The Price of Survival

“This war is your fault,” he accused, much to Lentoria’s shock. “If you hadn’t mated outside your own species, and just accepted the proposal, none of this would have happened.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Lentoria replied, holding his temper in check. “There was no other choice, if I wanted to keep my throne and allow you to succeed me.”

“Gods, it’s always about that stupid throne of yours,” he huffed. “Why can’t you think about the people of this realm; what might be best for their interests?”

“Believe me, I have, and to have a kingdom split in half, doesn’t seem to be the best solution.”

“Look around you, the kingdom is already split, in more ways than one, and you’re just going to let it fall?” Syriûn glared toward the sky in frustration. “I could use any assistance possible to make this right; even if it must come from the gods themselves.”

As though they were listening, because they were, Syriûn vanished from where he stood before Lentoria.

Lentoria looked to the ground as he whispered, “Your gift of life is why you feel this way. Perhaps the gods should assist you by revoking such a tremendous burden.”

Syriûn found himself immersed in complete darkness. All around him, he heard others speaking in hushed tones, but could not find the source.

“Open your eyes,” a soft female voice said. “We are here to help you.”

“My eyes are open,” Syriûn stated. “Yet, I see nothing but darkness.”

“You have been tainted with the essence of another energy; True Life, which has dulled your senses,” she explained. “You must use your mind to open your ‘eyes,’ and truly see what exists around you.”

“I don’t--” he began.

“Concentrate on your mind’s eye,” interrupted a stern male voice.

He did as he was ordered, and slowly, his “eyes” began to open.

Looking around, he noticed he stood in the center of an arena. The stands were filled with spectral beings, he assumed were inhabitants of Scarlesia that chose to remain with the gods. In the center of the front row were seven figures seated, their places higher than the rest. Syriûn knew these were the seen gods of Scarlesia.

“What’s going on?” he asked, puzzled.

“We are giving you a choice,” Lylianna stated. “You may continue to inhabit our planet, Scarlesia, as a shapeshifter, or be returned to Earth. There, you will live as a human with no abilities, other than to be a true living being.”

Syriûn shook his head, a smirk playing on his lips. “How am I supposed to make that kind of choice,” he asked, “especially one as complex as this, on the spur of the moment?”

“Quite simply, really,” stated Bò’Chi. “It will be a battle to the death. Whichever side wins will be your final decision.”

“What? A battle with who?”

Before he could say another word, Syriûn felt himself being pulled in opposite directions. His arms and legs each felt like they were about to be torn off. The pain was excruciating, as though he were a piece of taffy stretching in both directions.

In the next instant, it was over. He found he was standing beside himself, in confusion. However, there was an emptiness in that dark form, something that told him there was no way to survive.

“Fight!”

The word rang throughout the arena, and before he had a chance to react, the punches started flying.

First, the left hook, then the right. Each one landed a crushing blow to his head, followed by an uppercut to his solar plexus. Syriûn doubled over in pain, trying to get his bearings, as he threw his hands up to block the next attack.

Syriûn was ruthless, all his frustrations and anger were being released in a torrent of punches and kicks. He knew his place was in Scarlesia, all he had to do was destroy that which held him back from accomplishing his goals: himself.

Seeing no opening for an attack of his own, Syriûn ran in the opposite direction. He looked around for something to fight with, but there was nothing. Suddenly, he noticed he was fighting a former classmate, Howard, that bothered him during his school years.

“What’s the matter, is it too hard to fight back?” Howard yelled, everything about him was an exact replica. “Maybe this’ll help even the field for ya,”

Syriûn had nothing but contempt for him, but no matter what he tried, it was not enough to even phase this opponent. In the split-second window, he started running again. He figured it best to be a moving target rather than stationary.

The next person to enter the fight was a former lover that broke off their relationship due to personal reasons. “Why do you have to look like Julia?” Syriûn yelled. “I still have feelings for her, and you take her form as a mockery.”

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed an axe had been tossed to the ground, followed by a spear, and several other weapons. Hand-to-hand combat was too dull for these people, they were thirsty for blood.

How can you blame them? He thought, dismally. These people haven’t known what blood looks like for generations; it seems only fit that mine should be spilt.

In a moment of panic, Syriûn scrambled along the ground dodging every attack that came at him, until he reached the battle axe. Picking it up, he held it in both hands, ready for the next attack.

Julia jumped at him with a powerful downward kick that splintered the handle in the center, sending shards of wood in all directions. One lodged itself in his right eye, causing complete blindness.

His hands on fire from the shock, Syriûn took the weapon in both hands and swung wildly at what he could see out of his good eye. Julia spun around the blade as it came hurtling past, kicking Syriûn’s back, staggering him.

Rolling on the ground, he turned to face his opponent, but was caught off guard as he saw a foot flying into his face. The force of the kick sent him hurtling to the ground, as he slid through the dirt, ten feet from his original position.

The crowd was now screaming for an end to this conflict, and the gods were quite impressed with this display; however, it was time for Syriûn to make his final choice.

Heavily breathing as he lay on the ground, Syriûn made no effort to stand up. It felt like an eternity before he finally found himself in the shadow of his other half.

“I can’t believe I actually thought there was a chance you’d beat me,” he scoffed at his bloodied counterpart, returning to his natural form. “But, if you think for an instant, that I’d spare you, you’re wrong.”

Lying on the ground, pain igniting every nerve in his body; all he could do was shake his head once, to each side.

“Just end it,” he said, fighting back the tears, as it hurt too much to even speak. “I cannot stand the pain anymore. You win.”

A self-satisfied smile crept onto his face, as he said, “You’re damned right I do.”

Taking the axe from the ground beside his fallen self, he brought it down with swift finality, sending the man’s head rolling two feet from his body.

“The choice is made,” Ceryphos declared. “You have done well, and I believe you may be a very useful asset to our world.”

Syriûn bowed, but something did not seem right. The body of his slain adversary faded away, but a slight glow remained.

“This will serve as a reminder as to who you used to be,” Lylianna responded, distantly. “You will be the only person of this realm with the burden of a soul. Please, help the others to find what they have lost in their ignorance.”

The glowing orb raced through the air, forcefully entering Syriûn’s head. He placed his hands to either side of his head as he screamed, falling to his knees.

Then, everything went black.