Verse II
You've been studying the battlefield, informally, from the Valor-Upton Waypoint. The sky hasn't changed in months.
You are the reserve militia captain.
Your troops are dead or worse, and the battlefield bleeds down the valley. The shadows crawl.
You rode for your life.
You fled the carnage on your elkhound six months prior. The battlefield thrives on sacrifice, see.
You study the bodies.
Corpses don't rot. Animals avoid them.
Today, you crest the hill alone when your elkhound resists.
You can wake them.
Mist swirls silver in the growing dark.
Something whispers: Raise them, Esgil.
Your temples throb.
It runs in the family.
You turn for the hill, but the dark advances.
Seems you can't escape your forefathers' sins.
You can't hide.
Spindly fingers grip your shoulder. You whip around.
"Wᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʜᴏᴍᴇ," It says, wearing a familiar face.
It's your canine companion.
It's your fucking elkhound, all bones.
"It's symbolic, right?"
You laugh desperately, helpless.
The shadows caress.
It was prophesied.
Your mother fumed when the Priestess said her sons were 'marked'.
"Yᴏᴜ'ᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ. Fᴏʟʟᴏᴡ."
The Devil awaits.
At the heart of the battlefield, Its disguise unravels.
The Devil hands you a crystal vial.
You're given orders.
You remember the myths. "It's for souls."
"Yᴏᴜʀ ʙʀᴏᴛʜᴇʀ's ᴘʀᴏᴠᴇɴ ʀᴇʙᴇʟʟɪᴏᴜs. Tᴀᴋᴇ ʜɪs ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴇᴇᴅ."
You are resigned.
"Madness," you exclaim, because it's expected, even though your heart's resigned. "I won't—"
"Yᴏᴜ ᴡɪʟʟ. Gʟᴀᴅʟʏ."
Your brother ran, too.
He didn't really care for medicine, but it excused him from the fighting.
"Lᴇᴛ ᴜs ᴘʀᴇᴘᴀʀᴇ."
Your mother preferred him.
"Mother favored him," you murmur, like you're justified.
It reaches through you--
You can do anything.
They're yours to command, again.
You exist beyond yourself.
Obedient in resurrection, your troops assemble at your command, faces smeared away.
You seal the bargain.
You look upon them:
Rows of undead stand at attention, alert as the day you fled. Their wounds smoke through tattered uniforms. The scent of sulfur follows as you move between the lines.
"They're in good shape." You chuckle, inspecting one of your thralls' faceless heads. They turn when you command. They clap their hands. They behead the soldier beside them, and the victim rises at your bidding.
Your elkhound's loyalty pales by contrast.
"Wᴏɴᴅᴇʀꜰᴜʟ." You blink, and It's beside you, hand on your shoulder. The Devil wears your mother's face. "I'ᴍ sᴏ ᴘʀᴏᴜᴅ. Yᴏᴜʀ ʙʀᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ʀᴀɪsᴇ ᴛʜɪs ᴍᴀɴʏ."
"Why not?"
"Yᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇɴ'ᴛ sᴀᴄʀɪꜰɪᴄᴇᴅ."
"I never..."
The Devil smiles. You remember midnight, six months prior, your elkhound panting through its bridle while the clamour of combat grew distant. Something stirred in you. It whispered: Your life is worth twenty of theirs.
You recoil, and the Devil dons the Priestess' skin. "You two were marked for this."
"But you've chosen me." You whirl towards It and grab Its sleeve. "We were both marked, but I'm the one you need."
"Dᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴘʀᴇsᴜᴍᴇ." The Devil dissolves in a whirl of mist. You hear Its voice in your blackened soul:
Pʀᴏᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀsᴇʟꜰ ᴡᴏʀᴛʜʏ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜɪs ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ, ꜰɪʀsᴛ. Sᴜᴄᴄᴇᴇᴅ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙʀᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ꜰᴀɪʟᴇᴅ.
"Of course. What must I do?"
Rᴀᴢᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴀʟʟᴇʏ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴏᴜɴᴅ. Tʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴄʀᴏss ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʟᴀɪɴs, ᴇɴsʟᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏɴsᴜᴍɪɴɢ. Eᴀᴄʜ sᴀᴄʀɪꜰɪᴄᴇ ʙʀɪɴɢs Mᴇ ᴄʟᴏsᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇʙɪʀᴛʜ.
A thought strikes. "And if my brother interferes?"
Hᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴘᴜᴘᴘᴇᴛ.