Conquest of Avalon

Camille Leclaire stood at the edge of the water, a vortex of emotions and impressions swirling around her. Tethers to the fallen, those she had known and those whose lives met their end at her hand.

For a sage of Levian, she hadn’t felled many — most likely as a result of the Foxtrap. Strange, then, that her guilt would be so much greater than a sage’s wont. It made options more limited. Perhaps her first?

“Please, we were just having a bit of fun! You know how a man’s liable to get when his blood runs hot.” The knight spoke earnestly, letting his thoughts fly free.

“Quiet.” A tremor filled her voice, not as firm as she would have liked. It filled the prisoner with a sense of confidence, bolstered by the manner in which he towered over the girl. “In the name of my betrothed, the Fox-King Lucien Renart, Duke Fouchand has sentenced you to die.”

“No child should be doing this, Camille. Your mother would give me a stern word and a demotion and that would be the end of it. You must tell your uncle to commute my sentence. You don’t have to do any of this. It’ll be fairer, and spare you the need to bloody your hands.”

She bit her lip, eyes hardened, and the man knew he had failed to sway her. “If you have any last words, speak them now or let them be forever drowned beneath the waves.”

No, no, that wouldn’t do at all.

Too distant in the past, too unlikely to engender any sympathy at all. The memories were scant, Camille’s being one of the clearer recollections remaining. The other girl had the face etched in her mind forever, but no sense of personality, merely a caricature of charm and aggression.

Counterproductive.

Something more recent?

“Lord Lumière said I’m not supposed to talk to no one, specially not you.” The guilt dripped down Jean’s back, the face of the wineseller who he had slain with his hands, the masses dead in the harbor bombing whose faces he would never see, responsibility he could never truly grasp. “He was very clear, he was. I’m fucked if I don’t follow his intructions.”

Leclaire wore a hood to cover her distinctive hair, bangs of blue still peeking out as she adjusted her posture. “You’re a dead man anyway, Jean. Whatever leverage Aurelian had over you, it’s useless now.”

“My family…” He winced immediately after speaking, realizing he should not have brought it up to yet another. “If I say anything about what happened, he said they’ll disappear. He’s a lord, miss, he can do it.” The secret would not die with him, but the sun sage had apparently considered that sufficient. “Can’t say nothing.”

A twisted smile crossed Camille’s lips. “Then say nothing. I seek not information. Whatever happened at the harbor, it is no concern of mine.”

Jean of the harbor let out his breath, longer and deeper than any he had taken since Aurelian Lumière had first approached him to place that device in one of the crates of sundials, and the blue earring alongside it. “Then what do you want?”

“I believe we can be of use to one another. Make a simple request of your jailors, and your family could be taken care of long after you’re gone.”

Perfect.

The Fallen coalesced, presenting the solid form of the drowned man, allowing reflections of his thoughts to surface. The memories of others, what legacy he left behind, given a face in the world once more.

What would Jean of the harbor think, seeing his slayer before him once more? The thoughts came easily, impressions from Camille herself, among countless others. The mournful husband, the distant father, the diligent worker…

“What happened to you, lady?” The words left blue lips, startling the sage. “You look terrible.”

≋

“For the fallen!” The cry flew from the knight’s lips as his lance bit into the chest of a fleeing soldier, one small trail of many on the battlefield.

“For the Fox-Queen!” another shouted. “Hail Renart!”

Death was death, but those did little by comparison.

“For the fallen…” This time, a slight foot soldier from the opposing army. Her shout was inaudible, her kill more of a mercy than anything, slitting the throat of an enemy with a chest crushed under the weight of their horse, begging for release. Still, a life was a life. Death was death.

The strong and the weak succumbed alike, for reasons heroic and just and pointless in turn. It was easy to feel most of them drift downward, souls unpromised to another claimed by the earth spirit, Terramonde.

Few dared to speak its name, but they held the knowledge, and that was enough.

The remnants of the fallen could not remember when they had begun to coalesce, could not understand in truth how they had come to be. Early memories were distant, limited by human memory and perspective.

They could always remember strife and conflict best, frozen into the minds of the fallen with the stark clarity that only a human’s last moments could provide.

