Judgement Blood: A Celestial's Vendetta

This was the second time Ilyas experienced the ethereal, twinkling darkness of the night sky. But at the moment, there was no night.

There wasn't a forest either, nor were there friends, or even a mask.

Ilyas felt alone with one other companion. It was a familiar companion. The threat of death.

It was unfortunate that Ilyas finally realised the nature of Rye's Imitation when it was too late for his legs or arms to move. 

'He used it twice. And I fell for it twice. How sad.'

Ilyas froze twice. Once when he was called out, the second was right now. That was the Imitation, to strike a moment of uncertainty, or a moment of indecisiveness, or a moment of fear, or... whatever it was that made Ilyas freeze, who cared!

The point was, he froze when he would've run, and he froze when he would've undoubtedly lurched back with all his might. The slash was right above him. But he stared at it, concedingly. 

'No... I don't want to die,' he thought again. Not in anger, but in fear. A horrible, stark fear.

There were hundreds of thoughts, really. They flashed through his mind all in a few milliseconds. Time was sadly slow. Who knew a quick death wasn't so quick?

'No one lived to expose that fact, I guess.'

Wouldn't it have been nice to have tasted the fruits of his labour? Or to have attained at least a comfortable Personal Task? Or to have actually lived?

He should've tried harder to survive, yes, but what else could he have done against a trained combatant with enhanced physical capabilities and blinding, unwavering commitment to end his short life?

His father would've scoffed at his lameness. Gosh, he missed his father.

'I hope he didn't-'

But.

Something interrupted his thoughts. An unnatural and unreal potent experience.

The mask... cried. 

And time yielded to its tears.

***

Time slowed, then stopped.

The angry campfire froze in its frivolous dance, creating a smoky and infernal backdrop for the falling leaves, suspended in mid-air. The tall, rustling trees lining the trail froze, their branches bending over, struggling against the constraints of their roots.

The thin silver blade, inches away from slashing down his face, froze, and the fight between the Salivitans and his companions froze too. 

Ilyas froze.

Everything went still. 

Not a harsh and serrated stillness, but a... sad one. 

For a few moments, everything remained as such until something gently patted the dead leaves on the ground. 

Tears blurred his green eyes before they crawled along the mournful mask's cheek and fell to the ground.

They were viscous tears. 

Amber tears. 

Slowly, Ilyas's consciousness returned in that frozen state. No. Not returned.

Permitted to resume.

'Wha... What happened?!'

A myriad of muddled thoughts and questions flooded his mind all at once. But his state of absolute shock and confusion was disregarded by the weeping mask as it commenced.

Beyond the tip of the blade that tickled his senses, Ilyas saw something move. 

The green gaze of the mask lowered to permit a full view of his surroundings, and then he saw it. He saw what moved in the dark thicket, between branches and bushes, but his eyes couldn't fix on it. It moved rhythmically and melodically, but the darkness was too much.

Until it emerged from the forest into the campsite.

Suddenly, everything else never mattered because, although what was before him seemed perfectly normal, if not romantic, something subliminal about it entranced his whole being. His body, his mind and his soul.

Two silhouettes: One was a tall gentleman with long hair tied in a ponytail and a fine suit. However, he couldn't see his facial features as they were a pure, dark existence. It was like he wasn't allowed to see them as their true selves.

The second was of a shorter woman with cascading hair and a beautiful, regal dress.

The man had one of his arms gently placed on her waist, and the other softly grasping hers. She had one hand on his shoulder and the other grasping his. They stared at each other intently without a hint of distraction, as if each other's eyes were all there was to see in the world. 

Then something else descended upon the little world of the campsite, the sound of soft soothing music. It was classy, elegant, and melancholic. It had a soul that reminisced and sobbed at something... tragic. The couple continued dancing flawlessly around the fire with measured, yet strange steps. Their eyes never parted from each other, not to consider the fire, or even the frozen quarrelling humans. 

They were leagues above these grimy, savage rituals that tainted existence. They were, instead, clean and pure.

That was what seemed, but Ilyas perceived much more:

Deep within him, like an invasive, hot flood, he was forcefully introduced to something he never knew existed, let alone felt — the love those two had for each other. He felt it in the intensity of their gaze, in the dance and in what it intended. In the music that begged for words. It was beyond comprehension. He felt a harmony in their existence that was perfectly reflected in their dance. 

