful Penumbra, damnit, careful.

Fortunately, most of her injuries weren’t too bad. Her right lung had collapsed, a rib being driven through it - otherwise her wounds were superficial. The most serious damage was to her pride.

Although, the two approaching Heralds made her think that the damage would increase exponentially very soon. How long could she defend herself as she was? Preferably without being injured further, there was still the Cult’s leader yet.

But any defence would remain a hypothetical.

With a flash of golden light, Astrid struck the ground in front of her. With an explosive forward wave of energy, the two Heralds were blown back - like paper bags in a hurricane.

Dreamblade in hand and boundless power partially unshackled, Astrid shot forwards. She was not a fighter, no, more a dancer. She weaved around and through strikes without blocking them, attacked in fluid arcs, twisting her body at all sorts of unnatural angles to chain her movements together and conserve momentum.

Penumbra couldn’t help but simply stare.

In barely a minute, the two Heralds were dead, reduced to two tattered cloaks, in crumpled heaps on the ground. Astrid flowed into a turn, flicking her hair back and striking a pose - no doubt she revelled in the perfection of her combat ability; that and Penumbra’s adoration of it.

“Are you alright?” Astrid asked, from right above Penumbra - who snapped out of her trance immediately.

“Wha...Ah, yeah, uh, let me just…”

Astrid placed her shimmering blue hands on Penumbra’s chest and shoulder. “Relax a moment, please, you’ll only make your injuries worse.”

Penumbra tried to protest - though what came out was little more than a series of ums and ahs - before simply nodding glumly and lying back.

“You fought well,” Astrid’s voice - for her mouth did not move - said softly, “I am very proud of you.”

Penumbra felt immediately rejuvenated. What would she do without Astrid’s healing magic?

“I have not started yet,” Astrid said, causing Penumbra to stutter something even she didn’t know the meaning behind and lie back down again. The Archon chuckled and smiled. She murmured something like “I didn’t know you were that easy to please,” though Penumbra ignored it - more than likely, it was just a hallucination of some kind. Magic had a habit of messing with people - especially in such a place and time as this, who could possibly know the effects the mere location was having on her magical reserves..

It was the feeling of a rib moving from her lung that confirmed the magical action. Beyond feeling rejuvenated, Penumbra actually felt physically healed - with, surprisingly, no pain whatsoever.

“The leader lies beyond,” Astrid said, pointing to the ruin ahead, “he is alone. Though, I cannot continue with you, I must assist Ablazed Glory and the others. And besides, I shall not go against prophecy.”

Penumbra chuckled as she rose carefully to her feet. “More glory for me then.”

Astrid allowed herself a wry smile. “Be safe, Penumbra.”

The distant cacophony of gunfire was all the soundtrack for Penumbra’s entrance to the final courtyard. Before her, kneeling atop a wide and slightly raised dais with scythe by his side, was the cult’s leader - the head of the snake. From her vantage point she gazed over the entire circular area, only taking another step once she was certain there was no one lying in ambush.

The cult leader had been expecting her, that much was clear by the fact he was waiting. But, had he seen what she had seen? Had he too experienced the vision of their duel? Was this, to him, nothing more than prophecy? She put the thought out of her mind immediately - her only focus would be on their battle. Her only focus was his demise.

“So,” the Leader spoke - his voice was rough, but did not appear to hold any malice - “you have come.”

Penumbra ignited the crackling blue blade of her plasma sword in reply.

The Leader chuckled. “Prophecy is an interesting thing,” he said. He planted his boney, grey-skinned left hand upon the handle of his scythe and rose to his feet. With a motion that made Penumbra start momentarily, he flicked it around and into a fighting stance, all in the space of around a quarter of a second. “The future is never set in stone.”

“Yeah, well, tell that to the prophets.”

Again, the Leader chuckled - were he not the leader of a murderous cult, Penumbra reckoned he would be quite fun to talk to. “If they could be brought to listen.”

“Everyone listens to the right person.”

He nodded. “That is very true, but sometimes the right person is unavailable.”

Penumbra gave a half-smile. “You can become the right person with enough persuasion.”

“But does that power of persuasion not make you the right person to begin with?”

“Perhaps, but anyone can persuade someone willing to listen.”

The Leader breathed out. “And neither of us are.”

“I know I’m definitely not.”

Beneath the shadow of his cloak, Penumbra could have sworn she saw a smile. “I would have it no other way. Come then, Sunless-Halo-of-Penumbra, let us decide their prophecies for them.”

The final courtesy of a dueller given, the two slammed together.

Hours passed by in what felt like minutes; it was an endless series of attacks, blocks, manoeuvres, and parries. Penumbra gave her all, as her all was needed. The Leader, despite appearing frail - in what little of him could truly be seen beneath the heavy shadow of his black cloak - was viciously fast and immensely strong. More than a dozen times, his scythe had struck her shield and shattered it in one - forcing her to reforge it.

Magic had impregnated the very air, flowing from both of their bodies in its many forms - expended at such a rate that would have, under any other circumstance, made Penumbra cease using magic for weeks afterwards. Yet still, she soldiered on - this was it, she thought, this was the end.

Hours passed by. Both the Leader and Penumbra began to slow - though slow was very much a relative term for the two. As they reached the twenty-second hour, Penumbra’s magical debt began to cloud her vision. Only the Leader’s loss of speed and strength kept her from simply being cut apart.

Surely, she thought, this must be over soon.

By the twenty-fifth hour, she could no longer feel her legs. Her sword, kept aloft by a field of magic so thin as to almost be invisible, swung by virtue of her instinct alone. Had she had room to think - or the energy to spare for it - she would have thanked her luck that the Leader was also having trouble. Two evenly matched opponents were locked in what was little more than a battle of attrition - who could outlast their opponent. Or, who could get the first hit in - as both had remained untouched throughout.

Summoning all of her remaining energy, Penumbra changed tactics. Instead of the usual arcing swings, she swung her sword into a thrust, striking forwards and upwards at the Leader’s chest. Her attack connected, creating a thunderous boom and throwing the Leader backwards a good fifty metres. Blood covered his cloak and his body, sprawled beneath it, did not move to rise up.

Penumbra’s sword fell from her magical grip and her knees buckled as she struggled to stay upright. Unable to summon enough power to even perform basic telekinesis, she lifted the sword with a claw.

Was it done? Was he beaten? Had she won?