There had been more and more with time. Human numbers grew, armies amassed, and the path of bloodshed running through the continent grew thicker with every passing day.

Fallen spirits had followed the army of the Fox-Queen, Marie Renart, for devastation was always greatest in her wake. Enemies retaliated, and her allies would respond in turn—a cycle of revenge, running in tandem with the inevitable onslaught of conquest.

In time, she had passed to Terramonde, but her offspring had carried on her tradition. In truth, the devastation was far greater now, her realm torn apart so soon after its assembly. More personal too, once distant enemies given faces and names, their crimes and affronts given clarity. Already the fallen had gained more from the three cubs than their mother had granted in her entire lifetime, and the people of the battlefield seemed to think it would last far longer still.

With each battle, the fallen gained new perspective, adding more energy to their midst. Some few were aware enough of the spirits to fear Terramonde’s reprisals for not getting what was due. Even in this facsimile of the fallen souls, the hole they left behind more than the person who had once lived, fear ran dominant.

How could it not, for a collection of the dead? Not everyone lived afraid, but the only scarce few who died without fear were killed too quickly for reality to set in. At least, of those killed for the fallen.

Memories existed of deathbeds, of elders accepting their fate, but none had ever joined the fallen. It seemed likely that none could, by the very nature of what they were.

“You fucks killed my sister, you bastard!” Another addition, trampled under the feet of the fleeing army, one of many lost in a rout. Others cried of territory lost, identity eroded, lives taken by famine and disease.

All would serve. So long as the lives were taken for the fallen, to the fallen their energy would go.

“This is for Tiécelin, you son of a bitch.” Air condensed around a sage like dark wings, pressing the face of the Plagetine mercenary into the dirt. It was not long before the human stopped breathing.

The fallen felt the pull, another for their number, but something was wrong.

The blood and screams faded into the background as a great winged beast grabbed the body in her talons, leaving streaks of black and green as it rose into the sky.

The fallen found themselves following, obligated to enforce their claim over the one destined to join them.

“This human is mine in entirety, Lamante, including its face. My sage declared that all who she slew this day would be in offering to Corva, to me. You have no claim. Relinquish your hold.”

Lamante?

Fear was near-unanimous amongst the fallen spirits, a caution that they had lacked in life, or perhaps had lacked any chance to exercise. No small number had died with protest on their lips, arguments that they ought to be spared. And yet all had perished just the same.

They relinquished their hold and withdrew, slinking away from the battlefield in search of the next.

Perhaps Lamante could help explain whatever transgression had led to this.

≋

Florette had not cried out when she took the governor’s life, and yet her motives were felt. Revenge for the Blue Bandit, for her parents, for a war lost and a nation ceded. Well within the Fallen’s dominion.

Gordon Perimont’s energy rested comfortably within them, a man of conviction and ideals, hindered by neither in his monstrosity. The Fallen did not have him in truth, none of the trairs and experiences that made him who he was, for they did not in truth have any human’s, but that was of no concern.

Ultimately, all of it was merely energy.

The Fallen spent a fraction fashioning a corporeal form in imitation of the dead governor, planting solid boots onto the stones of the tunnels.

In the gloom, it would be difficult to see clearly, but that would only help. Appearing before people after the Foxtrap always carried a risk of danger—all it would take was an alert that reached the ears of the right binder, and everything could come to an end— but in this case, the risk was small.

“Girl,” the Fallen snarled imperiously, letting impressions of Perimont guide expression and words. The man had died so recently, with so many alive who still knew him well, that it was easy to draw on their impressions to complete the image. Even one who had known him might not notice the difference with any alacrity. “I might have expected wastrel scum like you to steal, reckless fool that you are, but murder? Another one?”

Florette stopped, staring at the murky apparition. “I have a lot of regrets, but killing you isn’t one of them. If ever someone deserved it, it’s you.”

A phrase sprung to the forefront, an impression from her lover. “Luckily, what someone deserves has nothing to do with what they get.” The words were wrong for Perimont, the source causing a clash that threatened to disrupt the form, but that was a solvable problem. A slight expenditure of energy, and the image was sufficiently shored up to remain stable. Still, better to hew to Perimont for now. “You accomplished nothing, you ignorant fool. My plans have been carefully crafted to remain relevant in my absence. I’m confident Captain Whitbey will continue our good work.”

