Collision

He was in the wrong body.

When he finally pulled his gaze away from his hands, staring at the bleak landscape around him, Zildath realized everything was wrong and a single word tumbled out of his mouth. “Fuck.”

The buildings around him were strange looking. Made of some kind of stone, and glass, and by Tritheron they were tall. Taller than any wizards tower he’d ever seen, surely. But, they were neglected. Covered in vines and brush, sections crumbling away, windows shattered. The trail ahead of him was lined with other strange things; weird metallic wagons, some overturned, others with their sides open. He wondered at their purpose. They too were neglected, and while he didn’t know where he was, or what these strange devices or buildings were, he did know the sight of battle. Some sort of war had raged through this place. Wherever this place was.

“Tali! Sariel! Také! Nethrali!” He called out for his companions, his pack as they called themselves, but only his voice echoed back to him.

“Fuck,” he said again and looked back at his hands. He wasn’t pleased he no longer looked like himself. These were the hands of a human, which he most certainly was not. He reached behind him, and even though he could feel their weight he was comforted when he touched the hilt of his sword, ran his fingers over the edge of his shield.

He took stock of the supplies on his belt, and realized there was a sensation missing. His hands immediately went to his neck, reached underneath armor and his undershirt and touched only his scarred skin. “No,” he growled, and began frantically searching his person. He looked down at the ground around him, digging his fingers through tufts of grass coming up from the strange stone roads, in the cracks that gave way to dirt, and debris. After minutes of this he sat back on his knees in defeat, and anger. The heart shaped locket was gone and it was precious to him. Zildath grabbed the front of his shirt where it should have been, bunching the material, closing his eyes and remembering...

Shadows on walls, candlelight flickering. They’d learned to move together, an intimate dance. Loving and hungry. Their hands and lips and mapping his scars, then each others. He watched them, reverently, his eyes glowing in the candlelight. He touched them gently at first, harder, when their moans and the demanding grip of thighs told him too. His fingers in their hair, breaths shared in between kisses. His groan. Their smile. His cheeky grin when he brought them to nirvana first. An explosion of color behind his eyes when they took him with them. It was afterwards, in the sweat and the quiet, when the hunger died down and the feel of them in his arms was the only thing he needed in the world they’d given him the locket. To remember them. These moments and their journey, no matter what came at the end. He swore to them he’d never take it off.

Zildath’s eyes shot open. He had to find it. Them. All of his pack. At once.

He picked himself up from the ground, trailing his eyes over the depressing landscape again. The sun sat low on the horizon, night would fall soon. He tilted his head up just slightly and sniffed at the air. That too was different… some undefinable scent weaving through the smell of moss, dirt, and decay. He wished for Také’s nose.

Giving the strange road, it’s debris, and the buildings on either side of him an apprehensive glance he pushed forward, moving quietly and cautiously.

He was a mile in when he heard movement. He’d done the motion a thousand times, bringing his sword and shield into his hand, taking up a defensive position, going still to better determine where the unknown sound was coming from.

All sides. They made themselves known just as night fell, the moons light gleaming off their metal bodies. Zildath saw they weren’t all made of metal, there were organic parts fused messily into steel, half human, half something else entirely. It looked like something born from an Artificer's nightmare.

“Looking for this brother?”

Zildath’s gaze snapped to the familiar voice, spoken so casually. Vorseth. His brother. Though Zildath noted he too looked wrong, human. Vorseth was no more human than Zildath was, but there he stood with black hair, and blue eyes made of ice. But it was not his brother's face that Zildath gave attention too - it was what Vorseth held in his hand; the heart shaped locket.

“You will return that,” Zildath growled.

“Pathetic. You’re in a world not your own, a world of madness and death and this-” Vorseth looked at the locket in his hand, his lips peeled back in disgust, “-is all you care about?”

Thumping on either side of them. The strange half organic, half metal monstrosities jumped from buildings onto the metal wagons in the street. Zildath put their number at a dozen.

“I will get my answers, after you return what’s mine,” Zildath twirled his sword once, his wide shoulders squared, the weight of his sword, his shield welcome. Silently he was pleased that at least his broad form had not been changed.

“They call this place Earth,” Vorseth continued as if Zildath had not spoken. He jumped from the metal wagon he’d stood on, his booted feet landing with ease on the broken ground. “It was destroyed a century ago. The same way the land of Zephus will be destroyed.”

It was what they fought to stop - Zildath and his pack - the destruction of their world. How had this Earth fallen to the same ruin? Had these nightmarish creatures something to do with it? And why, and how, had Vorseth brought him here?

