Fate looked upon us as we rejoiced, and grinned. Too soon had we celebrated, too soon had I dared hope that all was at last over, that we had triumphed. The Old Hunter lay at our feet, yet only a breath or two passed before he was again rising, gripping his scythe as an old man grasps a cane, yet with none of the frailty, feigned weakness that itself belied the strength it sought to hide. He pretended weariness, defeat, perhaps even resignation, yet his posture suggested only anger. For the first time, an Ashen had not only reached his domain, but struck him down within it.

Muted and dull, a low thud rang forth as he drove the ferrule of his scythe into the earth, rising easily and sweeping it back over his shoulder where it gleamed like a crescent moon peering toward us with a melancholy silver gaze.

Gehrman stalked toward us, the grass withering around him, wilting like servants retreating before their master's fury. He struck without warning, immediately falling into a low stance and sweeping the blade before him, its edge rushing up to greet me. I danced back, my sword lancing forth with the speed of a striking viper, ringing against the silver shores as they closed upon me. Rhythmic, calm, unerringly, he advanced upon me, his blade carving long bands of curved pewter through the air, bellowing in its sibilant voice.

Or'do rushed in at my side, his burning fists parrying the monster's weapon as if his hands were themselves cast of steel, its glinting hem ringing against his flesh, clattering aside as it would upon armour. He waded in, striking with powerful, one handed blows while weaving a black webbing with his free hand, catching the scythe without slightest hint of pain, of discomfort, of concern.

***

Aleorn lying in his comrade's arms, blood drifting like tears of scarlet from his torn neck. "I was too late." Or'do thought. "Once more I have cost myself everything by trying so hard to preserve it."

Anger drove his fist home with thunderous fury, the scythe's curved plane warping beneath the force of his blow, cracks writhing out like a spider web of pitch, marring its perfect surface.

Aleorn gazing desolate upon the bonfire, seeing nothing with those hollow eyes.

Or'd's fists became a blur of glimmering shadow that smashed against his foe's impeccable guard, denting the scythe's planes and chipping its edge, his knuckles flaming with fire that radiated not light but darkness. Lightning coursed through his veins, leaking from his flesh and igniting the air with crackling, spasming tendrils. 

Aleorn's troubled expression, his haggard features. He blames himself, Or'do realized. No matter how many times I assure him that I gave myself to the Dark, he will think himself the reason I was taken.

With the thunderous force of crumbling mountains he smote Gehrman, driving the ancient warrior back, shattering his rhythm. With discord he sundered harmony, with fury he triumphed over petulant rage; with blows that sang in their rumbling voice of his burning hate, he struck the man who stole his only comrade. With fists of dark flame, he smote down the man who dared give Aleorn reason to succumb once more to the hopelessness that consumed him so long ago. It mattered not whether he stood against man or god, any who dared draw that pall of desolation over his comrade, would suffer now and forevermore.