“Should have fucking killed him, too. Ugh!” She pounded her fist against the wall, sending an echo through the tunnels. “I know this is a mess, and maybe getting rid of you just means Avalon will send another butcher, but there’s only so many. If you all keep dying then they’ll have to stop sending them eventually.”

“That’s your plan? Continue your spree of theft and murder until Avalon runs out of people?” Perimont laughed. “By all means. It would comfort me to see your neck snap at the gallows, having accomplished nothing.”

“I know. It’s just a fantasy, would never actually work that way in practice.” She sighed, a defeated look in her eyes. “I can’t keep going like this. Even if Eloise… It’s not going to work. That’s why I need to get out of here, get a fresh start. A quick stop in Guerron, and then… the world.” Her head tilted up, meeting the Fallen directly in the eye. “You’re dead. You can’t hurt me. You can’t hurt anyone anymore.”

An emotion, there, a hesitation. A lie?

The Fallen felt themself shifting, something more suitable to get the desired reaction, with less overt hostility. “You know that isn’t true,” Cassia Arion said, causing Florette to run away in tears.

≋

She was not so different, it so happened. A scavenger, nibbling at the edges of the battlefield for scraps of the plentiful humans left ripe for harvesting in their wake.

Once the fallen knew the name, knew to look, it had taken mere years to find her. Their knowledge and power only grew as the conflict soldiers were calling the War of Three Cubs raged on, and so too did their aptitude at seeking things out.

Seven feet tall, her carapace light green streaked with pink and red, Lamante was collecting a face when the fallen came upon her, crushing a fallen human’s head between her mandibles, antennae bouncing with each movement of her head. A bag perched on her back, too large even for her, and so covered in human faces that the material could not even be seen. But even as the hollow faces jostled and rattled, they all stayed in place.

We wish to speak. But how to convey it?

Humans had physical shape, while spirits possessed energy to make their whims manifest.

Perhaps the fallen could incorporate both.

They drew within themselves, trying to find the most solid shape among them. The most connections to the living, the best remembered, the closest the fallen could boast to a living presence.

A Rhanoir general, captured and tortured to death in retaliation for her success. Her death was recent, survived by an entire division of soldiers who could still remember her fondly.

The fallen spirits felt themselves compress, squeezing into the lone human form. They felt skin touch the air, interlaced with wounds and scars. Pain, as always, but no worse than their regular existence.

The spirit rotated her head to face them, the human she had been harvesting falling out of her mouth. As her weight shifted, the faces on her back readjusted, making room for their new addition.

“L… Lamante,” the fallen managed to speak, drawing on memories so reflexive that they eluded conscious thought. “Lamante,” they repeated. “Help?”

In unison, every face at her back smiled, though Lamante’s head remained expressionless. “I cannot say I recognize you,” dozens of faces said in dozens of voices. “Why do you want my help?”

“We… I—” They drew on the general’s pattern of speech, allowing the words to come more easily. “A collection of the fallen. Those who kill in retaliation mark their victims for me.” The general was no stranger to death, and her pose remained casual as the words passed through her lips.

“A new one? It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a new spirit on this side of the Lyrion sea.” She scuttled forward, reaching behind her for a face. “How long can you last in that shape?”

“I’m not sure.” Even saying that much made the form harder to maintain, at odds with the general’s inclination to always appear knowledgeable in front of others. The memories didn’t fit.

Lamante held the face in front of her head like a mask, pressing it tightly against herself.

In an instant, with no sign of transformation, the spirit’s body was gone, along with her collection. In her place stood a human woman, aged perhaps twenty-five. She wore a green summer dress, blowing behind her despite the lack of wind. Blonde hair curled into a braid around her head, adding an innocence to her gentle smile.

Beautiful, so many of the fallen thought, but the overriding emotion was a longing only loosely connected to lust. They yearned for home, above all else, but the spirit’s form seemed to embody it perfectly.

“I can see why you sought me out.” She smiled demurely, holding her hands behind her back. “Seems like we might have a fair bit in common.”

“I hope so.” The fallen nodded their head, a stiff gesture well-practiced from years of rote military training. “But what we have, it’s hollow, empty. Memories and impressions from others, little more. ”

“My faces are much the same.” She held out her hand. “It doesn’t matter. You’re not a collection of humans, and you never will be. You have to hold onto who you are.”

“I don’t know what we are. What I am.” The fallen hesitated. “We are defined by humanity and yet lack it.”

Lamante laughed. “You must not have met too many spirits yet. This is something all of us have to figure out, one way or another. You have to claim your identity, define yourself. Once you can manage that, you can wear as many faces as you like without losing yourself.” Her hand gestured to the faceless corpse. “You’re a predator, and this is your food. It’s that simple.” She reached out and snatched the hand of the fallen. The contact made it firm, solid. If not real, then real enough to touch the face of the world. “Come on, I’ll help you figure it out.”

A spirit of many, yet a distinct individual. The possibility felt enticing, the opportunity tantalizing. The spirit composed of fallen humans felt the definition, and they became it.

Not a collection of the fallen, but the Fallen.

≋

Soleil was dead.

That much seemed rather indisputable.

Only one other possibility existed to explain the darkening of the sky, and she was sealed away. Khali’s presence would have been felt, had she managed to break free of her prison world two thousand years too early.

Too, the Fallen felt the sun’s absence, warmth already retreating back into the sky. The pit of void, into which Soleil had fallen.

Lamante had told them that the death of great spirits was rare, that some of those with a domain to uphold and enrich had held it since before humans walked Terramonde.

But Pantera the Undying had effectively perished nigh-immediately after Khali had seen herself sealed, and now Soleil had fallen into the abyss as well.

The Fallen were born of turbulence and conflict, conveyed and empowered by it, but that of humans alone. They drew upon the thoughts of killers to show them what they had wrought, presented a mirror to humanity as a reminder to restrain itself.

After the last few centuries of existence, there was little need for more. The Fallen had grown strong and numerous, beyond all aspirations, and still they held onto their self, composed into a cohesive whole. Unnecessary volumes of additions could jeopardize that, or bring responsibilities they had no desire for.

Above all, as always, they wanted to go home.

But where was home, to a thousand separate souls from a thousand separate homes? Nothing unified them beyond their demise on this continent, joined in empire once and then forever torn asunder.

Avalon had brought that much into sharp relief, at least, butchers and binders slaying every spirit that caught their eye. Pantera, and Corva’s partner, Eulus, had been the first to come to the Fallen’s attention, but countless others had followed. Pierrot, of the garden, Tervo of the Sartaire, Zardon of the caverns…

The Foxtrap had been the latest battlefield to call the Fallen, though the retaliations were comparatively few, and they had lacked any choice but to simply watch the slaughter. Such was their nature, or at least their origins.

One could always define their nature. Even a collective could define itself.

Just as they had for Khali and Pantera, spirits would convene in Soleil’s erstwhile seat of power to choose his replacement. It would be a chance to see so many of them again, joined together once more by tragedy. Young as the Fallen were, they felt the absences more strongly than most.

Guerron, then. That would be where the others would amass. Spirits of flame and light, making their claims, rulers of vast dominions asserting their authority in the process, and throngs of lesser spirits and humans to accompany them, striving for the slightest chance to make their voice heard amidst the proceedings.

Lamante never missed one, but it was difficult to assess whether that was a reason to go or not to.

Still, they now knew what they had sought to know. Camille would stay here, looking to protect her people from the cold of endless night.

Florette would move on, taking up her fight elsewhere, or not at all.

The girl stepped onto the ship, looking back over her shoulder with glassy eyes. She would arrive in Guerron soon, however short her stay there. The ship was headed there as well.

The Fallen coalesced into Cassia once more, then set her feet down aboard the ship. Anchoring the position, conceptually if not literally. It would be easier to follow it, this way. The most direct route to Guerron, without a convenient battlefield to pull them there.

The Fallen would attend, and they would make their voice heard.