“Don’t strain yourself trying to figure it out brother,” Vorseth smirked. “You’re not that smart. Your blood magic won’t work here either. None of your magic will. That leaves us to finish this.”

Zildath turned his full attention back to his younger brother. “I never wanted to be your enemy. I am your brother. I am of your clan. That has to mean something, Vorseth.”

The light of the moon caught the anger that tightened the features of Vorseth’s face. “No, it doesn’t. It means less than nothing to me, because you, who was cast out of our clan for what you were, you who was erased from clan record was still so loved by our parents.” Vorseth came closer, his knuckles taunt with the force of his grip around the locket’s chain. “They were going to leave, to give up position and power to find you. And they died, they died because of it.”

Zildath knew this, and still it pained him, deeply. The death of his parents brought new nightmares to his sleep and guilt upon his shoulders. His pack had been his rock as he grieved, and they, the two he adored, his anchor through that pain. It was because of them he could say these words, and believe them, “It was not my fault, Vorseth. I would have saved them. I would have protected them, had I known the Elders were that cruel.”

“It is your fault!” Vorseth screamed, his pained words echoing into a dead, empty world. “You should have killed yourself the day they sent you away. But, since you lacked the courage, I’ll do what you cannot.”

Zildath could offer no retort because at that moment by some unseen command the nightmarish creatures attacked. Arms of metal and flesh held clawed hands that swung wild but furiously at him. Their heads were metal and bone, their eyes strange and red, and their mouths opened to teeth that were filed to razors.

Zildath moved. His shield slamming into one, his body ducking, weaving, his sword in front of him, to the side of him. He served an arm, ran another through. His cry of pain mingled with their animalistic growls when one dug their claws into the back of his shoulder. He threw his body backward, slamming the creature into a metal wagon, and heard the squelch as something sharp kept it impaled there. He kicked out, catching the one approaching in the chest, forcing it back the step he needed to slice its chest with his blade. The point of his sword sparked over metal but broke through the fleshy bits, and that was enough to weaken it, to let his sword find that sweet spot in its throat. He took them all, one by one, his body trained from fighting demons and worse.

When it was over Zildath’s shield was broken though it didn't matter, he couldn’t carry it on his shield arm anymore. His breathing was hard, his blood dripping onto the broken pavement to mix with the nightmares. Still he raised his sword at his brother, his gaze moving towards the locket Vorseth continued to hold. “You will return what’s mine. Now.”

Vorseth growled and simply charged his brother, his hand pulling free his sword with one easy motion. Metal clashed. Booted feet danced over pavement as they invaded each other's space, the brothers' swords cutting through the air with violent precision. Their fight lasted longer than it should, more blood staining a world that had seen so much of it spilt, one man driven by hate, the other, love.

Vorseth’s fist cracked into Zildath’s cheek, the skin already split open, tearing further, the pain so intense it nearly blinded him. Zildath swung, the arc of his sword sending the blade across his brother’s thigh. Vorseth screamed, stumbling back, holding his sword in front of him to fend his brother away.

Zildath gave him pause, the taste of cooper in his mouth, his eyes going from his brother to the locket and back.

“Why won’t you just die…” Vorseth hissed.

“Because I have everything to live for. To fight for.” He looked around him, “It would seem this world gave up. I will never give up on mine.”

Vorseth stared at Zildath, the hatred in his eyes palpable. He threw the locket to the ground at his brother's feet. Zildath didn’t hesitate, reaching down with his bloodied arm to pick it up, right as Vorseth came forward, knowing his brother was that weak, that he would-

Zildath sent his blade straight into Vorseth’s stomach, his eyes closing for a brief moment, his heart breaking as Zildath felt his brothers flesh give.

Zildath rose, releasing his sword, catching his brother with his good arm. Vorseth glared up at him, shock and pain marking his face. “I’m sorry,” Zildath whispered.

Vorseth swallowed, struggled to speak, but that hatred seeped back into his eyes as he choked out, “You’ll never find them… not here….”

It was the last thing Vorseth would say to his brother.

Zildath sighed, a breath filled with regret. He gently put his brother onto the broken street. With a wince, he sheathed his sword, and picked up the locket. It wasn’t just precious because of how he felt about them, or they him. It was practical too and imbued with a locator spell. Zildath didn’t know if it would work in this decayed world, but that didn’t matter. He’d find them. He knew he would.

For a moment he gripped the locket to his chest, letting the promise it held renew him. After a time, he slipped the chain over his neck, picking up his broken shield with his good arm and began slowly walking down an empty street.