There, at the bottom of the crater, the body of the boy still lay there, as though untouched. Worse still, that girl with the red hair, she too was untouched. And all around them were untouched, all their allies. It was the monsters that had cast up a hail of blood and bone – it was only the monsters that had suffered from that attack.
"IMPOSSSSSSSSSSSSSIBLE!" Francis cried. He was no fool. It did not require any thought. He'd already put the pieces together earlier, and then it had happened once again. This was the power of the Gods. This was their doing – but it was not they who wielded it.
Their power had no will of their own. No, this was the will of that unconscious boy. Once more he had managed to control it, and once more he had thwarted Francis with it.
The mage ground his teeth in his jaw, dismayed. He'd read books untouched for thousands of years. He'd learned things that no man could dare to risk believing – and yet it was this here that shook his heart. He, who was already so distant from reality. It shook him. It went beyond expectation.
So far beyond it. His hands trembled. He found himself suddenly afraid.
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The first time, he could believe it. A strong will, that would be explainable. TO hold on for a mere few seconds, to bear a weight that was surely like a whole house, or a whole castle, to hold on to it for the sake of his allies, and to cling to an extra few moments of life for their sake. He could understand that, to a degree. He praised that. He thought: there lies a mighty man.
A man that could resist the Gods, even for a moment.
But two at once? Two WARRING Gods at once? What was this? What was this? He couldn't stomach it. He found himself vomiting his earlier meal up, as he staggered to his knees.
That man frightened him. The mage found himself pointing a finger, as he labelled him, "Greed."
Beam didn't feel like he was asleep.
He didn't feel like he was awake either.
He didn't feel like he was sat within the earthy confines of normal comfortable reality, nor did he feel he was in the tricky space of the dream world, with its liquid fluidity and rapidly shifting scenes.
He was somewhere else entirely. Vague thought sat in his chest. The battle seemed like such a distance away. He didn't feel as though he was struggling to think, but that did not mean that thought came clearly to him either.
He didn't know where he was, or what his intentions were. He merely was, just as the room about him was. Upon deciding such a thing, he finally noticed the room about him, as though it had been called into being the moment he acknowledged its existence.
He saw a chair. Or was it a throne? Now that he focused on it, like ink, it quickly became more of a throne than a chair, with a spiked tall back, black iron and gold, with a blue cushion and a comfortable yet high seat.
He felt a sudden degree of alarm, without any reason in particular. A sudden moment of paranoia. He reached for the sword at his hip, as he'd grown used to doing over the past few months, and he assumed a defensive stance.
But there was nothing, and after a moment, the threat faded. By his eyes, nothing had happened, yet, for some reason, he did not feel as though his gesture of defence was insignificant, even though it seemed as though he had not defended against anything at all.