Another amber tear fell from his brass mask, this one more expressive. But Ilyas felt one fall from his face, too.

How could he not? He didn't know anything, but he felt things. 

The dancing couple flowed around the campsite with delicacy and ease until they reached him and Rye, frozen in their one-sided fight. 

The couple rhythmically passed them, hair cascading around them, until they disappeared as they appeared, back into the darkness of the forest.

Ilyas felt something cold replace the heat within, as if he had been abandoned from their warmth. 

That was all.

That was all the world had stopped for. 

The mask stopped crying, and time seemed to strain itself to resume its never-ending march. 

Ilyas felt ice in his chest, an emotion he didn't understand. It was new and alien, but in its core, it was cold and vengeful. It was indignant and manic. And it was temporary. 

From all this, he gained only one thing: a temporary will to continue. 

This unfamiliar feeling resonated within him, calling him to survive, but gave him nothing else.

His consciousness slowed once again, to align with the passage of time, and Ilyas cemented a thought in his head as he was forced to return his gaze to the silver tip of the blade.

Nothing was saving him but himself. Himself was all he had. 

'I'll... I'll abide.'

His consciousness froze, along with everything. 

Then, time continued once again, as if it had never frozen.

The trees rustled, the roaring continued, and the fire crackled.

As Rye's blade was about to slice through Ilyas's head, Ilyas tilted his head ever so slightly, or really, as much as time allowed him, and used the unnatural sturdiness of his mask to parry the blade and shift its trajectory away. The reduced momentum carried the blade away, wounding Ilyas's arm and striking the earth. 

The mask cracked, but that was a given. In fact, if Ilyas had withstood the full malice of the strike, the mask would've been disregarded, and his head would've been split open.

No matter! For now, Ilyas swatted the white searing pain in his arm away, shifted to the left and immediately reached out to grab that shaft of the Twinblade, wrestling control. But Rye was much stronger, the bastard was an Imitator, Goddamit!

So what else could Ilyas do? Obviously, the mask wasn't going to cry again, and Rye was going to regain his composure a split second later.

'If my strength isn't enough...'

Ilyas knew that fighting Rye was a suicidal endeavour, but what if he took away one of his advantages? Suddenly, with all his bodyweight and force, Ilyas lunged at Rye and wrestled him to the ground.

Of course, Rye was familiar with a little bit of wrestling, unlike Ilyas, but that was not the point. The point was to isolate his weapon from him, leaving them alone in the contest of skin and bone. 

That was a bit safer, at least.

The Twinblade was still lodged in the ground, like a tilted regal sceptre awaiting its master, when Rye, caught by surprise by the sudden tackle, fell to the ground. 

Rye immediately raised his shoulders and arched his back to avoid being pinned. 

But Ilyas didn't intend for a fair contest, while still lunging at Rye, and making an effort to keep his wrists from being tamed by his opponent. Ilyas kicked back with one leg, striking the shaft of the Twinblade in a certain direction.

This did cost him; his balance faltered, and Rye lurched on that opportunity. Ilyas found himself in a grip he didn't understand. 

Rye's legs and arms tightened around him, suffocating the life out of him. 

The adrenaline dulled the pain, good. He'll suffer it all later, as long as he lives.

Nevertheless, the Twinblade was within reach.

On the ground, lonely and inglorious.

If Rye wanted to reach for it, he would have to sacrifice his firm grip on Ilyas's life, but if he didn't, he was risking Ilyas grabbing the shaft and brandishing the pretty thing.

Ilyas's fragile neck must have felt good, because Rye didn't let go. Rye made a decision; he was going to abandon his weapon and quench his anger with his own hands.

'Agh! Shi..!'

Saliva foamed and dribbled from Ilyas's lips as he snarled in an ugly, desperate expression.

Everything hurt so Goddamn much! The adrenaline was falling behind.

Ilyas only had the luxury of one choice, the choice he sought for himself. His hand reached out, like it did for the rock that bloody night, and his fingers rapped the earth until they finally touched wood. 

He rolled the thing to him, and it came. 

His grip tightened around it, his eyes widened with hope, while Rye's eyes widened in apprehension. 

Rye tightened his chokehold on Ilyas, squeezed his legs around him even more, and arched his back, so as to further immobilise his opponent. But it was too late, the Twinblade was already in Ilyas's grasp. 

And when it came to it...

The beautiful damn thing was too heavy.

'Ah shit... I forgot about... that-'