When the power of crimson reigns free ten times,
Only one can survive and take over the mind.”
Orrick picked up a piece of stone from the pile that had once been Zanos, his true father, he realized. Garren flung that thought away; he couldn’t let his mind go there until he saved Oriana.
“I myself have never been subject to one of my father’s curses, but I have enjoyed playing a hand in causing him to inflict them upon others. Each time, there has been a specificity to his words.” He threw the piece of stone up and caught it again, continuing the movement for a long while as he paced the circular room, deep in thought.
Garren thought Orrick almost looked human–sane–as he paced. Yet there was something about the way he had worded that statement, ‘playing a hand in causing him to inflict them upon others’ that made Garren’s skin crawl. How many curses had Orrick instigated his father into performing?
Garren stared down at the pile of rubble between them. Orrick was mischievous and ruthless, and he seemed to hate the Gods just as much as Oriana, but in a different way. A more destructive way. He was surprised no one had heard the crumbling statue of Zanos shattering upon the atrium’s floor.
Zanos, god of life and death, Garren thought. He couldn’t fully grasp what that meant, or how he could possibly be the offspring of not only the king of the Gods, but a Zydell as well. And somehow it made perfect sense. He felt as if the mystery that was his life had finally been solved. He finally had an answer for why he was stronger, faster, and could heal so quickly. And everything else strange that had happened in his life. It all made sense now. He was immortal.
He was a god.
Garren’s thoughts wandered back to what he had done to Orrick’s arm just moments before. If he was capable of something like that, what else could he do? He shivered at the thought.
He thought back to each of the demons, the creatures from other worlds he had conquered over the years. Their remembrances sparked something else in his memory. If he was a god, or possibly even more powerful than one, how had that creature he fought before entering the Phantom Wood wounded him so severely? What had Orrick called that creature again?
“What is a Martok?” Garren asked.
Orrick stopped, catching and holding tightly onto the rock he had been tossing before turning to Garren. “Ah, yes. My Martok. Ruthless creatures from your home world.”
“Wouldn’t that also be your home world?”
“Not Vanriel. That creature came from Velhaven, the Zydell world.”
“But how did you get it here if you are not permitted in their world?” Garren questioned. Was the fact that the creature had come from the world of the Zydells why it had affected him so badly? He had thought Oriana’s forest had slowed his healing, but maybe it was the Martok’s doing all along. A creature from his own world. With every answered question, ten more piled up in its place.
“I’ve never been one for following rules, just like your dear old dad, I suppose.” Orrick winked at Garren before throwing the rock at Zanos’s decapitated stone head, hitting it square between the eyes. “Enough,” he said, stalking closer to Garren. “Are you sure those were the exact words of Oriana’s curse?”
“Yes, those are the exact words she told me.”
Orrick placed his thumb and forefinger on his chin, rubbing his jawline. “Hmm, I find the specific phrasing of ‘the weakness of man your only satiation’ to be particularly odd. All the other phrases just seem like the usual grumpy old Anthes pouting about the fact that Oriana won’t embrace her gift of bloodlust. He wishes only for her to be back at his side, which is woven through each line of the curse.” Orrick’s eyes flashed purple, and his features changed into an emotion that Garren could not discern. The corners of his mouth pulled down slightly before he added, “He has always been fonder of her.”
A hint of sorrow laced Orrick’s words and caught Garren off guard. It was bizarre to see such a raw and human emotion on his face. Garren had assumed that Orrick had no feelings outside of malicious intent, anger, and delight in seeing others suffer.
“What is so odd about that piece of the curse?” Garren asked, feeling uneasy at the thought of Orrick having real feelings.
“It is too specific in its wording. He knows Oriana’s bloodlust and what it can do. She has unleashed it many times for him in battle, nearly single-handedly annihilating entire worlds. So why not just leave it at the first verse. ‘In the cover of night’s celestial glow, a lust for blood left hidden will grow?’ That already implies that her bloodlust will be unleashed upon the world. Why would he specify it, adding it into the curse a second time? There must be a reason for it.”
Garren furrowed his brows. He wasn’t sure he completely understood Orrick’s thought process, but he began to analyze the words. Anthes hated the weakness of this world and many others. It was worlds like these that he wished to destroy.
“Well, it doesn’t matter anymore. Her time is up. You’re better off just forgetting about her,” Orrick said, looking up toward the atrium’s roof.
Garren followed his gaze to the hole in the domed ceiling. The sky was darkening; they didn’t have long.
“What if we could somehow convince Anthes to break the curse?”
“Again with this tricking of the trickster god. It can’t be done.” Orrick pushed himself up from where he had been lounging on the mountain of stones.
“It’s possible, between the three of us. I know it is,” Garren pleaded. He was growing more anxious and desperate with each passing second. He would not lose Oriana.
“Three?” Orrick questioned, looking bored once again. Back to his old self.
“You, me, and Oriana.”
“Two godly children and a halfling who can barely use his powers?” Orrick laughed a wholesome snorting sound that seemed genuine for once, although still slightly mocking. Not that Garren would expect anything less from him. “Gods, they will write sonnets about us. It’s poppycock.”
